Authors note: Hey guys! This is my first attempt at Fushigi Yuugi fanfiction. I'm probably getting in way over my head. -light laugh- I welcome everyone to read as long as the content doesn't offend you, and I welcome everyone to give their input on what I need to improve on, and who's OOC. A thousand thanks, and huggles to all!
Warnings: Shounen-ai (not so obvious in this first chapter, but it'll be worse later on), Slight language later (oh what am I talking about... where there is red-haired banditness, there is profanity), absolute ignoring of any timeline beyond episode, oh... 22 or 23, slight OOCness (I'll tell you exactly who later), screwing with canon, absolute oddness, some innuendo and sexual references (nothing terribly bad), rating might be bumped later
Disclaimer: Oh, how I wish I owned Chichiri! -fangirl sigh- It'd be wonderful to have the real one to use as a painting reference. -paints Chichiri as a hobby-
Eyes of Gold, Lips of Red
Chapter 1: A Different Man
I pray to my lord Seiryu for the strength to conquer all who stand before me… Come to me, my god, and guide my hand to strike down your enemy!'
'No!'
'CHICHIRI!'
"Tasuki!"
Whoever it was that once said that seeing through one eye was more effective than seeing through two due to focus clarification was wrong. Horribly horribly wrong. And a certain blue-haired Suzaku seishi felt this wrongness as he toppled over the side of a bed, vision hazy and depth perception way off due to a combination of having only his right eye to work with, being newly-awake, and having what felt like a mild fever. Chichiri groaned softly, cheek pressed against something that seemed half soft, and half scratchy, like a worn blanket. His head was killing him, vision still not coming into focus, and it felt like he had temple bells ringing in his ears. To be honest… He wasn't a happy seishi.
"Don' move, alright? Yer gonna be feeling that one fer a while without movin' an' makin' it worse."
Ah… There was something that made Chichiri happy. A voice, warm and slightly husky, with gentle accented undertones. The gentle hands lifting him off of the floor and into arms that were strong and protective with a warm, firm chest to match made him happy too. They reminded him of something or someone, and he was content.
Then he was forced to wonder where in the name of Suzaku's tail feathers he was. His vision was steadily creeping into clarity, revealing the vague outlines of objects rather than the blobs of color he was seeing before. From this vague, outline-y perspective, it looked like he was in a room. Probably belonging to the person that was holding him. He opened his mouth, seeking to ask that person where his room was located, and if they could direct him to Hotohori's palace.
Then he scared himself, because the noise that came out was most certainly NOT a voice, more like a harsh croak. That usually implied bad things, and with the patchy bits of memory coming back to him in spastic trickles of enlightenment, it implied very bad things. If he had just been fighting Nakago (and winning, for once), he should not be in this room, with its carefully painted walls and extremely comfortable inhabitant.
Granted, he didn't mind the beautiful walls with the image of a phoenix and the outlines of eight people and the wonderful inhabitant, but he still shouldn't be there.
"Hold on a minute. Yer throat's probably dry."
Again, that wonderful voice. Now, however, instead of being neatly held against a body that smelled vaguely of spice and smoke, he was picked up and cradled almost lovingly, then set on the (very very soft, he now noticed) bed he had fallen off of. Despite the situation, he couldn't help admiring the strength of his mysterious companion. When set down, he didn't bother shifting, instead staying on his back and watching with something akin to delight as the intricate details of the painted ceiling came into proper clarity. Another phoenix, though, thanks to the blue dragon curled into a corner and apparently snarling at the fiery bird, he had a sneaky suspicion it was meant to be Suzaku. However, as his head was still throbbing like Nuriko had just walloped him, he didn't attempt to look around.
Well… Maybe not AROUND… More like at the person currently doing something off to his left. Could he really be blamed for wanting to see them?
"Open yer mouth."
Chichiri automatically did as told, opening pale lips and dry mouth. He didn't react much when something cold and wet was slipped between said pale, chapped lips. He assumed it was ice, but wasn't EXACTLY sure. All he knew was that it was moist, and the liquid felt good trickling down his throat. What was that phrase Tasuki used…? 'Dryer than an 80-year old virgin'? Yeah, that was the one. And speaking of the red-haired one, he might have a run for his money with this one, as the man next to him (it took him a minute to figure out, but that voice was DEFINITELY male) had fiery-toned hair to rival the bandit's. How could he tell? Simple; even with bad vision it was pretty easy to see the glaring crimson at the corner of his vision.
"W-where am I?"
His voice caused him to wince even though it had gotten better with the liquid. Oh well, his question still came out, and that was pretty much all that mattered. Once he found out where he was, he could figure out how to get home. He had wandered enough to probably at least know the general direction of Hotohori's palace. Then he could get home and check on everyone. Check on Tasuki, most importantly, as last he checked his foul-mouthed companion was bleeding a bit seriously on the battlefield.
"My room, university dorms, Tokyo."
"Tokyo, no da…?"
That had to be the worst news the monk had received in a while. He actually knew what Tokyo was, and that was only thanks to Miaka. If you hear about something from your priestess-from-another-world that you haven't heard about anywhere else, it's safe to say it's in another world. Which means Nakago tore a hole in their reality and chucked him out. Lovely. Just wonderful, really. It was only through a stroke of luck that he had landed in Miaka's world, where he had a possibility of using her method to get home.
Something seemed to be going his way for once, as figuring that out was easy enough. Now, just to introduce himself and gain help from his apparent rescuer. Apparently he didn't look pleased, as a lightly calloused hand reached out to gently encase his. Not that he minded. It was a nice hand, just like the nice voice and the nice arms and the very nice chest. Thank goodness for being a servant of Suzaku, as being a monk for the God of Love and Fire didn't require a vow of chastity, unlike the other gods.
"Are ya alright 'Chiri?"
'Chiri?
Why would he be called 'Chiri in that slightly rough, incredibly appealing voice? Only one person in the world called him 'Chiri. And (he was slightly reluctant to admit this) that person was the most important in the world to him, though he had no idea. Why, however, would he be here?
"… Tasuki, no da?"
Chichiri muttered quietly, throat aching and head pounding. Despite the pain, he turned his head and was met with a sight that shot a bolt of warm relief to his core. There Tasuki sat, red hair shining in a thin beam of sunlight peeking through a set of barely-opened, intricately designed curtains. His golden eyes were half-lidded, smoldering lightly and watching him with an expression that was nothing short of affectionate, if worried. Full, slightly red lips were twisted into a faint frown that the monk immediately wanted to wipe away so he could see that burning smile and those (again, he was slightly reluctant to admit) adorable fangs.
"Tasuki? Who's that? M' name's Genrou."
