A/N: Disclaimer: Saiyuki isn't mine!
Welcome one and all to one of myriad one-shots I'll do in the "Eights and Aces" universe. This is the second, and was quite hard for me to write. But I like how it turned out. If you've not read "Eights and Aces," this is basically a look into Gonou after Kanan's death...if Gojyo had been there to talk him down.
Warnings: mild language, hints of 58, character death (Um, duh.) and this is obviously AU. And, of course, my powers of denotation are lazy for the sake of poetics. The people who actually -talk- to Gonou are (in order) Kanzeon, Goku, Sanzo, and Gojyo. But it's kind of obvious with the few minor descriptors I *do* throw in ^.^ Also, I refer to Sanzo as "boy" and Gonou as "man" sort of on purpose. Make of it what you will.
Enjoy
***
Flowers. Lilies, white as teeth and red as tongue and green as her eyes. Freckled, like the gentle spatters on her cheeks. Smelling vaguely female, vaguely like her, soft like her skin, curving gently in spread-eagle silhouettes. Cut down so prettily, arranged in a container opaque to hide the broken ends.
Few file in. The hall is modest, but filled with faceless well-wishers, meaningless mourners who do not cry but paw exaggeratedly at their eyes and murmur generic phrases because they never had anything to say to her in life, much less in death. Some lament the brutal tragedy that stole her. Some marvel at the concentrated splendor in her honor. The bravest try to speak to him.
He stands protectively at her head, not once glancing to the perfect ivory painting that has been made of her. Those who file by do not dare meet his face. Words of condolence are met with a blank look devoid of feeling, of presence. But if one should dare come nearer to her than the others, his brilliant green eyes dart dangerously toward the offense. If one should mention the circumstances of her passing in a most tactless faux pas, a second funeral would need to be planned.
The eulogy was beautiful. Beautiful like the inside of a greeting card, as the priest spoke the same words that ever and always leave his mouth and the only man to matter would not speak. And this room, crowded with superficial mourners, is a travesty to her memory.
She is beautiful. Beautiful like a painting labored over in the darkness of the night. Beautiful like a dream. Heavy white makeup covers the remnants of bruises; discrete stitches close the wounds. Her gown closes at her neck and wrists and lace gloves hide the ripped fingernails. Gloss over white lips adds a sickly sheen to the pallor of death, where a whisper of life had been the desired effect. A golden cross rests between her breasts, laying heavy on a still chest. She sports the sort of manufactured look of peace that is normally seen on the man by her side.
The hall empties slowly, leaving four in their wake. Only four. The first comes to the open casket, running a hand gently over the handsome wood. She smiles a knowing, sorrowfully amused smile, not feeling the expense could really hurt her finances that much. She bows her head over the beautiful face there enshrined, then takes the man's face in her hands. The kiss between his eyes is slow, featherlight as insubstantiality. Wordless, she steps back.
The second and third come together, almost touching, both paying silent respects to a woman they hardly knew. The smaller blinks his golden eyes against real tears, wiping them on his sleeve. "She was really nice, wasn't she?" The taller nods, and turns to the man before him. His companion with the tear-filled, golden eyes, embraces the man with a sob in his throat. "She was really nice."
The other cannot manage a single word, unable to articulate any truth unknown to his best friend. He waits until his companion steps away and comes to the survivor, waiting until brilliant green eyes meet his. They stare into one another a moment, and there is no need for touch. There is a sort of sorrow shared between them, an empathy unspoken but stronger than any greeting-card eulogy. A condolence not fit to be sent on a card with accompanying bouquet.
The fourth and final is obviously uncomfortable, standing on the outside of the evident bond, standing over a visage utterly unfamiliar to him. But oh, she matters so. The fourth and final waits his turn, then brushes a loose strand of hair from his tail behind his ear. And he takes the man's shoulders in his hands.
"You don't look like you've slept at all," he says softly.
"No. Not for a while." Green eyes do not meet red, but stare at the point where white collar closes over tanned skin. The voice is gentle and familiar, but curls at the corners in hoarseness.
"Have you been staying with Candy?" A nod. His head stays down, brown hair dangling from his crown and swaying in nonexistent breeze. The fourth and final slowly, timidly steps closer, wrapping his arms further around the one he is unsure of how to comfort. "God, Gonou," he whispers. "You make me wish I'd known her. She must have been wonderful."
Gonou's arms lay dead at his sides, but he leans his face into the shoulder presented to him. "She would have liked you." He closes his eyes, and one hand comes up to cover his face. "She liked everyone."
"She must have been wonderful." Gonou leans further into the embrace. Or the arms are tightened about him; neither is sure which is the truth.
"She was. Gojyo...God damn it, Gojyo, she's gone." Gonou's voice trembles as his lower lip pulls taught against his teeth. He keeps his hand over his nose and eyes, leaning heavy into Gojyo. Gojyo brings his hand up to cover Gonou's, starting to rock him back and forth. The movement seems natural; paternal instinct takes over as Gojyo remembers - rather, is forcibly reminded - that Gonou is still so young. Tears cloud Gonou's green eyes, knotting in his eyelashes and staining trails down his flushed cheeks. The first pain-sounds from him are not sobs, not wracking heaves that make the shoulders shudder and hands shake. The low moan that escapes his lips bypasses any physicality, driving nails into the spirit and revealing the bone-deep ache of heart-shattering grief. The first one comes so soft and wretched Gojyo instinctively wraps his arms yet tighter about Gonou, pressing their bodies together in some sham of comforting. He is nothing more than an intimate bystander, a witness to a soul being torn apart. But Gojyo is the only one who would dare to hold him when he is so vulnerable. The second moan comes, and the third, a stream of heartsickness so plaintive and innocent.
For the second time Gojyo is reminded of Gonou's youth. And he looks around to see if anyone would dare watch this unwilling display, and his eyes meet cold blue-violet. There are no tears in this boy for anyone, but he bears a look of familiarity that is shocking. Gojyo could very well be holding him had only a few circumstances been changed. And he bore the look of one who, had he been held, might not have minded as much as he might let on. But he offered no physical comfort because of this, and he turns away, leaving the two alone.
"I miss her so much. How am I going to live without Kanan?" Gonou asks softly, his voice breaking on her name. "How could they do that to her?"
Gojyo drops his hand to Gonou's shoulder, allowing him to uncover his face. But the smaller man still leans into Gojyo's shoulder, and they still rock in bad mimic of a dance. Gonou's face is tearstained, flushed, taught over his skull. "How could they do that to anyone? It's not human." His hands come up to grip Gojyo's shoulders, fisting in the fabric of his suit. He stops rocking and stares into Gojyo's face without seeing him. "I loved her. I really loved her. I do love her. And they...God..." He closes his brilliant green eyes and shakes his head so the tears recede. "It's not human."
Gojyo smiles, nothing more than a gentle, sad quirk in his mouth. He knows inhumanity, knows brutality. Knows better than he ought exactly how Kanan must have felt. Forced trespassing on private property rubbed in your face in the hot, wet, world of pain that centers in the seat of your soul. Only she had been granted the mercy of death. Gojyo murmurs, "Some people can become like demons. It's not for us to know why. We have to survive."
Gonou turns his head away so his eyes are shielded by the fall of his hair. His voice comes low, dry, and jagged. "I feel like the devil." This statement passes and Gonou drops into silence, not looking up at Gojyo. The only sound is his breathing, and his fists clench harder in Gojyo's suit. The knuckles whiten and his hands tremble. "I want to kill something."
"Gonou..."
Gonou pulls Gojyo closer to him, pressing his forehead against the taller man's collarbone and huddling against him. "Shut up. Shut up, shut up! What have I got, huh? Just what have I got left?"
"Your whole life," Gojyo responds, rubbing his hands up and down Gonou's back. He can feel the man's spine and shoulderblades pressing through the fabric stretched taut over his skin.
"Who cares? Everything...I ever did was to help her. I had her take the Goddamn' car out! And she's...gone forever. For ever. I told her to take the car. I thought it'd be fine. I just stayed home cooking and doing my homework and taking care of Hakuryuu. I just stayed home while..." Gonou drops into violent sobs, more enraged and frustrated than the unadulterated heartsickness of his prior bout. He cries out of bearable pain, the tears once held back now coming full force to stain the pristine whiteness of Gojyo's shirt. Gojyo bends down and rests his mouth on Gonou's hair, curling over him and breathing the smell of starched clothes and soap. And he remembers something an old friend taught him, pulling the world again into perspective.
"Gonou, hush," Gojyo murmurs, petting Gonou's hair. "We're going to walk on out of here, but we're going to do it slow. Three steps forward, two steps back." Gojyo pushes Gonou back and shakes his shoulder. "Come on, let's go."
"I..." Gonou turns back to the portrait-casket, his eyes glazing.
"You know she's got another appointment. But we can keep her company for a little longer. Three steps forward, two steps back. Come on." Gojyo wraps his arm around Gonou's waist and forces the first three steps out, pulls him back two, takes another three. They walk slowly, and Gonou stumbles every few steps, but once they fall into a rhythm Gojyo loosens his hold to a simple hand in the small of Gonou's back.
"Find me something white in this room."
"What?"
"Humor me. Find me something white." Gojyo glances down to Gonou, a shadow of his old grin on his face. "Two steps back. One, two. Three forward."
Gonou recovers from his stumble and looks around. "Your shirt."
"Touch it and tell me how it feels." Gonou stares at Gojyo like one would a crazy man. "Humor me, Gonou."
Gonou puts a hand flat on Gojyo's chest, and murmurs, "Dry and soft and warm."
Gojyo doesn't look down, but dances Gonou down the hall. Three steps forward, two steps back. His voice is low when he asks, "Is that all?"
Gonou raises an eyebrow, taking his hand from Gojyo to push his glasses further up his nose. "The buttons are round and have four holes each. They're smooth and small. Gojyo, what are you getting at?" He stops moving for a second, and is nearly knocked over. The hand is still resting in the small of his back.
"Two steps back, three forward," Gojyo repeats, using his free hand to tuck loose hair behind his ear. "Keep answering my questions. What does it smell like in here?"
Gonou breathes deep, falling into Gojyo's slow and steady pace. "Lilies and cologne and cigarettes. Two of those are you." His voice has steadied, and his answers begin to come faster.
Gojyo smiles a little, breathing deep in rhythm with Gonou. They are dancers here, in the monotony of one-two-three, one-two, one-two-three. "What are the names of the United States that start and end with A?"
Gonou closes his eyes to think. "Alabama, Alaska, Arizona..."
"Don't forget Arkansas and Argentina," Gojyo adds with a wink.
Gonou's eyes come open and he rolls them over at Gojyo, every bit a seventeen-year-old. "Arkansas ends with an 's' and Argentina isn't part of the United States."
"But by that token you could argue that Alaska isn't part of the contiguous forty-eight and thus isn't -United- like the other states," Gojyo declares, a finger thrust into the air before him. He smirks at his own hand and lets it drop, shoving it into his jacket pocket. He curls his fingers in the clothes over Gonou's back, pulling him two steps, pushing for three. "Tell me, how many steps do you think it would take us to get to the door?"
Dizzied from Gojyo's familiar subject-jumping, Gonou blinks and says, "I don't know."
"Count them, then. Backwards from twenty-five, then go forwards when you hit zero. Add them when we're out."
Gonou stares incredulously at Gojyo, but when the redhead loudly starts counting in reverse he begins to follow suit. They're at seventeen on the way back up when Gonou steps into the open air. The sky is obscured by a soft, gray mist just thick enough to condense and leave shining gems in the spider's threads of hair. "That makes forty-two."
More than condensation, the sky begins to spit. "Did you count zero?" Gojyo asks, tilting his head back and smiling into the light rain.
"Yes." Gonou looks around, shuddering against the cold that is not so much biting as unsettling. He has a sudden remembrance of two AM, staring at the brick wall out his window, watching the heavy droplets streak down dirty glass, unable to even move. The absence of duty, the completion of phone calls, the waiting for morning petrified him. Because morning would make it all real. The memory drops like a bomb, leaving his shudders to grow more pronounced. Gojyo's elbow jams into his side.
"Then what does that make the count?"
Gonou blinks, trying to remember a triviality. "Forty-three." He stands straighter, sure at least of his calculation.
"How does my shirt feel now?" Gojyo takes Gonou's hand and holds it over his chest, training his eyes on the man's face. The white fingers curl against the fabric, but soon Gonou's hand relaxes.
"Wet and cold and heavy." They stand in the rain, the first indicator of spring, the life-giving droplets that awaken flowers and trees. They stand in the rain, the darkening sky mirroring melancholy, the depressing dearth of sunshine that dampens the spirit. They stand in the rain, and Gonou is made to recite as many countries into which Africa has been divided as he can remember. Gojyo doesn't know the answers, but is willing to let any one slide. He has his doubts about "South Africa" but says nothing.
"Find me something red out here," Gojyo murmurs, glancing at a fire hydrant. He knows Candy and the others are waiting for them to get into the limousine. He knows Kanan's beautiful body has already left the hall the back way, headed for the crematorium. He knows the suit isn't his and he'll be filleted for letting it get so soaked. But he wants to keep Gonou on this particular plateau, somewhere above the depths that lend humans the recklessness of demons.
"You." Gonou stares up at Gojyo, nearly seeing him for the first time. Just red, no emotions attached. Diamond-drops glitter on his skin and his ruby-red eyes shine. And for this instant, Gonou feels he might just be okay.
The moment passes as their names are called. They turn to see a black limousine and a hand waving them along. It seems unreal, not as substantial as Gojyo's warm hand on Gonou's back or the dull, throbbing ache in the pit of Gonou's heart. Gojyo leans down to Gonou's ear and softly asks, "Are you ready?"
Gonou shakes his head. "No." He pulls off his glasses, unable to see through the sheen of water upon them, and puts them in his pocket. Without them, much of the world is a blur, but Gojyo is still simply and comfortably red. "But I'll go." And they dance toward the waiting world, three steps forward and two steps back.
Welcome one and all to one of myriad one-shots I'll do in the "Eights and Aces" universe. This is the second, and was quite hard for me to write. But I like how it turned out. If you've not read "Eights and Aces," this is basically a look into Gonou after Kanan's death...if Gojyo had been there to talk him down.
Warnings: mild language, hints of 58, character death (Um, duh.) and this is obviously AU. And, of course, my powers of denotation are lazy for the sake of poetics. The people who actually -talk- to Gonou are (in order) Kanzeon, Goku, Sanzo, and Gojyo. But it's kind of obvious with the few minor descriptors I *do* throw in ^.^ Also, I refer to Sanzo as "boy" and Gonou as "man" sort of on purpose. Make of it what you will.
Enjoy
***
Flowers. Lilies, white as teeth and red as tongue and green as her eyes. Freckled, like the gentle spatters on her cheeks. Smelling vaguely female, vaguely like her, soft like her skin, curving gently in spread-eagle silhouettes. Cut down so prettily, arranged in a container opaque to hide the broken ends.
Few file in. The hall is modest, but filled with faceless well-wishers, meaningless mourners who do not cry but paw exaggeratedly at their eyes and murmur generic phrases because they never had anything to say to her in life, much less in death. Some lament the brutal tragedy that stole her. Some marvel at the concentrated splendor in her honor. The bravest try to speak to him.
He stands protectively at her head, not once glancing to the perfect ivory painting that has been made of her. Those who file by do not dare meet his face. Words of condolence are met with a blank look devoid of feeling, of presence. But if one should dare come nearer to her than the others, his brilliant green eyes dart dangerously toward the offense. If one should mention the circumstances of her passing in a most tactless faux pas, a second funeral would need to be planned.
The eulogy was beautiful. Beautiful like the inside of a greeting card, as the priest spoke the same words that ever and always leave his mouth and the only man to matter would not speak. And this room, crowded with superficial mourners, is a travesty to her memory.
She is beautiful. Beautiful like a painting labored over in the darkness of the night. Beautiful like a dream. Heavy white makeup covers the remnants of bruises; discrete stitches close the wounds. Her gown closes at her neck and wrists and lace gloves hide the ripped fingernails. Gloss over white lips adds a sickly sheen to the pallor of death, where a whisper of life had been the desired effect. A golden cross rests between her breasts, laying heavy on a still chest. She sports the sort of manufactured look of peace that is normally seen on the man by her side.
The hall empties slowly, leaving four in their wake. Only four. The first comes to the open casket, running a hand gently over the handsome wood. She smiles a knowing, sorrowfully amused smile, not feeling the expense could really hurt her finances that much. She bows her head over the beautiful face there enshrined, then takes the man's face in her hands. The kiss between his eyes is slow, featherlight as insubstantiality. Wordless, she steps back.
The second and third come together, almost touching, both paying silent respects to a woman they hardly knew. The smaller blinks his golden eyes against real tears, wiping them on his sleeve. "She was really nice, wasn't she?" The taller nods, and turns to the man before him. His companion with the tear-filled, golden eyes, embraces the man with a sob in his throat. "She was really nice."
The other cannot manage a single word, unable to articulate any truth unknown to his best friend. He waits until his companion steps away and comes to the survivor, waiting until brilliant green eyes meet his. They stare into one another a moment, and there is no need for touch. There is a sort of sorrow shared between them, an empathy unspoken but stronger than any greeting-card eulogy. A condolence not fit to be sent on a card with accompanying bouquet.
The fourth and final is obviously uncomfortable, standing on the outside of the evident bond, standing over a visage utterly unfamiliar to him. But oh, she matters so. The fourth and final waits his turn, then brushes a loose strand of hair from his tail behind his ear. And he takes the man's shoulders in his hands.
"You don't look like you've slept at all," he says softly.
"No. Not for a while." Green eyes do not meet red, but stare at the point where white collar closes over tanned skin. The voice is gentle and familiar, but curls at the corners in hoarseness.
"Have you been staying with Candy?" A nod. His head stays down, brown hair dangling from his crown and swaying in nonexistent breeze. The fourth and final slowly, timidly steps closer, wrapping his arms further around the one he is unsure of how to comfort. "God, Gonou," he whispers. "You make me wish I'd known her. She must have been wonderful."
Gonou's arms lay dead at his sides, but he leans his face into the shoulder presented to him. "She would have liked you." He closes his eyes, and one hand comes up to cover his face. "She liked everyone."
"She must have been wonderful." Gonou leans further into the embrace. Or the arms are tightened about him; neither is sure which is the truth.
"She was. Gojyo...God damn it, Gojyo, she's gone." Gonou's voice trembles as his lower lip pulls taught against his teeth. He keeps his hand over his nose and eyes, leaning heavy into Gojyo. Gojyo brings his hand up to cover Gonou's, starting to rock him back and forth. The movement seems natural; paternal instinct takes over as Gojyo remembers - rather, is forcibly reminded - that Gonou is still so young. Tears cloud Gonou's green eyes, knotting in his eyelashes and staining trails down his flushed cheeks. The first pain-sounds from him are not sobs, not wracking heaves that make the shoulders shudder and hands shake. The low moan that escapes his lips bypasses any physicality, driving nails into the spirit and revealing the bone-deep ache of heart-shattering grief. The first one comes so soft and wretched Gojyo instinctively wraps his arms yet tighter about Gonou, pressing their bodies together in some sham of comforting. He is nothing more than an intimate bystander, a witness to a soul being torn apart. But Gojyo is the only one who would dare to hold him when he is so vulnerable. The second moan comes, and the third, a stream of heartsickness so plaintive and innocent.
For the second time Gojyo is reminded of Gonou's youth. And he looks around to see if anyone would dare watch this unwilling display, and his eyes meet cold blue-violet. There are no tears in this boy for anyone, but he bears a look of familiarity that is shocking. Gojyo could very well be holding him had only a few circumstances been changed. And he bore the look of one who, had he been held, might not have minded as much as he might let on. But he offered no physical comfort because of this, and he turns away, leaving the two alone.
"I miss her so much. How am I going to live without Kanan?" Gonou asks softly, his voice breaking on her name. "How could they do that to her?"
Gojyo drops his hand to Gonou's shoulder, allowing him to uncover his face. But the smaller man still leans into Gojyo's shoulder, and they still rock in bad mimic of a dance. Gonou's face is tearstained, flushed, taught over his skull. "How could they do that to anyone? It's not human." His hands come up to grip Gojyo's shoulders, fisting in the fabric of his suit. He stops rocking and stares into Gojyo's face without seeing him. "I loved her. I really loved her. I do love her. And they...God..." He closes his brilliant green eyes and shakes his head so the tears recede. "It's not human."
Gojyo smiles, nothing more than a gentle, sad quirk in his mouth. He knows inhumanity, knows brutality. Knows better than he ought exactly how Kanan must have felt. Forced trespassing on private property rubbed in your face in the hot, wet, world of pain that centers in the seat of your soul. Only she had been granted the mercy of death. Gojyo murmurs, "Some people can become like demons. It's not for us to know why. We have to survive."
Gonou turns his head away so his eyes are shielded by the fall of his hair. His voice comes low, dry, and jagged. "I feel like the devil." This statement passes and Gonou drops into silence, not looking up at Gojyo. The only sound is his breathing, and his fists clench harder in Gojyo's suit. The knuckles whiten and his hands tremble. "I want to kill something."
"Gonou..."
Gonou pulls Gojyo closer to him, pressing his forehead against the taller man's collarbone and huddling against him. "Shut up. Shut up, shut up! What have I got, huh? Just what have I got left?"
"Your whole life," Gojyo responds, rubbing his hands up and down Gonou's back. He can feel the man's spine and shoulderblades pressing through the fabric stretched taut over his skin.
"Who cares? Everything...I ever did was to help her. I had her take the Goddamn' car out! And she's...gone forever. For ever. I told her to take the car. I thought it'd be fine. I just stayed home cooking and doing my homework and taking care of Hakuryuu. I just stayed home while..." Gonou drops into violent sobs, more enraged and frustrated than the unadulterated heartsickness of his prior bout. He cries out of bearable pain, the tears once held back now coming full force to stain the pristine whiteness of Gojyo's shirt. Gojyo bends down and rests his mouth on Gonou's hair, curling over him and breathing the smell of starched clothes and soap. And he remembers something an old friend taught him, pulling the world again into perspective.
"Gonou, hush," Gojyo murmurs, petting Gonou's hair. "We're going to walk on out of here, but we're going to do it slow. Three steps forward, two steps back." Gojyo pushes Gonou back and shakes his shoulder. "Come on, let's go."
"I..." Gonou turns back to the portrait-casket, his eyes glazing.
"You know she's got another appointment. But we can keep her company for a little longer. Three steps forward, two steps back. Come on." Gojyo wraps his arm around Gonou's waist and forces the first three steps out, pulls him back two, takes another three. They walk slowly, and Gonou stumbles every few steps, but once they fall into a rhythm Gojyo loosens his hold to a simple hand in the small of Gonou's back.
"Find me something white in this room."
"What?"
"Humor me. Find me something white." Gojyo glances down to Gonou, a shadow of his old grin on his face. "Two steps back. One, two. Three forward."
Gonou recovers from his stumble and looks around. "Your shirt."
"Touch it and tell me how it feels." Gonou stares at Gojyo like one would a crazy man. "Humor me, Gonou."
Gonou puts a hand flat on Gojyo's chest, and murmurs, "Dry and soft and warm."
Gojyo doesn't look down, but dances Gonou down the hall. Three steps forward, two steps back. His voice is low when he asks, "Is that all?"
Gonou raises an eyebrow, taking his hand from Gojyo to push his glasses further up his nose. "The buttons are round and have four holes each. They're smooth and small. Gojyo, what are you getting at?" He stops moving for a second, and is nearly knocked over. The hand is still resting in the small of his back.
"Two steps back, three forward," Gojyo repeats, using his free hand to tuck loose hair behind his ear. "Keep answering my questions. What does it smell like in here?"
Gonou breathes deep, falling into Gojyo's slow and steady pace. "Lilies and cologne and cigarettes. Two of those are you." His voice has steadied, and his answers begin to come faster.
Gojyo smiles a little, breathing deep in rhythm with Gonou. They are dancers here, in the monotony of one-two-three, one-two, one-two-three. "What are the names of the United States that start and end with A?"
Gonou closes his eyes to think. "Alabama, Alaska, Arizona..."
"Don't forget Arkansas and Argentina," Gojyo adds with a wink.
Gonou's eyes come open and he rolls them over at Gojyo, every bit a seventeen-year-old. "Arkansas ends with an 's' and Argentina isn't part of the United States."
"But by that token you could argue that Alaska isn't part of the contiguous forty-eight and thus isn't -United- like the other states," Gojyo declares, a finger thrust into the air before him. He smirks at his own hand and lets it drop, shoving it into his jacket pocket. He curls his fingers in the clothes over Gonou's back, pulling him two steps, pushing for three. "Tell me, how many steps do you think it would take us to get to the door?"
Dizzied from Gojyo's familiar subject-jumping, Gonou blinks and says, "I don't know."
"Count them, then. Backwards from twenty-five, then go forwards when you hit zero. Add them when we're out."
Gonou stares incredulously at Gojyo, but when the redhead loudly starts counting in reverse he begins to follow suit. They're at seventeen on the way back up when Gonou steps into the open air. The sky is obscured by a soft, gray mist just thick enough to condense and leave shining gems in the spider's threads of hair. "That makes forty-two."
More than condensation, the sky begins to spit. "Did you count zero?" Gojyo asks, tilting his head back and smiling into the light rain.
"Yes." Gonou looks around, shuddering against the cold that is not so much biting as unsettling. He has a sudden remembrance of two AM, staring at the brick wall out his window, watching the heavy droplets streak down dirty glass, unable to even move. The absence of duty, the completion of phone calls, the waiting for morning petrified him. Because morning would make it all real. The memory drops like a bomb, leaving his shudders to grow more pronounced. Gojyo's elbow jams into his side.
"Then what does that make the count?"
Gonou blinks, trying to remember a triviality. "Forty-three." He stands straighter, sure at least of his calculation.
"How does my shirt feel now?" Gojyo takes Gonou's hand and holds it over his chest, training his eyes on the man's face. The white fingers curl against the fabric, but soon Gonou's hand relaxes.
"Wet and cold and heavy." They stand in the rain, the first indicator of spring, the life-giving droplets that awaken flowers and trees. They stand in the rain, the darkening sky mirroring melancholy, the depressing dearth of sunshine that dampens the spirit. They stand in the rain, and Gonou is made to recite as many countries into which Africa has been divided as he can remember. Gojyo doesn't know the answers, but is willing to let any one slide. He has his doubts about "South Africa" but says nothing.
"Find me something red out here," Gojyo murmurs, glancing at a fire hydrant. He knows Candy and the others are waiting for them to get into the limousine. He knows Kanan's beautiful body has already left the hall the back way, headed for the crematorium. He knows the suit isn't his and he'll be filleted for letting it get so soaked. But he wants to keep Gonou on this particular plateau, somewhere above the depths that lend humans the recklessness of demons.
"You." Gonou stares up at Gojyo, nearly seeing him for the first time. Just red, no emotions attached. Diamond-drops glitter on his skin and his ruby-red eyes shine. And for this instant, Gonou feels he might just be okay.
The moment passes as their names are called. They turn to see a black limousine and a hand waving them along. It seems unreal, not as substantial as Gojyo's warm hand on Gonou's back or the dull, throbbing ache in the pit of Gonou's heart. Gojyo leans down to Gonou's ear and softly asks, "Are you ready?"
Gonou shakes his head. "No." He pulls off his glasses, unable to see through the sheen of water upon them, and puts them in his pocket. Without them, much of the world is a blur, but Gojyo is still simply and comfortably red. "But I'll go." And they dance toward the waiting world, three steps forward and two steps back.