A/N: Saiyuki isn't mine. Har.
I was given a challenge: You have ten minutes to write the fluff scene of your choice. No dialogue. Ten minutes later, I have this. Short and sweet.
Warnings: 58 sweetness. It's the morning after, before the morning has officially come. Enjoy.
.
The air outside is cold. Before sunrise, before the painted sky, before the race, the air outside is cold. There is a necessity, an excuse, a need.
Their breathing does not match. Their heartbeats do not pound a synchronized rhythm.
The air outside is cold. The air inside is hot, hot enough to warrant the bed sheets being kicked away. Any and all coverings rest in heaps on the floor, disarrayed piles of wrinkled cloth. Two boots, two shoes. Shirts, pants, sheets, and all the minor trappings of everyday life.
They are still as death. They shift together and apart with every breath.
The air inside is hot, hot enough to explain the sheen of sweat between their skins. There is fog between them in the air they breathe. There is fog clouding the closed window. The mess of red hair lays tangled in sweat-matted tendrils, clinging to damp skin. The mess of brown hair sticks out in various directions, mussed by friction with the pillow beneath their heads.
They are naked as the days they were born. They are asleep.
The mess of red hair sticks to shoulders, back, and neck. Gojyo's sleep-deadened arm lays heavy around his partner's ribcage, secured from the elbow by the weight of Hakkai's arm covering the limb. Their hands lay limp and lax over one another, all aggressive possessiveness gone out of the gesture. Hakkai's legs are drawn up, poised to run away. Gojyo's legs tangle with them, refusing the escape.
Their bodies are too exhausted to run. They do not dream.
Gojyo's sleep-deadened arm pillows his head, the empty palm twitching closed in slumber. He rests his face in the soft expanse of neck between Hakkai's jaw and shoulder, nuzzled against him like two pieces in a puzzle. Gojyo's chest flexes against Hakkai's back every time he breathes, and cold air rushes between them when he huffs in sleep. Gojyo breathes through his mouth. Hakkai's lips remain resolutely shut.
They are alone. They are together.
Gojyo breathes through his mouth so that when Hakkai moves his shoulder their skins meet. Surreptitious kisses are stolen before sunrise, though neither recognizes the movement. For warmth and for need, Gojyo's hipbones are flush with the pads at the base of Hakkai's spine. For warmth and for need, Hakkai keeps his arm heavy over Gojyo's.
The air outside is cold.
The air inside is warm.
I was given a challenge: You have ten minutes to write the fluff scene of your choice. No dialogue. Ten minutes later, I have this. Short and sweet.
Warnings: 58 sweetness. It's the morning after, before the morning has officially come. Enjoy.
.
The air outside is cold. Before sunrise, before the painted sky, before the race, the air outside is cold. There is a necessity, an excuse, a need.
Their breathing does not match. Their heartbeats do not pound a synchronized rhythm.
The air outside is cold. The air inside is hot, hot enough to warrant the bed sheets being kicked away. Any and all coverings rest in heaps on the floor, disarrayed piles of wrinkled cloth. Two boots, two shoes. Shirts, pants, sheets, and all the minor trappings of everyday life.
They are still as death. They shift together and apart with every breath.
The air inside is hot, hot enough to explain the sheen of sweat between their skins. There is fog between them in the air they breathe. There is fog clouding the closed window. The mess of red hair lays tangled in sweat-matted tendrils, clinging to damp skin. The mess of brown hair sticks out in various directions, mussed by friction with the pillow beneath their heads.
They are naked as the days they were born. They are asleep.
The mess of red hair sticks to shoulders, back, and neck. Gojyo's sleep-deadened arm lays heavy around his partner's ribcage, secured from the elbow by the weight of Hakkai's arm covering the limb. Their hands lay limp and lax over one another, all aggressive possessiveness gone out of the gesture. Hakkai's legs are drawn up, poised to run away. Gojyo's legs tangle with them, refusing the escape.
Their bodies are too exhausted to run. They do not dream.
Gojyo's sleep-deadened arm pillows his head, the empty palm twitching closed in slumber. He rests his face in the soft expanse of neck between Hakkai's jaw and shoulder, nuzzled against him like two pieces in a puzzle. Gojyo's chest flexes against Hakkai's back every time he breathes, and cold air rushes between them when he huffs in sleep. Gojyo breathes through his mouth. Hakkai's lips remain resolutely shut.
They are alone. They are together.
Gojyo breathes through his mouth so that when Hakkai moves his shoulder their skins meet. Surreptitious kisses are stolen before sunrise, though neither recognizes the movement. For warmth and for need, Gojyo's hipbones are flush with the pads at the base of Hakkai's spine. For warmth and for need, Hakkai keeps his arm heavy over Gojyo's.
The air outside is cold.
The air inside is warm.