:: Double Suicide ::

Gensomaden Saiyuki

Disclaimer: I don't own Gensomaden Saiyuki, which rightfully belongs to Minekura Kazuya.

Rating: PG-13

Pairings: Sanzo/Goku

Warnings: AU, mild OOCness, mentioned sex, language, mild violence

Notes: Pretty much the same notes as with the prologue. Constructive criticism and feedback appreciated.

--

Chapter One

- Two months prior -

He was far from abused, but sometimes it sure felt like it. The only part of him that ached was his pride, the only blows delivered were words, and the only blood spilled was humanity. So much had been shed that it frequently became harder and harder for him to tell dream from reality; sometimes the passing illusions of him firing off several bullets, killing many strange figures, were so convincing it felt like another reality. Sometimes he could wake up in the middle of the night, his stomach alive with a fiery pain, and for a wild moment he would wonder if he had finally been struck and knocked out. But it was always phantom pain; it was never real.

So many things around him weren't real anymore. He'd already been committed to the asylum once in his life, the reason being his perception of the line over dreams and reality became so blurred he could do no more than stumble around in a confused daze. After months of having to deal with the oddities, his father had finally had enough to have him committed. It wasn't much of a problem now -- not in comparison to before -- but the dreams were still enough to disconcert him.

Most troubling was that he kept having strange flashes of déjà vu. It wasn't truly anything serious, but he would get the random feeling that whatever he had just said or done was very familiar, that he had done it many times before-- and if not in this lifetime, then another.

Then again, Genjo Sanzo didn't believe in reincarnation, so he always tried to ignore these thoughts.

Even though it had been a problem, the problem was less now, less noticeable, especially since he'd learned to keep his mouth shut. Unfortunately, his father didn't seem to accept that. Then again, there were a lot of things his father couldn't accept, hints of insanity being one of them.

Insane. Sanzo snorted at the thought. He wasn't quite eighteen yet, but he was dead certain he knew enough to understand that if anyone, his father was the crazy one. The man was so typical, straight from a bad negligent father-flavoured romance novel; a man peppered with a taste for alcohol and spiced with a sharp tongue.

In short, his father wanted him to see a psychiatrist. Naturally, his son wasn't keen on the idea, but since when did he have a say in anything that went on between them? If the risk of being caught wasn't so great, Sanzo would have fled the house as soon as the opportunity arose-- and it had risen several times in his adolescence. Unfortunately, running away wasn't an option.

His response to his father's suggestion had, admittedly, not been a very good one. An agreement probably would have calmed the man, perhaps would have even gotten him to reconsider the idea, but Sanzo's already battered pride had stepped up, vehemently denying his needing any help. A lot of shouting and cursing had ensued, and eventually he had ended up in his room. His father was stupid, getting him worked up like that, but fortunately not stupid enough to hit his own child; short-tempered, but somewhat rational.

What a fucked-up house he lived in. Sanzo hated it.

There were precious few things that could calm his nerves anymore. Reading had once been an option, but lately it grew increasingly hard to focus on fiction. Only reality drew him in, held him fast, especially when it was about something horrible. Wars and famine, they didn't intrigue him at all, but suicide, child molestation, rape, murder, all managed to have him eagerly drinking up every word from beginning to end, be it articles or television news.

Maybe he was in need of therapy, but Sanzo didn't think so. He wasn't harming himself, wasn't suicidal, wasn't intent on harming others (well, except his bastard of a father) so what was the problem? There was none. There couldn't be. In comparison to other people, he was amazingly sane and level-headed. That was actually a bit alarming.

Now he rolled off his bed, fumbling in the dark for his radio. His father was a heavy sleeper, so late at night Sanzo would turn on some music -- it didn't matter what kind; he wasn't particular -- and a light, log on to their internet from his laptop (a gift) and go searching for various things. Once he found a tolerable station, he typed mental disorders into the search engine. That was his current interest, and it wasn't too surprising. His father had been hinting at sending him back to the asylum for a few weeks now, and lately he had been doing some background research, simply curious.

There wasn't much to find tonight. He stumbled across an information site, but most of what he found were ignorant questions and equally ignorant answers.

One topic he had avoided for various reasons was sexual disorders. This time Sanzo found himself staring blankly at the screen, the faintest of frowns touching thin lips. He hadn't avoided it because of past trauma or anything; nothing of the sort had happened, really. It was more because he simply wasn't interested. But now, with nothing much better to do...

He clicked on the first link provided, skimmed the list, and randomly chose a topic.

Pedophilia

Backtracking, Sanzo found it was a fairly popular topic in the sexual disorders. Only mildly intrigued, he started to read, finding himself growing more interested with each line.

Pedophilia, strictly speaking, was something that occurred between an adult at least sixteen years of age and a child under thirteen years of age, and the age difference was usually at least five years. It wasn't really a disorder, though most people viewed it as such. Not all of it was abusive; some of it was even consensual, though kept secret. Despite the short sob stories clipped to some of the rants and articles, Sanzo kept reading.

At one point he could have sworn he heard a loud thump, like someone had fallen out of bed or tripped over furniture. However, switching his radio off, all that filled the house was silence. Shaking his head, annoyed with himself, Sanzo turned back to the screen. However, the sound had shattered his concentration, and he could no longer focus on the words before him. Cursing himself, he switched the machine off and went back to bed. Unfortunately, even there he wasn't able to sleep. It was as though the words he had read were burned into his mind; each time he closed his eyes, they burned brightly at him, red as a setting sun. Finding that so-called disorder couldn't possibly be a coincidence. There had to be some reason for it, some deeper universal meaning behind it all.

Unfortunately for the universe, Sanzo didn't believe in Fate or Destiny. He eventually fell into a restless sleep and dreamt, but all he could remember in the morning was the weight of a gun and a pair of disturbingly bright eyes.

~*~

There was one thing his father allowed him to do despite the risks, and that was practice shooting. Perhaps because it was a "manly" thing to do, or perhaps because it was a Big Thing for all males to know how to fire a gun. Whatever the reasons, Sanzo was glad, because it was slowly becoming the only way he could relieve stress. All he had to do was focus on the targets, pretend they were whatever he was mad at, and put a few rounds into it. Half of the time his target was his father, others it was his psychiatrist, and the rest of the time it was whatever was currently aggravating him. Today it was his father, and with each pull of the trigger, each buck of the metal in his hands, each ear-splitting sound of the blank whizzing through the air, he felt the tension slowly easing from his muscles.

He only stopped when he ran out of blanks. Feeling slightly drained but satisfied, Sanzo set the Smith & Wesson aside before clearing up the back yard. He and his father lived in a fairly desolate part of town, so it was safe to put up some empty soda or beer cans in the backyard, setting it up so that the bullets would fly harmlessly into the forest behind them, and practice. Sanzo would have preferred to practice with real bullets, and he knew where his father kept some, but he was forbidden to use them. Not only that, they were locked away and he had yet to discover where the key was, but once he did nothing would hold him back.

Luckily it was Saturday, and his father wasn't back from work yet (his work hours were odd and went to most weekends, for which Sanzo was thankful for). He preferred to have Sanzo practice when he wasn't around, otherwise the bastard would complain of a headache. Sanzo didn't care really; he just pulled out the gun and blanks whenever he felt tense.

Once he had everything put away, he went to his father's room, hoping to find a spare pack of cigarettes. It wasn't difficult; the man kept his room in such a messy state he never could tell when his son snatched a pack or two. There were several opened packs already, and many were soaked from beer, coffee, or some other unidentifiable substance (Sanzo refused to even touch those). Eventually he found an unopened pack. Relieved, he snatched it and tucked it into his back pocket. He only stopped by his room to grab a sweater -- fall could get ridiculously cold some days -- and his keys before he left the house.

Completely ignoring his car -- a beat up old thing his father used to own and only allowed him to have because no one else would pay a decent price for it -- Sanzo turned down the sidewalk. He lit a cigarette, taking a satisfying drag from it as he walked. It would be a few blocks before he would be anywhere anyone noticed him, and even then no one found his smoking odd. He was told he looked mature for his age. Sanzo wasn't sure if that was a compliment or not. Even if it was, they would have gotten the same response: a roll of his eyes and then the back of his head as he walked away.

Sanzo had once been told he had so much charisma it radiated, naturally drawing people to him. He had scoffed at the idea, but couldn't deny there certainly was something strange about people wanting to socialize with him. No matter how much he appeared to be disinterested, people wanted his opinion, wanted him to be a part of their lives in some way. Perhaps to anyone else it would have been flattering or exhilarating, but to him it was just annoying.

There was an intersection a short ways ahead, one where at the first curve across the street from where Sanzo walked, there was a short stone wall that indicated the boundaries of a park. Sanzo knew it, but hadn't visited it since he was a small child. Even then it had held little magic for him, at least not the kind he supposed it held for other children. To him it had just been a place to escape to for a little while; a few hours, at least, until the screams, threats, and crying stopped, until it was so dark all the other children had disappeared inside.

He knew it was coming up and, reflexively, looked up. He didn't expect to see anyone; most of the children that played there had either moved or grown too old for such toys, and few children nowadays wanted to play outside. Aside from that, the rusty swings, ripped tires, graffiti, and splintered wood were considered safety hazards.

That was why it startled him to see a boy sitting there, staring across the street expectantly. Sanzo stopped, staring blankly at the child. He couldn't discern features clearly from this distance, but was able to see that it was a small boy, probably about ten years old, with tousled brown hair.

And he was staring back, as though he was waiting for someone.

Waiting for him.

Stupid. Keep going. It's just a kid waiting for his mother. Jesus. Sanzo tried to turn but found himself rooted in one place. Reluctantly, he glanced both ways before starting across the street. He was walking normally, he was sure, but felt as though he were going slow, so very painfully slow.

Only when he set foot on the other sidewalk did the boy finally say something. "Took you long enough."

The voice was light but slightly raspy, as though the vocal cords weren't used often enough, or perhaps used a bit too much. The words also made Sanzo uncomfortable, for the brat sounded as though Sanzo should have come a long time ago-- and they didn't even know each other!

"What the hell's wrong with you?" he asked roughly. "I don't know you."

"But you heard me."

Incredulous, Sanzo couldn't help but utter a baffled, angry, "What?"

The boy smiled, flashing his little white teeth it what would have charmed adults but had little effect on Sanzo-- though he did have the sudden urge to smack the pretentious idiot. "If you came to me without my having to say anything out loud, then you must have heard me unconsciously. Why else are you here now, talking to me?"

Suddenly the smile wasn't so much charming as it was creepy. Unnerved and angry that he was unraveling so easily in front of and because of a mere child, Sanzo stepped back and said coldly, "You're delusional. Go home and play with your toys. Brat."

"What's your name?"

That was enough. Shaking his head, Sanzo turned his back, hasty to put good distance between them. The kid spoke nonsense; he was the type his father should worry about, not Sanzo. Ridiculous. Stupid.

And yet...

Why else would I go to him?

In the end he had only gotten another block down the road before deciding he really didn't feel like going out in public anymore. Sanzo felt that all the eyes watching him would only be annoying and unnerving, especially after an incident like that. So he turned around and went back. The boy wasn't by the park anymore, or anywhere in sight. Sanzo found he wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed, and that thoroughly disturbed him.

When he got home, clouds had started to form. It smelled like rain. Sanzo grimaced; while he didn't dislike the rain itself, he did intensely hate what it brought around. Rainy days seemed to be a signal for his father to do one of two things: get drunk off his ass or bring home some red-lipped whore, sometimes both at the same time. Neither had pleasant effects for him.

He would have to be quick, then. His father came home at random times on days like this. Sanzo immediately went for the kitchen, grabbing a Coke and a bag of chips before hurrying to his room. He shut and locked the door behind him. Half the time his father wouldn't bother him when he did that, though the other half...

He preferred not to think about it.

Having nothing better to do, Sanzo ripped open the bag of chips and set his soda down by his keyboard as he slid into his chair. Once the laptop was on he brought up his inbox, finding little more than junk mail.

It's going to be a hell of a long night, he thought grimly, bringing up an internet window and typing in a search, not really thinking about what he was doing. Before long he found something that caught his eye, and he settled back to read.

Sure enough, the front door slammed shut nearly an hour later. Loud laughter caught his ears. He tried to tune it out, but something was different. He frowned, curious despite himself, and stood. The bag of chips was left half eaten, the soda long gone. Walking as quietly as possible, he approached his door and unlocked it, pushing it open just enough to glance out.

He saw his father, all right. Very short, almost fuzzy-looking blonde hair on a slightly balding head, his back to the boy's piercing eyes. Sanzo knew if he turned he would see blue eyes, piercing blue that looked nothing like his own until his father grew angry. Near him was a very voluptuous, scantily-clad dark-haired woman.

Two women, actually. The other was dressed similarly, though in a black dress as opposed to her companion's white skirt; both had the same colour hair, and Sanzo was almost certain both had brown eyes. Twins, perhaps. They sure looked like it.

So that was it. Biting back a snort of disgust, Sanzo started to close the door. He didn't want to have anything to do with this.

Unfortunately, it wasn't going to be that easy.

"Ah, Genjo, is that you?" his father called pleasantly. "Come on down and meet our guests."

Sanzo scowled. He hated being called by that name, his father knew it, and yet he always did it. "No, thank you," he declined, forcing himself to be as polite as possible without having to interact more than he wanted. He really hated the old man, and that hatred only made him count down the days to his eighteenth birthday all the quicker.

"Don't be rude." There was a clip of warning in gis father's voice, promising catastrophe at best. "Come meet the twins. They're a lovely pair."

"I said no, thank you," Sanzo bit, glaring. "I'm tired and I just want to sleep." That was a lie, of course. He wasn't tired in the least, and his father was only making his blood heat with anger. That was going to keep him up all night.

"I'm sure you can spare a few minutes. It's not like you're doing anything tomorrow."

"Do too," Sanzo said, without thinking. "I'm babysitting."

"Ohh, he baby-sits? How cute!" one of the women squealed, her voice very high-pitched. Sanzo's eyebrow twitched at the grating noise. It reminded him of that strange boy's voice, only it was more like nails on a chalkboard than simple childish whining. And it wasn't even fingernails on a chalkboard, but carpenter nails.

His father arched an eyebrow, the movement very similar to Sanzo's. "You don't baby-sit."

"Do too."

His father smirked. "Oh? Who is it, then?"

Sanzo scowled. "You wouldn't know him. Little kid, really dirty-looking, messy brown hair..." Perhaps meeting the weird kid had been of some use, after all.

His father blatantly ignored that. "He talks a lot, but really, he hates children," he told the woman on his right.

"Which just goes to show how much you know about the son you never spend time with," Sanzo retorted.

Instead of growing visibly angry -- Sanzo was positive his father was inwardly raging by now -- the man chuckled. "What can you expect from a son that simply doesn't want to talk to his own father?" This was said to his female companions. "It's really sad; teenagers don't want anything to do with their parents nowadays."

"Really sad," the dark-clad woman agreed, her eyes straying toward Sanzo. The boy knew that look, recognized it, and he scowled. "He sure don't look like a teenager."

"Kids grow up so fast," Sanzo's father agreed with a smirk. "Physically."

Sanzo slammed the door shut.

~*~

Despite the loud, excited noises that drifted up to his room, Sanzo finally managed to find sleep sometime in the early morning. Perhaps that was when the women left, because he heard the sound of an engine and the front door shutting loudly. Already tired despite the bright glow of his laptop screen -- he was feeling too lazy to get up and turn it off -- he fell asleep very quickly after that.

Sometimes his father would wake him up come morning, occasionally even right after his guests had left if he was in a foul enough mood, but that seemed not to be the case this night. In the morning Sanzo was grateful he'd had the foresight to lock his bedroom door. He peered out the window first, checking for his father's car.

It was gone.

His laptop had turned off sometime during the night; whether it had done it on its own or his father had somehow gotten in to do it, Sanzo was unsure. He was highly doubtful of the latter prospect. The door was still locked, and Sanzo was fairly sure his father didn't have a key; Sanzo did, but always kept it with him just in case.

It was Sunday, and normally his father didn't work Sundays, but the man was gone. That meant he could leave as soon as he wanted.

Maybe.

First he took a hot shower, and the stinging water pelting his skin helped him relax, the memories of the sickeningly loud noises of his father's late night activities temporarily washing away. It wasn't the thought itself that disturbed him; Sanzo was no child. He understood that his father had sexual needs, no matter how weird some of them were. It was just that he preferred not to hear it. And the fact there had been not one, but two women involved... it made him shudder.

He scrubbed his hair furiously, working off a bit of tension that way, and after rinsing off thoroughly (and then some) he finally turned off the water. The air was cold without the water's heat, raising goosebumps on his arms and neck. He quickly grabbed a towel and dried off, hurrying back to his room to change.

It was nearly noon when he finally came down for lunch, dressed in nothing more than a pair of jeans and socks. He didn't plan on going out, and the socks had gone on because he was still chilled a bit from the shower, and by then he had forgotten about them. Sanzo padded down the stairs, going for the refrigerator. Finding nothing he wanted, he also noted that his father had left some coffee in the coffee machine. He turned it back on, not wanting to drink the stuff cold, then went to the front door, stepping outside to grab the newspaper. He crouched down to grab it from the doorstep, and when he stood back up a flash of colour made him look twice.

He blinked.

Then blinked again.

At the end of the driveway stood a boy, and he had no doubts it was the same boy from yesterday. He was staring right back at him, and Sanzo couldn't mistake the grin on the round face. The boy then waved, and he knew he was having no hallucinations.

Ignore him, he thought, stepping back across the threshold, his eyes never leaving the boy. For some reason he couldn't help taking in the sight; for the first time he noticed the length of the boy's hair; short and mussed on top, with long, thick strands reaching to his tiny waist. The long sleeve shirt he wore was large, a good few sizes too big, and slipped over the shoulder he wasn't waving. He was barefoot, and if he wore shorts it was hard to tell; the shirt nearly fell to the boy's knees, and from there down all Sanzo saw was a pair of thin, tanned child's legs, down to the ankles and toes.

Ignore him! his mind screamed. He shook himself, turning abruptly and slamming the door shut. Even so, he felt breathless; the kid had left him shaking, shaking so bad he could hardly keep a hold on the newspaper.

Damn it!

Sanzo finally got some of his wits back together, enough to hold the paper without fear of dropping it; enough to move back to the kitchen, albeit slowly, and mechanically set the bundled paper down and pour himself a cup of coffee. He took a sip and the scalding liquid make him choke. It was enough to snap him out of his previous trance; now he was nothing more than irritated.

Creepy brat, he thought in annoyance, climbing onto the counter. His feet slipped, so he kicked his socks off to brace himself easier. Another sip of coffee made him wince; he set the cup down to let it cool off a bit, leaning over to grab the paper and snap the rubber band off. He opened it, eyes skimming the articles. For once he couldn't really concentrate, not even on the short article about a local girl being committed to the city asylum for slashing her wrists.

The image of that boy standing there, waving... that was all his mind's eye could see, and it angered him further, making him want to put it out of his mind even more. After nearly an hour, his coffee half gone and newspaper hardly read, Sanzo gave up, throwing the paper down in disgust. He stalked back up to his room, taking only the coffee with him; he could clean the kitchen later. His father wouldn't care; his room was even messier than the rest of the house combined.

Sanzo went back to his laptop, pushing the small button on the side to turn it on. Nothing happened. Frowning, he checked to make sure it was plugged in; it was. Still frowning, he pushed the button again, then moved to check the wirings. Absolutely nothing was out of place, which meant that something vital inside it had quit working for some reason.

He cursed loudly, clamping a hand over his mouth in frustration. This meant he would have to take it in to get it fixed. Money wasn't an issue; despite his being the bastard that he was, Sanzo's father gave him money when he needed it, though it was likely because he wanted to be sure Sanzo could never say his father never gave him anything. No, money certainly wasn't the issue; it was just that right then, especially after seeing the boy watching him from the end of his own driveway, it felt like the universe was conspiring against him.

He stood abruptly, going to his window and pulling the shades up. Looking outside, he winced to see that the boy was still there-- and now he was staring up at the window, directly at Sanzo.

What the hell was going on?

Well, since subtle hints hadn't worked, the kid was obviously an idiot. Sanzo was going to go down there right now and tell him to fuck off, and if that didn't work, he'd beat some sense into the brat. The last thing he needed was some little shrimp getting attached to him, for any weird or bizarre reason.

Heedless of his bare feet and shirtless state, Sanzo spun around, storming to the front door and stepping outside. He instantly regretted not wearing shoes; the gravel was hot from the sun. How had the brat been able to stand outside for so long? Looking over at him, Sanzo realized that the kid was in a patch of shade, overshadowed by a tree.

Grumbling, Sanzo limped over to the boy, trying to hurry over the hot asphalt of the driveway. "Hey," he said, pleased to find the annoyance was clear and loud in his voice. "What the hell's wrong with you? Get lost."

The boy shook his head; his smile had faded the closer the blonde got to him. Sanzo glared, and the boy spoke. "Nuh uh."

"I mean it," Sanzo said tightly. "I don't want or need some little scruffy brat around me. Go away."

The boy frowned, though his full childish lips turned it into more of a pout. Folding his arms defiantly across his chest, he repeated, "Nuh uh."

Sanzo twitched.

"Look," he began dangerously. "Don't think I have any qualms about hitting a kid. I don't care how small you are; if you keep pissing me off I'll beat some sense into you! Now get the hell away from me!"

The pout turned into a suddenly gleeful smile. "But," the brunette said, shifting from foot to foot excitedly. "You came to me."

Sanzo stared.

"Yesterday," the boy continued, looking devilishly happy. "Yesterday you came to me because you heard me. And today you came because you heard me again, and soon you'll see that you'll always be coming to me when I need you."

Disbelief flooded Sanzo. The kid was crazy. Hearing him? Sure, yesterday he had wondered if the brat had a point, but that had been banished very quickly. The kid was unnerving, but that was just because he was so damn persistent. He had probably followed Sanzo home yesterday to see where he lived and now had taken to stalking the young man. Sanzo couldn't label it stalking just yet, since no one would take him seriously until the kid did something weird aside from speak strange things and follow him once or twice, but he knew. He was being stalked.

Suddenly, without thinking, Sanzo clenched his fist and sent it crashing to the boy's head. Hard. The brunette yelped, falling to the ground and clutching the sore spot as he whimpered in pain. Perhaps he could have, but Sanzo couldn't bring himself to feel guilt or regret what he had done. He had warned the kid, after all.

"Now you know," he said coldly, taking a step back and absently rubbing his faintly throbbing knuckles. The kid sure had a hard head. "Stay the hell away from me." Without giving the boy a chance to say anything else, he turned and stalked back to his house, slamming the door shut hard behind him.