Title: COLD FEET
Summary: Yet Another Boring 58 fic brought to you by Aki, who is dying of jealousy because EVERYONE IS WATCHING RELOAD BUT HER.
Dedication: this is for luxetumbra, who came up with a title so good it made me glad i wrote the damn thing.
Aki: i need a title for this fic. it was so boring that nothing occurred to me, at least not at seven am in the morning. Lux: i have one. it is perfect and funny and its dual meaning neatly captures all that you wish to express.
Aki: ...will you marry me?
He always knows when he's had the dream--the brilliance of it stays with him a while, even when it doesn't wake him up. It used to, every time, but now he knows how it plays out. The sense of loss isn't always enough to pull him out of his sleeping mind and back into a body whose reality he clutches at gratefully, along with his pillow.
Lying in bed, he curls his fingers around the rounded edge of the mattress. Upon waking there's always a brief but pressing urge to talk about it. He doesn't want to wake his roommate, who seems to be making up for his rolling-stone years by taking on at least three part-time jobs. He's always been more of a homebody himself and doesn't quite understand Goyjo's need to work himself into exhaustion.
It can't be the money. When they returned, Bosatsu-sama presented him with a Silver Card, cautioning him that this time their credit had been capped to prevent a meltdown of the monetary system. It pays for all their joint needs, although he isn't foolish enough to let Gojyo borrow it--he may admire his friend's generosity, but he has no desire to be recalled to the temple for an itemized explanation of the monthly bill.
He doesn't know why the self-declared drifter wants to work so desperately. He does know that Gojyo needs his sleep, and that he isn't sure what he would say even if he were to wake the man up.
Just as he's done in the past, he runs the conversation inside his head. Like the dream, it's now familiar. Familiar and short.
/I dreamed that we went West.
Yeah?
But only three of us came back./
The conversation sticks at that point because he can never figure out who it is. They're in the Jeep, only someone is missing, and he can't tell who. He tries counting, and it never works. Dream-fashion, the more he squints and tries to focus the picture, the further away it slides.
What's most confusing is that the four of them did come back, pulling up in front of the temple in a blaze of autumn sunshine, almost five years exactly after they'd set out. No one knew they were coming, so the steps were free of saffron robes when they arrived. He wonders how much of it was exactly how he remembers it, with Goku bouncing in the lead and everyone else strolling and laughing, much as they did when first setting out. Sometimes he catches himself forgetting that Sanzo still limped at that point, and he's sure that the sky can't have been equally blue both times.
It amazes him how little he remembers about the days before and even during the journey. There are almost no details, no sights and sounds to flesh out the progression he knows took place. He can shape it in his mind, rattle it off like an answer learned by heart: They gathered, they left, they traveled for many years to reach Tenjiku. They fought the battle of a lifetime. Possibly several lifetimes. And yet the trip home almost seems longer, even though nothing happened.
He does remember moments, sharpened by fear. He remembers certain words, sharpened by anger. But the long stretches between are without logic, almost without transition. It's as if their meandering journey west was the dream, and his dream, achingly clear, was the reality.
The first time he had the dream, he was convinced that it meant something had happened to the other two and slept poorly until Sanzo's letter came, dry and irritable enough to loosen the grip on his heart. Since then he feels anxious, although he can't dismiss the prophetic possibilities altogether. The Minus Waves may have passed, but he knows that both peace and people are fragile.
The windows tell him that outside all is still dark. He can never fall back asleep right away, and stares at the ceiling, trying to clear his mind. Tomorrow he is proctoring the state exams and will have to leave at half-past six in order to arrive on time; Jeep does not travel well over the deep, frozen ruts. Regulating his breathing is not helping even after ten minutes, and finally he climbs out of the bed, shivering as his bare feet hit the floor. He wants fresh air while he thinks about his dream one last time. Stepping carefully in order not to wake Hakuryuu, who is curled in a basket by the door, he makes his way to the front door, pausing to put on a heavy jacket.
Outside the night is chilly, the cold air making the stars crisp points of light. The sky is bare of a moon and still deeply black. In his dream, they were driving into the sunrise. The colors were glorious but the scene was a sad one, and strangely quiet. He heard nothing but the steady rumble of the engine, and felt nothing but the gentle push of the wind. He thinks that alone should tell him that it is only a dream; there has never been a quiet Jeep ride in Ikkou history, not even that time when they were fleeing Kami-sama, the four of them more dead than alive. He remembers hearing Gojyo cursing steadily under his breath, the roar of the engine. If he tries he can still hear the faint shrieks of laughter that seemed to go on ringing in his ears. He's glad he passed out and doesn't remember hearing anything more.
Maniacal laughter isn't soothing, but neither is the silence of the dream. It's the calm of isolation, a gulf between reality. Even the road itself is too broad and too flat for his taste. He drove them the entire way, and there was no such thing as a clear road; more often than not there was no road at all. The going was slow; they got lost, went in circles, took shortcuts and sidetracked. They were derailed a thousand times. He isn't surprised that it took them four years to get there, he's surprised it only took them one to get back. It certainly didn't feel that way.
The efficiency of their return didn't please Sanzo as much as it might have. For all his grumbling during the mission, he suspects that the monk, too, wasn't sure what would take its place. For a moment he wonders how far their youngest member has gotten in reforming the monk's misanthropy. Further, he's willing to bet, than Sanzo will ever admit, although he's equally willing to bet (a larger sum) that Goku will never get him to quit smoking. He blows out a breath and watches it condense before him. There's something soothing about the sight, although his breath doesn't linger the way the same way as smoke, dissolving instead before it can be replaced.
When he examines his situation he thinks perhaps he should take up smoking. He is, essentially, a convict whose death sentence has been commuted, his records buried. He never expected to be released into society. What were the odds, he wonders, that they would survive? Unintentionally, he's tempted to add, except that he suspects he may have changed his mind about cooperating somewhere down the line. Then again, perhaps the issue was never in doubt. Kanzeon, he's noted, has a very strange sense of humor. He would attribute it to the ineffable quality of the divine, were it not for the bad and earthy jokes she cracked. Nevertheless, he admits that she may never have been concerned about their success or failure. In Buddhism, after all, the road is always a circle.
Kanzeon calls him Tenpou, and calls Sanzo, Konzen. That makes at least two deities now, and the suggestion of reincarnation is not lost on him. Circles and cycles, like water and energy. He holds up his hands, summons up a thin spiral of ki to dance greenly between his fingers. The energy flow tingles, unstiffening the digits. He flexes them and focuses on directing the flow into his index finger. When it collects, he forces it through in a burst that scatters like his breath. Healing has always required more discipline than killing, and he's slowly learning the principles of efficiency the hard way. Ki healers are becoming rarer, the majority of them nowadays appearing among youkai. He can't afford to pour all his energy out, drain his reserves healing two or three when fifteen are injured by a collapsed mine shaft.
Healing is still needed. The countryside spread before him looks peaceful enough, but in the daytime he's reminded that the damage is deep. Even now there are stories of youkai returning to their homes, bewildered with the loss of three years, only to find themselves faced with enmity and fear. Too many humans lost loved ones when the Waves were at their crest. Forgiveness, he knows very well, often stops at the dark pit of the grave. There are more humans murdering youkai now than the other way around, although retaliation is only a matter of time.
Restitution was supposed to be simpler, he thinks.
Sitting on his doorstep and waiting for dawn to creep up on pale feet, he wonders if the next generation will remember as keenly. History tells him that they rarely do, and yet he senses that it will be many years before his friend's red eyes cease to be a stigma. For him, the color has long since failed to mean anything than the color of Gojyo's hair, but he is under no illusions that the world, or even Gojyo, shares his view.
When the door swings open behind him, he does not turn around. After all, there is only one person it can be.
"Can't sleep?"
"You might say that." He shifts aside to make room and Gojyo sits down, casting a scandalized glance at his bare feet.
"Gonna die of pneumonia, just to spite me?" The statement seems slightly hypocritical, given that Gojyo himself is only wearing only the thin clothes he sleeps in.
He smiles regardless. "Now why would I die to spite you?"
His roommate snorts. "I wouldn't pretend to understand. But after all that trouble I took to haul your ass back safely, you'd better die an old, old man."
"I had the dream," he says suddenly, incongruously. Gojyo, however, takes it in stride.
"Yeah? What was it about?"
He pauses, not knowing how to capture the silence or the sense of incompletion. His friend waits with drowsy patience, only bending forward to rest his folded arms against his knees when a stiff night breeze passes through them. Finally, he says, "We're driving home, but something-- someone's missing."
His friend doesn't respond right away. There is just enough light to make out the whites of his eyes; Gojyo is studying him. When he speaks, it isn't the question he expects. "But we all came back," the man says, dropping his chin onto his arms.
He feels ashamed of his cowardice but still says, "I know. It keeps coming back, though, and every time it's the same."
Now Gojyo asks. "Who is it?"
He shakes his head. "I don't know. Everyone seems to be there, and yet..."
In the nearby trees a mourning dove calls, notes swooping high, then low. Gojyo cocks his head absently in its direction, running a hand through long red hair. "Where are we going in this dream of yours?"
"Just east, I suppose. Into the sunrise. It's." he tilts his head, considering. "Sad," he finishes.
"Sad? Sunrises aren't supposed to be sad. Sunsets, maybe." Turned slightly away, he can't see Gojyo's expression, or even if his eyes are still open. His voice is still thick with sleep. "How do you know it's not a sunset?"
"What?" The question pulls him up. "I assumed--well, it doesn't make sense that someone would be missing on the way there--and the road was easier coming back. The road's smooth, in the dream," he finishes somewhat lamely. He racks his brains. Does he actually know which direction they are going, in the dream?
"Was it really?" It may be only out of respect for the mourning dove, or the tail end of a yawn, but Gojyo sounds unusually solemn.
"Was it really what?"
"You know. Easier."
He's surprised that Gojyo even questions the matter, and that makes him consider his reply. No assassins. No detours. No one even trying to steal the sutras, now that their spiritual powers have been drained. But certainly, he thinks, he was so much more afraid. By miracle or meddling or blind luck, things went right, which leaves him stranded. He's forgotten how not to swim against the tide.
Gojyo speaks up again. "You don't smile so much now, you know."
It's true, he realizes. He doesn't remember to. Not when there are so many things to do, so many other things to remember. He fought for the way they are now, yet he's aware that there's still no guarantee. Sanzo taught him that before they'd even gone a mile west. It brings a certain apprehension to every new day. What a difference it makes, he marvels, when you expect to live.
Between the trees, the edges of night are fading back. Sunrise will begin in an hour, he notes. The thought tugs at him. Something that Gojyo said, sunrises and sunsets.
Going west, he never expected to live.
It hits him and he sits upright, feeling the ache in his lower back where it was pressed against the sill. "Gojyo, sometimes I think you only pretend to be stupid."
His friend looks at him, blinking. "You drag me out of my warm bed to tell me this?" He snorts, "I suppose I have my moments, thanks."
He laughs. Gojyo makes him laugh more than anyone, although right now perhaps he's laughing more at himself. "I hardly have the right, I suppose. After all, I was much slower than you this time."
"Hakkai, if you're going to freeze both our asses on this cold stoop, you can at least try to make sense."
He stands up, realizing that his feet are cold. So, for that matter, must be Gojyo's. "You were right. About both things."
Gojyo squints up at him. "What things?"
"We are going west, in the dream," he says softly. "And it wasn't easier, coming back. I'm still getting used to it, you know."
"I know." His roommate sounds slightly hoarse. "Same here."
He offers him a hand, and the man accepts it, getting to his feet. "Let's go back in."
"Glad we had this little chat," Gojyo grumbles, rubbing his arms. "Should I make some coffee? You might as well stay up, you've gotta leave in an hour or so. If you're not hacking up a lung by then, that is. You're an idiot, going out in the cold like that. How long were you out there?"
He smiles. "You're right. I'm an idiot."
Only an idiot has to travel four years and cross a continent in order to find--himself.
"And yes, make the coffee."
~*~ the end! =)
i wanted to thank my reviewers--unlike then go, on one-shots i don't get the chance to express my gratitude in the next chapter!
nightfall rising, you've been really good for my ego. i can't believe you actually take the time to read a fic twice--that's incredibly flattering, because most authors want the reader to do a little thinking, maybe go "hmm..." it's a great feeling to know that you've succeeded. and i am TOO sappy *grin* just look at "train"! i just can't do traditional angst, because it feels...well...silly!! ^^;;;;;;;; how messed up is that.
lux ^^ one of my new lj friends! thanks for reviewing in either medium. i WAS going for bittersweet, so glad that came through.
queasy, hello! fellow 58 fan *grin* the chicken is inspired by a real life friend of mine who did find a chicken in his alley, half-dead. she was a tough old bird, and did fight cats *grin*
incandescens: your reviews are succinct, like your writing. a one-liner from you is like a stamp of approval and makes me smile.
M-chan--ha, yes, i couldn't resist the bit about waistlines. they are ALL SO THIN!!! the mark of a female mangaka. most males don't draw guys that twiggy--i think the thinnest i've ever seen is maybe tenipuri.
TK--hee, i'm too predictable. every damn fic i write has the two of them living together and making a fresh start, or something like it. what can i say? i am a slave to the happy ending.
krimson--you're a really generous reader, and i think a lot of writers here appreciate how much time you take to review all the fics you read. i don't have a paid account and thus can't track the hits to my fics--it's a real comfort knowing that after you've invested time and effort into writing something, someone actually reads and likes it! =) i always worry my 58 fics are too boring, because they are about the simple life--no fighting, no dying, no rain or tears or darnit, sex. no sanzo and goku even. so i'm glad that you don't mind this er, unique approach to drama!
Veszelyite--i can barely spell your name, but i wanted to thank you. you've given me some really stunning reviews which make me feel like you've really read the writing and understood what i was going for. given that i've never taken a single writing class, that's something i worry about a lot. recently i'm messing around with styles, just experimenting, and it's good to know what works and what doesn't. thanks a lot for your support and keep up the good work on your own stories!!!!
Summary: Yet Another Boring 58 fic brought to you by Aki, who is dying of jealousy because EVERYONE IS WATCHING RELOAD BUT HER.
Dedication: this is for luxetumbra, who came up with a title so good it made me glad i wrote the damn thing.
Aki: i need a title for this fic. it was so boring that nothing occurred to me, at least not at seven am in the morning. Lux: i have one. it is perfect and funny and its dual meaning neatly captures all that you wish to express.
Aki: ...will you marry me?
He always knows when he's had the dream--the brilliance of it stays with him a while, even when it doesn't wake him up. It used to, every time, but now he knows how it plays out. The sense of loss isn't always enough to pull him out of his sleeping mind and back into a body whose reality he clutches at gratefully, along with his pillow.
Lying in bed, he curls his fingers around the rounded edge of the mattress. Upon waking there's always a brief but pressing urge to talk about it. He doesn't want to wake his roommate, who seems to be making up for his rolling-stone years by taking on at least three part-time jobs. He's always been more of a homebody himself and doesn't quite understand Goyjo's need to work himself into exhaustion.
It can't be the money. When they returned, Bosatsu-sama presented him with a Silver Card, cautioning him that this time their credit had been capped to prevent a meltdown of the monetary system. It pays for all their joint needs, although he isn't foolish enough to let Gojyo borrow it--he may admire his friend's generosity, but he has no desire to be recalled to the temple for an itemized explanation of the monthly bill.
He doesn't know why the self-declared drifter wants to work so desperately. He does know that Gojyo needs his sleep, and that he isn't sure what he would say even if he were to wake the man up.
Just as he's done in the past, he runs the conversation inside his head. Like the dream, it's now familiar. Familiar and short.
/I dreamed that we went West.
Yeah?
But only three of us came back./
The conversation sticks at that point because he can never figure out who it is. They're in the Jeep, only someone is missing, and he can't tell who. He tries counting, and it never works. Dream-fashion, the more he squints and tries to focus the picture, the further away it slides.
What's most confusing is that the four of them did come back, pulling up in front of the temple in a blaze of autumn sunshine, almost five years exactly after they'd set out. No one knew they were coming, so the steps were free of saffron robes when they arrived. He wonders how much of it was exactly how he remembers it, with Goku bouncing in the lead and everyone else strolling and laughing, much as they did when first setting out. Sometimes he catches himself forgetting that Sanzo still limped at that point, and he's sure that the sky can't have been equally blue both times.
It amazes him how little he remembers about the days before and even during the journey. There are almost no details, no sights and sounds to flesh out the progression he knows took place. He can shape it in his mind, rattle it off like an answer learned by heart: They gathered, they left, they traveled for many years to reach Tenjiku. They fought the battle of a lifetime. Possibly several lifetimes. And yet the trip home almost seems longer, even though nothing happened.
He does remember moments, sharpened by fear. He remembers certain words, sharpened by anger. But the long stretches between are without logic, almost without transition. It's as if their meandering journey west was the dream, and his dream, achingly clear, was the reality.
The first time he had the dream, he was convinced that it meant something had happened to the other two and slept poorly until Sanzo's letter came, dry and irritable enough to loosen the grip on his heart. Since then he feels anxious, although he can't dismiss the prophetic possibilities altogether. The Minus Waves may have passed, but he knows that both peace and people are fragile.
The windows tell him that outside all is still dark. He can never fall back asleep right away, and stares at the ceiling, trying to clear his mind. Tomorrow he is proctoring the state exams and will have to leave at half-past six in order to arrive on time; Jeep does not travel well over the deep, frozen ruts. Regulating his breathing is not helping even after ten minutes, and finally he climbs out of the bed, shivering as his bare feet hit the floor. He wants fresh air while he thinks about his dream one last time. Stepping carefully in order not to wake Hakuryuu, who is curled in a basket by the door, he makes his way to the front door, pausing to put on a heavy jacket.
Outside the night is chilly, the cold air making the stars crisp points of light. The sky is bare of a moon and still deeply black. In his dream, they were driving into the sunrise. The colors were glorious but the scene was a sad one, and strangely quiet. He heard nothing but the steady rumble of the engine, and felt nothing but the gentle push of the wind. He thinks that alone should tell him that it is only a dream; there has never been a quiet Jeep ride in Ikkou history, not even that time when they were fleeing Kami-sama, the four of them more dead than alive. He remembers hearing Gojyo cursing steadily under his breath, the roar of the engine. If he tries he can still hear the faint shrieks of laughter that seemed to go on ringing in his ears. He's glad he passed out and doesn't remember hearing anything more.
Maniacal laughter isn't soothing, but neither is the silence of the dream. It's the calm of isolation, a gulf between reality. Even the road itself is too broad and too flat for his taste. He drove them the entire way, and there was no such thing as a clear road; more often than not there was no road at all. The going was slow; they got lost, went in circles, took shortcuts and sidetracked. They were derailed a thousand times. He isn't surprised that it took them four years to get there, he's surprised it only took them one to get back. It certainly didn't feel that way.
The efficiency of their return didn't please Sanzo as much as it might have. For all his grumbling during the mission, he suspects that the monk, too, wasn't sure what would take its place. For a moment he wonders how far their youngest member has gotten in reforming the monk's misanthropy. Further, he's willing to bet, than Sanzo will ever admit, although he's equally willing to bet (a larger sum) that Goku will never get him to quit smoking. He blows out a breath and watches it condense before him. There's something soothing about the sight, although his breath doesn't linger the way the same way as smoke, dissolving instead before it can be replaced.
When he examines his situation he thinks perhaps he should take up smoking. He is, essentially, a convict whose death sentence has been commuted, his records buried. He never expected to be released into society. What were the odds, he wonders, that they would survive? Unintentionally, he's tempted to add, except that he suspects he may have changed his mind about cooperating somewhere down the line. Then again, perhaps the issue was never in doubt. Kanzeon, he's noted, has a very strange sense of humor. He would attribute it to the ineffable quality of the divine, were it not for the bad and earthy jokes she cracked. Nevertheless, he admits that she may never have been concerned about their success or failure. In Buddhism, after all, the road is always a circle.
Kanzeon calls him Tenpou, and calls Sanzo, Konzen. That makes at least two deities now, and the suggestion of reincarnation is not lost on him. Circles and cycles, like water and energy. He holds up his hands, summons up a thin spiral of ki to dance greenly between his fingers. The energy flow tingles, unstiffening the digits. He flexes them and focuses on directing the flow into his index finger. When it collects, he forces it through in a burst that scatters like his breath. Healing has always required more discipline than killing, and he's slowly learning the principles of efficiency the hard way. Ki healers are becoming rarer, the majority of them nowadays appearing among youkai. He can't afford to pour all his energy out, drain his reserves healing two or three when fifteen are injured by a collapsed mine shaft.
Healing is still needed. The countryside spread before him looks peaceful enough, but in the daytime he's reminded that the damage is deep. Even now there are stories of youkai returning to their homes, bewildered with the loss of three years, only to find themselves faced with enmity and fear. Too many humans lost loved ones when the Waves were at their crest. Forgiveness, he knows very well, often stops at the dark pit of the grave. There are more humans murdering youkai now than the other way around, although retaliation is only a matter of time.
Restitution was supposed to be simpler, he thinks.
Sitting on his doorstep and waiting for dawn to creep up on pale feet, he wonders if the next generation will remember as keenly. History tells him that they rarely do, and yet he senses that it will be many years before his friend's red eyes cease to be a stigma. For him, the color has long since failed to mean anything than the color of Gojyo's hair, but he is under no illusions that the world, or even Gojyo, shares his view.
When the door swings open behind him, he does not turn around. After all, there is only one person it can be.
"Can't sleep?"
"You might say that." He shifts aside to make room and Gojyo sits down, casting a scandalized glance at his bare feet.
"Gonna die of pneumonia, just to spite me?" The statement seems slightly hypocritical, given that Gojyo himself is only wearing only the thin clothes he sleeps in.
He smiles regardless. "Now why would I die to spite you?"
His roommate snorts. "I wouldn't pretend to understand. But after all that trouble I took to haul your ass back safely, you'd better die an old, old man."
"I had the dream," he says suddenly, incongruously. Gojyo, however, takes it in stride.
"Yeah? What was it about?"
He pauses, not knowing how to capture the silence or the sense of incompletion. His friend waits with drowsy patience, only bending forward to rest his folded arms against his knees when a stiff night breeze passes through them. Finally, he says, "We're driving home, but something-- someone's missing."
His friend doesn't respond right away. There is just enough light to make out the whites of his eyes; Gojyo is studying him. When he speaks, it isn't the question he expects. "But we all came back," the man says, dropping his chin onto his arms.
He feels ashamed of his cowardice but still says, "I know. It keeps coming back, though, and every time it's the same."
Now Gojyo asks. "Who is it?"
He shakes his head. "I don't know. Everyone seems to be there, and yet..."
In the nearby trees a mourning dove calls, notes swooping high, then low. Gojyo cocks his head absently in its direction, running a hand through long red hair. "Where are we going in this dream of yours?"
"Just east, I suppose. Into the sunrise. It's." he tilts his head, considering. "Sad," he finishes.
"Sad? Sunrises aren't supposed to be sad. Sunsets, maybe." Turned slightly away, he can't see Gojyo's expression, or even if his eyes are still open. His voice is still thick with sleep. "How do you know it's not a sunset?"
"What?" The question pulls him up. "I assumed--well, it doesn't make sense that someone would be missing on the way there--and the road was easier coming back. The road's smooth, in the dream," he finishes somewhat lamely. He racks his brains. Does he actually know which direction they are going, in the dream?
"Was it really?" It may be only out of respect for the mourning dove, or the tail end of a yawn, but Gojyo sounds unusually solemn.
"Was it really what?"
"You know. Easier."
He's surprised that Gojyo even questions the matter, and that makes him consider his reply. No assassins. No detours. No one even trying to steal the sutras, now that their spiritual powers have been drained. But certainly, he thinks, he was so much more afraid. By miracle or meddling or blind luck, things went right, which leaves him stranded. He's forgotten how not to swim against the tide.
Gojyo speaks up again. "You don't smile so much now, you know."
It's true, he realizes. He doesn't remember to. Not when there are so many things to do, so many other things to remember. He fought for the way they are now, yet he's aware that there's still no guarantee. Sanzo taught him that before they'd even gone a mile west. It brings a certain apprehension to every new day. What a difference it makes, he marvels, when you expect to live.
Between the trees, the edges of night are fading back. Sunrise will begin in an hour, he notes. The thought tugs at him. Something that Gojyo said, sunrises and sunsets.
Going west, he never expected to live.
It hits him and he sits upright, feeling the ache in his lower back where it was pressed against the sill. "Gojyo, sometimes I think you only pretend to be stupid."
His friend looks at him, blinking. "You drag me out of my warm bed to tell me this?" He snorts, "I suppose I have my moments, thanks."
He laughs. Gojyo makes him laugh more than anyone, although right now perhaps he's laughing more at himself. "I hardly have the right, I suppose. After all, I was much slower than you this time."
"Hakkai, if you're going to freeze both our asses on this cold stoop, you can at least try to make sense."
He stands up, realizing that his feet are cold. So, for that matter, must be Gojyo's. "You were right. About both things."
Gojyo squints up at him. "What things?"
"We are going west, in the dream," he says softly. "And it wasn't easier, coming back. I'm still getting used to it, you know."
"I know." His roommate sounds slightly hoarse. "Same here."
He offers him a hand, and the man accepts it, getting to his feet. "Let's go back in."
"Glad we had this little chat," Gojyo grumbles, rubbing his arms. "Should I make some coffee? You might as well stay up, you've gotta leave in an hour or so. If you're not hacking up a lung by then, that is. You're an idiot, going out in the cold like that. How long were you out there?"
He smiles. "You're right. I'm an idiot."
Only an idiot has to travel four years and cross a continent in order to find--himself.
"And yes, make the coffee."
~*~ the end! =)
i wanted to thank my reviewers--unlike then go, on one-shots i don't get the chance to express my gratitude in the next chapter!
nightfall rising, you've been really good for my ego. i can't believe you actually take the time to read a fic twice--that's incredibly flattering, because most authors want the reader to do a little thinking, maybe go "hmm..." it's a great feeling to know that you've succeeded. and i am TOO sappy *grin* just look at "train"! i just can't do traditional angst, because it feels...well...silly!! ^^;;;;;;;; how messed up is that.
lux ^^ one of my new lj friends! thanks for reviewing in either medium. i WAS going for bittersweet, so glad that came through.
queasy, hello! fellow 58 fan *grin* the chicken is inspired by a real life friend of mine who did find a chicken in his alley, half-dead. she was a tough old bird, and did fight cats *grin*
incandescens: your reviews are succinct, like your writing. a one-liner from you is like a stamp of approval and makes me smile.
M-chan--ha, yes, i couldn't resist the bit about waistlines. they are ALL SO THIN!!! the mark of a female mangaka. most males don't draw guys that twiggy--i think the thinnest i've ever seen is maybe tenipuri.
TK--hee, i'm too predictable. every damn fic i write has the two of them living together and making a fresh start, or something like it. what can i say? i am a slave to the happy ending.
krimson--you're a really generous reader, and i think a lot of writers here appreciate how much time you take to review all the fics you read. i don't have a paid account and thus can't track the hits to my fics--it's a real comfort knowing that after you've invested time and effort into writing something, someone actually reads and likes it! =) i always worry my 58 fics are too boring, because they are about the simple life--no fighting, no dying, no rain or tears or darnit, sex. no sanzo and goku even. so i'm glad that you don't mind this er, unique approach to drama!
Veszelyite--i can barely spell your name, but i wanted to thank you. you've given me some really stunning reviews which make me feel like you've really read the writing and understood what i was going for. given that i've never taken a single writing class, that's something i worry about a lot. recently i'm messing around with styles, just experimenting, and it's good to know what works and what doesn't. thanks a lot for your support and keep up the good work on your own stories!!!!