[fic] Simple Things 1
Title: Simple Things 1
Rating: 16
Pairings: 39, 58
Genre: horror
Warnings: cannibalism is discussed, vampirism is in effect
Summary: People want simple things. Sanzo wants his efforts recognised. Goku wants a home. Hakkai wants his friends to clean up after themselves. Gojyo wants beer.
Author notes: About this fic: I know I said I shall never again post a WIP, but I really don't want this to become a WIP. A perpetually ongoing universe with instalments, perhaps. It seems the choice is out of my hands, however. There is now a crude mythology to go with it, and all doom that comes with. Crap. *sigh* You know, I was once incapable of having an idea that wouldn't be associated with one fandom or another. These days every fic I try touching is sitting up and begging to make an original out of it.
This fic is sponsored by Twilight, enabled by moshesque and eyesofshinigami, and also sister, for keeping Twilight and sparkly vampires in my head by talking about them. XD For the record, this fic is a sparkle-free zone.
This is a continuation of the bit I posted yesterday, including the bit I posted yesterday. Just skip to II for new material. ^______^
*cough* I'm posting this now, because my ego needs stroking. I left the goddamned essay until the very last minute and I'm for a lack of better word, screwed. I don't even know how long it's supposed to be.
I.
Sanzo’s trouble started when the kid arrived in town. Up until then Sanzo was happily minding his own business. Granted, his business didn’t make him Mr Popular, on account of the killing, but since so few people were privy to that, no one minded. No one who would be missed died, which was the whole point. Anonymity was an advantage the big city had to offer, though from time to time Sanzo thought he should march into the City Hall and demand recognition, and a paycheck. Hell, he was doing the city a service and he deserved to have at least his costs reimbursed. True, he had no money issues - he didn’t need to murder twenty-first century people for money. Not often, at least. True, the apartment didn’t clean itself, and the rent wasn’t what it used to be, but thanks to a few strategic murders back in 1899 and the accumulating interest, Sanzo could pay the cleaning lady for another three centuries in advance without stretching his funds. That wasn’t the point. The point was that Sanzo kept the city cleaner and safer for all the pigtailed little munchkins. Deliciously fresh, pigtailed munchkins. Free of smoke and medicine, drugs and alcohol; filled with nothing but sweet blood.
Fuck. There were disadvantages to living off the homeless and the scumbags. Sure, he needn’t buy alcohol no more, as half of them had C2H5OH levels well over 2‰, but sometimes, a lot of times, Sanzo craved a meal whose taste he wouldn’t need to kill with a cigarette.
Fucking twenty-first century, Sanzo thought. He was killing time in front of the railway station, and killing time inspired musings of better times: namely the past. These days everyone had a file and everyone not locked up behind white picket fences had their fingerprints in a catalogue, which meant he had to get creative with the bodies if he wanted to stay under the radar. One of these days, Sanzo told himself, he would conquer his dislike of popsicles and move to Siberia. At least there no one raised a brow if someone went outside and didn’t come back. Fucking post modernity. Things were so much easier back in the nineteenth century. No one minded that the occasional corpse in the gutter was bloodless, with his throat torn out.
It was quieter, too. Sanzo winced when the 9:16 pm train from Letchworth rolled in, roaring and spitting. A happy coincidence had it that his next meal was arriving on that train, a drug dealer who called himself Monty Fries. Sanzo dropped the cigarette on the floor and stepped on it. Small game drug dealers were surprisingly decent eating. They didn’t shoot up, not in public anyway, and they carried a lot of cash. Which was just as well, Sanzo was out of cigs.
The train door opened when the big clock high on the wall grunted and moved its larger arm to 17. Even from the distance Sanzo could hear the woosh of the hand if he concentrated. It was hard, considering he also heard hundreds of heartbeats, all of them waiting for someone - him - to turn their drumming into silence.
Sanzo hadn’t seen Monty before, aside from a picture, so he needed to track him by sight. Tricky, but hell, he was bored anyway.
The moment he caught sight of Monty was roughly the very same moment he caught the scent of the kid. He didn’t know that it was a kid, precisely. Not right away. At first whiff it seemed merely the indication of a summer rain, which would be nice and well if it weren’t November and the sky wasn’t cloudless. Then the scent intensified and Sanzo choked. He smelled the sweat and cheap shower gel, the kind that was two in one, shampoo and soap. There was the hint of what passed for peach in factory circles, all but faded. Who cared about the package, though, when the content was so much more fascinating?
The kid was male. Young, but then again, next to Sanzo, who was ever old? Too old, perhaps, to be one of the munchkins Sanzo was dead set on not eating, for some inane reason, though not old enough to lose his appeal. He was no child, though. Sanzo was ready to change his mind about his dietary regime - if the kid tasted half as good as he smelled, this would be an epic meal.
Monty bought a newspaper in the kiosk Sanzo was leaning against and left. Sanzo barely noticed. His eyes were closed as he focused on the approaching kid. He held the breath he didn’t need in anticipation. Just one more second, one more - and there he was. Sanzo didn’t open his eyes, just let the air out and drew another breath.
Huh. A very nasty smile twisted his mouth. Veiling the scent of blood was a layer of dust. Wherever this kid was from, he’d left an empty apartment there; he smelled of a lonely journey on top of a lonely life, tinged by a little apprehension. Sanzo opened his eyes to take in the figure, which was just a little brighter, for its golden scent, than the crowd filling the station. This was a kid no one would miss, Sanzo thought, pushing away from the booth and following at a discreet distance. He had no need for keeping the boy in his sight, not once he had the smell burned into his nostrils, the call was strong enough. He didn’t want to waste one minute.
II.
Goku was in town just twenty minutes and already he was friends with his landlord, a very peculiar fellow with striking green eyes. This wasn’t an accomplishment. Goku prided himself on being friendly to anyone who was not displaying obvious hostility. The landlord, though… If Goku were to be truthful, the man was scaring him, despite his pleasant smile and welcoming manners. He had the look of a man who would be capable of inviting him in for a tea party into a room full of dolls and tiny plastic cups, to talk with the dolls and watch a bloodstain spread on the carpet. Goku wouldn’t be at all surprised if there were a body in the living room, chopped to pieces for easier storage. Still, the apartment was cheap and the neighbourhood boasted the lowest crime rate in the Western district. Altogether it was about everything he might expect, so he swallowed his doubts, smiled and nodded when the man gave him his key.
He fought not to watch his back as he walked up the stairs, even though he had seen the man close the door, and he heard no footsteps following him. It didn’t stop the smile from haunting Goku all the way to number 9, his new home. He flipped on the light, dropped his bag in the main room, and paused to rub at his eyes. It was a living room, and there was a door on one wall. It led to another room, a tiny one - a queen-sized bed filled it wall to wall, leaving enough space at the foot for a thin cabinet. The room was so small that if he stepped in and closed the door, he would have been unable to turn without hurting his elbows. He went back to the living room, past the only piece of furniture - an ugly couch - and into the kitchenette, which was hidden from view by a large fern.
“They sure as hell don’t like fat people in here,” Goku said out loud, squeezing through the half-opened door to the bathroom. It was clean, he noted with surprise. The floor was covered with tiles, there was a bath, not a cockroach in sight, and everything seemed to be in order. The water, when he turned the knob, flowed freely, clear and warm. Goku turned the knob further and inhaled the steam. Aside from a touch of chlorine, he smelled nothing.
Goku marched downstairs and knocked on the landlord’s door once more. “Hi,” he said when the door opened. “I think there’s some mistake with my flat.”
“Oh? I checked it myself this morning, everything was as advertised.”
“Yeah, but I was expectin’, dunno, a room with a mattress in it. ‘s what all th’ other apartments I could afford were.”
“Let me check,” the man said and withdrew into his flat, leaving Goku to admire the disaster the painter made of the corridor. At least something lived up to expectations. “Son Goku,” the man flipped his notebook open, “I noted one person, £55 a week. Is that incorrect?”
“No, ’s what I remember sayin’ too.”
The man smiled. “Then there is no mistake. Call it a bargain.”
That settled it. There was a corpse in his fridge and Goku was going to be sold into slavery as soon as he closed his eyes for the night. He contemplated grabbing his bag and making a run for it, but at this hour he figured he’d end up with his throat slit on the riverbed, if he was lucky. “Thanks,” he said, scratching his head.
“I don’t advertise,” the landlord informed him, “which is why there wasn’t a waiting list. The previous occupant had just moved out and you called at the right time.”
“Oh. Well, thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Are you hungry?”
“Yeah,” Goku said from his stomach before his head could intervene. He was always hungry.
“I have some left over stew in the fridge. Give me a moment.” A moment later he was back with a Tupperware container filled to the brim with a chunky brown sludge with chunks. “Heat it up slowly,” the man cautioned, “stirring occasionally. Some fresh thyme could not go amiss, but I’m afraid I have none at the moment.”
“Thank you,” Goku said. He’d plans to have ramen noodles and now he had pork stew. It was delicious, lack of fresh thyme notwithstanding, though it could have done with some garlic. Goku brought the pot to bed and ate with his back against one wall, staring out the narrow window. If he had a couple of planks and nails he would nail the door closed at night, but alas, he was all out. This was all too good to be true. Goku didn’t consider himself unlucky, but there was luck and there was finding a cheap apartment with free, tasty food. In his experience, the latter just didn’t happen. When he was done eating, he shoved the pot under the bed, unrolled his sleeping bag and slept dreamlessly.
III.
There was indeed a corpse in the fridge. Hakkai wasn’t too happy about that, but it was a part of the deal. Gojyo wasn’t too happy about it either; he liked his steaks bloody and fresh. Neither would move against the arrangement though - it worked to everyone’s benefit. Sanzo thought them morons, for the way they shared their living space and food supply, but Sanzo had been a lone wolf for such a long time, he couldn’t fathom the pleasures of company. It was invaluable on the long nights, which happened an awful lot across the centuries. Mostly though, the arrangement allowed for frequent sex, and that even Sanzo couldn’t dis.
“Feet off the table, Gojyo,” Hakkai said, walking back into the living room.
“Screw you,” Gojyo replied and took his feet off the table. It was that time of the month when he was at his worst behaviour. Thankfully, Hakkai, while not strictly a dog person, understood animal urges and baser natures enough to tolerate his partner’s cravings to scratch his head with his toes.
“Whiskey,” Sanzo said, dropping to the floor from the window.
“Your meal disagreeing with you?” Gojyo asked, grinning.
“Fuck you.”
“I would appreciate it if you started coming in through the door.” Hakkai handed Sanzo a glass and watched him drop heavily onto the couch. “I do advise you to stop feeding on those lowlifes, Sanzo. It cannot be healthy.”
“Yes, because I have been sick so many times over the past two hundred years.”
“There was that one time…”
“There was also a long, hot summer, a warm corpse and dead blood. Now kindly shut the fuck up.”
“Someone is tetchy,” Gojyo observed, rising from the couch. He sniffled the air and grinned. “Dude! You haven’t eaten tonight!”
“Go to hell.”
“I have some blood leftover,” Hakkai said.
“I have a burning need to stick a pencil in your ear.”
“It’s not-”
“If you dare to say healthy, I will hurt you.”
“All I’m saying is that you should be taking better care of yourself.”
Sanzo rolled his eyes and finished his whiskey. Hakkai started picking up the book he’d dropped to answer Goku’s knocking, when Sanzo turned his head away from both him and Gojyo, and fixed his stare on the door, which lead to the stairwell. “He was here,” he said, and a strange kind of tension gripped his muscles.
“He? Oh, Goku you mean?”
“What’s it to you?” Gojyo asked. Sanzo said nothing.
“Goku smells rather delicious, I was surprised you didn’t notice.” Hakkai sat down, keeping his gaze on Sanzo. His reaction was very peculiar.
“Hey, meat is meat.”
“Boor,” Sanzo snorted.
“Werewolf, actually. I see you’re sharp as ever.”
“He’s renting the apartment above us.” Hakkai opened his book. “Since he’s been recommended the place by Gojyo’s brother, I suggest you refrain from consuming him.” He paused to turn a page. “At least until we come up with an explanation decent enough for his untimely demise.”
“He could go missing. Run away or such,” Gojyo said, stretching. “I can do away with the corpse in a week, no problem, the fridge is big enough, and he should be a good eating.”
“What happened to meat is meat?” Sanzo said.
“Dude, just because my food don’t speak to me, doesn’t mean I have no taste buds. The kid is young and he smells more than nice.” Gojyo sat up straight and licked his lips. “Okay, now I’m hungry.”
“Your brother sent him here, Gojyo. Unless this was an elaborate murder attempt on his part, we have to assume he knows and likes Goku, likes him enough to help him out and not to feed him to a werewolf.”
“A, he has no idea, and B, c’mon. Plenty of people go missing on a daily basis in this district alone.”
“I am aware of that,” Hakkai said, amused. “We’re the reason they go missing.”
“Exactly.”
“No,” Sanzo said, setting the glass on the table with a loud clang. “He’s mine.”
“Says who!”
“I saw him first.”
“He lives in our building!”
“All the more reason for you not to make a snack out of him.”
“Gojyo, you still have the pleasant nurse in the refrigerator.”
“Yeah, but she’s dead!”
“I’d hope so, given her condition.”
“I said he’s mine,” Sanzo repeated and Hakkai just had to raise a brow in a manner he knew Sanzo hated. Oh? was the question the brow asked, and Sanzo had fought endless battles not to succumb to the question. He had yet to win. “I saw him first,” he said lamely.
“We heard of him first,” Hakkai pointed out.
“Because that holds so much weight,” Gojyo told his glass.
“Whose side are you on, exactly?” Sanzo asked, turning to him.
“Why are you protesting? I’m backing you up!” Then a light flashed somewhere in the cerebral levels of the werewolf’s mind. Hakkai watched it with a certain amount of trepidation, as when that light switched on, Gojyo and Sanzo ended up tearing each other’s throats out. The fact that the wounds healed after a single serving of A Rh+ was of little consequence. “If you wanted to fuck the kid before eating him, you should have just said so. Fuck him during, for all I care.”
Sanzo went whiter than he usually was and Hakkai sighed. Time to remove the brittle items from the vicinity.
“Hey man, I’m not judging,” Gojyo continued, throwing up his hands. “Have your fun. God knows you need to get laid.” He paused. “On second thought, don’t fuck him during. I want some of him too and that would just be gross.”
“I am going to kill you.”
“Go ahead and try.” Gojyo grinned with the grin of someone who knows full well that their healing ability out paces the average tearing-into-flesh ability. Sanzo, though undoubtedly capable of greater speeds, never bothered to employ them. The arrangement worked on so many levels.
“I don’t want blood on my furniture,” Hakkai said, glaring at the two. “You get anything dirty, you are cleaning it up yourselves.” Normally he would be more accepting. This happened when one’s werewolf boyfriend and vampire friend got together. It was inevitable that someone’s trachea would end up hitting the TV screen. As it were, however, his supply of blood was low and just the last morning he’d been removing viscera from the ceiling (he didn’t know how it happened - e’d turned his back for one minute). He was in no mood for another fight.
IV.
“Hey,” Gojyo said, leaning against the doorframe and inhaling. The air filled his lungs via his nose and Gojyo had an olfactory orgasm, which was only a little less embarrassing than an actual one. The kid smelled heavenly.
If one’s culinary tastes ran towards human flesh, and Gojyo’s did, Goku was a walking invitation to dig in. Though the werewolf usually tended to satiate his hunger with pork. It was the equivalent of managing a cigarette craving with lollipops, but at least his health wasn’t in any peril. Hakkai and Sanzo were less lucky - their appetites wouldn’t be so easily satisfied by inhuman means. This was a lousy way to phrase it, Gojyo thought, wincing. Means that humans wouldn’t pay attention to?
“Hey,” Goku said, opening the door wide enough to admit a gang inside.
“Okay, first thing,” Gojyo said stepping into the flat, “this is not East Buggersville. You do not open the door to strangers. For all you know, I’m Hannibal Lecter, here for your liver.” Hannibal Lecter might have been wrong on that account, however. The kid’s heart would be much nicer. Gojyo could hear its beat, steady and loud, healthy and young and red, and fuck, when was the last time he got to gulp down a fresh human heart? They were all alone here and Goku smelled so good up close. His blood pulsed beneath his golden skin, the beat an invitation that the hunger in Gojyo found itself eagerly RSVPing to.
There was the slight problem of blood spattering though. Human blood was harder to clean than that of werewolves or vampires - it didn’t decompose as fast. Hakkai would kill him if they had to scrub the apartment clean again so soon. The fresh paint had barely dried. Still, there was the bathtub… The body would be simple to deal with, all succulent flesh and stringy sinew, neither would present a challenge to a werewolf’s teeth. He could devour Goku whole, with none the wiser - not in one go, perhaps, but that’s what the refrigerators were for.
“What do I do then, scream through th’ door?” Goku asked, scowling. “Besides, I could so kick your ass.”
Not no one. Sanzo would know, damn stalking freak that he was, and he’d kill him. Hurt him a lot, at least.
“You wish,” he told the kid, dropping on the couch. The dickhead was territorial, damn him. All he could hope for was convincing Hakkai and Sanzo there was good eating off the kid. It was only sensible. The nature of their respective condition allowed for some self-control, but even saints had been known to break their fast when a feast was laid out in front of them.
Gojyo took a look around the room. The couch, the only piece of furniture, was pushed against a wall. Goku had been exercising before Gojyo came knocking - the scent of fresh sweat, on top of the blood, was crying to the werewolf in a voice so loud he was close to stuffing his fingers in his ears and singing. It wouldn’t help much, but it would be a distraction.
“Who are you, anyway?” Goku asked, cocking his head to the side.
“You let a stranger into your place and then you ask him who he is? It’s a wonder you’ve lived this long.”
“Shut up! What the hell do you want?” Goku was getting worried and angry. It was absurd how his anger spiced up the already irresistible smell.
“Relax. I’m friends with Hakkai - the landlord. I live downstairs, number 5. I’m Gojyo.”
“Goku.” The boy relaxed and held out his hand.
God, but this kid was painfully naïve, Gojyo thought. They should probably eat him for his own good, before someone took advantage- Huh. Well, at least they’d try to make it comfortable. “So, you’ve got any beer?”
“No, haven’t done the shopping yet.”
“You didn’t bring any?”
“Beer’s not high on my shoppin’ list.”
“You need to learn about life, kid,” Gojyo said, grinning, “and the pleasures of drinking.”
“And you’re th’ tutor I get? Thanks, I’ll pass.”
“You could do worse, trust me.”
“Whatddya want?”
“Actually, we are having a little drinking party downstairs. If you want to join us?”
“It’s noon.” Goku scrunched up his nose and Gojyo would have cooed, if the saliva wasn’t about to spill out of his mouth if he opened it too far.
“Which is why Hakkai insists on tea, not whiskey, but what can you do. He made sponge cake, with raspberries,” he added, and watched Goku’s eyes shine.
“Lemme shower first,” Goku said. “I’ll be down in a minute.” Gojyo waved him away and left the flat feeling vaguely satisfied. His day had just got interesting.
Master Post :: Next Part
Rating: 16
Pairings: 39, 58
Genre: horror
Warnings: cannibalism is discussed, vampirism is in effect
Summary: People want simple things. Sanzo wants his efforts recognised. Goku wants a home. Hakkai wants his friends to clean up after themselves. Gojyo wants beer.
Author notes: About this fic: I know I said I shall never again post a WIP, but I really don't want this to become a WIP. A perpetually ongoing universe with instalments, perhaps. It seems the choice is out of my hands, however. There is now a crude mythology to go with it, and all doom that comes with. Crap. *sigh* You know, I was once incapable of having an idea that wouldn't be associated with one fandom or another. These days every fic I try touching is sitting up and begging to make an original out of it.
This fic is sponsored by Twilight, enabled by moshesque and eyesofshinigami, and also sister, for keeping Twilight and sparkly vampires in my head by talking about them. XD For the record, this fic is a sparkle-free zone.
This is a continuation of the bit I posted yesterday, including the bit I posted yesterday. Just skip to II for new material. ^______^
*cough* I'm posting this now, because my ego needs stroking. I left the goddamned essay until the very last minute and I'm for a lack of better word, screwed. I don't even know how long it's supposed to be.
I.
Sanzo’s trouble started when the kid arrived in town. Up until then Sanzo was happily minding his own business. Granted, his business didn’t make him Mr Popular, on account of the killing, but since so few people were privy to that, no one minded. No one who would be missed died, which was the whole point. Anonymity was an advantage the big city had to offer, though from time to time Sanzo thought he should march into the City Hall and demand recognition, and a paycheck. Hell, he was doing the city a service and he deserved to have at least his costs reimbursed. True, he had no money issues - he didn’t need to murder twenty-first century people for money. Not often, at least. True, the apartment didn’t clean itself, and the rent wasn’t what it used to be, but thanks to a few strategic murders back in 1899 and the accumulating interest, Sanzo could pay the cleaning lady for another three centuries in advance without stretching his funds. That wasn’t the point. The point was that Sanzo kept the city cleaner and safer for all the pigtailed little munchkins. Deliciously fresh, pigtailed munchkins. Free of smoke and medicine, drugs and alcohol; filled with nothing but sweet blood.
Fuck. There were disadvantages to living off the homeless and the scumbags. Sure, he needn’t buy alcohol no more, as half of them had C2H5OH levels well over 2‰, but sometimes, a lot of times, Sanzo craved a meal whose taste he wouldn’t need to kill with a cigarette.
Fucking twenty-first century, Sanzo thought. He was killing time in front of the railway station, and killing time inspired musings of better times: namely the past. These days everyone had a file and everyone not locked up behind white picket fences had their fingerprints in a catalogue, which meant he had to get creative with the bodies if he wanted to stay under the radar. One of these days, Sanzo told himself, he would conquer his dislike of popsicles and move to Siberia. At least there no one raised a brow if someone went outside and didn’t come back. Fucking post modernity. Things were so much easier back in the nineteenth century. No one minded that the occasional corpse in the gutter was bloodless, with his throat torn out.
It was quieter, too. Sanzo winced when the 9:16 pm train from Letchworth rolled in, roaring and spitting. A happy coincidence had it that his next meal was arriving on that train, a drug dealer who called himself Monty Fries. Sanzo dropped the cigarette on the floor and stepped on it. Small game drug dealers were surprisingly decent eating. They didn’t shoot up, not in public anyway, and they carried a lot of cash. Which was just as well, Sanzo was out of cigs.
The train door opened when the big clock high on the wall grunted and moved its larger arm to 17. Even from the distance Sanzo could hear the woosh of the hand if he concentrated. It was hard, considering he also heard hundreds of heartbeats, all of them waiting for someone - him - to turn their drumming into silence.
Sanzo hadn’t seen Monty before, aside from a picture, so he needed to track him by sight. Tricky, but hell, he was bored anyway.
The moment he caught sight of Monty was roughly the very same moment he caught the scent of the kid. He didn’t know that it was a kid, precisely. Not right away. At first whiff it seemed merely the indication of a summer rain, which would be nice and well if it weren’t November and the sky wasn’t cloudless. Then the scent intensified and Sanzo choked. He smelled the sweat and cheap shower gel, the kind that was two in one, shampoo and soap. There was the hint of what passed for peach in factory circles, all but faded. Who cared about the package, though, when the content was so much more fascinating?
The kid was male. Young, but then again, next to Sanzo, who was ever old? Too old, perhaps, to be one of the munchkins Sanzo was dead set on not eating, for some inane reason, though not old enough to lose his appeal. He was no child, though. Sanzo was ready to change his mind about his dietary regime - if the kid tasted half as good as he smelled, this would be an epic meal.
Monty bought a newspaper in the kiosk Sanzo was leaning against and left. Sanzo barely noticed. His eyes were closed as he focused on the approaching kid. He held the breath he didn’t need in anticipation. Just one more second, one more - and there he was. Sanzo didn’t open his eyes, just let the air out and drew another breath.
Huh. A very nasty smile twisted his mouth. Veiling the scent of blood was a layer of dust. Wherever this kid was from, he’d left an empty apartment there; he smelled of a lonely journey on top of a lonely life, tinged by a little apprehension. Sanzo opened his eyes to take in the figure, which was just a little brighter, for its golden scent, than the crowd filling the station. This was a kid no one would miss, Sanzo thought, pushing away from the booth and following at a discreet distance. He had no need for keeping the boy in his sight, not once he had the smell burned into his nostrils, the call was strong enough. He didn’t want to waste one minute.
II.
Goku was in town just twenty minutes and already he was friends with his landlord, a very peculiar fellow with striking green eyes. This wasn’t an accomplishment. Goku prided himself on being friendly to anyone who was not displaying obvious hostility. The landlord, though… If Goku were to be truthful, the man was scaring him, despite his pleasant smile and welcoming manners. He had the look of a man who would be capable of inviting him in for a tea party into a room full of dolls and tiny plastic cups, to talk with the dolls and watch a bloodstain spread on the carpet. Goku wouldn’t be at all surprised if there were a body in the living room, chopped to pieces for easier storage. Still, the apartment was cheap and the neighbourhood boasted the lowest crime rate in the Western district. Altogether it was about everything he might expect, so he swallowed his doubts, smiled and nodded when the man gave him his key.
He fought not to watch his back as he walked up the stairs, even though he had seen the man close the door, and he heard no footsteps following him. It didn’t stop the smile from haunting Goku all the way to number 9, his new home. He flipped on the light, dropped his bag in the main room, and paused to rub at his eyes. It was a living room, and there was a door on one wall. It led to another room, a tiny one - a queen-sized bed filled it wall to wall, leaving enough space at the foot for a thin cabinet. The room was so small that if he stepped in and closed the door, he would have been unable to turn without hurting his elbows. He went back to the living room, past the only piece of furniture - an ugly couch - and into the kitchenette, which was hidden from view by a large fern.
“They sure as hell don’t like fat people in here,” Goku said out loud, squeezing through the half-opened door to the bathroom. It was clean, he noted with surprise. The floor was covered with tiles, there was a bath, not a cockroach in sight, and everything seemed to be in order. The water, when he turned the knob, flowed freely, clear and warm. Goku turned the knob further and inhaled the steam. Aside from a touch of chlorine, he smelled nothing.
Goku marched downstairs and knocked on the landlord’s door once more. “Hi,” he said when the door opened. “I think there’s some mistake with my flat.”
“Oh? I checked it myself this morning, everything was as advertised.”
“Yeah, but I was expectin’, dunno, a room with a mattress in it. ‘s what all th’ other apartments I could afford were.”
“Let me check,” the man said and withdrew into his flat, leaving Goku to admire the disaster the painter made of the corridor. At least something lived up to expectations. “Son Goku,” the man flipped his notebook open, “I noted one person, £55 a week. Is that incorrect?”
“No, ’s what I remember sayin’ too.”
The man smiled. “Then there is no mistake. Call it a bargain.”
That settled it. There was a corpse in his fridge and Goku was going to be sold into slavery as soon as he closed his eyes for the night. He contemplated grabbing his bag and making a run for it, but at this hour he figured he’d end up with his throat slit on the riverbed, if he was lucky. “Thanks,” he said, scratching his head.
“I don’t advertise,” the landlord informed him, “which is why there wasn’t a waiting list. The previous occupant had just moved out and you called at the right time.”
“Oh. Well, thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Are you hungry?”
“Yeah,” Goku said from his stomach before his head could intervene. He was always hungry.
“I have some left over stew in the fridge. Give me a moment.” A moment later he was back with a Tupperware container filled to the brim with a chunky brown sludge with chunks. “Heat it up slowly,” the man cautioned, “stirring occasionally. Some fresh thyme could not go amiss, but I’m afraid I have none at the moment.”
“Thank you,” Goku said. He’d plans to have ramen noodles and now he had pork stew. It was delicious, lack of fresh thyme notwithstanding, though it could have done with some garlic. Goku brought the pot to bed and ate with his back against one wall, staring out the narrow window. If he had a couple of planks and nails he would nail the door closed at night, but alas, he was all out. This was all too good to be true. Goku didn’t consider himself unlucky, but there was luck and there was finding a cheap apartment with free, tasty food. In his experience, the latter just didn’t happen. When he was done eating, he shoved the pot under the bed, unrolled his sleeping bag and slept dreamlessly.
III.
There was indeed a corpse in the fridge. Hakkai wasn’t too happy about that, but it was a part of the deal. Gojyo wasn’t too happy about it either; he liked his steaks bloody and fresh. Neither would move against the arrangement though - it worked to everyone’s benefit. Sanzo thought them morons, for the way they shared their living space and food supply, but Sanzo had been a lone wolf for such a long time, he couldn’t fathom the pleasures of company. It was invaluable on the long nights, which happened an awful lot across the centuries. Mostly though, the arrangement allowed for frequent sex, and that even Sanzo couldn’t dis.
“Feet off the table, Gojyo,” Hakkai said, walking back into the living room.
“Screw you,” Gojyo replied and took his feet off the table. It was that time of the month when he was at his worst behaviour. Thankfully, Hakkai, while not strictly a dog person, understood animal urges and baser natures enough to tolerate his partner’s cravings to scratch his head with his toes.
“Whiskey,” Sanzo said, dropping to the floor from the window.
“Your meal disagreeing with you?” Gojyo asked, grinning.
“Fuck you.”
“I would appreciate it if you started coming in through the door.” Hakkai handed Sanzo a glass and watched him drop heavily onto the couch. “I do advise you to stop feeding on those lowlifes, Sanzo. It cannot be healthy.”
“Yes, because I have been sick so many times over the past two hundred years.”
“There was that one time…”
“There was also a long, hot summer, a warm corpse and dead blood. Now kindly shut the fuck up.”
“Someone is tetchy,” Gojyo observed, rising from the couch. He sniffled the air and grinned. “Dude! You haven’t eaten tonight!”
“Go to hell.”
“I have some blood leftover,” Hakkai said.
“I have a burning need to stick a pencil in your ear.”
“It’s not-”
“If you dare to say healthy, I will hurt you.”
“All I’m saying is that you should be taking better care of yourself.”
Sanzo rolled his eyes and finished his whiskey. Hakkai started picking up the book he’d dropped to answer Goku’s knocking, when Sanzo turned his head away from both him and Gojyo, and fixed his stare on the door, which lead to the stairwell. “He was here,” he said, and a strange kind of tension gripped his muscles.
“He? Oh, Goku you mean?”
“What’s it to you?” Gojyo asked. Sanzo said nothing.
“Goku smells rather delicious, I was surprised you didn’t notice.” Hakkai sat down, keeping his gaze on Sanzo. His reaction was very peculiar.
“Hey, meat is meat.”
“Boor,” Sanzo snorted.
“Werewolf, actually. I see you’re sharp as ever.”
“He’s renting the apartment above us.” Hakkai opened his book. “Since he’s been recommended the place by Gojyo’s brother, I suggest you refrain from consuming him.” He paused to turn a page. “At least until we come up with an explanation decent enough for his untimely demise.”
“He could go missing. Run away or such,” Gojyo said, stretching. “I can do away with the corpse in a week, no problem, the fridge is big enough, and he should be a good eating.”
“What happened to meat is meat?” Sanzo said.
“Dude, just because my food don’t speak to me, doesn’t mean I have no taste buds. The kid is young and he smells more than nice.” Gojyo sat up straight and licked his lips. “Okay, now I’m hungry.”
“Your brother sent him here, Gojyo. Unless this was an elaborate murder attempt on his part, we have to assume he knows and likes Goku, likes him enough to help him out and not to feed him to a werewolf.”
“A, he has no idea, and B, c’mon. Plenty of people go missing on a daily basis in this district alone.”
“I am aware of that,” Hakkai said, amused. “We’re the reason they go missing.”
“Exactly.”
“No,” Sanzo said, setting the glass on the table with a loud clang. “He’s mine.”
“Says who!”
“I saw him first.”
“He lives in our building!”
“All the more reason for you not to make a snack out of him.”
“Gojyo, you still have the pleasant nurse in the refrigerator.”
“Yeah, but she’s dead!”
“I’d hope so, given her condition.”
“I said he’s mine,” Sanzo repeated and Hakkai just had to raise a brow in a manner he knew Sanzo hated. Oh? was the question the brow asked, and Sanzo had fought endless battles not to succumb to the question. He had yet to win. “I saw him first,” he said lamely.
“We heard of him first,” Hakkai pointed out.
“Because that holds so much weight,” Gojyo told his glass.
“Whose side are you on, exactly?” Sanzo asked, turning to him.
“Why are you protesting? I’m backing you up!” Then a light flashed somewhere in the cerebral levels of the werewolf’s mind. Hakkai watched it with a certain amount of trepidation, as when that light switched on, Gojyo and Sanzo ended up tearing each other’s throats out. The fact that the wounds healed after a single serving of A Rh+ was of little consequence. “If you wanted to fuck the kid before eating him, you should have just said so. Fuck him during, for all I care.”
Sanzo went whiter than he usually was and Hakkai sighed. Time to remove the brittle items from the vicinity.
“Hey man, I’m not judging,” Gojyo continued, throwing up his hands. “Have your fun. God knows you need to get laid.” He paused. “On second thought, don’t fuck him during. I want some of him too and that would just be gross.”
“I am going to kill you.”
“Go ahead and try.” Gojyo grinned with the grin of someone who knows full well that their healing ability out paces the average tearing-into-flesh ability. Sanzo, though undoubtedly capable of greater speeds, never bothered to employ them. The arrangement worked on so many levels.
“I don’t want blood on my furniture,” Hakkai said, glaring at the two. “You get anything dirty, you are cleaning it up yourselves.” Normally he would be more accepting. This happened when one’s werewolf boyfriend and vampire friend got together. It was inevitable that someone’s trachea would end up hitting the TV screen. As it were, however, his supply of blood was low and just the last morning he’d been removing viscera from the ceiling (he didn’t know how it happened - e’d turned his back for one minute). He was in no mood for another fight.
IV.
“Hey,” Gojyo said, leaning against the doorframe and inhaling. The air filled his lungs via his nose and Gojyo had an olfactory orgasm, which was only a little less embarrassing than an actual one. The kid smelled heavenly.
If one’s culinary tastes ran towards human flesh, and Gojyo’s did, Goku was a walking invitation to dig in. Though the werewolf usually tended to satiate his hunger with pork. It was the equivalent of managing a cigarette craving with lollipops, but at least his health wasn’t in any peril. Hakkai and Sanzo were less lucky - their appetites wouldn’t be so easily satisfied by inhuman means. This was a lousy way to phrase it, Gojyo thought, wincing. Means that humans wouldn’t pay attention to?
“Hey,” Goku said, opening the door wide enough to admit a gang inside.
“Okay, first thing,” Gojyo said stepping into the flat, “this is not East Buggersville. You do not open the door to strangers. For all you know, I’m Hannibal Lecter, here for your liver.” Hannibal Lecter might have been wrong on that account, however. The kid’s heart would be much nicer. Gojyo could hear its beat, steady and loud, healthy and young and red, and fuck, when was the last time he got to gulp down a fresh human heart? They were all alone here and Goku smelled so good up close. His blood pulsed beneath his golden skin, the beat an invitation that the hunger in Gojyo found itself eagerly RSVPing to.
There was the slight problem of blood spattering though. Human blood was harder to clean than that of werewolves or vampires - it didn’t decompose as fast. Hakkai would kill him if they had to scrub the apartment clean again so soon. The fresh paint had barely dried. Still, there was the bathtub… The body would be simple to deal with, all succulent flesh and stringy sinew, neither would present a challenge to a werewolf’s teeth. He could devour Goku whole, with none the wiser - not in one go, perhaps, but that’s what the refrigerators were for.
“What do I do then, scream through th’ door?” Goku asked, scowling. “Besides, I could so kick your ass.”
Not no one. Sanzo would know, damn stalking freak that he was, and he’d kill him. Hurt him a lot, at least.
“You wish,” he told the kid, dropping on the couch. The dickhead was territorial, damn him. All he could hope for was convincing Hakkai and Sanzo there was good eating off the kid. It was only sensible. The nature of their respective condition allowed for some self-control, but even saints had been known to break their fast when a feast was laid out in front of them.
Gojyo took a look around the room. The couch, the only piece of furniture, was pushed against a wall. Goku had been exercising before Gojyo came knocking - the scent of fresh sweat, on top of the blood, was crying to the werewolf in a voice so loud he was close to stuffing his fingers in his ears and singing. It wouldn’t help much, but it would be a distraction.
“Who are you, anyway?” Goku asked, cocking his head to the side.
“You let a stranger into your place and then you ask him who he is? It’s a wonder you’ve lived this long.”
“Shut up! What the hell do you want?” Goku was getting worried and angry. It was absurd how his anger spiced up the already irresistible smell.
“Relax. I’m friends with Hakkai - the landlord. I live downstairs, number 5. I’m Gojyo.”
“Goku.” The boy relaxed and held out his hand.
God, but this kid was painfully naïve, Gojyo thought. They should probably eat him for his own good, before someone took advantage- Huh. Well, at least they’d try to make it comfortable. “So, you’ve got any beer?”
“No, haven’t done the shopping yet.”
“You didn’t bring any?”
“Beer’s not high on my shoppin’ list.”
“You need to learn about life, kid,” Gojyo said, grinning, “and the pleasures of drinking.”
“And you’re th’ tutor I get? Thanks, I’ll pass.”
“You could do worse, trust me.”
“Whatddya want?”
“Actually, we are having a little drinking party downstairs. If you want to join us?”
“It’s noon.” Goku scrunched up his nose and Gojyo would have cooed, if the saliva wasn’t about to spill out of his mouth if he opened it too far.
“Which is why Hakkai insists on tea, not whiskey, but what can you do. He made sponge cake, with raspberries,” he added, and watched Goku’s eyes shine.
“Lemme shower first,” Goku said. “I’ll be down in a minute.” Gojyo waved him away and left the flat feeling vaguely satisfied. His day had just got interesting.
Master Post :: Next Part