Fic: Empty Heart and Empty Bed
Do you want some Hazel angst? WHY I THINK YOU DO. Spoilers for all of Saiyuki Reload. Written for the 'wings' prompt at h/c bingo, with some serious speculation. Thanks to 
mendax for the beta!
The inkeeper left him to himself when he'd calmed down. When the tears had dried on his face, he took the cloth and folded it carefully on the bed. The innkeeper had left a bowl of water; he stood up and walked to it, so he could wash his face. He blinked his eyes in the small mirror.
He was fairly certain his name was Hazel. Gat and Filbert were other possibilities, echoing through his mind. Other names appeared: Hakkai, Ukoku, Goku, but they were more distant, and seemed less likely when he looked in the mirror. He might have been a priest, from the way the innkeeper described his clothing. He could have been anything: conman, thief, murderer.
He hoped he was a priest.
He dried his face and walked to the door, sliding the deadbolt home and checking it carefully. Then he pulled his shirt over his head, putting that next to the folded cloth, and let his wings slowly unfurl.
They weren't what he normally thought of as wings. (He couldn't remember his name, but he remembered what he thought wings should look like.) They were dark and webbed, like an animal's, maybe a bat's, rather than a bird's. The right wing, the uninjured one, stretched past his arm; the left would do the same if it weren’t so battered. He wondered, not for the first time, if they were capable of flight. They were certainly broad and heavy enough to bear weight.
Moving his left wing hurt, but he suspected keeping it stretched and moving was important, as you would any injured limb (another piece of knowledge from a hidden corner of his memory; there were scars on his skin, from what?). The man....
He looked back at the cloth on the bed, bright yellow and green stripes.
The man had wanted him to live. The man would want him to be strong, be well, be whole. It was strange, the things he was certain of. Strange what he'd kept and what he'd lost.
God, he thought in agony, can't I just remember his name?
Maybe he'd been Gat, or Filbert. Or Hazel. It was maddening. Was he a brother, a friend? A lover? He remembered close to nothing, but the sense of loss was still there, a dull ache that stretched through his chest and into the veins of his wings.
He put his hands over his face. If you were here, he thought to the void, you'd know. He must have been out of tears, because he didn't cry.
A flicker of light outside the window made him realize it was open, and he pulled the wings in in panic, before anyone could see--
The pain was excruciating.
He landed hard on his knees, winded, lights flashing in front of his eyes. Dear God. There was a flash of memory, of pain, of falling --
You're free of me now.
"I didn't want to be free," he gasped into the floor.
He closed his eyes and waited for the pain to fade.
mendax for the beta!
The inkeeper left him to himself when he'd calmed down. When the tears had dried on his face, he took the cloth and folded it carefully on the bed. The innkeeper had left a bowl of water; he stood up and walked to it, so he could wash his face. He blinked his eyes in the small mirror.
He was fairly certain his name was Hazel. Gat and Filbert were other possibilities, echoing through his mind. Other names appeared: Hakkai, Ukoku, Goku, but they were more distant, and seemed less likely when he looked in the mirror. He might have been a priest, from the way the innkeeper described his clothing. He could have been anything: conman, thief, murderer.
He hoped he was a priest.
He dried his face and walked to the door, sliding the deadbolt home and checking it carefully. Then he pulled his shirt over his head, putting that next to the folded cloth, and let his wings slowly unfurl.
They weren't what he normally thought of as wings. (He couldn't remember his name, but he remembered what he thought wings should look like.) They were dark and webbed, like an animal's, maybe a bat's, rather than a bird's. The right wing, the uninjured one, stretched past his arm; the left would do the same if it weren’t so battered. He wondered, not for the first time, if they were capable of flight. They were certainly broad and heavy enough to bear weight.
Moving his left wing hurt, but he suspected keeping it stretched and moving was important, as you would any injured limb (another piece of knowledge from a hidden corner of his memory; there were scars on his skin, from what?). The man....
He looked back at the cloth on the bed, bright yellow and green stripes.
The man had wanted him to live. The man would want him to be strong, be well, be whole. It was strange, the things he was certain of. Strange what he'd kept and what he'd lost.
God, he thought in agony, can't I just remember his name?
Maybe he'd been Gat, or Filbert. Or Hazel. It was maddening. Was he a brother, a friend? A lover? He remembered close to nothing, but the sense of loss was still there, a dull ache that stretched through his chest and into the veins of his wings.
He put his hands over his face. If you were here, he thought to the void, you'd know. He must have been out of tears, because he didn't cry.
A flicker of light outside the window made him realize it was open, and he pulled the wings in in panic, before anyone could see--
The pain was excruciating.
He landed hard on his knees, winded, lights flashing in front of his eyes. Dear God. There was a flash of memory, of pain, of falling --
You're free of me now.
"I didn't want to be free," he gasped into the floor.
He closed his eyes and waited for the pain to fade.