Chapter 9
Sanzo stood very still in the center of the cubicle, looking blankly at the vapor coiling under the low roof. He had come directly to the bathhouse after securing his team rooms for the night—he did not need the others near him, he did not even want to hear his voice. So, basically, he had fled to the backyard and hidden himself after ordering the hovering maid to use all the wood she could manage to heat his bathtub. Now the water was hot to the point of hurting. Exactly how he wanted it.
He blinked, willing the trance away, then headed to a corner and started to undress. Every movement had to be carefully controlled, since it was almost impossible to move his neck. Too much tension. Too much anger. He discarded his robe on the floor and was fingering the buttons of his shirt when the woman returned, bringing soap and towels.
"You can leave now," Sanzo told her without looking up.
"Sir, may I help you with your back? Wouldn't you like a massage?"
"No."
"But…" The woman trailed off as Sanzo dropped his shirt onto a cedar bench. "What—what about your clothes, sir? Don't you want them washed? I could clean your boots—"
"Leave."
"Ah, but…" Sanzo Glared at her and she bowed, flustered. "As you wish, sir. If you need anything, anything at all, just call me. My name is Liu Mei." Sanzo did not acknowledge her and she went to the door, lingering there for a moment before exiting the bathhouse. "Liu Mei, sir," her voice floated in from the outside. "Don't forget."
Sanzo gritted his teeth at her petulance—one more insult to complement his day—and took off his gun, stashing it under his shirt on the bench. Trousers and underwear followed suit, and then he was in the vat-like tub, not having bothered to clean the grime away first or give himself time to grow accustomed with punishingly hot water. And that was all right, for he did not want niceties right now; what he did want, what he did need, was to assert control over the treacherous flesh that ached, that coveted, that craved, that was agonizingly driving him mad.
He laughed—a pathetic sound that ended in a frustrated sob—closed his eyes, and passively let the pain eclipse any sensual relief brought by the act of soaking tired limbs in scented warmth.
Damn him! I should have killed him that day. I'm going to kill him! I should have killed him. I'm going to kill him. I should. I'm going to. Kill him. Kill. Him. Kill—
Breathe, he told himself. Calm yourself!
Impossible.
He felt too ashamed. And unspeakably enraged. There was also a bottomless chasm of hatred, on which brittle edge he precariously tried to balance, dreading the plunge, but still unable to take his eyes off the beckoning abyss.
You must concentrate! Breathe!
He was a rational person. He was the one always in control. He would win this battle. He was going to compel submission from his body.
When does one stop appreciating something beautiful for its purely aesthetic value and start to pine for it with an addict's despair? It had been like that with Gojyo: red hair shining in the sun, red eyes raising to him with laughter, gracious, long-fingered hands fluttering to punctuate sentences and moods. Sanzo had been surreptitiously appreciating the work of art that was Gojyo since they had begun their journey together. But it was nothing sexual—no more than gazing at colorful butterflies against a blue sky or at snow painting a landscape white. Sometimes Sanzo would look at Gojyo and let his heart sing its joyful notes; the same anthem that it resounded when he rested his eyes on the world's many wonders that had, in and of themselves, the absolute and timeless mystery of Beauty.
Because Genjo Sanzo was not a man of passion. He manipulated at his convenience the teachings of Buddha, but always to reach a calculated goal. He did not kill because he enjoyed the power it gave him—he had a quest to fulfill, a quest bestowed upon him by the very gods. He slept with men and women not because he, a male in his prime, was unable to resist his own urges—sex was a relaxing exercise and an hour spent with a stranger, though abhorring the proximity, helped him to keep his body in harmony with his mind. And though he preferred men, he had never considered his teammates as potential partners. It would not be practical. It would not be wise. And if he had to take one of them as his lover, he would choose Hakkai. The practical one. The wise one. Goku… Sanzo hated admitting to that,but he had paternal feelings towards the monkey. As for Gojyo… Gojyo was beautiful, yes, the most beautiful man Sanzo ever had seen, but he did not like Gojyo at all. Gojyo was childish, annoying, opinionated, and not very bright. Gojyo had no self-control, and his destructive personality was mirrored in his several vices. Gojyo was a colorful, exotic fruit whose dazzling skin hid a gray, dull, rotten core.
But some two months ago…
They had been stranded in the middle of nowhere and the afternoon had been hot and exacting—a prelude to what was to come during the summer. Sanzo had decided to set camp at a lake by a pine grove, desperate for some Goku-free time; and as Hakkai cooked dinner, the other two had gone for a swim. Used to his demons' immature games, Sanzo had not found it difficult to block them out and enjoy the scenery as it changed colors with the dimming light. And when Hakkai announced that dinner was ready, he had gone to sit by the fire, taking their map to study possible new routes. Not surprisingly, Goku had rushed to them, shaking off water like a wet dog. Then … Gojyo. Flawless flesh, all smooth fluid lines, the wet hair glistening on his shoulders like flowing living blood. Naked. Beautiful. Perfect. Gojyo, framed by that infinite sky.
Gojyo had glided over to them perfectly at ease with his body, those siren eyes locking with Sanzo's over the fire as he sat. Hakkai and Goku had laughed, and joked, but Sanzo could only stare back. Caught on Gojyo's eyelashes, a droplet of water sparkled like a diamond—and Sanzo had felt his body waken immediately. Embarrassed and angry, he had lashed out, their wet map being the pretext.
He had not been able to sleep that night, the greedy pain in his groin an alien and detested new feeling. They had been naked in front of each other many times, true—the quest had forced upon all of them an unwanted, inevitable intimacy. But that sight… That sight had hungered him in an unprecedented way. And in the wee hours, after being sure his group was indeed asleep, Sanzo had walked into the lake to subdue his desire. With powerful strokes he reached what seemed to be the center of the black waters, and there he stayed, afloat between two fathomless voids, peering at the stars. Aware that the darkness below was ready to drown his body, as Gojyo would drown his mind if given the opportunity.
In sudden panic, he had hurried back to the bank, still aching. And, like the debased animal he felt he was now, had rubbed himself to completion. He had remained sitting numbly on the mud afterwards, wondering if the Sanzo-ikkou would be the same again in the morning.
It was not.
Not the following morning and not since ever again.
He ended up setting for himself a torturous routine. By day, he hid under his cold facade, strengthening his walls the best way he could against Gojyo's face, Gojyo's body, Gojyo's voice, Gojyo's laughter. Against Gojyo framed by a red sky. By day he tried to be an unwavering leader for his team. By night, though… By night he tried to possess Gojyo in recurrent nightmares. He would thrust his cock into Gojyo's face, into Gojyo's body, into Gojyo's voice, into Gojyo's laughter, amidst distorted, bizarre visions of water on fire—and every time, Gojyo and himself would blister and burst into sizzling embers before any climax was reached. He would wake up frightened, confused, and invariably with a painful erection. Sleeping near his teammates was no longer an option, so he searched for secluded areas to unfold his bedding when they had to camp. Better to be caught alone by some demented youkai than to be heard moaning Gojyo's name in his sleep.
He had taken lovers to purge this plague from his body. In fact, he had had more lovers during the two weeks following the incident at the lake than in the entire previous year: the primal beast that had nested itself within his heart and that constantly went down to feed between his legs, howled and clawed at his very soul for more. But now, his anonymous partners wore Gojyo's face, Gojyo's body, Gojyo's voice, Gojyo's laughter. They were all Gojyo framed by a red sky. Soon enough Sanzo had stopped looking for substitutes, for he would only be contented with the template itself. And because Gojyo knew.
The kappa had perceived the ogling that Sanzo had so desperately tried to keep discreet. And, shameless creature that he was, had decided to add a new rhythm to their dance. Gojyo had begun to flirt with him; every look, every gesture, every word had a 'come hither' in them. The whore! If Sanzo had been mortified by the secret when it was only his own, now he was totally humiliated. Gojyo was willing, and let Sanzo know he was willing whenever he could. The slut! Gojyo was driving him crazy, but Sanzo had a weapon to put him in his due place: his rage. The measureless, all-consuming rage that had been increasing in intensity along with his desire. This feeling was his own, unlike the foreign thing that devoured him from the inside.
Gojyo had widened those alluring eyes of his, not understanding Sanzo's harsh treatment, Sanzo's cruel rebukes, Sanzo's aversion—The stupid half-breed!—before giving almost as good as he received. The clashes between them had become full of spiteful, furious words; not that Gojyo had a chance of winning any of them. What were his feeble attempts at offense compared to Sanzo's heavy artillery? Sanzo did not pull his punches, and his blows were always aimed to inflict maximum damage. The turnabout was not so unexpected when it came: Gojyo had started conceding without too much fuss to the alpha male of his pack.
And then there was guilt. Gojyo felt guilty, Sanzo knew. Guilty for believing he had seen too much in some clandestine glances. Guilty for ruining something that could even be deemed friendship because he was just a cheap demon wanting a cheap lay. And was it not charming that the whole situation had awoken all the whore's self-destructive modes? Gojyo was losing weight—weight he could not afford to lose. He did not joke, or tease Goku, or run after women any more. He cast wounded glances at Sanzo all the time, drinking and smoking as if he were trying to blast his liver and lungs, or whichever gave up first. And Sanzo basked in the intensity of his agony. It was difficult, really difficult to hide things from a person as sensitive as Hakkai, but they had been making such noise over the past month, that even a scatterbrain like Goku was paying attention.
When, during a lazy afternoon, they were ambushed by youkai on the outskirts of a farm, Sanzo had plunged into the fight growling like a wild animal. He had killed and rejoiced in doing so; to him, every demon he put down was the maddening kappa; every pair of red eyes left staring blindly at nothing were Gojyo's. Before long, he stood alone in the barley field, his share of enemies already cooling on the ground. And as they had been separated during the combat, he had to go after the rest of his team—for a certain member of his team, more specifically. He had found Gojyo outside an old cellar, cornered by a huge youkai waving a club studded with spikes—undoubtedly the weapon that had been used to tear open the little shit's left arm from shoulder to wrist. Sanzo had halted, petrified, seeing all that precious blood flow. An inane observation—Like his hair that night in the lake—was quickly replaced by an endless loop of darker thoughts—If he dies, I'm free. If he dies, it's over. If he dies… If. Soon, Gojyo's movements became uncoordinated, and his attacker started playing cat-and-mouse with him, delaying the fatal blow. Slowly, as if moving under water, Sanzo had raised his gun and aimed between Gojyo's eyes. A bullet there and he would really see past the beautiful skin of his exotic fruit. A bullet and he would see with his own eyes the gray, dull, rotten core of Gojyo's brain.
Gojyo spotted him standing next to that tree, and the relief on his face had been almost comical. Sanzo had looked directly at him, snickered and shot. The Changed youkai fell, convulsing and gurgling. Sanzo shot again. And then there was only silence as he kept his eyes on Gojyo's, his personal bad omen, his nemesis, his destroyer. When gratitude started to seep through their connection, Sanzo whirled around, calling for Hakkai and Goku. The next day he had steered them all to the Temple of the Soul's Retreat. He needed peace. He needed to find himself again. For he had really considered murdering a member of his team. I wanted to kill Gojyo!
Shame. Horror. Anger at himself.
And at Gojyo.
When he recalled the previous night…
Still immersed in hot water, Sanzo chortled humorlessly. "I should have killed you that day, you worthless bastard!" he muttered. "Not with my gun. Oh, no. With my own bare hands."
A crash coming from the house promptly sobered him. He pushed himself out of the bathtub and went to pick up his dirty clothes. And his gun.
The fresh breeze was a balm to his smarting skin. He took several deep breaths and crossed the yard—surprisingly the servant, Liu Mei, was not loitering nearby. To his right, in a room a little detached from the rest of the house, he could see Goku through an open door, a whole orange in his mouth, staring owlishly at something or someone. Then, Liu Mei filled the door of what was evidently the kitchen with her plump body.
"Ah, sir!" she said, smiling at him. "Don't mind the noise; we've only had a minor accident. A child broke a vase in the hall and ended up hurting herself."
Sanzo grunted.
"Did you enjoy your bath?" she went on. "I could have helped you—"
"Where's my room?" Sanzo interrupted.
"Upstairs, sir. You don't have to go back inside to get there, we have a little staircase behind the pond, so our customers can go directly from the bathhouse to their rooms without––"
"Show me my room."
She did. She would have offered to bring him his dinner, too, but he closed the door in her face. Liu Mei went back to her chores, shaking her head and telling herself that truly beautiful men did not need manners at all.
