DISCLAIMER: I own Saiyuki not. Except for the first three volumes. Score!

Special thanks to incandescens. Come on, guys, I -warned- you it was going to be wierd for a while. Is anybody still reading this?

WARNING: Language. Angst. Verbosity. Connivance. Shonen-ai.

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Hir Wicked Style

part 13: Hakkai

by Nightfall

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Hakkai stole away. Closing the door of the inn behind him, he leaned against it and exhaled steadily until the tremors subsided. Tilting his head back against the cool wood, he informed the ceiling in a friendly manner, "I was woefully unprepared for that."

He felt better, saying it aloud. The thought had been pounding through his head in extremely large boots since Kanan had muscled him to the ground.

He'd allowed it, of course--the main point of the exercise had been for her to feel in control of what happened to her--but he had known then how foolish he'd been to think he'd had the least idea of what he'd been getting himself in for.

And he still hadn't finished the laundry.

The prospect of laundry held no allure and less solace. If he went down to the pantry he would almost certainly find some kind of alcohol, although probably not enough to even blur the edges of the world. The others were impressed by his capacity--they didn't realize what a curse it was, leaving him unshielded against himself, that hostile universe.

Alternately, he could make a snack for the children and wake them up to watch them eat it. That would take enough concentration to distract him. He thought, rather fiercely, about all the things he could make for them as he went to the kitchen. He could make complicated things, delicate things, tell them it was to thank them in advance for what they would do in the morning, since he wouldn't be able to thank Kaikara afterwards. They would either believe him or neglect to care.

But what he reached for in the kitchen was the soap, because the children needed sleep more than an extra meal. Also, there would be questions in the morning if the laundry wasn't done. Probably there would be no shouting or resentment, but eyebrows would certainly be raised. And in any case, he'd soaked everything in salt water and detergent to get the blood out, and he wasn't sure how long he could leave it before the cleansing slime started to eat through the fabric.

And so he scrubbed, although his body ached in a pale echo of the rest of him, although the scrubbing was too brainless to even begin to calm the roiling of his thoughts.

His intention had been to ease her pain, and hand her back stronger. His will had carried him that far, at least. But the bitter, the thorning, the things that had pierced him when those two had kissed...

Unreal, unreal, that he stood straight with bruises on his ribs and thighs and clean soap between his fingers while they were still out there biting each other. He hoped it wasn't like that between them all the time, that they were only angry with each other now for needing to use him.

He had an uneasy feeling that he'd failed to communicate something important.

He could still feel her lips. For a few minutes it had been -her- in his arms, soft and wondering again. He'd had her again for that long, and although she'd called him Gonou in that distressing way of hers, for a moment it had been the impossible phantasm of Hakkai and Kanan, easing together bittersweet, and that had been the end of him.

But not of her. And what she'd asked of him then--he was glad, very glad to have finished already, because it became very clear that she was using his hands and his mouth to clean herself of the centipede's taint.

It was something he'd wanted for her, and had done willingly and without regret. There was even relief in not having to wonder anymore at what had happened to her, a huge lifting of oppression. His imagination was infinitely inventive.

Still, overpowering all that, there had been horror in his heart. He had touched her tenderly but without desire, and it had been extremely irritating to feel Sanzo-san approving his lack of response from off to the left.

And then Sanzo-san had gotten involved, and they really had used him as a toy, and now his tongue ached and the hot water pounded on his cramped fingers and it had just felt wrong, unequivocally -wrong- to touch Sanzo like that, any Sanzo, and how was he going to meet the same frosted lavender eyes in the same face in the morning, ride with the same fine hair in his peripheral vision, sit next to him all day without thinking of the nonexistent softness behind the bamboo breastplate, the sweet, surprising haven that wasn't there, or to go to sleep three feet from him?

Hakkai was having a difficult evening.

He dried the clothing with a cautious use of qi--cautious both not to singe the cloth and not to be seen, because he knew that if anyone ever saw him doing this, especially at the end of such a long day, he'd never hear the end of 'frivolous energy expenditure.' And yet Sanzo certainly wouldn't wait anywhere long enough for his robes to dry themselves naturally, let alone his jeans.

The mending was easier. He had to pay attention to that. But when it was done, he had to back to the bedroom and Look Them All In The Eye And Face The Music.

Only not really, he assured himself, standing before the door and gazing with dislike at the knob. He would have to turn it in a minute, since it would look very odd for him to sleep in the kitchen. He wouldn't have to look them in the eye, because everyone would almost certainly be asleep, and the only 'music' he would have to face wouldn't be very melodious. Unless, of course, Gojyo's instinct for the erotic had roused him and

-Gojyo.-

"Gojyo," he groaned, just whispering, and turned to slide down the wall. He put his forehead on his knees and took a moment to breathe. It was self-indulgence, of course, but still--how unbelievably flighty of him. What was he to do now? Even if it wouldn't have been dazzlingly stupid on his own part to climb into bed with Sanzo tonight of all nights, the man would probably shoot him. And if he slept on the floor when both beds were doubles--well, he cringed to think of the cutting remarks he'd be subject to in the morning, the disinterested scorn and the threats to take the wheel away again. Also, Gojyo would look hurt. Unacceptable.

But -Gojyo.- Would Gojyo smell woman in his sleep? And what would he do if he did? Gojyo, for whom sleeping beside a woman was commonplace, who had for those circumstances a set of knee-jerk reactions Hakkai had never been privy to. If only it weren't too late to use the bathhouse, because Hakkai could sense Sanzo a mile off and there was still a Sanzo at the river, close to the shaded, canny brilliance of a qi-user. Even the morning was too soon to face those two again.

And even if Gojyo didn't. Even then.

Sanzo-san had said, what was it? That Gojyo was obvious. And Sanzo was nearly always right, and Sanzo never said anything aloud until he was sure of it, and then only if it needed saying.

So Gojyo was obvious.

He had wondered, had told himself it was wishful thinking, had buried his thoughts in the bright sky and the road ahead and the blurring scenery and the purring dragon beneath him, had turned silently to poetry, philosophy--even mathematics, in desperate cases. He'd recounted the eighty-one battles of the heroes whose path they followed, revised the essays he'd never written a thousand times over, recited the Analects and all the classics until he knew them seamlessly. He'd composed poetry that was really terrible, on the most meaningless of subjects, had woken his friends with his amusement to either stare at him in blank incomprehension or join him in laughing at himself.

And sometimes he'd given in, in quiet moments on the road when they were all dozing around him, had relived a dark voice in his ear or a hand on his arm or a solid presence at his back and, smiling helplessly, cursed himself a thousand times over for a wretched fool.

Sometimes he'd yielded farther even than that, in the dark of a clear night, when he was doubled up with Gojyo's empty bed, when his friend sought better entertainment than cards. He'd imagined himself in her place, whoever tonight's inconsequential her was. It always seemed to go unrealistic and unsatisfying at the end, though. His disbelief could be suspended only so far, his imagination carry him only so much farther without experience for fuel.

But Gojyo was obvious.

Anytime for you, babe. Not trying to steal your man.

"Cho Hakkai-sensei," he told his chest, "you think too much."

People, Sanzo not least, had been telling him that for years, and Sanzo was reliable. If it took slumping against a wall and staring at his naval to reach enlightenment on his own, then perhaps there was something to be said for self-indulgence. He would permit himself a little more.

Gojyo was sprawled all over the bed. Good. He had an excuse, then.

So standing there for another minute or ten gazing blankly down until his eyes burned out of his head would be not only cowardice but wasted cowardice.

Right? Right.

Now it only remained to convince his feet.

He looked down at them, annoyed. After all, they were -his- feet.

His toenails seemed to stare up at him smugly in the moonlight, reminding him that they -were- his feet, and therefore were, in fact, doing exactly what he told them to, whether or not he wanted to admit it.

Well, it was his brain, too, he scolded himself, and with that was able to insinuate himself under the covers.

Of course he had shared with Gojyo before. But it had always been the same, ever since the reason he was flat on his back was the gash in his front. Gojyo seemed to assume that this was how he always slept, and curled away to give him room to do it. He'd been glad of that for a long time, while he was still tender and even after, when it was only the memory of pain that prolonged his habit.

Well, he'd been kicked and sliced at and punched and whipped and sat on today, and gouged into with fingers and nails and blunt human teeth, and the oldest scar was giving him considerably less trouble than any of the others. And there was Gojyo's wiry arm, flung out so temptingly, and there was his inviting shoulder. Hakkai settled in.

After a moment's consideration, he stretched out an arm and pulled Gojyo's free hand over his back. Self-indulgence, yes, and look how happy Goku was, how much more often than anyone else, but also a calculated risk. Gojyo might wake up and ignore the implications, or he might pitch a nervous fit. Either way, Gojyo would have to notice, and then to think, and to take some kind of action. Even inaction would be informative.

He couldn't maintain a purely rational mind, though. Weakness felt wonderful. His first night alone, all those years ago at the orphanage, had been in a very real way the end of the world. Before that there had always been his sister, his mother. He'd lain awake at night, unable to sleep without a lulling heartbeat, cursing the cold stars. He'd spent weeks learning their names so as to curse them better, cursed every god in heaven and -invented- names for them, so as to be able to curse them personally, as well.

He was almost certain that one of those made-up names had been Shien, the Assistant. He felt a little guilty about that now, in the light of recent events. But until he met up with, say, Goujun of the Excellent Karma, Kinsemi the Golden Cicada, or that most-often abused Litouten, the Official of the Eastern Sky to whom his young mind had given the oversight of China, he wasn't going to worry about it.

Certainly not now. Not pressed against anchor and home, not melted over a perfection of innocent, unsuspecting playboy. If by some wild mischance Sanzo-san had been mistaken, Gojyo was really in for it. Hakkai was implacable, once he'd made up his mind, and he didn't take disappointment well.

Actually, Sanzo might be in for it as well, since Sanzo-san wouldn't be there to take her own proper share of Hakkai's displeasure.

He smiled into Gojyo's neck at the thought and reached out to take a rough hand in his, run his fingers over it. He wasn't really worried, not with the little unconscious shifts Gojyo had made to accommodate him, only spinning possible futures. It was a drowning of relief just to be here, warm and enfolded. He had to protect himself.

But he'd decided to give in, for now, and he would.

This hand in his--it had caressed him everywhere once, soothed him and held him together for weeks on end, and never touched like that again. Hakkai felt a little cheated; even if he'd been awake for it he wouldn't have appreciated it properly at the time. He couldn't even imagine it, not really. These hands, broader than his own, had been different hands then. A townsman's hands, most of their callous thin ridges from cards and dice, a man who practiced with a weapon but didn't live by it. What they might have been like then on his skin wasn't what he imagined, when he thought of it now.

Hakkai still had civilized palms, smoother even than they'd been before the journey. Hakuryuu's steering wheel had a spongy upholstery, grippable but yielding, and he almost never had occasion to hold an inkbrush lately. He certainly never held a weapon when he fought--never again. Also, Gojyo made him wear lotion whenever they were driving in the open, so that the backs of his knuckles wouldn't peel away in the unrelenting sunlight. He could fool anyone with these hands.

This one wasn't soft anymore. Hakkai moulded it in his, running his thumb over the stripes of callous that hinted at spilled blood and cracked bone, caressing with his fingers the bony knobs of raw knuckle that whispered the secret of staying alive in a world where science could kill reason. Hakkai was strongly in favor of staying alive, and in particular he was in favor of Gojyo staying alive. Also, the friction caught at his palms, at his fingertips, almost as though it were inviting him to stay.

The thought of Gojyo's body welcoming him was overwhelming. The longing parted his lips and he tasted salt. Unbearable. One hand clutched the hand it held, the other trembled and settled inexorably above a hip. How fortunate for Gojyo that he slept in his white shirt--otherwise, he would have been in serious jeopardy. Even now he was, as it was a tank rather than a turtleneck. Really, Hakkai was going to have to have Words with himself in the morning. He was almost sure he had decided not to mouth at Gojyo's neck, and here he was, doing it anyway and not stopping.

And still not stopping and oh, Gojyo's hand was firming on him, sliding across his back to hold him close. He shuddered with the reeling bliss of it, pressed closer still. Gojyo shifted obligingly and pulled a little with his arm, and suddenly his thigh was sliding hot between Hakkai's legs and Hakkai didn't care anymore whether Gojyo was dreaming him a woman. But he was going to stop in a minute, really he was.

No, really, he was. Right now, clutching tight with every limb. This was how he wanted to wake up, to spend the night. This was how he wanted Gojyo to wake up.

Every morning, if possible.

The yearning that thought woke in him spilled out in a heated sigh, a silent moan. But much as he wanted to, he held back from crushing his hips against that welcome intrusion. He was an animal only in name.

And what a good thing he hadn't, because "'Kai," Gojyo whimpered, and then, sleepily, while Hakkai was still absorbing the thrill of that into his muscles and his marrow, frowned, "Nh?" And in disbelief, "Hakkai?"

Oh, well. Time for damage control, then. Which was very different from taking advantage of a sleeping man, Hakkai told himself virtuously. It was quite another situation now than it had been a second ago.

So when he rubbed up against the hard muscle between his legs it was in a deliberate and controlled manner. Or, well, not a deliberate -manner,- actually. His -manner- was unconscious, accidental, uncontrolled--and calculated to the micropascal. Still, it was lucky that he'd deliberately intended to make a noise, because he really didn't think he could have stopped himself.

"Ogod," Gojyo breathed, and the longing in it tightened Hakkai's chest and his hands. His thighs clenched and his mouth on Gojyo's throat went fervent and clinging. Then that hard hand on his back was shaking him, just jostling him in gentle vibrations. Hakkai had been both prouder and more annoyed with him in the past, but never both at the same time like this, winding through his lungs until he ached with it, stretched raw and tender. "Hakkai. Hakkai, wake up, buddy. I'm not Kanan."

There was a part of Hakkai that wanted to knee him then. Very, very hard. He could have claimed surprise, and Gojyo would have bought it. But Hakkai was patient when he'd set his mind on something, and his impulses were nothing to the adamantine mechanisms of his intention.

So instead of anything else, he just tucked his head into the strong curve of Gojyo's shoulder and grumbled out a wordless complaint. Don't wake me up. Let me dream a little longer.

"Come on, babe," Gojyo said urgently, jogging him harder. "Come on, wake up."

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OMAKE!

The SEME At The End Of This Fic

starring lovable, placid old HAKKAI

And adorably vague but considerably older TENPOU

Tenpou: (rubs hands) So, have you given up, Hakkai-kun?

Hakkai: (gets off knees, loosens hands) I'm afraid not, Tenpou-san. In fact, as close as we are to the end of the fic, I'm afraid I'm getting rather desperate.

Tenpou: (Marshal Of Western Army) Oh, Hakkai-kun, you're not going to try and fight me, are you?

Hakkai: (Berserker And Genocide) Well, yes, that was the idea...

Tenpou: But Hakkai-kun, you're out of pawns.

Hakkai: Well, yes, but aren't you?

Tenpou: (ruffles his hair) Don't be silly, Hakkai-kun! We know how to deal with rampaging youkai around here--erk!!!

(Hakkai martial-arts him into a chair and secures him there with layman's sash.)

Hakkai: Please don't try to escape, Tenpou-san. I'm afraid I'm rather good with knots. o,n;;

Tenpou: #O.O# (hormone sparkles) Is this what they mean when they speak of narssicism?

Hakkai: ...ExCUSE me?

[end part 13]