The priest hadn't been sleeping well. Too many nightmares, too many macabre scenes flickering behind his closed eyes. He hadn't been eating well either. Depression tended to make one's appetite all but disappear. He had attained some rare luck in sequestering himself away from the other residents of the hotel, managing to avoid getting locked in
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Comments 27
Getting stuck in a creeptastic library didn't exactly suit his definition of a good time....
Slowly, he began to regain his senses, and he stood properly with a soft sigh. At least he didn't have to throw the fake potted plant by his feet at anyone. They left of their own accord without really noticing him - which was good. It made the situation a lot less scary.
"Stupid fucking hotel..." he muttered, raking his fingers through his dark hair and sulking. He didn't really notice if there was anyone else at the moment.
{So um, have a bitchy, short-statured crowd-phobic brat? XD; He gets bitchy when he's mad/frightened, and roughness/dub-con are fine ( ... )
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Hakkai.
No. It was too long to be Hakkai's, the face beneath the hair too young. He tried to force himself to take a deep breath but couldn't. Almost as if his legs had a mind of their own, he found himself closing the distance, violet eyes fixed on his apparent target.
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"What?" he growled, watching intently. Damn... why did most people have to be taller than him??
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Perhaps it was survivor's guilt, or something darker, but in the end, they were all just as destructive.
Turning a corner, he caught sight of familiar golden hair and froze, his green eyes wide and muscles tense. Was he readying himself for a fight, or did he mean to run?
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He was moving before he even realized he was, and by then he'd already closed the distance between them. A hand closed on his shirt, fisting the fabric as he roughly shoved him back against the wall. Jaw set, he stared at Hakkai then, expression unreadable.
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His gaze tracked along Sanzo's face before locking on his eyes in an attempt to read his expression, but for once, he failed. In the pit of his belly, something twisted at the failure, and for a long moment, he felt as though it wasn't his friend he faced.
It was a stranger.
"Now now, Sanzo. I've already ironed this shirt today."
When in doubt, fall back on the old standards, right?
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Quietly, he moved after Sanzo and started walking beside him, letting the other priest lead the way while silently offering a willing ear to listen to whatever trouble the man wanted to unload on him.
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He stood there for what seemed like an eternity before forcing himself to step forward, slowly approaching the table. He lifted an unsteady hand -- only to draw it back before calloused fingertips could brush the crimson strands. He was breathing. He was alive. He was alive. Sanzo should have felt relief, but instead he just felt a strange, spreading numbness as he stared down at the slumped form.
"...Go-" His voiced cracked, and he had to try again. "Gojyo."
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Someone who stank of a very familiar brand of cigarettes.
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Several minutes passed before he noticed the strange odor permeating the normally saccharine, cloying scent that laced the air. Cigarettes, but not his own, so whose...? Lifting his head, he turned.
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And then, an invisible finger poked Sanzo in the shoulder.
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That thought was crushing by itself. Then, he felt the poke. Every muscle and tendon in his body coiled, breath catching in his throat. What the hell was going on?
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