Laburnum
By: Brass Dragon
"I love you." He says, and nuzzles adorably.
"That's great, getoff." I say, and shoulder him aside. I've always had a gift for words.
He sits back, face pinched with hurt, trying to pretend it doesn't bother him. He doesn't watch me shake a cigarette from a crumpled back, just like he doesn't watch me light it; and doesn't watch me inhale on the thing like a drowning man beaten by a cresting wave.
Like I said…gift for words.
And like always he bounces back, childlike, and almost endearing. "We should do something." He suggests with a luminous grin.
"Yeah. Fine, whatever." I grunt noncommittally, and don't watch his face fall. I don't watch him struggle for words. I don't watch his heart splinter away just a little bit more. This is so stupid. Why am I doing this? It would be so easy to pretend…to give him his small victories, to concede. But I can't.
For whatever reason I find myself only party to a spattering of emotions. Pride being first, foremost, and dominate. I'm not in love, I don't love him. My hair is in my face, and my neck hurts. I raise a tired hand and rub it ineffectually. Sometimes pondering your own inactuality hurts.
But suddenly there are hands there, warm hands, warm hands with rough callused fingertips. And they are doing wonderful things to relieve the viscously knotted muscle. "Mm. Thanks." I didn't mean to say it; it just slid out, sliding like melted candy off my tongue. And then his lips are at my ear, and his breathing is just a little bit erratic, and I wonder how I can have this effect on him without even trying.
Who could blame me when I pull him over my shoulder, and he tumbles gracelessly into my lap? Who can blame me when I take all that he offers, dragging more than he could ever possibly give from the compact young body.
It's not any better. In fact it almost hurts to watch him crumble now.
It almost hurts that I'm dreading instead of anticipating his touch. Thinking of his face when I push him away, thinking of his halting breathing when I tense beneath his fingers.
And he does, and I do, and it does.
Suddenly he's clear across the room, looking at me with those eyes. Those hurtful hateful eyes.
"I don't get you." He whispers sulkily. "I mean, doesn't everybody wanna be loved or something?"
By the way he's watching me I know he's disappointed by the look on my face. "Nah. I guess the great and mighty Sanzo doesn't need anything huh?"
I can feel the words slipping slickly up my throat, and I can't hold them back. They are winding out over my tongue, and I can't stop them. "If I did, do you think you could give it to me?"
His eyes darken, and for a moment I wonder if he's going to try to hurt me. I wonder if that diadem is going to break and shatter. I wonder if that sound I'm hearing are the tiny sharp splinters of his heart cracking away, and bouncing, rebounding off the hardwood floor.
But then those lips curl up into a bastard of a smile, stupid lying smile. His eyes are still screaming pain. Then he chuckles without a trace of humor and shakes his head. I praise whatever gods happen to be watching that his hair hides those horrible golden eyes. "Nah. I guess I couldn't."
Then, then his feet find the ground and he ambles dejectedly towards the door, following the path the others took. His fingers glide over the dull faux metal knob. And he half turns, ineffectual because he doesn't look at me, and I've stopped looking at him.
"One day," he grounds out in a hollow sad voice, "one day…I'm going to stop trying."
After the door has shut, after all of them have gone, I reach for the new pack of red and white cigarettes. And maybe because I know it's not today, perhaps because I'm hoping that things could just be the way they were before we touched each other that way; I mumble dumbly to the door.
"I can only hope Goku."
AN: Nya. Yeah. Sad. I don't know, maybe it's cause I'm a cold hearted bitch. I can't see Sanzo ever having Goku and being happy. I can't see Sanzo having anyone and being happy.
