SAIYUKI
Gensoumaden Saiyuki and Saiyuki Gaiden belong to Minekura Kazuya.
BEFORE AND AFTER
PART ONE
You know only the cave.
The illusion of comfort within the warmth and security of the inn is rudely dispelled when the doors slam open, the reality of the thundering heavens outside invading the room in cold bites of air and water.
Hard, unforgiving stone. Heavy, unrelenting chains.
Stragglers waiting the storm out over a pint of beer or two are startled into looking up. A man crosses the threshold in quick, jerky steps, his hair long, loose and wet past his shoulders.
Why are you here?
An unusual colouring. Red is not a common shade.
Sealed away, by people forgotten, for a transgression unrecalled.
The innkeeper unbends behind the counter, wary of the newcomer's apparently foul mood, yet half-sighing in resignation. The man has paused by the doors, the water streaming off him to pool at his feet. Every potential customer is welcome – the storm in fact is a blessing to business – yet the innkeeper cannot help but think that he should have left scrubbing the floor for the morning.
The punishment to fit the crime.
But the inconvenience of the task is forgotten, as the red-haired man holds the doors open for another figure to stumble in, and the innkeeper abruptly jerks to attention.
A breeding ground for bitterness, to nurse grievances.
There is nothing extraordinary about the second newcomer, expression partly obscured by the dark hair plastered to his face and the light glinting off the monocle he wears.
But you don't remember.
The limp figure cradled in the man's arms however, is a different matter.
Because you don't remember, you don't begrudge.
"We need help, now!" The red-haired man's voice is harsh with worry and some anger. The innkeeper is already moving to the kitchen, instructing a hireling to run out for the local doctor.
The stone's not cold anymore. The chains don't chafe anymore.
He returns to the front of the inn. The dark-haired man comes forward with his burden – just a boy, the innkeeper realises. He lies an unconscious weight in the man's arms, his own hand falling listlessly from where it rests on his abdomen, and the innkeeper finally sees the red for what it is.
They are who you are, in this place.
"A bed, please." The man is bizarrely polite in the face of the obvious urgency.
The only place you know.
"Dammit, let me help you!" Instinctively, the innkeeper raises his head. A third person leans against the doorframe of the inn, the lash of wind and rain playing havoc with the robes of a man the innkeeper recognises as a monk.
Nothing before, no thought to the after.
The monk slaps forcefully at the hands offered to him, and the red-haired man grimaces in angry frustration, voicing a few choice oaths which cause the innkeeper to wince. But the monk says nothing, his own expression hidden beneath his curious, yellow hair.
Isolated in your ignorance. Accepting in your innocence.
After instructing another hireling to bring up water, clean cloths and whatever dry garments that can be spared, the innkeeper leads the way to the rooms above. He throws open a door, stepping aside as the man with the eyeglass strides to one bed and gently eases the boy down.
You simply exist.
Outside the monk braces himself against the wall, one hand to his ribs as he breathes with difficulty. The red-haired man has given up, muttering audibly about pig-headed, bad-tempered monks. The innkeeper moves to the next door. Here, he gestures, both of you can take this room.
Cruel to seal you away here, alone.
But the monk shakes his head as he looks up at the innkeeper, who starts in spite of himself. Red may be rare, but violet is rarer still. "No. One more room."
Crueler still to mock you with the sky outside your bars, just out of reach.
The innkeeper looks to the red-haired man, who merely shrugs at his questioning glance. The monk sees and understands. "One more." His expression remains unchanged, but his tone harbours a warning.
The sun just out of reach.
Who is the innkeeper to argue? Wordlessly he crosses the hall to another door, and the monk nods before turning back to the first room.
But it's okay.
The boy has begun to fidget as a fever comes upon him. He has been stripped of his sodden clothes, and the innkeeper grimaces at the blood oozing from the ugly gash in his stomach. "I can't – he's still bleeding, but not as bad." The man takes off his eyeglass and wipes at the signs of strain on his face, yet he still has a smile for the lad who brings him the water basin and the towels. "Thank you."
Isolated in your ignorance. Accepting in your innocence.
The boy grows increasingly distressed, his features scrunched in discomfort. His breathing is laboured but fitful, his skin clammy from the rain and the fever. He twists on the sheets in his uneasy doze, the beginnings of an uneasy whimpering tugging at the innkeeper's sympathy.
Because you don't know, you don't begrudge.
"When can we get someone to see him?" The innkeeper recognises the dismissal in the monk's cool tone, and bows before retreating with the hireling, promising to send the doctor up the instant she arrives.
So it's okay.
It is well that the innkeeper leaves when he does. Eyes suddenly snap open, too big in the tired, hurting face, darting around before closing again.
Isn't it?
Violet and red do not compare to gold.
The sun.
Gold.
The sun just out of reach.
***
Hakkai blinked against the mingled salt and water running into his eyes, slightly disconcerted. Goku's thrashing had abruptly subsided, his breathing still too deep and too fast, but his features had relaxed into some semblance of peace. For one fleeting, horrible instant he wondered what that could mean, before he firmly brushed the thought aside. It was still too early to say. Goku's stomach wound was too much for him to handle in his own drained condition – unhappily it had not closed completely, so infection was a real risk.
Bad enough to be caught short in the fight earlier. The rain had not helped the fever. Hakkai picked up one of the towels, only to have it tugged from his grasp.
"No you don't." At some point Gojyo had used the bathroom to trade his wet clothes for the extra clothes that the hireling had brought up. "Go get changed. Use the next room and get some sleep. I'll watch him."
Grateful for the respite, Hakkai stood. Turning around he paused, suddenly remembering when he saw Sanzo, standing by the doorway. "Sanzo, you..."
"Idiot, you can't do anything else now." The monk pushed himself away from the doorframe with a grunt and limped carefully to the table where the boy had left the clothing. Hakkai knew better than to offer assistance. "We get some rest, and wait for the doctor." Sanzo jerked his head in Gojyo's direction. "Looks like he got off lucky today – his youkai mustn't have been paying attention. He and the saru can keep each other company tonight."
Unseen, Gojyo smirked at the dry, impassive tone; really, it wouldn't kill Sanzo to be nice once in a while. He was worried about Goku – they all were. And the half-demon's lips twisted grimly – a clash of weapons and limbs, punctuated by gun retort; hoarse oaths and guttural shouts of hate and pain – a cacophony of conflict, curiously thick and muted in the drone of rain.
– a keening cry – high, drawn-out anguish, painfully thin, painfully young.
The blood-letting begins.
The dark red fluid blossomed into a dirty bronze in the water as Gojyo dipped the cloth into the wooden bowl. Looking up, he frowned when he pressed a hand to Goku's forehead. The fever and the damp of the rain that still clung to the boy were by turns causing him to sweat and shiver, but his face was strangely serene. The kind of calm that says, "Yeah, this is it, no regrets."
Shit. Was he getting worse?
"Dammit you little idiot, wake up." And as if in response to his muttering, Goku stirred. Though reassured by the movement, Gojyo grimaced at having disturbed him, and he rested a soothing hand on Goku's head.
But eyes blinked open, gold turned molten with fatigue and pain. "Oy, Goku." Blank and unfocused at first, some sign of consciousness pooled in the yellow depths at Gojyo's words, and they looked up, seeking his voice. The half-demon grinned, partly in relief. "Dumb ape... feeling any better now?"
Those too-big eyes blinked, finding his face, and something in them sparked a frown in Gojyo's expression.
"Goku?" Blink.
"Oy!"
Blink... blink. "Huh?" It was a small, confused sound. Goku squinted up at him, brow furrowed. "Oji-san… who are you?"
*Uncle*
"Man, why do I even bother? Spoiling for a fight, are you? *Uncle*..." Gojyo trailed off, perplexed at Goku's blank stare. "Hey kid, you okay?"
A hand on his shoulder, and the half-demon looked up into Hakkai's inquiring expression. "What's wrong?"
Goku turned his head, eyes lifting to see the new face. His features scrunched in concentration for one brief moment before they relaxed into a delighted, albeit tired, grin. "Aa, Ten-chan."
Gojyo could only shake his head helplessly when Hakkai glanced at him again. "Delirious, most likely." Pressing the cool cloth to Goku's forehead, the half-demon scowled when one hand came up to touch wonderingly at it. "Oy, lie still, idiot."
It was worrying enough that Goku did not rally to the jibe with his ill-worn retort – "Don't call me an idiot!" – but something tightened in Gojyo's stomach when the boy merely stared blankly at him.
"I don't feel too good."
Gojyo rolled his eyes. "Yeah, being gutted will do that to you."
Again, only confusion in those golden depths as Goku's gaze shifted between the two men, his incomprehension too real to be a joke. "Eh? What happened?"
He didn't like the grim, silent looks they exchanged. "Ne, Ten-chan." Goku made to lift himself, only to fall back with a yelp.
"Idiot! I told you not to move!" But he wasn't listening, his eyes widening at the ragged cut in his stomach as he touched it lightly in dumb fascination.
"Ten-chan!" Hakkai obligingly drew nearer, pulled close by frantic fingers that had reached out to tangle in his sleeve. "Ten-chan, what happened??"
Hakkai's heart went out to the face turned beseechingly up at him, small and young in its lost bewilderment. Bending, he brushed reassuringly at Goku's messy fringe. "Goku, why do you call me Ten-chan?"
The boy studied the face hovering above his own in some puzzlement. "What're you talking about, Ten-chan?"
"We were in a fight earlier, and you were badly injured. We're at an inn now – someone's coming to take a look at your wound."
"Fight? I... don't remember."
"...What do you remember then?"
***
My stomach hurts. My head hurts. My *everything* hurts.
What happened? What fight? I don't remember – I can't remember anything. And my stomach – I don't remember getting that, and Ten-chan says it's bad.
Ten-chan. But he cut his hair. And what happened to his specs? Why's he wearing that funny one-piece glass thing?
And where is Ken-niichan? He's not here, only that other oji- ah, suman – that other onii-san by the bed. Don't know him, but he has such long, red hair – like fire. If I touch it, will the flames be hot? Will it burn me?
Hair the colour of fire. Hair the colour of...
...the sun.
***
They did not expect him to jerk upright, with a hiss at the sudden movement.
"Oy, what the hell do you think you're doing?!" Gojyo exclaimed. Stupid ape! The boy shook his head and skitted to the far side of the bed, against the wall. He batted at their hands, fending off both his and Hakkai's attempts to lie him down again. "Konzen! Where's Konzen?!"
"Slowly, Goku, slowly." He was pushing at their arms half-heartedly, the strain and near tears on his face telling Hakkai just how much it was costing him to move. Hakkai shook his head at Gojyo, a warning to back off.
They moved back a little, giving the boy some space. Goku had been craning his head this way and that, and when they dropped their arms he could better see around the room. He grinned suddenly. "Konzen!"
"Eh?" The two men turned.
They'd forgotten Sanzo, unmoving by the table, face impassive as he met their stares. Gojyo snorted inwardly. Trust the asshole to keep quiet and leave the saru to them.
"Har, Konzen, did you cut your hair too?" Unmoved by the monk's lack of expression, Goku gurgled with laughter, only to fold over his abdomen, hacking at the effort.
"Idiot. Idiot idiot idiot." Goku pulled a face as he settled back with a relieved, tired sigh. Squirming around to get as comfortable as his bruises would allow, he again touched his stomach wound. "It must have been some fight, ne Ten-chan?"
"...A – aa." It shouldn't have been funny, but Hakkai's lips twitched; this, at least, was very much Goku.
"He should be fine now – I'll stay and wait for the doctor." Gojyo again picked up the cloth, dropped to the floor earlier. "And maybe you should see whether he broke anything," he added in lower tones, jerking his head backwards – Sanzo had already begun to move towards the door.
"O – oy, Konzen, wait! Where're you going?" Gojyo cursed inwardly when Goku again struggled to sit up, and he pushed gently at the boy's chest. "*Down*, baka!" he said sharply. The kid had the gall to stick his tongue out at him before finally acquiescing. "Konzen!"
***
I need a cigarette.
Reflexively Sanzo drew in a deep breath, only to stifle an oath at the cramping in his ribs. As far as he could tell though, none of them were broken.
It could have been a lot worse, but Goku –
His features tightened slightly. They made mistakes each time, and each time they paid a price. They'd almost lost him tonight.
Again.
"O-oy, Konzen, wait! Where're you going?" Sanzo wanted to snarl. Shut up! Who the fuck is Konzen? What the hell is wrong with you?
Why can't you remember?
"*Down*, baka!"
He had to get out of his damp clothes – the last thing he needed right now was to come down with a cold.
"Konzen!"
Shut. Up. Don't be so fucking noisy.
"Konzen, will you stay?"
He was already scowling when he turned around. "I'm changing in the next room," he snapped, and had to refrain from grinding his teeth when Goku's face fell even as Gojyo smirked, and Hakkai turned away with a faint smile of his own.
Shit. Was he that predictable?
"And I'm coming back." He swung around again, not particularly pleased with Goku's ear-splitting grin, and grimaced at the protest in his chest.
Outside, the rain continued to fall.
Fuck. I need a smoke.
It was going to be a long night.
