Disclaimer – I do not own profit from Saiyuki. If I did, I never would have let the Reload anime be dubbed by anyone but the original actors.
Rated M, and while this chapter has some violence and darkness in it, don't be expecting anything too Mature quite yet... Unless this much evil rates an M. I'm not certain how that works.
Also contains slight Homura SPOILERS. Just like I said it would. ('grin')
Dedicated to everyone who reads this, and everyone who reviews. Especially darthelwig, because this is all her fault anyway. ('lol')
Chapter Summary: In which Hakkai sees something he shouldn't, Sanzo does something he shouldn't, and Gojyo wonders why he doesn't have a more prominent role in this story.
Anyway, enjoy. Peace, all.
--X--
And When The Sun Goes Down
Chapter Four: Heaven Fails To See
by Ghost Helwig
--X--
It was still raining two days later.
They'd stayed at the inn all that time, stayed holed up in their various worlds while the storm raged quietly but unendingly around them. And while Hakkai had grown accustomed to dealing with the anger-pain-rage rain filled him with, Sanzo had not; he probably never would. Instead, Sanzo scowled when they talked to him, and sat in blind, untouchable silence when they didn't.
He was emotionally, physically, and mentally unavailable to all of them, even – especially? – Goku. Though the 'physically unavailable' part wasn't so unusual; Sanzo was not the kind of man one hugged, or touched, or expected to be hugged or touched by, even casually.
But still, his very remoteness was bothersome... worrisome. He was cut off, much more so than usual, snapping when he deigned to notice them at all – which really wasn't all that often. Even when Goku and Gojyo were screaming obscenities at each other, Sanzo noticed – and screamed back – all of once. They'd been so surprised they'd stopped arguing immediately.
This was the worst Hakkai had ever seen him during the rain; worse than the time when Homura stole Goku, worse even than the first time he'd ever seen Sanzo this way, when he'd lived at the monastery and come into Sanzo's bedroom one night during a storm looking for a partner for a game of cards only to see Sanzo sitting by the window, just as he always did, so forlorn and guilty and furious that it didn't take much prodding before he spilled out his story in a few clipped, harsh sentences.
My Master died during a rainstorm.
He died in my arms.
I couldn't protect him.
But right now, Hakkai wasn't thinking about what Sanzo must be suffering through, having to sit and listen, day in and day out, to the uncaring tears from the heavens that had fallen the first and only time he'd ever allowed himself to feel. He wasn't thinking about Sanzo's lost childhood, his lost innocence, his struggle to be grown and capable and able when he'd never really had a chance to be a child.
What he was thinking, was that those fingers that had trembled and told him they understood...
Those fingers had lied to him.
Because right now, he could see them pressing into Goku's back, clenching in his shirt, white-knuckled from tension and trembling still. He could see the graceful arch of Goku's spine as he leaned over Sanzo, who was perched lightly on the ledge of the windowsill.
He could just barely see the beauty of Sanzo's face as Goku kissed him.
But no. It wasn't Goku kissing Sanzo, it was Sanzo kissing Goku. It had to be. Goku would never do such a thing.
Thunder crashed outside; lightning flashed overhead. He hadn't expected this kind of storm.
He hadn't expected a lot of things.
Wind gusted in through the doorway Hakkai lurked in; a candle on the nearby table blew out. Someone moaned.
And Hakkai just... broke.
--X--
A dark-haired man held an equally dark-haired boy against his chest, ignoring the boy's futile struggles to get away. Hakkai advanced on them, quietly, so intent on stalking his prey that the danger rushing through his blood was almost an aphrodisiac.
(The boy, even in his pleasure, sensed him coming, but dismissed him as unimportant – had he not been so distracted, the anger and calm, vengeful judgment radiating off him in waves would've hit his senses like a ton of bricks. But he'd already been stunned by the sweetness of one pair of guarded, full lips, and his only consolation was that the man beneath him – whose senses were nearly as good as his, and whose instincts were marginally better – dismissed the approaching man as harmless, too.)
He grabbed the boy from his captor and flung him to the side, to safety. And now that the hostage – the poor, innocent victim – had been taken care of, he could move on to the vengeance his body was singing for.
(The boy was tossed aside like a rag doll, back slamming against the wall and head cracking hard – too hard – against the windowsill. His vision blurred, swam. He knew, suddenly, that he needed to get back to those lips, that man, because even though the betrayal hadn't yet registered the danger had. But the wind blew, another candle winked out, and as the light faded, so too did his consciousness.)
(In the darkness that followed, one thought remained: I hope the sun doesn't go out.)
He was on the villain before he could move, was wrapping his hands around that deceptively beautiful throat. "Priests should not have sex with children," he hissed, blind to the widening of the eyes that gazed up at him. All he could see-hear-feel was the blood hissing through his veins, the anger throbbing in his head, another heartbeat to speed up his own-
And the pounding of the rain, beating inside him, a drumbeat of death.
(The man choked, hearing but not understanding the words that condemned him, head thrashing vainly, hair that was not dark but golden annoying him by getting in his eyes when he was trying to see his attacker's face. Not that he didn't know who it was, but he needed to see, because knowing and believing had never been the same thing to him. It was how he could know the gods existed, have met more than a few, yet deny their very existence to the depths of his being...)
(But even seeing wasn't really helping, and he could not even move his hands because he was still wiggling them out from under his attacker – killer - and finally they're free but all he can do with them is scrabble at the hands choking the life from him, leaving vicious scratches on the fingers that are bringing about his death.)
(And despite his teachings, despite his own beliefs, despite everything he had ever said, it did not even occur to him to use the sacred scripture draped leisurely on a chair across the room, the only thing marking him as a priest.)
(If he survived this, he would berate himself for his foolishness.)
He straddled that slim body, and it could almost have been sex, because the wriggling hips beneath his were so inviting, the open, gasping lips were so full and parted enticingly, because that body had, on occasion, aroused him before (however briefly, and however quickly he dismissed it); but sex was not what he was after. Not from this man
"A priest," he murmured darkly, "should never be a whore."
(Just as before, the words were heard, but they made no sense. A whore? the man wanted to ask; to laugh. Can a virgin be a whore?)
(But only too soon he couldn't think anymore, at least nothing coherent, nothing beyond fuck – I think I'm dying – I'll miss him – goddammit – don't let him die – he has to live – can't breathe – fulfill mission – fuck – can't breathe – fuck – I never told him – fuck – I can't breathe –)
(I hope he finds another sun.)
He squeezed harder, wanting (waiting) to feel the give beneath his fingers that signaled a crushed throat – he's done this before, you know – instead feeling warm breath rush out onto his hands. But somehow he was not feeling the scratches being inflicted on him, the blood beginning to ooze from his skin, the rips that were being torn in his flesh (in his soul). It doesn't matter, because like this, in this moment, with someone who deserved to die at his mercy-
Nothing, not even pain, mattered to Cho Gonou.
Nothing.
--End Chapter Four--
