Untangling

There were a lot of times when the kid was a handful, a brat, a burden or otherwise just annoying, but Ukoku wasn't precisely the type to put up with such things if there were no rewards. True, not all of them were immediately visible, or ever tangible in nature - not all of them had to be, and some were actually better kept just between the two of them.

The boy was bright, there was no doubt about that, though his common-sense and capacity for everyday things often left something to be desired. Still, he mastered complex theories and incantations in short order and what he learned, stuck. When those times came, Ukoku favoured the kid with mostly genuine smiles and affectionate ruffling of his hair. Yes, there were rewards. The boy might be a fool in many ways, but he would be powerful, and he devoted himself to Ukoku with a tenacity that was strangely satisfying.

Naturally, the pretty child grew into an equally comely young man and with a mentor like Ukoku, it was only a matter of time before he began stretching his wings on all fronts. His devotion became entwined with his nascent sexuality, and it wasn't long before he'd found his way into Ukoku's bed. That had brought a whole new world of complication and need to be careful, but it soothed Ukoku's wounds in many ways and so he allowed it to continue.

Indeed, sometimes on mornings like this one, Ukoku would quietly extract himself from the untidy tangle of the kid's limbs with care and even something like tenderness. If he was certain the boy was still sleeping, he'd even been known to lean down to place a gentle kiss against soft hair before wandering off to the shower.

Taunting

From the first time he'd looked down into those huge grey eyes, Ukoku had been unable to resist taunting the boy. He was so hopelessly innocent, so deliciously sweet that the more sadistic parts of Ukoku's nature salivated at the mere sight of him. All golden hair and round cheeks, he might just as well have had 'prey' written all over him and that was something Ukoku simply couldn't ignore. As time wore on and he realised just what a handful he's picked up for himself, it occasionally became almost necessary, in order to keep Ukoku from killing the kid.

Eventually, though, time changes everything. The boy grew, and he learned. His reactions to Ukoku's teasing shifted from childish tears and tantrums to more subtle expressions. Ukoku observed, noticed and found his responses to these new forms shifting, as well.

Now, when he chided the boy - hardly one anymore - wide grey eyes would drop, outlining long lashes against pale cheeks stained pink. The lip that no longer trembled would catch instead between teeth, slipping out moist and inviting. Ukoku felt the familiar stirring of desire deep in his belly as he watched these displays of apparent innocence that still called out to the dark things inside him. And so it went, the boy's reactions tugging more teasing from Ukoku, which elicited more of the enticing responses in turn...

Until Ukoku took the boy in his arms, and both of them knew that it had become a draw that set the seal on the perpetuation of the game.

Smokescreen

There were things, Hakkai had long ago discovered, that were best left to fulfillment of expectation, rather than reality. After all, living as one's sister's husband tended to emphasise the importance of preconception and its uses in life.

Hakkai's smiles were like that. People saw what they expected to see, and very rarely were the subtle differences between the smiles ever noticed. Even Gojyo missed some of them.

So, because Hakkai was expected to be the mother hen, it seemed natural and logical to everyone that he would complain about some of Gojyo's more obviously annoying habits. He made jokes about the smell of Gojyo's cigarettes clinging to hair and fabric, threats about using inappropriate receptacles to put them out, and jibes about the amount of money Gojyo spent on them.

It was expected.

What no one expected, and so no one ever saw, was the way Hakkai would stand just a little closer to Gojyo than was necessary as the day wore on. They never saw the way he would sometimes press his face close to Gojyo's shirts before he washed them, or the way his expression tended to fall just a little when he brought them back inside, clean and fresh. Because no one thought of it, they didn't notice that in all his cleaning, Hakkai never washed everything at once, always leaving something to be freshened up on another day. His efficiency took the blame for the fact that Gojyo never ran out of cigarettes at home, his fastidiousness for the fact that the ashtrays never overflowed, and that one was always nearby when Gojyo needed it.

No one ever figured him out, because no one ever expected it.

Clothing Makes

Nii stared into his closet, his mouth twisting into a grimace. Pants, shirt, tie, labcoat...slippers. Every day it was the same thing, over and over for what felt like an eternity.

He missed his robes.

Certainly, there was a certain amount of fuss that was involved with the proper presentation of a sanzo priest, but for some reason it had never bothered him the way this inane 'scientist' costuming did. Before the sanzo robes, there had been the robe of an acolyte. Simplicity itself, and complete freedom, that had been. In childhood...well, that was best left just where it was, yeah?

It was a good thing that the look he was attempting to accomplish was 'sleazy', since he was fairly sure that the tie alone would have managed that, anyway. Doctorate at seventeen, youngest sanzo priest in history (until the brat had outdone him, which probably should have rankled more than it did), the brains behind the resurrection...completely baffled by the workings of a necktie. He wondered if Koumyou could have taught him.... Koumyou had taught him about the sanzo robes, after all.

Smirking, Nii stepped into his slippers. Perhaps fashion sense was inherited, but giving a shit about it required a human source.

Transfer

Oh, this was fucking fantastic. General Kenren slouched against the back of his chair, staring petulantly at the tumbler in his hand. He played with it absently, turning it this way a little, then that way, watching the light play off the golden liquid inside. One day in and already he knew there was going to be trouble.

That Marshal was something else. Kenren snorted quietly. He wasn't sure what the man was, but it was certainly something unique. A mess, for one thing. A fucking crackpot, almost definitely. A fighting man, under all of that - battle was something that stayed in the eyes - and disturbingly pretty. Growling, Kenren picked up his drink and slammed it back, then reached immediately to refill it from the bottle on the table. No man had a right to look like that, damn it all.

"Well, good evening, General. Do you mind if I join you?"

The sound of that voice was familiar already, engraved in Kenren's brain, speaking things to him that it had absolutely no fucking right to say. He clenched his jaw as he looked up at Tenpou. Kenren regarded him for a moment, then pushed the chair across from him away from the table with his foot.

"Sure," he replied, regretting it before the word was even out.

He could hear it already, the inevitable order to get his transfer papers ready.