Author's Notes-shrugs- Well, I wanted Sanzo-uke, so here- it- is... I wrote it. Sorry about the OMC, Shiro Kyohei, but I kinda like him. Sue me.
Don't read this unless you've read the manga/seen the anime with the parts about Rikudo. It won't make sense otherwise.
Summary- It's night, it's raining, and Sanzo meets a man who looks just like Shuei./It's night, it's raining, and a man who always pretends to be a hero meets a real one.
Unaccustomed as I Am...
Starbrigid
Sometimes Kyohei regretted becoming an actor. Granted, these doubts were very rare for him, but they still existed, always determined to assert themselves at the worst possible times. Kyohei had thought that joining an acting troupe and pretending to ride off into the sunset would make him happy. He'd thought the constant boredom and discomfort he was trapped in would disappear if he could just get away from home, that if he left his parents he would leave ordinary life behind for glamour and a whirlwind adventure. It turned out, however, that life was just life, and nothing could measure up to the impossible ideals he'd formed- yet he didn't really have it in him to be depressed, and he loved acting still, and his friends, the weirdos, were great, even though they were assholes, and he got to travel, and a mad youkai hadn't gutted him yet, so really, he-
Was pissed as fuck, and none of the circus freaks he had to cohabitate with could understand at all. The reason their play wasn't doing well wasn't because of his acting. His acting was brilliant, everyone knew that, or at least everyone should. The reason their audiences from town to town left in an unenthusiastic stupor wasn't any fault of his own. It was the script, of course it was the script. It was always the script, after all. Even he could write a better play than the random jerkwads who sent them their frozen tragedies. So what if he'd never written anything? It couldn't be that hard.
Yeah, he'd write the plays from then on. Then their troupe- his friends- would get the recognition they deserved, because he wanted to see Tanaka shine, to see Joumei be cheered for until the walls fell down, wanted to stand at Shinbo's side until he lost that hopeless look of his that always broke through all the clown make-up and danced through an audience, as always, devoid of life, the zombies clapping to the unimaginably beautiful pulse of sorrow he'd give them, because who believed in love when demons ripped their eldest son in two-
"You're too arrogant," said Tanaka, whistling at a group of girls they passed. They giggled and darted off at his attention. "Everyone would like you if you'd just let go of your pride and admit you're a human being. We're only gods on stage."
"I tell you all the time," Kyohei sighed. "Just because you're lonely doesn't mean I am."
He tried to compose a speech in his head, some lament that would make those coal-hearted peasants beat their cold chests and wail. He tried to make himself sick-sad with regret, thinking of his parents, of hating Shangri-La, but his only words were forced, contrived. He needed to be melancholy, but there was only one performance left, and he was going with a friend to get smashed, so how could things be better?
Muttering under his breath, he failed to notice something marring his path. "The boundlessness of this empty sky-" and then he was tasting dirt, sputtering and spitting out mud he'd slammed down into when he'd bumped into a little kid. The small girl, serenely attired in white that remained completely unstained, peered down at the man she'd sent to his knees, then ran off, her high-pitched giggles unspeakably humiliating.
"See!" Tanaka gasped, laughing as he offered Kyohei a hand up. "You take yourself too seriously, Shiro, or should I say his highness?"
"Shut up," Kyohei groaned, staring at his expensive kimono, dismayed. Blood from his scraped knee was seeping through the silk, dirty remnants of yesternight's rain splashed across him, making him look a criminal if anyone ever had. He let himself pretend he was a lawless bandit, a raping, pillaging villain character, and, ignoring his knee, began to strut along the street. He twisted his face into an enigmatically appealing smirk of a scowl, changing his walk to a slow prowl, and pictured the smooth skin of an adam's apple under his teeth, moans of pain, and finally death.
The cobblestones under their feet matched the half-splendor of this nameless city, the late sunset belying the late onset of fall, passing blue to embrace a dazzling violet gold. The streets were lined with shops that were mostly closed, richly dressed people scurrying past them and studiously not looking at the beautiful whore in the corner, her head held high. Kyohei dropped a few coins into her tangled mane of pale lion hair and started whistling, wishing someone would recognize the emperor of fallen paradise. A jeep was parked right outside one of the hotels, and a kid trying to jack it got blasted by magic. The majestic arch of an abandoned palace loomed behind the actors' backs as a chipmunk darted across a row of tents in search of a bigger nut than the one it had in its paws. Tanaka tried to make Kyohei stop whistling, but gave up soon enough.
They walked up to a bar called Holy Ground and surveyed it, Kyohei liking the dark lighting, Tanaka hating it. Kyohei won, of course, so they climbed down into the hot, crowded den. Some women started whispering as they walked in, but they were good whispers. Everything looked so seedy, everyone so depressed, as if they came there to forget everything, yes, that was the most dramatic way to put it. Kyohei thought something cryptic and cliche about that which was unforgettable and picked a corner table, a table that, quaintly enough, seemed to be missing one of its legs. What a dive this place was.
Tanaka found the girls who'd been checking them out and in minutes had walked out with one of them, the jug of beer tangled in their entwined fingers a testimony to their intentions if nothing else. Kyohei couldn't act quite so hastily. He looked around for beauty, pricking his finger over and over on a splinter, dangling from the place where the missing table leg should have been.
The wine he'd ordered was expensive but worth it, a deliciously sweet red one that went down like brandy. He felt like these unhappy people were exotic specimens in a menagerie, but still wished there was someone's hand on his wrist besides his own, that it wasn't his own arms folded haughtily over his chest. Could no one see him? He wondered about Tanaka, absurdly wishing to protect him, then heard a crash.
The smell of the place seemed to change, the heads of nearly everyone half-sober turning and raising, a hint of excitement, occurrence. The door had opened and someone notable had walked in, letting the chill night air in onto surly, shadowed faces. He was only a man, and all Kyohei could see of him was a bright white robe and the luminescence of blonde hair. One of the men near the door had tried to touch him, and he had kicked the man into the wall. Kyohei started to inch along the back of Holy Ground, getting a feeling he couldn't define. The man in white, hair falling into his face, turned and slammed his elbow into his assailant's face. The groaning man fell silent.
The smell of blood was only faint, but people here could pick up on it, easy. Kyohei could hear whispers of a different kind, could see the tough guys' stares turn to leers, so he moved closer and understood. The man in white was gorgeous, gorgeous in a way that made Kyohei feel like a little boy again, staring up at his older brother's friends. His face was what caught Kyohei, the prettiest face he'd ever seen on a guy. Purple eyes, deeper than the sunset, slanted and hard, and he saw that the blonde hair he'd seen before was silky, falling around the man's face to his shoulders in a sharp length of more gold than yellow. The scarce skin exposed by his expensive, religious-looking clothes was as soft-looking as any woman's, too, yet he was all sharp angles and muscles underneath it, shape revealing itself to be thin and lanky as he took a seat at the bar and ordered some large amount of hard liquor, the shadows cast by the lanterns on the wall carving his face out as harshly as anyone else's.
The bartender took his order quickly and moved away, leaving him alone. After the display he'd made, the petty thieves and perverts there were too scared to do anything. Kyohei, didn't know what he would say, so he waited, leaning against the wall and watching. Within moments, he could have mimicked the man's mannerisms perfectly. It was easy, because they were so distinctive.
The man in white was quite a picture, so clearly not belonging, but superior instead of inferior for it. He'd gotten his drink and was sipping the amber liquid instead of tossing it down his throat, leaning over the bar to study the book he'd brought with him. He'd put glasses on to read, slender frames at direct odds with the gracefulness of the nape of his neck, exposed as he bent over, lacking any self-awareness, or any care for it, at least. He'd lit up a cigarette, and the smoke and dim light turned his face softer, luxurious shades of gold illuminating a face flushed from the club's unexpected heat. The man frowned, well-worn furrows in his brow creasing habitually, then he pushed the silk and gold plating he wore off his shoulders. Kyohei assumed the part of the love stricken fool at the sight, at sleek bare arms, the long hands poring over the pages of the tome about youkai, the body so zealously clung to by tight black leather, at the droop in those eyes that narrowed in annoyance as a strand of hair had to be pushed out of their way. Finally, the man in white groaned, closing the text with a thump, and downed the rest of his drink in one shot.
Kyohei changed into the enticingly mysterious stranger and took a seat next to the man in white, eyes staring at the black armbands that snaked up ivory skin, and ordered the man another drink. White didn't look at him, a snort the only response.
"Not interested," he snapped. His was voice different than Kyohei had expected. He was so used to hearing voices changed and affected, on and off-stage, that a voice so honest startled him. It was masculine, harsh and raw, a rare sound. It sent shivers down his back.
"It's not like that," Kyohei said, even though he probably didn't sound very convincing. It felt strange, finally being so close.
White turned, face a mask of annoyance and barely contained aggression, then his snarl froze, eyes widening. "You-"
"Uh," Kyohei blinked. He signaled for the bartender to get the man another. He could feel so many people's eyes on them, but completely unlike a play's audience. Kyohei's study was anthropomorphism.
"What is it?" he asked.
The man shook his head, looking very tired suddenly. "Nothing. You just look like someone I knew, that's all."
Kyohei felt something inside him growing, seeds of wormwood squeezing their way around his insides. "Who was he?"
"None of your business," said White, tapping some ash off his cigarette. The whole thing crumbled over his fingers, and he cursed.
"Does it hurt?" Kyohei asked, but the man didn't dignify that with a response, just reaching into the folds of his robe to pull out another. Kyohei picked the lighter out from between his fingers and lit the cigarette for him. White took a long, deep drag, finishing bitterly. The man Kyohei looked like inspired bad memories, it seemed.
Kyohei felt he was on the verge of something. If he just did the right thing, he could plummet over its edge- "I'm-" he began.
"I don't want your name."
"Will you tell me yours?" Kyohei asked, the sense of the people watching heightening around him. Their eyes felt like grease dripping over his skin. If he found out, he'd know something no one else did.
A second, then- "Kouryuu," the man said.
Huh? He blinked, turned to stare at the newly christened Kouryuu. The name made him seem so different.
Kouryuu was watching him with this incredible look, a hard, strange one. Kyohei tried to ask him some questions but was rebuffed each time. Kouryuu wouldn't say what he did, how old he was, if he lived here, what he liked, wouldn't say who Kyohei reminded him of.
Kouryuu groaned, and Kyohei realized that sound was for another sound, the pitter-patter of a sudden but advancing rain, a precipitous heartbeat with the final retreat of the sun beneath the horizon. Kouryuu moaned, and Kyohei's brain flew out his ears, leaving just the dirty, rusted texture of the counter, and the insidious charisma of a secret, and a, raring malignant hunger.
"Do you not like the rain?" Kyohei asked stupidly.
For just a second, Kouryuu's long, bony hands shook. That voice let out a few words as its owner's head was thrown back, the boundless sky of a human creation. "This- is too much."
"Kouryuu-san?" Kyohei asked, and then lightning struck. A woman near them screamed. A hand like iron fixed itself around his arm, and then he was being pulled out Holy Ground, dragged up the dimly lit steps and into the night's downpour. "What-" Kyohei said.
Kouryuu whirled around and faced him, pulling off his glasses to see in the rain. He stared at Kyohei, then, way too long, and Kyohei felt the tension growing but didn't say anything. He felt submerged, a snake charmed, a grizzly held motionless by a child's eyes. The summer lightning struck again and again, making couples cry as they ran to safety, the gentleness of the harshness of each drop of rain slamming past them.
Memory, and Kouryuu was hauling him along once again. Kyohei was pulled into a tall dark building that presented itself as a hotel, past faceless customers who gasped upon seeing them and gasped at the loss of that sight. Kyohei was silent as he was dragged up another, bigger flight of stairs, winding round and round, and started to laugh.
Into a nondescript room-for-rent all too suddenly, and he was finding his balance, tottering back onto heedful feet again. This room was lit by flickering candles, emanations hesitant to grace their light to such surroundings, a brown bed and brown wood furnishings and a brown mirror. There was such a deep sadness in this room it was profound, it was the shelter from the storm which hadn't yet stopped rising.
Without a word Kouryuu was kissing him, forceful and desperate. Kyohei's eyes, hazy and half-closed, shot wide open, and he tried to gasp like he should- to hell with it all, and he'd pushed Kouryuu against the door and had his tongue in that mouth, teeth of an uncivilized reality changed to fangs- and he could touch that skin, even softer, more cold-burning than he'd imagined it, and every role he'd ever played ran through his head before he remembered the one he needed. A flash of lightning, and he'd become the friendly Diablo, himself.
He found them tumbled on the bed, found himself ripping at Kouryuu's robes, at his neck, leather pushed away with nose, and Kouryuu was quiet, miserable and reluctant, but really- but really- this is- is- He wondered if the river boy had ever done it before, wondered about lost innocence and pain and pleasure, the inescapable predominance of illusion as thought decided it didn't like him anymore, the stain of peach against brown as Kouryuu's shirt came off, peeled like the skin of a grape before tossed in the mouth and eaten. He tried to be gentle, to be strong, to be mean, to be passionate, just ended up being a little more himself-
"Bind me," Kouryuu gasped, coming up for air and looking dangerously hungry.
Kyohei blinked and remembered where he was, not magically transported to some dark jewel-strewn world but still in Shangri-La, and the sounds of fear and hate weren't really what he believed, it was a clock slowing, the grand, compelling grandfather clock in his old uncle's mansion, the one he'd crawled inside to watch the gears click and turn, awe-inspired until he touched the wrong thing and they all crumbled into pieces.
He licked at Kouryuu, dragged his hands across that skin greedily, then he'd been pushed back and Kouryuu had torn his kimono off him in one sharp moment. "Do it," Kouryuu hissed, and put his hand on Kyohei's-
Okay. Okay. He could- oh, god, that felt so- so- and Kouryuu, Kouryuu- him- they- oh, God-
He leaned in and kissed Kouryuu as chastely and gently as he knew how, and the shifting of mouths was all acid, bitter longing, and he tried to put feeling inside, closing his eyes to drown out the other man's brilliance, and his hands found the rope sash on his discarded kimono and were looping it around Kouryuu's wrists.
His breath caught and he almost choked, the ropes winding and knotting and pulled tight so awfully. He'd done his brief stint as a stagehand, he knew how to tie things- but- he deepened the kiss so much it was like he was trying to choke Kouryuu back, trying to draw out the answer to a question bereft of one.
Then Kouryuu had realized he'd been bound and was struggling against him, thrashing and shaking, grinding all that leather-coated muscle between Kyohei's legs. Kyohei felt lust rush back, roar in his ears, making him weak and even hungrier. God, he couldn't stand this- he had to- to- had-
Kouryuu stopped suddenly, purple eyes focusing, and Kyohei wanted those hands on him again, could barely understand the next words. "Tighter," said Kouryuu.
"I," Kyohei breathed. "I don't want to hurt you..."
The barest flash of anger, the smallest warning, then Kouryuu had reared up and his arms were torn free, right hand shooting into his discarded robe. He pulled out a gun, and- "I'm going to die," thought Kyohei, staring into the cold metal barrel, and couldn't even muster up any regrets.
"Tighter," Kouryuu hissed. "I'm stronger than you think."
A second's hesitation (Never stop to hesitate, Shiro-kun, never) and he'd grabbed Kouryuu and wrenched the gun out of his hand, slammed him down onto the bed and was using the other man's robe to bind his wrists together over his head. He kissed Kouryuu furiously, using his leverage to hold the man's legs down as he tore. More skin, impossible amount of skin, skin, all his for the taking, and Kouryuu's cock, huge and beautiful, too, straining upwards, real desperation, the kind he'd never attained, the kind he'd found in someone else.
Kouryuu cursed at him, struggling, so he backhanded the beautiful man across the face, snapping that perfect head back, and began to feast. Animal, but he couldn't help himself, he didn't know what Kouryuu felt but this was too much for him, too much for him to ignore, to stand, was too much for anyone. Kouryuu moaned and cursed and writhed as he went up and down, bites and kisses and hits and sucking, toes thigh cock, Kouryuu and this, he knew, was what he wanted.
"Shuei," Kouryuu whispered, and howled.
Stop. Time out.
But no.
Beauty was an impossible ideal, a stupid idea, folly, was unreachable, hadn't ever existed and never would, and even if it did, it would just bleed away every second, but-
Kouryuu's wrists above his head, his hair eyes mouth arms legs him, his (opposite of) resistance, so fucked up, so strong.
Strength was an impossible ideal, there was no such thing as strength anymore since existence was composed of weakness, defined by weakness, and this entire world was hurtling towards darkness and cowardice, but-
Power, power in his body, his heart, squeezed in his hands, ripped by his fingernails, gold-colored and the intoxication of control over not just anyone but you, purrs and whimpers and maybe he could understand depression and hopelessness this way, and so-
He brought his hand down on Kouryuu's bare ass, felt force connect with flesh, heard an enraged gasp- "What the fuck are you-"
Again, and Kouryuu screamed in rage and degradation, nasty, horrible, and again and again, then caresses and softness and harder, harder, the hits harder Kouryuu getting harder, squirming against the sheets shaking, heat, control. "I came to forget myself."
"I hate the rain."
"I'll give myself to you."
They were both gasping, air heady and sour, and Kouryuu reached over and handed up a strand of red prayer beads for Kyohei's neck.
"I-" Kouryuu whispered- "Don't give gifts to just anyone, you know."
Arms still tied, Kyohei pushed Kouryuu to his knees and then down, entrance before him. Kouryuu stared at him, then hissed, "Go to hell."
Kyohei pushed at Kouryuu, and Kouryuu ground back against him, so he pushed all the way in. Kouryuu was silent, teeth clenched to muffle an even greater scream. Kyohei closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the sensations, tight hard fire air sky, the feelings too much, Diablo- then opened his eyes and put his hand over Kouryuu's, blocking sight, and took him from behind.
From somewhere a beam of sunlight touched his skin, breaking through the suppressed hints of noise and taste and hate, and he could hear children laughing as they ran past their door. Kouryuu threw his head back in the most ultimate pain, groaning, "Shuei," hand twitching for his gun. From above a beam of moonlight illuminated Kyohei and shape and smell and body language- actors making up before one show of thousands, and this was- this was- was-
Push, push… in and out, too much, in and out, too much… and all too suddenly the ending. He wanted all of Kouryuu, wanted to take in every piece of him, every special twist and scar of guilt and regret, wanted- well, to be honest- like he knew what he wanted, if you want to know the truth.
He let himself go, and like he always did fell outside himself, disassociating from himself, as if he was suddenly feeling the naked air and nothingness and God on his soul, except it was different this time, because there was something holding him back, Kouryuu, but other than that, something is- was-
Kouryuu came too, a curse and grunt and then he'd slumped over, completely lifeless. Kyohei untied him gingerly, fearful, and that was the end of that, Kouryuu rolling over and lighting a cigarette before ordering Kyohei to get out. He did.
Kyohei stumbled out, disoriented, unable to believe it was over so suddenly, as if he'd been dropped down some psychological hole into an alternate world and pulled back out. He could hardly believe that Kouryuu wasn't there anymore, that he couldn't ever see the white-clad man again, that his hands couldn't reach out and touch him anymore, that he hadn't felt anything, had felt something so- that it was all over.
And the world intruded, so harsh and obtrusive it was like a grand parade down the street, beautifully dressed circus players and the token happy couple and the crowds sitting and cheering and chugging soda, children running and trying to touch the procession but failing, for even though the people on the floats were moving so unspeakably slowly, they were still out of reach. The grand palace of the city behind him zoomed into preeminence once again as he turned so inevitably to face it, words dying in his throat as a raven shrieked and a clock struck two-o'clock, the people around him going home.
Time. I was there, but-
There was nothing Kyohei could do, nothing at all. He should go sleep, the play's last performance was tomorrow.
He went to the palace and sat in the moonlight-drenched ruins, fingering the prayer beads in his hands and wondering what they meant. He fell asleep there, and woke up really cold.
He woke up the next morning and all his freak friends had found him. In a dream, the ruins had turned into a tower again and he'd climbed up this endless spiral staircase to the top, had been going to ring the bell himself, city below him glittering the same ominous ways the stars were, and someone had been sitting there, just watching, waiting for him to show just who-
He woke to Tanaka's obsequious pretty boy face looming over his, Jyoumei and everyone vaguely present in the background. "Rough night?" Jyoumei quipped, and everyone snickered at him.
"Shut up," Kyohei muttered, and started to dream.
"Love," Kyohei wept, the emperor falling to his knees. "How I despise thee, love!" He didn't dare look at the audience. He wanted to start the speech in the script, but he couldn't. He needed to say something true, for once.
"But I mean, what is love? Is it kindness and selflessness? Is it devotion or adoration? Is it jealousy or obsession? Is it ruin? Before now, I didn't understand love, because I'd never loved anyone, not like this. I wasn't prepared. It was... well, nothing like I'd thought it would be."
"I-" he stopped and started again. "Forgive me, but I still don't think I understand. And- I don't know what I should say or do anymore. And my heart won't beat the same way as it did before, and there's this dull, heartbreaking pain on it, this- weight. I don't want to regret anything. I want to go forward for my own sake and make my name famous. But-
"I'm really. I mean, sorry, I mean. And I wish there was someone who'd really listen. I mean, not even someone to like me or anything, I just wish I had someone who'd listen. Why wouldn't you-"
Stop, restart. "It's sort of good, though, knowing that finally, I do have a purpose in this world. I know that whatever happens to me, it's no worse than loneliness."
Stop, pause, then again. "But passion is stupid. It really is stupid."
"I wonder how you'll die. I wonder if you'll think of me. I wonder if you'll have something cool written on your grave. I wonder who'll cry at your funeral. I-"
"I never thought I'd fall in love because- well, I don't know. And all my lands- my kingdom- my grand wealth and power- well, I don't know. I'll face my future someday, but definitely not until after it happens. I'll try to forget, or to despise you, and it won't work, but I still do have a voice. So as long as we're both here, if you want, you can listen now."
Kyohei found out later that Kouryuu wasn't Kouryuu. He was Genjo Sanzo, highest-ranking monk in the Buddhist faith, and the leader of the famous group of demons heading west and saving people. His party saved the town and saved Kyohei, the demon whose jaws descended on Kyohei's leg exploding into a brilliant light at a sutra sent flying, and again, Jyoumei saved by the blast of a familiar-looking gun. Sanzo was deadly. There was a crown on his head.
He didn't recognize Kyohei at first, and his companions ran up to him, all the bad demons already vanquished.
"Sanzo, I'm hungry," whined the small brown-haired one, and was promptly ignored.
"We've wasted too much time here," said the one with bright green eyes, gaze sweeping over the actors before seeing none of them were wounded and dismissing them.
The handsome red-haired one saw Kyohei staring at Sanzo and snickered. "Hey, crumby monk, looks like you got yourself an admirer!"
The others turned and started laughing, Green Eyes more politely than the monkey boy. Sanzo, however, froze upon seeing him.
"Thank you," said Kyohei, mustering another smile. He reached under his yukata and pulled out the red prayer beads he'd been given, showed them to their source. Sanzo saw them, and Kyohei might have seen the slightest change in those amazing violet eyes before he'd whirled around and was leading his group away.
"Hey, Sanzo, did you know that guy?" the monkey asked, voice fading into the distance. "Was he praying for you?"
"Idiot. How should I know?"