Windswept

“58” Saiyuki flash fiction (with a bit of “39”)
by
Ro Anshi

The wind blows through Gojyo’s hair, whipping thin red tendrils about his face that sting as they slap against his cheeks. Binding it back doesn’t really help, which is why beyond the broad headband—

pleasure

—he doesn’t bother to confine it.

Besides, he likes the sensation of freedom, a reminder that his hair can represent something other than the blood recalled by its crimson color. How life can slap you about, blow you around, but nothing of it is meant to be permanent, and just as quickly, that blow can turn to a caress, or fade away into nothing.

When the wind is hot, and he’s sweating, the tendrils stick to his skin, red lines paralleling the scars curving across one cheek. In comparison, cold’s not so bad, especially when his cheeks have been numbed by the icy air, and he can’t much feel the sharp tickle-and-slap of the wayward strands. But don’t get him started about when the sirocco blows and static electricity makes his mop stand out from his skull like he’s been electrocuted. Goku messed with him so much the last time that happened, and he had to retaliate so sharply, he thinks they still carry fan-shaped bruises from how fed up Sanzo got with the both of them.

He thinks sometimes about cutting his hair again, but once again, why bother? Futile struggle and all that, as the monk’s managed to finally pound into his head after more than three years.

Plus, you know, the girls like it long. And someone else likes it too.

He pushes his hair back from his face, not fighting it, just temporarily restraining it so he can watch their path as it unfolds, a straight narrow ribbon unspooling beneath thin moonlight.

The road is straight tonight. The next village, according to their map, is only another hour away, so they are pushing themselves in order to get to comfortable beds in which to sleep, some decent meals, and long hot showers, the sting of that water different from that of the incessant wind.

The other two have fallen asleep. Sanzo’s head is lolled back against his seat, turned to the sky as if he were watching the stars, although his eyes are closed. On Sanzo’s cheek is a fresh, still darkening bruise, placed there earlier today when, as they circled around a dune, a small band of youkai ambushed them. Goku saved the stupid monk’s ass and got yelled at for his trouble. Despite that, Goku’s shifted forward in Jeep’s inadequate backseat space to rest his crossed forearms on the back of Sanzo’s seat, and has pillowed his head there, right next to where Sanzo is resting.

The only way the monkey can get that close to the monk is when both are out of it.

Their two heads, one golden as sun, the other nut brown, are almost touching, that-close; and the winds blur that scarce line between them, mixing that gold-and-brown until it more resembles one head of streaked and unruly hair.

Get a clue.

In the stillness, in the rush of the wind, Gojyo leans forward, placing a hand on Hakkai’s shoulder. He feels the tension there bunch and gather for a moment at that touch, then ease away. Hakkai’s hand dares to leave Jeep’s steering wheel, fluttering back, until it’s resting atop Gojyo’s, warm and strong with a touch that doesn’t need to be infused with the glow of chi to heal.

Gojyo bends closer now, nuzzling, relishing the tickle of Hakkai’s hair against his cheek; so different from the feel of his own—weightless-warm-fragrant—and made softer still with recall of their intimacy. He presses a kiss to the back of Hakkai’s neck, lips lingering over the salty dryness of his nape.

The daring hand shifts, caresses Gojyo’s hair, long elegant fingers combing through the untamed strands. Gojyo makes a sound—

pleasure

—as out flicks his tongue, tasting the sweet familiar tang of Hakkai’s skin.

Bump in the road. Jeep jounces, and Hakkai’s hand flies back to the wheel, correcting their path and murmuring apologetic reassurances. There’s a guilty aspect to his posture, and Gojyo squeezes absolution before settling back in his seat. He’ll keep invitations to any further diversions for when they’re safe off the road, later tonight.

Sanzo grunts, shifts, and still in his sleep raises one arm to rudely shove Goku away. Goku mutters, “Huh?” yet inexorably repositions himself at Sanzo’s side. His eyes never even open, and in a few more seconds, he’s snoring again, his breath stirring the golden hair at Sanzo’s temple.

Gojyo, shaking his head, laughs.

Ahead, above the horizon, a bright streak of light arcs across the sky. He makes a wish, one he hopes won’t be blown away by the winds of fate. There haven’t been enough shooting stars to wish on, really, in any of their lives.

He finds his pack of Hi-Lites, tucked in a pocket; puts a cigarette to his lips; cups one hand around its end while flicking his lighter with the other, and inhales, coaxing the flame. Finally it catches and he leans back, relaxing, smoke curling deep in his lungs before he releases it to the wind. Briefly he thinks, Gotta cut back, but the wind scours that thought away as well.

The wind blows, and his hair whips against his face, and he dreams, and he wishes, and on they travel to the West, always to the West.

~end~

Song inspiration: “Ventura Highway”, by America