Saiyuki does not belong to me, and this drabble is the product of a very bored Laz during her History of the English Language class. I hope that you enjoy. Comments of all kinds welcomed.
Memory
By: Lazuli
He could almost remember someone who wore soft black leather and the smell of alcohol around him. A laughing voice—teasing him but with a note of caring that was unmistakable. But now it was all tied up with the smell of cigarettes and sake that clung to Goyjo.
In the back of his mind he could almost see a book being pushed in his direction, larger hands wrapping around his smaller ones to guide them in a writing lesson. But Hakkai was the one that intruded on his thoughts now.
And an image of shining golden hair and almost-cold violet eyes could only belong to Sanzo, the memory of a comforting hand laid on his head a relic of when he first came out of the cave.
But he never could place formal robes and mischievous eyes like his own, a face that he could look into and a voice that said he understood. And because there was nothing to overshadow it, sometimes that memory was the clearest—and hurt the worst.