A/N: A short little piece that I wrote on the spur of the moment. Hope that you enjoy it. The sentences in italics are quotes that I took directly from volumes 7 and 8 of the manga.
Disclaimer: I do not own Saiyuki or any of the characters/events associated with it.
Don't Cry
By The Silver Feathered Raven
He sits there, on the edge of the bed, smoking a cigarette. His back is against the wall, the lights off. The only sound is the pitter-patter of the rain, the steady drumming as it hits the rooftops, the splashing as it rolls down the shingles and falls into the steadily growing puddle below the window.
He lifts the cigarette from his mouth and exhales, sending up a plume of white smoke that swirls around in front of his face, in front of his unseeing eyes. He has a glazed look, staring at the wall before him. Shoulders hunched, legs drawn up, he tries to make himself as small as possible.
He likes the rain. It matches what he is: cold, depressed, unwanted. It drowns out all the other sounds, the sounds that he doesn't want to hear. Washes away all his cares, if only for a little while.
There are bruises on his face, next to his eyes, a few patches here and there covered with dried blood. No scars except for a few small white puckerings around his hairline. But mostly just bruises and blood.
Another cloud of smoke and then a sigh. But that is the only other sound in the small room, the only sound besides the rain.
He taps a bit of ash from the end of the cigarette, watching as it hits the dirty sheets of his bed, burning tiny holes in the fabric, adding to the collection of small marks that already mar it. Tiny burn marks on what was once white cloth. His eyes unglaze for a moment and he watches as the ash burns the fabric, as it they extinguish, gone from his sight. Little black marks are all that is left behind.
The room used to be white. The blankets used to be white. Even the shirt that he is wearing was white, one time, a long time ago. But now they are all grey, streaked with ash and dirt and grime. He hasn't cleaned them and there is no one else who will. Not his brother and not his mother. He lets his head fall back, staring up at the ceiling, holding the cigarette between his fingers.
There's a crack in the ceiling and water drips down from it, falling to the ground with a quiet splash, a pool of it forming near his feet. The ceiling is stained from other nights like this, where the rain seeps in, causing the circular marks to expand outward in yellowed streaks and circles.
The rain continues to fall and there is the sound of thunder in the distance. Just one roll of thunder, barely loud enough for him to hear. No lightning. Or he didn't see it, at least. He waits, eyes cast towards the window, at the greyness that clouds the sky.
There. There it was. A streak of light, cutting through the sky. He counts. One. Two. Three. Four. Five—
No thunder. Not yet. He waits, still, and when he reaches the count of eleven in his head the thunder resounds. Still faint but there.
Eleven miles away. Eleven miles until the storm arrives.
He sets the cigarette to his lips, inhaling the smoke. And exhaling. Eleven. Of course it had to be eleven. For his eleven years. Eleven years alive. Eleven years in this house, with this family.
Eleven years and there was nothing to show for it.
White smoke and he thinks that he could run. But he doesn't want to run. Not really. He wants to stay there, stay in the house. Maybe she'll love him. Just maybe. If he stays it might happen.
Maybe.
His eyes begin to water and he shakes his head furiously. He's not going to cry. His brother has told him so many times not to cry.
C'mon, Gojyo. Don't cry.
Who's crying?
He never cried. Not ever. He disappointed his mother; he wouldn't disappoint his brother. He wouldn't cry.
Not ever.
The cigarette had burned down to a stub. He dropped it to the ground, moving just enough so that he could crush it under the heel of his boot. The ashes spread across the floor, looking a bit like crumbs from burnt toast. Or black sand.
The room smells of smoke and there are mounds of ash on the floor from countless other cigarettes. He doesn't quite remember when he started smoking. He only knows that he's been smoking for years and that the cigarettes are one of the only things that he can depend on.
He picks up the package of cigarettes, shaking one out. A flick of his thumb and the lighter flares and he lights the end of the cigarette. The tip glows briefly, red hot in the darkness, and then it fades, leaving behind a wisp of smoke. He brings the cigarette up to his lips and inhales. And exhales.
I thought I told you not to cry.
I not crying!
Right. Ha, ha, ha!
Red. The color red. Why did he have to be born with the color? Blood, always around him, like the dried flakes on his cheeks. Red, the color his mother hates. If only he had been born without red. If only he had the black hair and black eyes of his brother, the slit pupils and the pointed ears and the geometric birthmarks, she would have loved him. But for the red, she hated him. If it weren't for his red hair and eyes then he could have given her the red flowers and she would have been happy. If not for the red…
Mom! Look at these, yeah? The man at the flower shop said they're for you!
Nn. How very pretty. They're the color of blood.
Red petals, staining the floor, scattering among broken plates and old bread crusts.
There's more smoke in the room now. White smoke, swirling around him. He likes the smoke, almost as much as he likes the rain. The smoke hides him, the rain drowns out everything around him. Smoke and rain, his two friends.
There's another flash of lightning and he starts counting again. One. Two. Three. Fou—
Thunder rolls, louder now. Closer. Very, very close. He waits for the storm to come.
In the quiet moments he can hear sounds from the other room. Sounds from his mother's room, sounds that he doesn't want to hear. The creaking of a bed, the gasping for breath…
He doesn't want to hear it. So he's grateful for the rain and the thunder, because it blocks out the sounds.
Eleven years old and he already smokes. On days when his mother leaves the cabinet unlocked he sneaks to it, stealing bottles of liquor. He drinks them on nights when there's no rain. When he has the bottles, the sounds die away. Everything goes away and he forgets. It's worth the headaches in the morning. Those moments away from it all are worth it.
The bottles are under his bed, shoved under ripped shirts and old socks. Along with the dirt, dust, and empty cigarette boxes.
No one looks under his bed. No one cares enough to see what this little boy does. No one cares what he does when he gets feed up with the sounds.
Your little flowers disgust me! There as ugly as the blood that woman shed!
Gojyo! Go back to your room!
His brother tries to protect him. So he doesn't cry, doesn't try to disappoint him.
He doesn't know that if his brother ever found the bottles and the cigarette cartons he would cry. He doesn't really even know how much his brother does to protect him, to keep him safe.
He just wants to make sure that his brother loves him. Because if his brother loves him then there is a chance that he mother will, too. And that's what he wants. What he really, really wants. He just wants to give her flowers and have her smile. Take them, put them in a vase and say that her son gave them to her. He wants her to hold him when she finds him after he's been lost in the forest. Wants her to say that she loves him, not leave him standing in the fog, listening to her saying the same things to his brother.
Jien? Jien?
Mom?
Where on earth have you been?
I'm sorry. Just…calm down, mom.
Never leave mommy again, do you hear me?
It doesn't matter if he was lost as well. Doesn't matter if he almost slipped and fell to his death. His mother only greets his brother like that.
He should hate his brother. He should, but he doesn't. His brother is all he has, other than the bottles and cigarettes.
Another flash of lightning, followed one second late by a crack of thunder. He doesn't jump. He welcomes the storm.
White smoke in front of his face. More water drips from the roof, some onto the bedspread. He leans back, reaching out with one hand, letting the water fall into it.
I'm not crying. You didn't have to say it. Not even once. If I cry, I lose…and I never wanted pity. It would have made me look bad.
Light flashes across the sky, illuminating the small room. There's a roll of thunder, loud in his ears. The rain continues to fall, fast and steady. The world's turned grey.
He likes the rain. He likes it because, while he won't ever cry, the rain cries for him. He will never, ever cry. Besides…
It's not like it could've changed anything.
The storm rages on and the skies cry for a little boy, who sits alone in his room, a cigarette in his hand.