A/N: For a Weiss Kreuz VS Saiyuki battle going on over on Livejournal. Week 4 entry, prompt: "Can't Touch This" with the underlying theme of "Forbidden fruit. Incest, infidelity, class divide, illicit love, secret love, societal homophobia, etc."

Warnings: NSFW, though not explicit. Non-con.

Silver Lining

Having a monk in your bed was preposterous enough. But then, he was getting up to all sorts of preposterous things anyway, so that didn't really count. Having a monk in denial in his bed, well... That just went hand in hand with the general gist of things.

Tonight, though, it was raining. That meant a whole lot of smoking and little of much else. Which, he supposed, was why he was the one sharing a room with him instead of Hakkai or Goku. Hakkai was probably brooding in the other room too. But Goku was with him and while that didn't count for much, given how the chimp slept like a log more often than not, it was at least enough to put Gojyo's mind at that tentative state of not-quite-ease that meant restless sleep and the threadbare hope that everything would be alright somehow.

The rain must have let up sometime during the night because Gojyo woke up at the distinctive click of a gun in the general vicinity of his ear and the tell-tale pressure of a barrel pressed to his temples. The pitter-patter of raindrops against glass had ceased and the room was perfectly still, save for the soft sound of breathing. He remained perfectly still for a while longer, a grin slowly spreading on his face, but it was dark in the room and the effect was lost on Sanzo. He still liked to imagine his responding scowl.

He dropped the façade soon enough and shifted slowly, pointedly, in the most non-threatening way to sit up. The gun in Sanzo's hand yielded a little to permit the movement, but didn't disappear. It never really did. He reached out into the darkness, judging the distance correctly and took a hold of the monk's hips. He wasn't allowed to enjoy this; a sharp reminder delivered by the barrel pressing into the side of his head at an angle made sure he wouldn't forget this. So his fingers found the button, found the zipper of his jeans. Undid them, pulled the pants down just a little, just enough to avoid accidental zipper burns – nothing underneath them but the skin and half-professed need that twitched at his touch.

The gun pressed against his temple made it known that he was dallying too long, that his hands were still touching him, so he leaned forwards and took him into his mouth. He braced himself by gripping the edge of the bed, feeling the odd detachment of the act settle in while the silvery Smith&Wesson guided him through the process, determining the pace and making sure he didn't get a chance to enjoy himself. There was something surreal about the act, as if he was expected to believe that none of this was happening. It was. And it wasn't. Sanzo never made a sound. He didn't even move, and if Gojyo did something with his tongue that made him lose his composure, he was regarded with a sharp jab to the head. He wasn't touching the monk, in any way. He wondered if Sanzo believed that as well.

He swallowed when Sanzo came, returned his jeans to the way he'd found them, and then let the barrel of his gun guide him back onto his bed. He closed his eyes obediently, though he knew the other wouldn't be any wiser if he kept them open in the dark, and waited for the pressure against his temples to lift. Waited for the soft footsteps of bare feet travel to the other side of the room, for the mattress to shift and blankets to rustle. He waited for the sleep to come and claim him a second time.

When the morning came, he could almost believe that nothing had happened. That nothing ever happened. But he knew what he knew. And one of these days he was going to get in Sanzo's face about it. Before their little road trip was over. Before they wound up dead in a ditch somewhere.

On the whole, though, if this cloud was supposed to have a silver lining, he was failing to see it.