-2
Hakkai reaches out blindly, the tiny flutter of what he won't call panic stilling suddenly - almost completely - as a warm, familiar texture appears under his fingertips. He pulls Gojyo closer, needing the solid press of flesh to silence the lingering whispers in his mind. It's always like this, now, fumbling desperately in the darkness, lights off so they can pretend that this is comfort.
The last weeks have been hell, their proximity to Houtou and the source of the wave wearing at all of them, feeding the dark corners of consciousness. Even Sanzo has been affected, and none of them dare to ask why; the answer is nothing any of them need or want right now - possibly ever. Instead there is this, the terrible grasping need that leads them to split up during the long nights that are somehow never long enough, though they all know it's far more dangerous this way. Closed doors leave the world outside, barely existing, if at all, while they cling to each other and the dubious safety of carnal touch.
Moonlight denies them perfection of denial, and Hakkai would savour that irony if he were someone just a little less himself. If he couldn't see so clearly the spill of crimson over white pillows and his own near-insanity mirrored in matching eyes that try to hide their colour in the cold light. Still, it is what they can do, nearly forgetting the road and the attacks, bodies and blood and relentless fatigue in the feverish consummation of fearhatedeathloveneed, taken under cover of night. Gojyo's warm, callused hand on his cheek, teeth all but cutting into his lip in the crush of a kiss let spin out just a bit too far, and Hakkai burrows into sensation, aching to leave thought behind.
Here, now, future, past...it all blends together, finally, the exhaustion of their mission blurring the lines of the blueprint he's so carefully constructed over months and years of love and death and pain and love, until all he has, finally, is a smeared suggestion of life. Jaw, throat, the long line of a collarbone under his mouth, the tang of nicotine and beer in the sweat on his tongue... This hurts like someone else's wound, and the whispered promise of return is anything but comforting, in the face of that.
Stop thinking, drown in pleasure that bites all the harder for the pain beneath it all, for the fear that drives and screams and demands a surrender that they cannot give; Hakkai presses fingers to abused flesh, silk like (blood) water in his hand, phantom taste of grace on heated skin. Lock it all out, deny and obfuscate under the slide of Gojyo's hands on his skin, and the numbness that sharpens this feeling that he's never been able to mitigate, ashamed of his own desperation.
Gojyo.
Though they tucked tenderness away forever ago - for another time - his touch is still somehow reverent, as if Hakkai is something precious, and gods, he can't stand against it. Even flesh torn and laid open, rebuilt to indifference, cannot hold against this one thing. His Gojyo, stolen from the world by a liar and a murderer who, however unworthy, simply can't allow anything else. Greedy bastard for the feel of hair and skin and mouth and...
Hakkai arches, rocking back, his body stretching, stinging, alive and real for just this tiny slice of time, when Gojyo is inside and all around, and the world ceases. A low groan reaches him, eyelids fluttering open, needing to see that sound. He's so beautiful caught in pleasure, and Hakkai wants to drive everything terrible away, forever, please gods, eternity here in this room just to let him look and feel this way forever. Red in his hand again, chest firm under the other one, blunt fingers slipping over Hakkai's throat and into his mouth, flavour of cigarettes and salt and the ghost of a home that he can't remember, except for this.
He moves, rhythmic, drawing it out as much as he can, and he can feel the moans in his chest and throat for each wave of pleasure he shouldn't be allowed to take - though he will. With everything he has, he will grasp and clutch for this, for Gojyo and the broken they might one day be able to not-be, and the heavens help anyone or anything that stands in his way. Gojyo's hands curl around his hips, rocking up to meet Hakkai's movements, sliding deeper, harder, more, and Hakkai wallows in deep sounds of pleasure and need as he fucks himself on Gojyo, indulging in the slightly filthy edge that so pleases, and frees them both.
Sweat slicks his skin, Gojyo's beneath him, gazes exchanged and fluttering away under lashes pressed close in waves of needpleasurewant as they move faster, all but frantic, now. Chasing the tail of climax, Hakkai can't think anymore, and gods, what a blessed state, all reality narrowed to this moment and the heat of Gojyo's hand around him, stealing his breath with every stroke and thrust.
Gojyo's name falls from his lips like prayer, head down, riding hard and fast, giving himself up completely to Gojyo's desire and the rising tide that promises to swallow him whole. Cries out, the sound ragged, tearing at his throat as it takes him, spilling messily onto damp skin. And still they go on, Hakkai pliant to the demands of Gojyo's need, allowing rough hands to guide him, take him, use him to find release. Breath rushes fast into him as Gojyo bucks up under him, deep, hard, so real that it wounds.
They lie like this, tangled together in something that isn't really sleep, and even Hakkai doesn't bother with mess and the lingering scent of sex clinging to them, until moonlight abandons them to the burning of the sun.