The title of this fic is from a Matthew Arnold poem, "Immortality."
However, I wrote the story before I found the poem or the title, so you
don't have to read it to understand the story. Although maybe it helps.
It's at the end, if you would.
I'm a bit hesitant about the style I used in this fic. It strikes me as being very immature, but at five a.m. after a very ambiguous day it was the best I could do. All I know is, I had this line in my head, and I wanted to try to do something with it. I do dream, after all, of being able to write something decent eventually.
In Another Life
It began as something simple, too tiny to identify, much less dread. It was a matter of timing, the smallest of delays. Hesitation, fleeting, where no hesitation should be. It was a matter of placement, a question of centimeters, from a hand that was never unsteady. It took so many encounters, so many almost-had-yous and be-more-carefuls before he finally caught on. He'd never been a quick study, but in retrospect this time he'd been glacially slow. Of course, it was harder to see something he didn't want to be there.
His best friend was trying to kill himself.
Not that he would have admitted it. Not that he had friends. He, a gambler, drifter, drunkard and cheat? Halfbreed at that, to earn a curse at every man's lips for the perversities of the youkai race (whelping their get on our women, the swine). No, he had no friends. But he and Hakkai had a tight, bitter thing born of pain and a glimmer of understanding, and the expectation that when this journey ended (as all things must end, he'd learned) there would be a house to go back to, and someone in it. In some lights and at certain angles it passed for friendship.
He wondered what to do, even as he tried to convince himself that it wasn't happening, until it became so obvious that even the stone-hearted monk noticed that Hakkai spent more time fighting off Sanzo's attackers than his own. None of them really needed help at all. It was unusually tactless of Hakkai to even try. But of course Sanzo said nothing, except that every man's choices were his alone, of which he could appreciate the truth and wisdom, but still left him with the problem of his friend wanting to die.
It was only a matter of time, he knew, because the assassins were stupid but they kept getting smarter, and it actually didn't take very much to kill someone if you were trying to and not just playing around for effect. Just luck, really. And it did take a lot more to defend two people, especially when that second person left holes in his defense that you could drive Jeep through. Something he tried not to be grateful to, some obsolete training or stubborn will or twisted thinking was keeping Hakkai from doing it the quick, easy way. But that pissed him off too, because it only made it all the more dishonest. Beneath the polite cheer, he'd learned, Hakkai could be quite sneaky.
He stretched himself a little thinner in fights and it wasn't too bad (survival, like everything else, was a habit), but it wasn't a solution either. At some point it was going to happen. That was life. You tried so hard to hold onto things, and they slipped out of your hands, until you finally learned that it was easier to hold on to nothing at all, not even money, and let the days carry you lightly along instead. Except that coming home one night, he'd been carried into someone trying to smile as he died with his guts stinking in the dirt.
It was maybe the last messy impolite thing his friend had done, and he thought morbidly that when it happened this time those last breaths would be wasted on an apology (No don't bother with a burial, really, so sorry to bleed on you like this). Though really this time was the first time, because for reasons that even now he had trouble naming he'd scooped the man into his arms and staggered down the path back to the shabby little room where he slept. The body was young and strong under its hideous damage, so the man had lived and woken up and thought he was in Hell. Until he'd been informed otherwise. He'd seen that flicker of disappointment and felt something inside of him shudder loose, even then. But that hadn't been warning enough for him, because a man's choices might be his alone, but the natural state of fools gravitated towards hope. Besides, he'd never been a quick study.
He'd felt it again when he'd learned that Cho Gonou, who had lived under his roof for two months, who had beat him at cards (the secret to winning at cards was not to care and he had never lost until Gonou), had been sentenced to death and executed. And thought to himself, how ridiculous for a drifter to become unmoored. Had cut his hair and told himself he'd be wiser the next time around and what was the sense, really, in trying to change anything. Had kept repeating it as he sat alone at nights and lived off of cigarettes and the occasional stale crust because he couldn't be bothered to go into the brothels and dens with their hideous garish offer of a life that was not all that much better or even really very different from death.
And then one day he'd relearned that everything really did come to an end, or at least got closer, and that he was tired of living off of dry bread. So he'd stepped out just for a moment. The sky had been surprisingly blue, and the sharp scent of imagined apples had led him on. He'd been waiting for his change when a familiar voice had spoken to him. He'd looked up because there was nothing else he could have done, then or ever.
His hair hadn't even grown back yet.
Now it was all coming loose again, and this time it would be for good. The gods might give second chances but you would have to be more than a fool to expect a third. So instead of dreaming of axes and sharp nails and the creaking of springs across a thin wall (he hated listening to that sound even now and struggled always to be the one who made it), he dreamed of green eyes looking past him as the mouth filled with blood and smiled and whispered, I'm sorry.
He tried. Pulled the man aside after one swing that he had done nothing to block had nearly cost him his arm. Why are you doing this, he hissed. Doing what? his friend replied with a smile. And he was stuck, because he knew why. Probably had always known, the way he'd known that his flowers would never make his mother smile, and that red was the color of sin. He'd said nothing more, only dropped the arm he'd uselessly saved and stumbled away.
He'd long ago given up talking to the gods. They hadn't listened when he was younger and after a life like his there wasn't much chance They were more interested in him now. According to most people They frowned on him anyway. But he couldn't help asking, because it seemed like too much not to.
gods above--why did You send this man to me
He never received an answer but in the morning, watching Hakkai beam over the coffeepot and serve Goku pancakes (no one seemed to notice how little Hakkai ate), he formed a resolution anyway. When they had finished breakfast he waited until the man had gone back upstairs and then made his request.
Sanzo.
A flicker of annoyance and surprise. What?
Lend me your gun.
Lend you my--have you gone mad, you idiot cockroach?
Probably, so give me the damn gun before I really go spare and make a scene.
The monk looked at him then, actually looked with those eyes that rarely really opened. And gave him the gun. Looked back down. Muttered, I expect it back or I will carve a replacement out of your bones.
There might have been a hint of pain there but he didn't respond, and went back upstairs to where Hakkai was packing up the last of their meager belongings. Hakkai made the beds before they left at every place. Everything Hakkai did was neat. Hakkai didn't like to leave things unfinished. It was amazing, when he thought about it, that he'd left this one detail for so long.
Why hello, how kind of you to come and help. Has Goku finished breakfast?
I'm not here to help. Well--not with the beds.
It was all he could say for the moment. The gun rested in his hands, almost dangling. He wondered if it would feel so light when he was finished.
His friend saw it, and raised an eyebrow.
Tell me. Is it truly so bad?
Is what so bad?
He slammed his hand into the thin wall. A cheap frame of something colorful jumped off its nail and shattered underfoot.
Don't fuck with me. Do you really regret that you lived? You've really given up on earning redemption? On changing anything?
Silence, and green eyes that stared back, slightly unfocused. And finally,
One thousand deaths...is so many. I was thinking, perhaps next time I could do a bit better.
Small polite laugh.
Although really I suppose it's still just the one that's bothering me. In the end, I still can't change that. She won't be coming back.
He flung his arms wide, gesturing at everything. And this, this means nothing? You can leave it, just like that? You wouldn't regret it, not even one little bit, you bastard, even after everything we've come through?
Silence.
He really was a fool, and so he tried one last time.
Even me? You wouldn't regret it, not one bit?
He asked himself in the ponderous moments that followed, Just what had he expected, really?
Fine. Fine. You want to finish things so badly, let me help. You owe me that much. You owe me. He was breathing hard through his nose, and tried not to.
And finally Hakkai spoke.
Three years for two months, he said quietly. Was it not enough?
He flung himself at the man, closed the gap between them in a blink. Held the cold steel to the brown hair covering the temple and cocked the gun. The green eyes closed involuntarily, too quickly for him to see if there was any fear. There was a long moment, where the world rocked like waves.
Bang, he whispered. His arm dropped uselessly to his side. The gun clattered to the floor and he sank to his knees beside it, buried his face in his hands.
Gojyo? And the voice held a hint of confusion, a sliver of concern.
You're dead now, ok? You're dead, so stop it. I killed you. You're punished. You don't have to do this any more. He thought he would sob but found himself too empty, even of breath. The last words had taken everything out of him. Watched dully, instead, as the slender white hand reached down to pick up the gun, and offer it back to him. Always so neat, in everything.
Take it.
The handle nudged against his hand.
Take it.
He took it. What else was there to do? In a moment, perhaps, he would be able to lift his arm.
I imagine Sanzo will be wanting it back by now, don't you think?
And hope swam back into view. Because a man's choices were his alone, and because he was now and forever going to be a fool. He looked up. Hakkai was smiling, and saying,
Do you know? Perhaps I might regret it. Just a little bit.
The relief threatened to burst him, so he opened his mouth to say with a smirk, I knew it. You can't stand to leave me.
Hakkai said nothing, only continued to smile. But the next time they fought and an attacker peeled out of the crowd he ducked and brought up his hands and fired off a bolt, then spoke quite primly.
You should be more careful where you stand, Gojyo. I nearly took off your head with that one. Really, do you think I can't fend for myself?
And that was an answer of sorts.
Even if it wasn't, it was still good enough.
the end
Immortality by Matthew Arnold
Foil'd by our fellow-men, depress'd, outworn, We leave the brutal world to take its way, And, Patience! in another life, we say The world shall be thrust down, and we up-borne.
And will not, then, the immortal armies scorn The world's poor, routed leavings? or will they, Who fail'd under the heat of this life's day, Support the fervours of the heavenly morn?
No, no! the energy of life may be Kept on after the grave, but not begun; And he who flagg'd not in the earthly strife,
From strength to strength advancing--only he, His soul well-knit, and all his battles won, Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life.
I'm a bit hesitant about the style I used in this fic. It strikes me as being very immature, but at five a.m. after a very ambiguous day it was the best I could do. All I know is, I had this line in my head, and I wanted to try to do something with it. I do dream, after all, of being able to write something decent eventually.
In Another Life
It began as something simple, too tiny to identify, much less dread. It was a matter of timing, the smallest of delays. Hesitation, fleeting, where no hesitation should be. It was a matter of placement, a question of centimeters, from a hand that was never unsteady. It took so many encounters, so many almost-had-yous and be-more-carefuls before he finally caught on. He'd never been a quick study, but in retrospect this time he'd been glacially slow. Of course, it was harder to see something he didn't want to be there.
His best friend was trying to kill himself.
Not that he would have admitted it. Not that he had friends. He, a gambler, drifter, drunkard and cheat? Halfbreed at that, to earn a curse at every man's lips for the perversities of the youkai race (whelping their get on our women, the swine). No, he had no friends. But he and Hakkai had a tight, bitter thing born of pain and a glimmer of understanding, and the expectation that when this journey ended (as all things must end, he'd learned) there would be a house to go back to, and someone in it. In some lights and at certain angles it passed for friendship.
He wondered what to do, even as he tried to convince himself that it wasn't happening, until it became so obvious that even the stone-hearted monk noticed that Hakkai spent more time fighting off Sanzo's attackers than his own. None of them really needed help at all. It was unusually tactless of Hakkai to even try. But of course Sanzo said nothing, except that every man's choices were his alone, of which he could appreciate the truth and wisdom, but still left him with the problem of his friend wanting to die.
It was only a matter of time, he knew, because the assassins were stupid but they kept getting smarter, and it actually didn't take very much to kill someone if you were trying to and not just playing around for effect. Just luck, really. And it did take a lot more to defend two people, especially when that second person left holes in his defense that you could drive Jeep through. Something he tried not to be grateful to, some obsolete training or stubborn will or twisted thinking was keeping Hakkai from doing it the quick, easy way. But that pissed him off too, because it only made it all the more dishonest. Beneath the polite cheer, he'd learned, Hakkai could be quite sneaky.
He stretched himself a little thinner in fights and it wasn't too bad (survival, like everything else, was a habit), but it wasn't a solution either. At some point it was going to happen. That was life. You tried so hard to hold onto things, and they slipped out of your hands, until you finally learned that it was easier to hold on to nothing at all, not even money, and let the days carry you lightly along instead. Except that coming home one night, he'd been carried into someone trying to smile as he died with his guts stinking in the dirt.
It was maybe the last messy impolite thing his friend had done, and he thought morbidly that when it happened this time those last breaths would be wasted on an apology (No don't bother with a burial, really, so sorry to bleed on you like this). Though really this time was the first time, because for reasons that even now he had trouble naming he'd scooped the man into his arms and staggered down the path back to the shabby little room where he slept. The body was young and strong under its hideous damage, so the man had lived and woken up and thought he was in Hell. Until he'd been informed otherwise. He'd seen that flicker of disappointment and felt something inside of him shudder loose, even then. But that hadn't been warning enough for him, because a man's choices might be his alone, but the natural state of fools gravitated towards hope. Besides, he'd never been a quick study.
He'd felt it again when he'd learned that Cho Gonou, who had lived under his roof for two months, who had beat him at cards (the secret to winning at cards was not to care and he had never lost until Gonou), had been sentenced to death and executed. And thought to himself, how ridiculous for a drifter to become unmoored. Had cut his hair and told himself he'd be wiser the next time around and what was the sense, really, in trying to change anything. Had kept repeating it as he sat alone at nights and lived off of cigarettes and the occasional stale crust because he couldn't be bothered to go into the brothels and dens with their hideous garish offer of a life that was not all that much better or even really very different from death.
And then one day he'd relearned that everything really did come to an end, or at least got closer, and that he was tired of living off of dry bread. So he'd stepped out just for a moment. The sky had been surprisingly blue, and the sharp scent of imagined apples had led him on. He'd been waiting for his change when a familiar voice had spoken to him. He'd looked up because there was nothing else he could have done, then or ever.
His hair hadn't even grown back yet.
Now it was all coming loose again, and this time it would be for good. The gods might give second chances but you would have to be more than a fool to expect a third. So instead of dreaming of axes and sharp nails and the creaking of springs across a thin wall (he hated listening to that sound even now and struggled always to be the one who made it), he dreamed of green eyes looking past him as the mouth filled with blood and smiled and whispered, I'm sorry.
He tried. Pulled the man aside after one swing that he had done nothing to block had nearly cost him his arm. Why are you doing this, he hissed. Doing what? his friend replied with a smile. And he was stuck, because he knew why. Probably had always known, the way he'd known that his flowers would never make his mother smile, and that red was the color of sin. He'd said nothing more, only dropped the arm he'd uselessly saved and stumbled away.
He'd long ago given up talking to the gods. They hadn't listened when he was younger and after a life like his there wasn't much chance They were more interested in him now. According to most people They frowned on him anyway. But he couldn't help asking, because it seemed like too much not to.
gods above--why did You send this man to me
He never received an answer but in the morning, watching Hakkai beam over the coffeepot and serve Goku pancakes (no one seemed to notice how little Hakkai ate), he formed a resolution anyway. When they had finished breakfast he waited until the man had gone back upstairs and then made his request.
Sanzo.
A flicker of annoyance and surprise. What?
Lend me your gun.
Lend you my--have you gone mad, you idiot cockroach?
Probably, so give me the damn gun before I really go spare and make a scene.
The monk looked at him then, actually looked with those eyes that rarely really opened. And gave him the gun. Looked back down. Muttered, I expect it back or I will carve a replacement out of your bones.
There might have been a hint of pain there but he didn't respond, and went back upstairs to where Hakkai was packing up the last of their meager belongings. Hakkai made the beds before they left at every place. Everything Hakkai did was neat. Hakkai didn't like to leave things unfinished. It was amazing, when he thought about it, that he'd left this one detail for so long.
Why hello, how kind of you to come and help. Has Goku finished breakfast?
I'm not here to help. Well--not with the beds.
It was all he could say for the moment. The gun rested in his hands, almost dangling. He wondered if it would feel so light when he was finished.
His friend saw it, and raised an eyebrow.
Tell me. Is it truly so bad?
Is what so bad?
He slammed his hand into the thin wall. A cheap frame of something colorful jumped off its nail and shattered underfoot.
Don't fuck with me. Do you really regret that you lived? You've really given up on earning redemption? On changing anything?
Silence, and green eyes that stared back, slightly unfocused. And finally,
One thousand deaths...is so many. I was thinking, perhaps next time I could do a bit better.
Small polite laugh.
Although really I suppose it's still just the one that's bothering me. In the end, I still can't change that. She won't be coming back.
He flung his arms wide, gesturing at everything. And this, this means nothing? You can leave it, just like that? You wouldn't regret it, not even one little bit, you bastard, even after everything we've come through?
Silence.
He really was a fool, and so he tried one last time.
Even me? You wouldn't regret it, not one bit?
He asked himself in the ponderous moments that followed, Just what had he expected, really?
Fine. Fine. You want to finish things so badly, let me help. You owe me that much. You owe me. He was breathing hard through his nose, and tried not to.
And finally Hakkai spoke.
Three years for two months, he said quietly. Was it not enough?
He flung himself at the man, closed the gap between them in a blink. Held the cold steel to the brown hair covering the temple and cocked the gun. The green eyes closed involuntarily, too quickly for him to see if there was any fear. There was a long moment, where the world rocked like waves.
Bang, he whispered. His arm dropped uselessly to his side. The gun clattered to the floor and he sank to his knees beside it, buried his face in his hands.
Gojyo? And the voice held a hint of confusion, a sliver of concern.
You're dead now, ok? You're dead, so stop it. I killed you. You're punished. You don't have to do this any more. He thought he would sob but found himself too empty, even of breath. The last words had taken everything out of him. Watched dully, instead, as the slender white hand reached down to pick up the gun, and offer it back to him. Always so neat, in everything.
Take it.
The handle nudged against his hand.
Take it.
He took it. What else was there to do? In a moment, perhaps, he would be able to lift his arm.
I imagine Sanzo will be wanting it back by now, don't you think?
And hope swam back into view. Because a man's choices were his alone, and because he was now and forever going to be a fool. He looked up. Hakkai was smiling, and saying,
Do you know? Perhaps I might regret it. Just a little bit.
The relief threatened to burst him, so he opened his mouth to say with a smirk, I knew it. You can't stand to leave me.
Hakkai said nothing, only continued to smile. But the next time they fought and an attacker peeled out of the crowd he ducked and brought up his hands and fired off a bolt, then spoke quite primly.
You should be more careful where you stand, Gojyo. I nearly took off your head with that one. Really, do you think I can't fend for myself?
And that was an answer of sorts.
Even if it wasn't, it was still good enough.
the end
Immortality by Matthew Arnold
Foil'd by our fellow-men, depress'd, outworn, We leave the brutal world to take its way, And, Patience! in another life, we say The world shall be thrust down, and we up-borne.
And will not, then, the immortal armies scorn The world's poor, routed leavings? or will they, Who fail'd under the heat of this life's day, Support the fervours of the heavenly morn?
No, no! the energy of life may be Kept on after the grave, but not begun; And he who flagg'd not in the earthly strife,
From strength to strength advancing--only he, His soul well-knit, and all his battles won, Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life.