Saiyuki in all its forms is the intellectual property of Kazuya Minekura, etc, etc, no matter how hard I wish. (I did buy Requiem today, though!)
Warnings: Slash. Like, a lot. Rated PG-13.
Constructive criticism is always welcome.
I can hear them, hear them through the walls. Every night, a chorus of moans and whispered names serenades me and keeps me from sleep. No matter how firmly I squash the pillow over my head, how hard I try to divert my thoughts from the pair in the next room, I know they’re in there, and they’re not bored.
I can hear them, and I know Gojyo can too. Once upon a time he complained about my incessant snoring; now he falls asleep long before my snores reach his obscene dreams. At dawn, when perhaps they’ve finally fallen silent, I might drop into a doze, if I'm lucky, sleeping only from sheer exhaustion. As often as not I’ll stay awake wondering why it’s him and not me, why I'm not the one beneath my sun’s body; and the few answers I ever come up with are horrendously insufficient.
I can hear them, all night long, and then it’s time for breakfast, and the façade slips on. I barely have to think about it now — after the last month of perpetual practice, it’s become natural. Gojyo’s seen me without the mask, though, and maybe Hakkai too — but only for split seconds. Just an insant. My sun never notices anything. Never.
And when night falls, we stop driving. If we’re not at an inn, they might desist, but I can still hear him whispering good night and other things to my sun.
He’s my sun, but I don’t mean a thing to him. That much is obvious. Even I can see it.