A/N: Disclaimer: Saiyuki isn't mine.
Hello, folks! Welcome to the Kougaiji-centric sequel to "Eights and Aces." Blackjack should be pretty interesting - I've got some fun ideas. All (or...many) of your questions regarding Kougaiji (and some other people, too!) will be answered! Woo!
Yes, Virginia, this is an AU. So all newcomers who aren't totally turned off by that, go read "Eights and Aces" and corresponding one-shots first. Otherwise you prolly won't understand -any- of this. Heck, even if you've read "Eights and Aces" some of this might be confusing. So I, your benevolent authoress, have decided to put up the chronology:
Eights and Aces (winter-spring year one), Two Steps Back (early spring year one), Gin (early spring year one), Chocolate Ears (Easter year three), Sleeping Alone (late summer year five), Blackjack start (winter year five), Meetings (autumn year six). I dunno when Blackjack's gonna end, but it'll definitely be around year six or seven.
I was unable to with the one-shots, but I'll do it now: at the end of every chapter, I am gonna reply to reviews. Yup, just like in the first one. One final note: I haven't seen all (or even most) of the Saiyuki anime, and the manga is pretty foreign to me as well. While I've got a pretty good grasp on the Sanzo-ikkou, the Kougaiji-tachi are still kinda far out of my reach. If anybody could point me to fics in which they (and the Homura-tachi, too!) are characterized well...or if they just want to explain stuff to me, I'd be much obliged. Eh-heeehhh...
Okay, I'll shut up now. Happy readage, my loves!
***
He grimaced. "Put that out."
The cigarette was lazily sucked dry, the flame extinguished under its own ash. The butt was tossed into darkness, casually thrown over a burly shoulder. The smoker exhaled slow and easy, blowing haze into the sky. He shoved his hands into his pockets, his breaths coming after not much clearer than the one adulterated with nicotine and tar. The movement released the smell of treated leather and cologne that had soaked into the fabric of his clothes. He was not in fine clothing; his companion looked equally normal. Blue jeans, boots, generic dark t-shirts. Leather jackets. They almost matched, enough to promote some sense of solidarity without appearing as an intended couplet. There had been some thought to it.
"You said you've seen this guy before. What're you so nervous for?" the smoker asked, leaning casually against the chain-link fence behind him. The metal creaked under his weight, clinking as it molded to him and pressed into his coat. There was a white bandage over the bridge of his nose, on which a set of violet-lensed sunglasses rested. To his left, a building steamed from the heat vents, catching the glow from streetlights and scattering it through pollution-whorled air. He leaned heavy on his right elbow, staring at his companion.
"I'm not nervous. You haven't met him. You won't be able to relax around him," he responded, his voice barely louder than a whisper. His brilliant crop of fire-red hair was corralled under a gray knit cap, but the sideburns that stuck out were bright against the darkness. He stood nearly immobile, the picture of stoicism, but his breaths came slightly faster than normal.
Five hard years had taken their toll upon this body. His limbs were wires attached to the coiled spring in the base of his mind, immensely strong, instinctive and sensitive. His senses had been honed to the extent of a predator's, lending to a confidence that no longer had him reaching for the knives in his belt. His breathing was always, always at a measured tempo. The change was disturbing.
This man had once been naïve, desperate for money, for safety, for welfare. There had been an offer he could not refuse. An offer that had seemed so easy to take. He had gone out into the world to try. The money came, first slowly and then in a steadier stream. Night after night, he came back with bruises, broken bones, bleeding wounds. Concealed tears. He would not sleep for the aching in him, for his inability to breathe from fractured ribs or spasming organs, racked with pain and lucid nightmares. The first two years nearly killed him.
Five hard years had taken their toll upon his body. They had made him strong and hard and cold in tremendous ways. He walked differently, with his head stolidly ahead to not meet the eyes of passersby. He walked with purpose, always with somewhere to go. He walked not like he owned the world, but like he knew it closely as the feel of his clothes on his back. He spoke differently, with carefully chosen words littered at times with appropriate curses like endearments. He spoke with purpose, always with some manipulation or meaning. He spoke not like he held the attention of his listeners, but like he always was about to lose it. And at times that was what he wanted.
Living at home, at the place he still called home but was not really home, grew harder. He spent his nights there most often, contributed what money he could to the communal pot, but it had not felt like home for ages. There was no glow to it, but a sense of purity marred whenever he stepped inside. A haven uncomfortable like a hospital because he could never just stay and be cared for. And they, the women, did not understand the change in his manner.
Five hard years had taken their toll upon him. He no longer talked easily or was even friendly most times. He tested patience as he tested the limits of his refined testosterone. His smiles, which had once come so quickly, were few and so far between. His temper, which had once given him such humanity and lent for the growth of the relationships he cherished, was now carefully reined in. He was afraid of hurting them, and they only wondered at his restraint. He no longer showed his love, because love was a weakness to be exploited, almost as potent as hate.
There had been one night where he'd come back alone and been shoved hard into the wall so his blood splattered and stained the moss green paint. His breath had come out in a high hiss and he'd fought with the urge to shove back until the words that had to be said left the attacker's mouth. There had been an agreement while wounds were cleaned. There had been a promise, and a handshake, and they had gone to bed but not slept at all.
Dokugakuji had not left his side since then. Even if it meant he went to work bleary-eyed and bruised in the morning, he stayed. They had taken beatings together, fobbed off mobs together, built a reputation together. But this was a man Doku had yet to meet.
"Kougaiji. Long time no see, my boy." The voice was low and the air cringed against it, burned. Doku inclined his head and saw immediately why even Kougaiji was unsettled. The man had an air of wrongness about his face, in minutest details that lent to a strange disproportionality of his features. There was nothing particularly sinister about neither pieces nor whole, but Doku's stomach knotted just the same. His face was white against the night, white as the moon and curled in a crooked-tooth smile. Three of them were gold. He wore a fur coat against the cold, but his head was bare and his eyes were unshaded. Even the hand he extended in greeting was bare, so the rings on his fingers could glint like liquid in the lamplight. Kougaiji nodded to him, but did not raise his hand.
"Who's your friend?" the man asked, raising an eyebrow at Dokugakuji. The bigger man had learned to stay silent, to let Kougaiji answer for him.
"Business partner. Have you reached your decision?" he asked softly, deftly stepping between Doku and the man to which he spoke. His eyes were noncommittal, but his breathing had yet to slow. A smile opened like a fissure in the man's face, far different from the jovial greeting of a few moments before. This was a predator's smile, a baring of teeth, a show of strength. A challenge.
"I have. My associates and I have decided that a partnership with you would be, in fact, profitable."
Kougaiji did not visibly relax, but Doku knew this was the preferred result. "We operate on trust of my word. Shake my hand and the pact is sealed."
The smile turned lethal. "Of course, my boy. And that is why, if anything should go wrong..."
If Kougaiji had not turned his head at that exact instant, his nose would have been blown clear off of his face. As it was, four lines were scarred down his cheek in quick succession, from two separate directions. He tilted his jaw so the lines of blood did not drip. He bared his neck to the man in this manner, and a slow grin stretched his features. Doku watched Kougaiji, vulnerable and bleeding and grinning, and shuddered just a little inside.
The only real reason for Kougaiji's actions lay with his mother. For years since she'd been interred in the hospital with breast cancer, he'd labored to pay the bills for her treatment. Her insurance had been virtually nil thanks to her deadbeat husband, leaving the payments on Kougaiji's shoulders. He wouldn't accept aid from anyone, but worked himself to the bone doing hard labor and odd jobs on the side. He barely ate unless someone shoved the food down his throat, and he'd collapse every Sunday morning before dragging himself off again that very afternoon. Complications of a tumor removal surgery had left his mother comatose, and continually supporting her in the hope she would one day wake up had really taken a toll on him. When his half-sister's mother had offered to pay for everything, including reimbursement of fees he'd already paid, she had seemed a godsend. Now, standing in awe of his best friend's madness, Doku wasn't so sure.
The two shook hands, and Kougaiji watched him walk away. "It won't be long now, Doku."
"Come on. It's nearly midnight and your blood's freezing on your face." Doku waited for Kougaiji to turn to him before reaching his arm out for touch. Coming up to Kougaiji from behind was no longer a friendly gesture, but worthy of having the 'attacker's' arm ripped off. Kougaiji did not so much relax into the feeling but allowed Doku to put his arm around his shoulders, and let himself be led to his house.
Hello, folks! Welcome to the Kougaiji-centric sequel to "Eights and Aces." Blackjack should be pretty interesting - I've got some fun ideas. All (or...many) of your questions regarding Kougaiji (and some other people, too!) will be answered! Woo!
Yes, Virginia, this is an AU. So all newcomers who aren't totally turned off by that, go read "Eights and Aces" and corresponding one-shots first. Otherwise you prolly won't understand -any- of this. Heck, even if you've read "Eights and Aces" some of this might be confusing. So I, your benevolent authoress, have decided to put up the chronology:
Eights and Aces (winter-spring year one), Two Steps Back (early spring year one), Gin (early spring year one), Chocolate Ears (Easter year three), Sleeping Alone (late summer year five), Blackjack start (winter year five), Meetings (autumn year six). I dunno when Blackjack's gonna end, but it'll definitely be around year six or seven.
I was unable to with the one-shots, but I'll do it now: at the end of every chapter, I am gonna reply to reviews. Yup, just like in the first one. One final note: I haven't seen all (or even most) of the Saiyuki anime, and the manga is pretty foreign to me as well. While I've got a pretty good grasp on the Sanzo-ikkou, the Kougaiji-tachi are still kinda far out of my reach. If anybody could point me to fics in which they (and the Homura-tachi, too!) are characterized well...or if they just want to explain stuff to me, I'd be much obliged. Eh-heeehhh...
Okay, I'll shut up now. Happy readage, my loves!
***
He grimaced. "Put that out."
The cigarette was lazily sucked dry, the flame extinguished under its own ash. The butt was tossed into darkness, casually thrown over a burly shoulder. The smoker exhaled slow and easy, blowing haze into the sky. He shoved his hands into his pockets, his breaths coming after not much clearer than the one adulterated with nicotine and tar. The movement released the smell of treated leather and cologne that had soaked into the fabric of his clothes. He was not in fine clothing; his companion looked equally normal. Blue jeans, boots, generic dark t-shirts. Leather jackets. They almost matched, enough to promote some sense of solidarity without appearing as an intended couplet. There had been some thought to it.
"You said you've seen this guy before. What're you so nervous for?" the smoker asked, leaning casually against the chain-link fence behind him. The metal creaked under his weight, clinking as it molded to him and pressed into his coat. There was a white bandage over the bridge of his nose, on which a set of violet-lensed sunglasses rested. To his left, a building steamed from the heat vents, catching the glow from streetlights and scattering it through pollution-whorled air. He leaned heavy on his right elbow, staring at his companion.
"I'm not nervous. You haven't met him. You won't be able to relax around him," he responded, his voice barely louder than a whisper. His brilliant crop of fire-red hair was corralled under a gray knit cap, but the sideburns that stuck out were bright against the darkness. He stood nearly immobile, the picture of stoicism, but his breaths came slightly faster than normal.
Five hard years had taken their toll upon this body. His limbs were wires attached to the coiled spring in the base of his mind, immensely strong, instinctive and sensitive. His senses had been honed to the extent of a predator's, lending to a confidence that no longer had him reaching for the knives in his belt. His breathing was always, always at a measured tempo. The change was disturbing.
This man had once been naïve, desperate for money, for safety, for welfare. There had been an offer he could not refuse. An offer that had seemed so easy to take. He had gone out into the world to try. The money came, first slowly and then in a steadier stream. Night after night, he came back with bruises, broken bones, bleeding wounds. Concealed tears. He would not sleep for the aching in him, for his inability to breathe from fractured ribs or spasming organs, racked with pain and lucid nightmares. The first two years nearly killed him.
Five hard years had taken their toll upon his body. They had made him strong and hard and cold in tremendous ways. He walked differently, with his head stolidly ahead to not meet the eyes of passersby. He walked with purpose, always with somewhere to go. He walked not like he owned the world, but like he knew it closely as the feel of his clothes on his back. He spoke differently, with carefully chosen words littered at times with appropriate curses like endearments. He spoke with purpose, always with some manipulation or meaning. He spoke not like he held the attention of his listeners, but like he always was about to lose it. And at times that was what he wanted.
Living at home, at the place he still called home but was not really home, grew harder. He spent his nights there most often, contributed what money he could to the communal pot, but it had not felt like home for ages. There was no glow to it, but a sense of purity marred whenever he stepped inside. A haven uncomfortable like a hospital because he could never just stay and be cared for. And they, the women, did not understand the change in his manner.
Five hard years had taken their toll upon him. He no longer talked easily or was even friendly most times. He tested patience as he tested the limits of his refined testosterone. His smiles, which had once come so quickly, were few and so far between. His temper, which had once given him such humanity and lent for the growth of the relationships he cherished, was now carefully reined in. He was afraid of hurting them, and they only wondered at his restraint. He no longer showed his love, because love was a weakness to be exploited, almost as potent as hate.
There had been one night where he'd come back alone and been shoved hard into the wall so his blood splattered and stained the moss green paint. His breath had come out in a high hiss and he'd fought with the urge to shove back until the words that had to be said left the attacker's mouth. There had been an agreement while wounds were cleaned. There had been a promise, and a handshake, and they had gone to bed but not slept at all.
Dokugakuji had not left his side since then. Even if it meant he went to work bleary-eyed and bruised in the morning, he stayed. They had taken beatings together, fobbed off mobs together, built a reputation together. But this was a man Doku had yet to meet.
"Kougaiji. Long time no see, my boy." The voice was low and the air cringed against it, burned. Doku inclined his head and saw immediately why even Kougaiji was unsettled. The man had an air of wrongness about his face, in minutest details that lent to a strange disproportionality of his features. There was nothing particularly sinister about neither pieces nor whole, but Doku's stomach knotted just the same. His face was white against the night, white as the moon and curled in a crooked-tooth smile. Three of them were gold. He wore a fur coat against the cold, but his head was bare and his eyes were unshaded. Even the hand he extended in greeting was bare, so the rings on his fingers could glint like liquid in the lamplight. Kougaiji nodded to him, but did not raise his hand.
"Who's your friend?" the man asked, raising an eyebrow at Dokugakuji. The bigger man had learned to stay silent, to let Kougaiji answer for him.
"Business partner. Have you reached your decision?" he asked softly, deftly stepping between Doku and the man to which he spoke. His eyes were noncommittal, but his breathing had yet to slow. A smile opened like a fissure in the man's face, far different from the jovial greeting of a few moments before. This was a predator's smile, a baring of teeth, a show of strength. A challenge.
"I have. My associates and I have decided that a partnership with you would be, in fact, profitable."
Kougaiji did not visibly relax, but Doku knew this was the preferred result. "We operate on trust of my word. Shake my hand and the pact is sealed."
The smile turned lethal. "Of course, my boy. And that is why, if anything should go wrong..."
If Kougaiji had not turned his head at that exact instant, his nose would have been blown clear off of his face. As it was, four lines were scarred down his cheek in quick succession, from two separate directions. He tilted his jaw so the lines of blood did not drip. He bared his neck to the man in this manner, and a slow grin stretched his features. Doku watched Kougaiji, vulnerable and bleeding and grinning, and shuddered just a little inside.
The only real reason for Kougaiji's actions lay with his mother. For years since she'd been interred in the hospital with breast cancer, he'd labored to pay the bills for her treatment. Her insurance had been virtually nil thanks to her deadbeat husband, leaving the payments on Kougaiji's shoulders. He wouldn't accept aid from anyone, but worked himself to the bone doing hard labor and odd jobs on the side. He barely ate unless someone shoved the food down his throat, and he'd collapse every Sunday morning before dragging himself off again that very afternoon. Complications of a tumor removal surgery had left his mother comatose, and continually supporting her in the hope she would one day wake up had really taken a toll on him. When his half-sister's mother had offered to pay for everything, including reimbursement of fees he'd already paid, she had seemed a godsend. Now, standing in awe of his best friend's madness, Doku wasn't so sure.
The two shook hands, and Kougaiji watched him walk away. "It won't be long now, Doku."
"Come on. It's nearly midnight and your blood's freezing on your face." Doku waited for Kougaiji to turn to him before reaching his arm out for touch. Coming up to Kougaiji from behind was no longer a friendly gesture, but worthy of having the 'attacker's' arm ripped off. Kougaiji did not so much relax into the feeling but allowed Doku to put his arm around his shoulders, and let himself be led to his house.