Smooth, uninterrupted stroke. A sigh. A soft “tch”. Light, quickly smothered laughter.

“You stupid monkey.” Not harshly. Another smooth, silky stroke, accompanied by the ungentle slap of skin on skin. Indignation is soothed away quickly by the stroking that doesn’t ease, doesn’t falter.

I love you, Goku wants to say. He doesn’t speak.

And those slender fingers continue to move, up and down, side to side, curve there, another here, and it is all he can do to keep still. But he has to keep still, because this is important, and he asked for this-

And Sanzo agreed — a veritable miracle.

But the brush strokes are killer. The paint is room temperature but somehow feels cold. And Sanzo is burning him without even touching him.

A low whine escapes his throat. He’s hungry, but not for food.

He doesn’t know what he wants. And that’s okay, because Sanzo no longer knows how to give. Maybe he never did.

But they have this, now. And that’s enough. (It has to be. They’ll get no more.)

Stroke. The canvas of his skin is growing smaller. It had seemed so expansive at first, Sanzo didn’t think he’d ever finish. But now that he is, he has to refrain from slowing down, prolonging.

He needs this. He, who needs nothing. Needs this.

Non-attachment.

Does his Master really wish that for him? His Master, with his kind smiles and understanding silences, must have known he was too easy to get attached to. His life taught Sanzo love.

But his death taught him better.

Non-attachment.

So what is this, then? Painting symbols on Goku’s skin - I wanna learn it, Sanzo - you’re not painting me, monkey - so paint me - but you’ll never learn that way-

I don’t care. Paint me.

Please, Sanzo.

Non-attachment. But it’s too late for that.

He’s far gone now.

Can this be, what is this, do I feel...?

Do I feel?

Another moan, but this time it’s his, and Sanzo thinks he might be crying, somewhere on the inside, in the dark where he’s broken, the only place he ever lets go and cries.

Goku shivers beneath his fingers, at the touch, or maybe the sound; paint smears on his skin, black on gold. Is that fitting? Is that right? Dark on his gold, like the darkness that forever stains his sun.

Sanzo knows what kind of sun he is to Goku. He’s always known. It’s the reason he can’t always see the boy and his pain. It’s the reason the boy’s always cold.

He’s in Goku’s sky every day, but he doesn’t warm him. And he never will.

“Have you ever seen a solar eclipse?” Goku asks. He feels it, too, then. Their minds are intertwined, have been since Goku called and Sanzo followed. I will always follow.

Inside, he knows he is weeping.

“Yes,” he says, and that’s all it is. A word, a truth, a simple, inescapable fact. For he has seen an eclipse of the sun, but never in the sky.

In the mirror.