Hakkai's Gift: a birthday present for coffee_and_ink
I wanted to write you Subaru/Kamui, but it came out so dreadful that it would only be of interest to someone who wanted to blackmail me. Then I thought of writing you Tenpou/Kenren, but I couldn't think of a plot. (I know, who needs one?) So instead I wrote you this, a thing that might have happened.
For the benefit of readers other than Mely, this story is set several years before the main storyline of Saiyuki begins, so it contains no spoilers for that. It does contain some for the flashback arcs "Be There" from volume 5 and "Burial" from Reload, but I don't think they're anything that would ruin those arcs for you if you haven't read them already.
Gojyo kicked at the mud on the path. Some of it splashed his pants (which Hakkai would wash) and clung soggily to his ankles, where it would chafe at every step because he wasn’t anywhere near drunk enough to not feel it, but the rest of it showered down and covered his tracks like he’d never been there.
Had he really just left a bar before midnight and without getting hammered? What was the point of that?
“Where’s Hakkai?” the bartender had asked. (When had the bartender learned his name?) “Oh, he’s teaching the kid tonight?” He’d replaced the bottle of premium sake behind the bar and slid Gojyo a beer with an eye-roll on the side. Sure, the guy was bummed that he’d lost Hakkai’s money- Hakkai, who could drink all night and never get loud, never get sick, never stagger even when the proof of his breath made Gojyo dizzy- but a bartender ought to show a little more happiness at the sight of his most reliable patron.
“Where’s Hakkai?” the gamblers had asked. (Were those guys gluttons for punishment or what?) “Damn, he’s out of town for the weekend? Well, you tell him we’re gonna beat him when he gets back. We’ve figured out his tells.” Any guys dumb enough to think Hakkai had tells would pay in IOUs anyway, so Gojyo moved on to the girls without playing a single round.
“Where’s Hakkai?” the girls had asked. (How had they gotten so fond of him?) “Oh, not feeling well? What’s the matter? The flu? A cold? Did you let him go out in the rain? You should take better care of him- make him wear a sweater- have him breathe steam-“ Gojyo had fled when they started giving him recipes for medicinal teas.
Now he’d have to tell Hakkai what he said at the bar so their stories would match if anyone asked. And the way everyone had acted tonight, they’d all ask. “How’s your cold, Hakkai?” “Has Goku learned to add yet, Hakkai?” “Where’d you go, Hakkai? Did you have fun?”
Well, whose fault was that? It wasn’t like Hakkai would have wanted him to say, “He was going to come, but then it started raining and he sat down on the bed and stared out the window and the last time I saw that look on his face it was five minutes after he’d ripped his own eyeball out, and like a moron, I said, ‘You want me to make you some tea?’ and he said, all polite, ‘No thank you, Gojyo, it’s much too cold and wet a night to sleep outside when the house burns down,’ and it was like all the air was getting sucked out of the room-- I swear I couldn't breathe-- so I ran away. It wasn't like he wanted me there. It wasn't like there was anything I could do for him. It wasn't like anything terrible would happen if I left.”
Of course, that was because Gojyo's presence or absence wouldn't make a fucking bit of difference if Hakkai decided to cut out his own heart or go on another killing spree or go move in with Sanzo. Hakkai did whatever he wanted to do, and sometimes Gojyo felt like a ghost in his own house.
He slammed his fist into a handy tree trunk. An extra load of icy water dumped down on his head. He’d left without an umbrella. Of course.
Hakkai had saved his life with two umbrellas (and ten youkai claws.) Which was typical. Gojyo had tried to protect him, and Hakkai’d had to rescue him from Gojyo’s own rescue attempt. Gojyo screwed things up, and Hakkai fixed them.
Gojyo tossed his laundry on the floor and left his dirty dishes on the table and stained the sheets, but the moment he turned his back his clothes were folded in a dresser drawer (where had the dresser come from?), the dishes were put away (cups with cups and plates with plates), and the sheets weren’t just clean, but fluffy.
And Gojyo wasn’t used to paying attention to the containers he ate out of, but now that he had real dishes (where had those come from?) he’d noticed something weird. Lately when he broke a plate, it didn’t disappear into the non-burnable trash or reappear mended. It reappeared whole. Was Hakkai secretly buying identical replacement plates? Had he bought several sets in the same pattern and was keeping the duplicates somewhere? It was creepy. Convenient, but creepy.
The trouble was, there was nothing Gojyo could do in return. Hakkai didn’t seem to want anything. Oh, sure, he was living in Gojyo’s house, but he paid his own way, so it was just as much his house now. And yeah, Gojyo had picked him up off the road, but he hadn’t done it out of the kindness of his heart. And for all that Gojyo had put Hakkai’s body back together with his hands wrist-deep in Hakkai's blood, sat with him for hours tipping broth down his throat one drop at a time, even quit smoking inside for an entire week, as soon as Hakkai'd been able, he’d walked away to die on his own. Gojyo hadn’t saved him. The man who’d done that had been that bitchy priest.
Gojyo started to kick aside a muddy white shirt someone had dumped in the path, then cautiously lowered his foot. Who said he couldn’t learn from experience? The way the night was going, it was probably trip-wired.
The shirt opened its eyes. “Kyu,” it squeaked.
Gojyo squatted on his heels to inspect the not-shirt. It lay in a pathetic crumpled heap, with one wing folded tight against its body and the other limp in the mud with a bloody shard sticking out where the bone was snapped. He hadn’t known dragons came that small. Maybe it was a hatchling.
He offered the back of his hand for its inspection. The little dragon jerked its head back and exhaled a warning flame like a living cigarette lighter.
Hakkai would kill him if he brought a dragon home. It would set fire to Hakkai’s books, and shit on the floor, and flap its wing and break the dishes, and-
"Kyu," squeaked the dragon plaintively.
He glanced around the forest to make sure nobody but bats and owls would catch him being a softie, then scooped up the little dragon and stuffed it under his shirt to keep warm. It seemed happy there, emitting contented squeaks and jabbing him with its claws as it settled in. The state Hakkai was in, maybe he wouldn’t even notice the dragon until after the rain had stopped. And when he did, Gojyo would point out that it wouldn’t be around for long. As soon as its wing healed, it would fly away.
The lights were off when he got home. He poked his head inside, letting his eyes adjust before he went in. He didn’t want to trip over a shoe or something and squash the dragon. Hakkai was silhouetted against the window, exactly where he’d been when Gojyo had left. Damn.
On the bright side, he was still there. And still in one piece.
There was no color in the moonlight. His hair and eyes looked black, his skin as dead-white as when Gojyo had found him with his blood pooling under him like spilled ink. At least then Gojyo been able to stop the bleeding.
“Hey,” said Gojyo, certain that was not the magic word that would fix everything but unable to figure out what that would be. “They all missed you at the bar.”
No response. And still no air in the house. Gojyo went to open a window, never mind the rain. He slipped in the mud he’d just tracked in and grabbed at the curtains for support. Naturally, they ripped off. Clutching at the wall, he dropped the curtains, stepped on them, skidded, and fell on his ass. The dragon gouged a new set of scratches into his belly.
“Shit. Sorry about that.” Gojyo glanced at Hakkai, hoping he’d at least have been amused by the accidental slapstick routine.
He did not look amused. But it had gotten his attention. His head turned. Then he went back to staring- not out the window, but at his own hands. Gojyo didn’t see that as much of an improvement.
Gojyo went into the bathroom to look for a towel and a box to make a nest for the dragon. While he was rooting around, it occurred to him that he could have picked up the stomped-on curtains. Much as he wasn’t the kind of guy who picked things up off the floor, maybe tonight he should make an exception. But maybe if he left them where they were, they’d drive Hakkai crazy enough that he’d get up and pick them up himself, and then at least he'd be off the bed. In fact- Gojyo froze with his hand on a neatly folded towel- weren’t those footsteps?
Click: the lights came on.
And then came a noise that had never been heard in the house before Hakkai had moved in but which Gojyo was now quite familiar with: swish-swish, swish-swish: the sound of mopping.
“My goodness, there’s water all over the floor,” said Hakkai. “Did you leave without an umbrella? You’d better change your clothes, or you’ll catch cold.”
More sounds that had never been heard when Gojyo had lived alone: Clink-clink, splash, clunk, whoosh: Tea-jar and kettle out, water into kettle, kettle on burner, burner on.
Maybe Hakkai wasn’t just a neat freak. Maybe he needed someone to take care of. Maybe it was good for him to have someone to worry about, so he’d have less time to devote to obsessive guilt.
Gojyo settled the dragon into a fluffy towel and walked into the kitchen. “I brought you something.”
“Oh, my,” said Hakkai. “It’s hurt.”
“Yeah, I thought maybe you could fix it.“
Hakkai bent over the dragon, making soft clicking noises with his tongue. They were answered with adoring squeaks.
“You know how to set its wing, right?” Gojyo bet if he didn’t, he could pull out a book on the subject. With diagrams.
“Ah. Well. Living things are different, of course, but... Hold still, little one.”
Gojyo hastily grabbed its head so it wouldn’t pull the cigarette lighter trick, but it only squeaked in pain as Hakkai gently straightened its wing.
“You want me get a branch or something?” asked Gojyo.
“That won’t be necessary.” Hakkai held out his palm. Green light gathered under it. A low hum filled the room. The edges of the wound pulled together, scabbed over, then shrank into pink scar tissue. The light and hum faded. Gojyo’s ears popped. Hakkai abruptly sat down on the floor.
“Hey!” said Gojyo. “You all right?”
“Kyu!” squeaked the dragon. It launched itself out of Gojyo’s hands and flew down to land on Hakkai’s shoulder.
“I’m fine.” Hakkai stood up to prove it, then hastily leaned against the counter. But he looked better than he had ten minutes ago: tired, but there was light in his eyes again. “That was a bit harder than mending plates. But they said it’d get easier if I practiced.”
“Who said?”
“Oh…” Hakkai turned his face away and scratched the dragon’s chin. “The ones who judged me.”
Gojyo wasn’t going to pursue that line of inquiry. “Cute little thing,” he muttered.
“Isn’t it?” said Hakkai cheerfully. “I think I’ll name it Hakuryu.”
“When you were a kid, did you name your black dog Black Dog?”
Hakkai laughed.
“Should you name it?” asked Gojyo. “Now that you’ve fixed its wing, it’ll just fly away once the rain stops.”
“I don’t think so,” said Hakkai. “And if he does, well, maybe he'll come back.”
Hakkai walked into the living room with Hakuryu clinging to his shoulder, and Gojyo soon heard the rustle of books being removed from the shelves. Looking up manuals on dragon care, he supposed. A gust of wind hurled rain into the window like a burst of gunfire, but the rustling continued without a skipped beat.
The kettle began to whistle. Gojyo took out two mugs and a saucer, in case the books said dragons drink tea. They were nice mugs, big and solid, one dark blue and one dark green. The sort of mugs you’d take with you if you had to move, which was a hassle and why Gojyo had only bought the kind you could throw away before Hakkai came.
Gojyo poured two mugs and a saucer, and wondered if Hakkai would buy a little bed for the dragon. He might as well. It seemed like they'd all be staying together for a while.
For the benefit of readers other than Mely, this story is set several years before the main storyline of Saiyuki begins, so it contains no spoilers for that. It does contain some for the flashback arcs "Be There" from volume 5 and "Burial" from Reload, but I don't think they're anything that would ruin those arcs for you if you haven't read them already.
Gojyo kicked at the mud on the path. Some of it splashed his pants (which Hakkai would wash) and clung soggily to his ankles, where it would chafe at every step because he wasn’t anywhere near drunk enough to not feel it, but the rest of it showered down and covered his tracks like he’d never been there.
Had he really just left a bar before midnight and without getting hammered? What was the point of that?
“Where’s Hakkai?” the bartender had asked. (When had the bartender learned his name?) “Oh, he’s teaching the kid tonight?” He’d replaced the bottle of premium sake behind the bar and slid Gojyo a beer with an eye-roll on the side. Sure, the guy was bummed that he’d lost Hakkai’s money- Hakkai, who could drink all night and never get loud, never get sick, never stagger even when the proof of his breath made Gojyo dizzy- but a bartender ought to show a little more happiness at the sight of his most reliable patron.
“Where’s Hakkai?” the gamblers had asked. (Were those guys gluttons for punishment or what?) “Damn, he’s out of town for the weekend? Well, you tell him we’re gonna beat him when he gets back. We’ve figured out his tells.” Any guys dumb enough to think Hakkai had tells would pay in IOUs anyway, so Gojyo moved on to the girls without playing a single round.
“Where’s Hakkai?” the girls had asked. (How had they gotten so fond of him?) “Oh, not feeling well? What’s the matter? The flu? A cold? Did you let him go out in the rain? You should take better care of him- make him wear a sweater- have him breathe steam-“ Gojyo had fled when they started giving him recipes for medicinal teas.
Now he’d have to tell Hakkai what he said at the bar so their stories would match if anyone asked. And the way everyone had acted tonight, they’d all ask. “How’s your cold, Hakkai?” “Has Goku learned to add yet, Hakkai?” “Where’d you go, Hakkai? Did you have fun?”
Well, whose fault was that? It wasn’t like Hakkai would have wanted him to say, “He was going to come, but then it started raining and he sat down on the bed and stared out the window and the last time I saw that look on his face it was five minutes after he’d ripped his own eyeball out, and like a moron, I said, ‘You want me to make you some tea?’ and he said, all polite, ‘No thank you, Gojyo, it’s much too cold and wet a night to sleep outside when the house burns down,’ and it was like all the air was getting sucked out of the room-- I swear I couldn't breathe-- so I ran away. It wasn't like he wanted me there. It wasn't like there was anything I could do for him. It wasn't like anything terrible would happen if I left.”
Of course, that was because Gojyo's presence or absence wouldn't make a fucking bit of difference if Hakkai decided to cut out his own heart or go on another killing spree or go move in with Sanzo. Hakkai did whatever he wanted to do, and sometimes Gojyo felt like a ghost in his own house.
He slammed his fist into a handy tree trunk. An extra load of icy water dumped down on his head. He’d left without an umbrella. Of course.
Hakkai had saved his life with two umbrellas (and ten youkai claws.) Which was typical. Gojyo had tried to protect him, and Hakkai’d had to rescue him from Gojyo’s own rescue attempt. Gojyo screwed things up, and Hakkai fixed them.
Gojyo tossed his laundry on the floor and left his dirty dishes on the table and stained the sheets, but the moment he turned his back his clothes were folded in a dresser drawer (where had the dresser come from?), the dishes were put away (cups with cups and plates with plates), and the sheets weren’t just clean, but fluffy.
And Gojyo wasn’t used to paying attention to the containers he ate out of, but now that he had real dishes (where had those come from?) he’d noticed something weird. Lately when he broke a plate, it didn’t disappear into the non-burnable trash or reappear mended. It reappeared whole. Was Hakkai secretly buying identical replacement plates? Had he bought several sets in the same pattern and was keeping the duplicates somewhere? It was creepy. Convenient, but creepy.
The trouble was, there was nothing Gojyo could do in return. Hakkai didn’t seem to want anything. Oh, sure, he was living in Gojyo’s house, but he paid his own way, so it was just as much his house now. And yeah, Gojyo had picked him up off the road, but he hadn’t done it out of the kindness of his heart. And for all that Gojyo had put Hakkai’s body back together with his hands wrist-deep in Hakkai's blood, sat with him for hours tipping broth down his throat one drop at a time, even quit smoking inside for an entire week, as soon as Hakkai'd been able, he’d walked away to die on his own. Gojyo hadn’t saved him. The man who’d done that had been that bitchy priest.
Gojyo started to kick aside a muddy white shirt someone had dumped in the path, then cautiously lowered his foot. Who said he couldn’t learn from experience? The way the night was going, it was probably trip-wired.
The shirt opened its eyes. “Kyu,” it squeaked.
Gojyo squatted on his heels to inspect the not-shirt. It lay in a pathetic crumpled heap, with one wing folded tight against its body and the other limp in the mud with a bloody shard sticking out where the bone was snapped. He hadn’t known dragons came that small. Maybe it was a hatchling.
He offered the back of his hand for its inspection. The little dragon jerked its head back and exhaled a warning flame like a living cigarette lighter.
Hakkai would kill him if he brought a dragon home. It would set fire to Hakkai’s books, and shit on the floor, and flap its wing and break the dishes, and-
"Kyu," squeaked the dragon plaintively.
He glanced around the forest to make sure nobody but bats and owls would catch him being a softie, then scooped up the little dragon and stuffed it under his shirt to keep warm. It seemed happy there, emitting contented squeaks and jabbing him with its claws as it settled in. The state Hakkai was in, maybe he wouldn’t even notice the dragon until after the rain had stopped. And when he did, Gojyo would point out that it wouldn’t be around for long. As soon as its wing healed, it would fly away.
The lights were off when he got home. He poked his head inside, letting his eyes adjust before he went in. He didn’t want to trip over a shoe or something and squash the dragon. Hakkai was silhouetted against the window, exactly where he’d been when Gojyo had left. Damn.
On the bright side, he was still there. And still in one piece.
There was no color in the moonlight. His hair and eyes looked black, his skin as dead-white as when Gojyo had found him with his blood pooling under him like spilled ink. At least then Gojyo been able to stop the bleeding.
“Hey,” said Gojyo, certain that was not the magic word that would fix everything but unable to figure out what that would be. “They all missed you at the bar.”
No response. And still no air in the house. Gojyo went to open a window, never mind the rain. He slipped in the mud he’d just tracked in and grabbed at the curtains for support. Naturally, they ripped off. Clutching at the wall, he dropped the curtains, stepped on them, skidded, and fell on his ass. The dragon gouged a new set of scratches into his belly.
“Shit. Sorry about that.” Gojyo glanced at Hakkai, hoping he’d at least have been amused by the accidental slapstick routine.
He did not look amused. But it had gotten his attention. His head turned. Then he went back to staring- not out the window, but at his own hands. Gojyo didn’t see that as much of an improvement.
Gojyo went into the bathroom to look for a towel and a box to make a nest for the dragon. While he was rooting around, it occurred to him that he could have picked up the stomped-on curtains. Much as he wasn’t the kind of guy who picked things up off the floor, maybe tonight he should make an exception. But maybe if he left them where they were, they’d drive Hakkai crazy enough that he’d get up and pick them up himself, and then at least he'd be off the bed. In fact- Gojyo froze with his hand on a neatly folded towel- weren’t those footsteps?
Click: the lights came on.
And then came a noise that had never been heard in the house before Hakkai had moved in but which Gojyo was now quite familiar with: swish-swish, swish-swish: the sound of mopping.
“My goodness, there’s water all over the floor,” said Hakkai. “Did you leave without an umbrella? You’d better change your clothes, or you’ll catch cold.”
More sounds that had never been heard when Gojyo had lived alone: Clink-clink, splash, clunk, whoosh: Tea-jar and kettle out, water into kettle, kettle on burner, burner on.
Maybe Hakkai wasn’t just a neat freak. Maybe he needed someone to take care of. Maybe it was good for him to have someone to worry about, so he’d have less time to devote to obsessive guilt.
Gojyo settled the dragon into a fluffy towel and walked into the kitchen. “I brought you something.”
“Oh, my,” said Hakkai. “It’s hurt.”
“Yeah, I thought maybe you could fix it.“
Hakkai bent over the dragon, making soft clicking noises with his tongue. They were answered with adoring squeaks.
“You know how to set its wing, right?” Gojyo bet if he didn’t, he could pull out a book on the subject. With diagrams.
“Ah. Well. Living things are different, of course, but... Hold still, little one.”
Gojyo hastily grabbed its head so it wouldn’t pull the cigarette lighter trick, but it only squeaked in pain as Hakkai gently straightened its wing.
“You want me get a branch or something?” asked Gojyo.
“That won’t be necessary.” Hakkai held out his palm. Green light gathered under it. A low hum filled the room. The edges of the wound pulled together, scabbed over, then shrank into pink scar tissue. The light and hum faded. Gojyo’s ears popped. Hakkai abruptly sat down on the floor.
“Hey!” said Gojyo. “You all right?”
“Kyu!” squeaked the dragon. It launched itself out of Gojyo’s hands and flew down to land on Hakkai’s shoulder.
“I’m fine.” Hakkai stood up to prove it, then hastily leaned against the counter. But he looked better than he had ten minutes ago: tired, but there was light in his eyes again. “That was a bit harder than mending plates. But they said it’d get easier if I practiced.”
“Who said?”
“Oh…” Hakkai turned his face away and scratched the dragon’s chin. “The ones who judged me.”
Gojyo wasn’t going to pursue that line of inquiry. “Cute little thing,” he muttered.
“Isn’t it?” said Hakkai cheerfully. “I think I’ll name it Hakuryu.”
“When you were a kid, did you name your black dog Black Dog?”
Hakkai laughed.
“Should you name it?” asked Gojyo. “Now that you’ve fixed its wing, it’ll just fly away once the rain stops.”
“I don’t think so,” said Hakkai. “And if he does, well, maybe he'll come back.”
Hakkai walked into the living room with Hakuryu clinging to his shoulder, and Gojyo soon heard the rustle of books being removed from the shelves. Looking up manuals on dragon care, he supposed. A gust of wind hurled rain into the window like a burst of gunfire, but the rustling continued without a skipped beat.
The kettle began to whistle. Gojyo took out two mugs and a saucer, in case the books said dragons drink tea. They were nice mugs, big and solid, one dark blue and one dark green. The sort of mugs you’d take with you if you had to move, which was a hassle and why Gojyo had only bought the kind you could throw away before Hakkai came.
Gojyo poured two mugs and a saucer, and wondered if Hakkai would buy a little bed for the dragon. He might as well. It seemed like they'd all be staying together for a while.