Blood Red Rain 1/?
By Nix Winter
Disclaimers: I don't own Saiyuki.. or any of the nifty characters, but I do own this story and might make it over original.. but I was thinking about ep 15 when I wrote this, the flashback where Gojyo finds Hakkai
Warnings: strong language.
The rain could have been blood that night. My mother's hatred and rejection could eat at me like acid, like it could eat me away, years after she was gone, just wear me away from the inside of my veins through to my skin. Sometimes I wish it would.
It was hatred that drove me from the bar that night, made me leave profits on the table. Beautiful eyes, beautiful hair, her words boiled the acid in my veins. It was because her words were empty, because no one that mattered would ever say those things to me. Even if they did, as I walked into the forest that night, I didn't believe I'd ever listen to them, even if they did say something like that again.
I didn't know how badly I wanted to be saved that night, the night I found him laying there. Blood crept over the mud, as if the dirt would shatter under the weight of holding him as he died. I didn't want to care. We were just there in the woods, the mud clinging to my fingers as I lifted him.
He didn't weigh much, this man, as he shivered against me, his blood soaking into my clothes. I'm only half fucking human, okay. That's why I was thinking about how soft his hair was where his head rested against my throat. That's why his life became so important to me, as I carried him back to my apartment, right?
There was something about him, even in a coma, it clung to him. Loyalty, sweetness, it clung to him, to the way only made very small sounds as I did what I could for the wound in his belly. Me? I would have woke up and beat the shit out of someone, if they had the nerve to be shoving my guts back inside me, binding my spirit back into my body. It was just, I couldn't help myself. Each time I put the wet cloth to his mouth, cleaned the wound, each time I fucking touched him, I felt, cleaner somehow, good. It was better than winning at cards, better than any empty words any pretty girl had ever given me. I soaked his response to me up, saved them away deep inside me. The way his cheek turned and pressed into my fingers, touching me from some instinct in his soul.
I spend a lot of time talking about love. I've said words of love to half the women in this town, and quite a few others. I love you. I adore you. You're more beautiful than moonlight on water. That's a pretty big compliment coming from a guy who's life is water. He's been sleeping in my bed for a day, and I'm watching him sleep, my thumb lightly pressing to his lips, his breath against my skin, and I feel, human somehow, some emotion that is the bastard kid of love and acceptance.
It'll all go away when he wakes up. He'll call me a fucking pervert, if he has any clue at all what my heart and body are feeling for him. Hell, I'll just do it for him. I'm a fucking half breed pervert. There it is, that acid and self hate in my blood.
I wonder what color his eyes are. He's got dark hair, so must be brown eyes. It's such soft hair. I should know. I washed it on the third day he was in my bed. He's in my bed. I'm sleeping on my floor and I don't want him to wake up. I wonder what his voice sounds like.
On the fourth day, his fever got hotter than I could control, and I went for the only doctor in town. Nothing was important to me. That idea is something that I'm real attached to, and yet, I hurried. I worried. I paid money to have him cared for. And then I sat with him. No smoking. It was sit with him, no smoking, or go outside and smoke. Each time his chest rose, the acid hate in my blood was held back though, and so I sat there, slept there on the floor. My dark haired prince, my sleeping beauty, it wouldn't have mattered if he were a man or a woman, it was that something that clung to his being, the loyalty, the gentle power that made me love him. I bet I never tell him, but as I watch his chest rise and fall, I can believe that the acid wouldn't eat me completely. It can't eat the part of me that loves him.
By Nix Winter
Disclaimers: I don't own Saiyuki.. or any of the nifty characters, but I do own this story and might make it over original.. but I was thinking about ep 15 when I wrote this, the flashback where Gojyo finds Hakkai
Warnings: strong language.
The rain could have been blood that night. My mother's hatred and rejection could eat at me like acid, like it could eat me away, years after she was gone, just wear me away from the inside of my veins through to my skin. Sometimes I wish it would.
It was hatred that drove me from the bar that night, made me leave profits on the table. Beautiful eyes, beautiful hair, her words boiled the acid in my veins. It was because her words were empty, because no one that mattered would ever say those things to me. Even if they did, as I walked into the forest that night, I didn't believe I'd ever listen to them, even if they did say something like that again.
I didn't know how badly I wanted to be saved that night, the night I found him laying there. Blood crept over the mud, as if the dirt would shatter under the weight of holding him as he died. I didn't want to care. We were just there in the woods, the mud clinging to my fingers as I lifted him.
He didn't weigh much, this man, as he shivered against me, his blood soaking into my clothes. I'm only half fucking human, okay. That's why I was thinking about how soft his hair was where his head rested against my throat. That's why his life became so important to me, as I carried him back to my apartment, right?
There was something about him, even in a coma, it clung to him. Loyalty, sweetness, it clung to him, to the way only made very small sounds as I did what I could for the wound in his belly. Me? I would have woke up and beat the shit out of someone, if they had the nerve to be shoving my guts back inside me, binding my spirit back into my body. It was just, I couldn't help myself. Each time I put the wet cloth to his mouth, cleaned the wound, each time I fucking touched him, I felt, cleaner somehow, good. It was better than winning at cards, better than any empty words any pretty girl had ever given me. I soaked his response to me up, saved them away deep inside me. The way his cheek turned and pressed into my fingers, touching me from some instinct in his soul.
I spend a lot of time talking about love. I've said words of love to half the women in this town, and quite a few others. I love you. I adore you. You're more beautiful than moonlight on water. That's a pretty big compliment coming from a guy who's life is water. He's been sleeping in my bed for a day, and I'm watching him sleep, my thumb lightly pressing to his lips, his breath against my skin, and I feel, human somehow, some emotion that is the bastard kid of love and acceptance.
It'll all go away when he wakes up. He'll call me a fucking pervert, if he has any clue at all what my heart and body are feeling for him. Hell, I'll just do it for him. I'm a fucking half breed pervert. There it is, that acid and self hate in my blood.
I wonder what color his eyes are. He's got dark hair, so must be brown eyes. It's such soft hair. I should know. I washed it on the third day he was in my bed. He's in my bed. I'm sleeping on my floor and I don't want him to wake up. I wonder what his voice sounds like.
On the fourth day, his fever got hotter than I could control, and I went for the only doctor in town. Nothing was important to me. That idea is something that I'm real attached to, and yet, I hurried. I worried. I paid money to have him cared for. And then I sat with him. No smoking. It was sit with him, no smoking, or go outside and smoke. Each time his chest rose, the acid hate in my blood was held back though, and so I sat there, slept there on the floor. My dark haired prince, my sleeping beauty, it wouldn't have mattered if he were a man or a woman, it was that something that clung to his being, the loyalty, the gentle power that made me love him. I bet I never tell him, but as I watch his chest rise and fall, I can believe that the acid wouldn't eat me completely. It can't eat the part of me that loves him.