Becca's Drabbles and shit

The irony of the position they find themselves in is not lost on her. Supposed enemies, forced to rely on one another, is the oldest trope in the book, and yet here they are. (Whether or not they were ever enemies to begin with is debatable, but she is the only one that came closest to killing them so far.)

For all his tough talk, Genjo is surprisingly easy to read. She can see the way he grimaces when he walks, favoring his left side more with every step. She can see the blood on his arm, how he holds it close to his side like it’ll help.

“Please, you’re injured. Let me help.”

The look Genjo gives her is equal parts withering, mistrustful, and piercing - a lesser person would back down from that glare alone. She’s seen worse.

“I am Lord Kougaiji’s apothecary.”

Gaze lingering another moment, he relents with a grunt. Maybe he found what he was looking for, or maybe he’s just looking for an excuse to sit down. She doesn’t miss the way tense shoulders ease as soon as he’s off his feet. He’s a good patient, letting her work without argument. He doesn’t flinch when she applies the usual ointments, doesn’t even seem to notice when she sets bones.

It’s not hard to imagine why. The scars that decorate his skin tell a story, tracing patterns and injuries that she’s sure predate this journey by lifetimes. One just above his shoulders, another in the middle of the back. One along his forearm, and many more - some faint, some sharp and raised well above the rest of the skin. And some, she’s sure, lie deeper, in places few are allowed access to. He still flinches when she brushes by some of them, though the movement is slight and would be missed by anyone else. The outside is healed, but the memory takes longer, she knows.

She gets struck by the urge to kiss them, to trace the ones that “hurt” and heal them, putting on physical and emotional salves until Genjo doesn’t feel the need to flinch anymore. Perhaps it’s a self-soothing desire - after all, she carries her own invisible scars, her own pains that still cause her to flinch every now and then. Maybe she thinks medicine that heals him will heal her.

Or perhaps she’s just read one too many romance novels of late.

She shakes the thought. It wouldn’t work, even if Genjo would let her. She knows she’s lucky to be getting as far as she is now - to be offered any form of trust from Genjo is a gift one doesn’t overlook.

She finishes as quickly as she can out of respect, stepping back with a small smile. “There, that wasn’t so bad now, was it?”

He looks over the bandages, pulling at them and testing their strength - testing her strength. With a grunt, he leans back, reaching into his sleeves to produce a cigarette and a match, some sort of celebratory smoke, she assumes.

“Not bad.”

.........

Genjo Sanzo existed in extremes, somehow containing in him both ends of the spectrum, and yet remaining somewhere perfectly balanced in the middle. It’s what Dokugakuji loves about him, what draws him to the man time and time again. He expects it’s the same for his brother, and for his Lord, and for so many others as well. He’s a magnet, in every sense of the word.

He’s what Dokugakuji wishes he could be, what Jien wishes he could have been, once upon a time, and sometimes he still hopes, perhaps, he might capture some of that energy the longer they spend together. Maybe, the closer he gets, the longer their skin touches, he can harness what he so longs for. For now, all he’s managed is to keep it for himself, for a time.

Genjo’s rough, calloused hands trace gentle patterns on his skin while they lie together, absently tracing a map only he seems to understand. His touch is feather-light, a direct contrast to not so long before when he was gripping, holding, pinning Dokugaku to the bed, finding purchase against sweaty skin and heaving chests. Dokugakuji would return the favor, but his hand on blond hair always feels too heavy.

“You’re going to break one day.”

The words come as a surprise, breaking the silence that had long settled between them. Dokugaku furrows his brows, glancing down only to see Genjo hasn’t moved, still settled against his chest. He continues anyway, probably sensing the confusion.

“Carrying all that useless weight. You’ll break.”

So he knows. Dokugakuji - Jien - says nothing. Violet eyes finally turn towards him then, pinning him with just a look, and stealing his breath as much as they did the first time.

“You’re the one who packed your bags so heavy, you know. No one else misses that weight. Not anymore.”

His words should set him off, should have him running, because what does he know? What can this man, several years his junior, with only a passing knowledge of his past, what he did, know. And yet, as always, there’s something there, something behind that rough exterior that’s so vulnerable, like a quiet understanding he’ll never acknowledge, yet he’s left open for Dokugakuji to see.

“Maybe. But it’s all I know.” His answer is gruff, hoarse still from before, but gentle. In his own way. Genjo shrugs, and his head returns to rest where it was before.

“You’re not too old to learn something new.”

........

The first time Yaone meets Kanan, there’s a darkness to her. They’ve been brought here under the same circumstances, to save towns that couldn’t be bothered to save them, despite what they’ve done to help. A human, and a youkai, both condemned to death. They aren’t much, but they’ll get along just fine.

There’s a darkness to Cho Kanan, but in this place, it feels like a light.

—-

They become fast friends, she finds. Kanan is kind, she is witty, and she has a sense of humor Yaone can appreciate. Living hour to hour, day to day, is misery, but sometimes, when they talk, the weight lifts just a bit.

“You’re an apothecary?”

“Yes, my whole family is… was…” Yaone trips over her words sometimes still, wounds still raw. “I used to help the villagers with remedies and medicines. Anything we could find herbs for.”

“Ah, you remind me of my brother. He’s skilled with things like that, always knowing how to heal my wounds.”

The tone in Kanan’s voice doesn’t sound like he’s just a brother, like there’s something else there. Yaone doesn’t ask, because she doesn’t need to know.

“You’d like him, I think. He’s a kind soul.”

Something about her words makes Yaone think it’s not the kindness she admires.

—-

When Kanan tells her what’s happened, Yaone knows exactly what is to be done. She’s the one who decides the plan, who gets them to smuggle the right herbs, and the right amount of water. She’s the one who tells Kanan to slice her own wrist, to pretend that’s all they’re treating.

It works, and she’s even allowed in when Kanan catches a mysterious infection from ill care. They like her, Chin Yisou likes her, and she gets to live another day. Yaone is useful, and as the throes of her misery are ending, late in the night, Kanan looks up and stares her dead in the eye, that dark light shining brighter than ever. Her heart skips a beat, and she’s not sure it’s just out of fear.

“We should break out together.”

——

The plan is simple, but risky. And yet somehow, it works. The guards watching the women are weak, and a bit stupid, and it takes only a bit of convincing to smuggle in supplies. She’s fortunate, that so many of these herbs have double uses, because no one suspects.

Poisoning the guards is simple. Poisoning an entire clan is another matter, but Kanan pulls off her part perfectly. With the food supply tainted and the remaining guards smoke bombed, the castle is cleared enough for them to pass through.

As they reach the gates, Kanan’s hand threads through hers, warm and firm, and she smiles that familiar smile. Yaone knows she is darkness and she is twisted, and in the end, she’s likely as much of a poison as what they’ve used tonight. Squeezing Kanan’s hand back, she knows that she doesn’t mind.

“The reports from the battlefield have arrived, Lord Kougaiji.”

Dark red hair that shone almost maroon shifted, cascading like silk over the prince’s shoulder as he gave his underling a respectful nod. Violet eyes shifting to the papers laid out on the desk, he pulled the newest pack close to him.

“Thank you, Retsuko. You are dismissed.”

The scurry of feet was replaced with the sound of shifting cloth, the door behind him just barely creaking shut. Soft footsteps gave away the other’s approach long before a pale hand came into vision, reaching for the papers Kougaiji had just received.

“So the reports finally arrived. Took them long enough.”

Kougaiji could feel the man’s breath ghosting past his ear, a familiar heartbeat right beside him.

“Yes. I expect you’ll have them looked over by nightfall.”

“Of course, my prince.” The voice behind him dripped with sarcasm, as it always did when it came to titles. He could feel the shift as it pulled away, a cool breeze following in his wake.

Walking around the table, the blond didn’t look up from the papers, moving to his work table just a few feet away from Kougaiji’s. As his right hand man, Genjo was one of his most trusted advisors, and Kougaiji found it more convenient to have him close at hand. As his lover, Kougaiji might even admit that he preferred the man’s company over others, much of the time.

Letting silence fall between them, Kougaiji was back to his own papers, refreshing his mind on battle plans and treaties, tax records and citizen requests. NEarly an hour passing between them, there was nothing other than the occasional rustle of papers to interrupt their work. He was deep in the midst of a request for aid against a drought when the slam of papers startled him, Genjo’s annoyed click of the tongue following.

“Zakuro’s gotten himself in trouble. Again.” A long, heavy sigh, Genjo pinched the bridge of his nose, the claws of his left hand tapping against the rich wood of the desk. “He’s gotten himself and his whole platoon deep into enemy territory, on accident, and without a clear path out. They’re holding out, but he needs backup. Aside from that, Dokugakuji and Gojyo’s regiments were successful, but they sustained heavy injuries. The eastern front needs supplies, and the southern lines have nothing to report.”

“Send whatever supplies we can to the eastern front, as usual. Yaone and Hakkai will be sent out to tend to the injured, and they may bring a small guard and assistants as they need. As for Zakuro, Goku and his team can go out again, unless they’re otherwise busy?” A cock of his head, Kougaiji knew well where the brunet was stationed, and that he could easily be spared. “He’s got a knack at rescuing the General by now.”

“Yeah, because he does it every other week.” Releasing his fingers, Genjo rolled his eyes. “I still think we should just demote the idiot, but. As you command, your highness.”

That sarcastic tone was back, Genjo’s lips pursing as he turned back to his papers, pulling out a blank sheet and making a few notes. Scribing Kougaiji’s orders, hopefully without embellishment this time.

Glancing out the window, Kougaiji pushed himself back from the desk. A few steps to cross the room, and he was leaning over the blond.

“You don’t approve of my decisions?”

“Of course not, I have only respect for your rule.”

“You know Zakuro is one of our more talented generals, despite his propensity for dramatics, and lack of direction.”

Another click of the tongue, and a familiar glare over the shoulder was the blond’s first response.

“Next time I’m hiring him a damn keeper, just so you know.”

A slight quirk of the lips, Kougaiji knew he’d won, though Genjo would never quite admit that. There were a lot of things Genjo didn’t quite like to admit, though it didn’t stop him from leaning in, resting a head on his lover’s cool shoulder, nuzzling a pointed ear gently.

——

I never set out to save anyone.

But sometimes I wish I could save you.

The thought is as fruitless as it comes, a useless and foolish pipe dream at best, and delusional fantasy at worst. He doesn’t have time for regret.

He can’t regret people like Yakumo. He can’t regret Kami or Hazel, or Shuuei, or anyone else he’s failed to save on this journey. Any of the people who took the wrong path, who let themselves fall to ruin even when given what guidance he could give. It was always their choice, and Sanzo knows that if he’d left, if he’d “fixed” them and come back around, they would have still chosen what they did in the end. Because that was the path they trod. That was the dream they sought.

Kougaiji, as always, is different.

He knows, deep down, that this path was never a choice. And it’s not who Kougaiji is. He’s not a villain. He’s not their enemy. His heart isn’t set on the path he’s on. But he’s stubborn, and he’s convinced himself just enough to stick through it, until the bitter end, regretting every choice along the way. His friends won’t stop him - he knows they see it, they all do - because that is the path they have decided, just a few steps behind him. They follow. And the last thing he needs is someone who will follow.

Kougaiji is stubborn, Kougaiji is determined, and Kougaiji is stupid. He’s desperate, he’s cornered, and he’s long lost sight of the way out.

Sanzo does what he can to stop it, because he knows Kougaiji needs it. Because maybe, just maybe, Kougaiji is more than their adversary. He’s always been more. And he can’t pretend with himself he wouldn’t be sad to see him go.

He can’t save anyone.

He can’t save himself.

——-

He finds comfort in Jyoan’s presence. A certain safety he doesn’t feel with the others. An understanding in moods that at a glance seems unlikely, and yet makes sense the more they spend time together.

They’re cut from the same cloth, neighboring swatches in a large and complicated pattern. Jyoan understands his moods, understands his why, in ways the other do not and cannot, and Genjo does the same for him. They know the why. They don’t need to talk about the why when it’s each other.

There’s a lot they don’t talk about, that they intrinsically understand.

They don’t talk when their lips first find each other’s - gentle and demanding, hesitant and needing all in one. They don’t talk when hands wander and pleasure builds. They don’t talk when they end up curled up in bed together, Jyoan’s face pressed against his back and arms wrapped around his middle. They don’t talk when they wake up with tangled limbs, somehow always facing each other, no matter who was facing who the night before.

They don’t talk when Jyoan doesn’t bother to leave his room one night, turning over in bed and stealing Sanzo’s spare pillow to sleep. The don’t talk when he comes back the next night, and they next night.

They don’t talk when Jyoan’s things start making their way into Sanzo’s room. Nor when his own room becomes surprisingly empty.

——

His footsteps fall almost silently, only the barest hush of skin peeling off polished wood signals his coming. Despite the lightness in his movements, Genjo doesn’t startle when Kougaiji settles in beside him, sensing his presence long before he’d gotten close enough to attack.

They’re long past that now, and Genjo doesn’t even so much as glance in his direction when he takes the cup of sake for himself. He knows Genjo is aware of the eyes watching him, but in a rare turn of events, he doesn’t seem to care. His gaze remains fixed on the harvest moon, hanging low and large in the sky.

In the moonlight, the lines of his face soften, the perpetual frown easing, the line between his brows smoothing out. Light reflects off the planes of his face, bouncing off golden hair, surrounding him as it always does in a glow that is uniquely him. In this light he seems almost ethereal and unearthly, his very being saturated in something beyond comprehension. The Marlboro red perched delicately between his fingers, the cup of sake and a half-filled ashtray resting nearby should take away from the effect, but as always, he makes them work in his own way.

A leaf falls from the trees, fluttering down to land on the ever-growing pile. They have started to color, and in turn have started to fall. They coat the ground in a pile of warm reds and yellows, drawing in the crisp browns of the long-dead.

“We should rake those up soon.”

He takes the spare cup of sake as he speaks, considering their yard carefully. They’ve fallen behind tending to it.

“We don’t have any potatoes.” Genjo shifts beside him, drawing his attention again. The corners of his lips quirk slightly, a fondness in his expression that goes to a time long before this. A relic of a time long past, a memory or a joke that Kougaiji doesn’t understand, and doesn’t dare ask, for fear of scaring the moon off him.

The spell still seems to break with his words, and finally, Genjo turns to him, eyeing the sake but making no comment as he takes his own. The moon spirit is gone, but a much softened Genjo has returned in his stead, raising his glass to the sky. A final toast to the moon, and whatever memories lie there, he thinks.

“We’ll do that tomorrow, after we go to the market.”

------

He never tells them when his birthday is. Up until now, it hasn’t much been worth celebrating. A day for himself isn’t as much fun when he’s always alone, and he’s quite comfortable with how they are now, without risking it all over something stupid he hasn’t bothered with for himself.

He’s all the more surprised when he comes home from classes that chilly September day, just to find the whole apartment decorated, and everyone shouting birthday wishes and surprises at him the minute he turns on the lights. He’s not entirely sure how they managed to fit everyone in their small apartment, but they managed, even getting an extra folding table in the living room somehow.

Goku and Puku are the first to direct him to the food spread, talking about each dish and how they tried to pick stuff Jyoan liked, but he can see a few selections in there he knows they got for themselves and everyone else. Hakkai promises he and Seiran made everything just to his liking. Gojyo, Gichou, and Sho’un have already set up at the booze table, Doutaku egging them into a contest. Houmei lounges on the couch, offering a belated “surprise” like he’d been asleep - Genjo knocks him upside the head and tells his brother to stop being a moron. He’s surprised to see Momo - Toudai, he reminds himself - and Genkai there, a polite nod from both as Genkai watches everything from his taller friend’s shoulders. Even Soujin makes it, their eldest classmate managing to beat them all in beer pong. Ryuzen and his itinerary go largely unfollowed, but they do have the sense to put everything on a coaster before the poor guy has an aneurysm.

As much as the party is supposed to be for him, they naturally get out of hand as usual, and the gifts are no better. He doesn’t know if he’s more offended or embarrassed by the magnum condoms Gojyo decides to give him - “Because I heard you’re a size queen, too” - but he doesn’t dare ask for the gift receipt.

It’s late by the time they all clear out, the house somehow cleaner than they left it thanks to Ryuzen - and Hakkai’s death smile offered just over his shoulder when he’s trying to lay down the law. He’s still a bit drunk and exhausted, but deep down, there’s a glimmer of warmth, and an unfamiliar feeling settling deep in his chest, gifts from all of them strewn about the living room as he finally gets a chance to settle in.

Gifts from all but one, he thinks, though one he knows isn’t the type. He assumes the party is gift enough from Genjo, knowing how much his roommate values his space - a value they share - and that’s honestly more than enough for him.

The weight of the box dropped on his chest startles him from a drink-induced doze, blond hair catching his attention as his roommate stands before him. “Sorry, it’s already after midnight.”

Inside the box, he finds a jar, a beautiful crystaline container of facial product he’s been wanting for weeks. It’s not cheap, and he knows it’s something he’s been mostly bitching about to himself during their nightly routine. He’d never thought Genjo was listening.

“....It’s beautiful.” Genjo doesn’t mention the way he turns away, hiding the wet trails that make their way down his cheeks behind his hair. It’s more than beautiful. Far more than that. Thankfully, with Genjo he knows he doesn’t have to say it.

——-

When Jyoan first comes to him with the idea, he isn’t completely sold. Doing a rope show, and doing it together? He’s skeptical, to put it lightly, but Jyoan insists until he agrees.

He never did much demonstration on his own. His bondage has always been private, intimate, a submission to one worthy individual, for their eyes alone because he can’t trust anyone else with that knowledge. He’s never shied away from any aspect of himself, but the lights of the stage always had him turning away in shame.

He can’t turn away now, aware of every eye in the audience now trained on him. Beside him, Jyoan shifts, reminding him of the body sitting next to him. The weight seems to ease, some - their eyes are trained on both of them. Not just him.

Their final companion, Goudai - their rigger for the evening - takes the stage, and the demonstration begins.

He finds it easy, despite the eyes, to fall into the usual patterns once they start. This is still the same game, and while Goudai has his respect, he hasn’t earned his trust. His submission comes with a struggle, and while he’s not quite as violent as usual, he certainly doesn’t give in easily, as per their agreement.

He doesn’t offer his wrists when Goudai asks, not his ankles. Goudai grabs them himself after too many inquiries, his motions rough and demanding, like the scolding of a father. This isn’t impact play, nor does it necessarily hurt beyond a moment, but it’s admonishment enough. Goudai will take no less than submission, and he’s not afraid to take what was promised.

He doesn’t ask more than once when it comes time to secure his head. There’s little warning before he’s yanking blond hair back, twisting the rope around and securing the hold to the hogtie already keeping his hands and legs back, bending his body just enough that it’s uncomfortable, but not entirely unpleasant.

With his head back, Goudai moves, and he catches sight of Jyoan. It’s his turn now, and he watches as Jyoan rebels in his own way. He isn’t so violent, but there’s a definite superiority to the way he offers his wrists, in the way he follows orders just barely, that demands his trust be earned. Goudai works Jyoan as expertly as he did him, with a quiet dependability and solemn thanks as he takes what he is offered, what he is allowed, and nothing more. He does not need to take from Jyoan - simply appreciate, and eventually Jyoan gives. It’s mesmerizing to watch, as it always has been. His shows are popular for a reason.

Goudai uses the same tie for Jyoan, bending his body back in a basic hogtie, and securing the head as he did before. Goudai returns for him, then, pulling him over and turning him around so he can no longer see Jyoan. He considers a protest, until he feels hands in his hair, and rope twisting around to secure himself and Jyoan together. The longer rope connects their hands and feet, snaking about their bodies in a simple but elegant pattern, only to connect again in their hair, knotting gold and lavender together just shy of painfully. Another rope is added, again to their middle, securing them one last time and snaking through the hook in the ceiling so Goudai can finally lift them off the floor, their bodies suspended in the air.

In that moment, he finally understands why Jyoan wanted this. The rope between them, the mixing of their hair, brings a connection between them that feels almost electric. He cannot see Jyoan, but he doesn’t need to. He knows he is there, he knows in this moment they are two parts of one picture, one tie, and he realizes how they must compliment one another. He almost laments that he cannot see it, but Jyoan asked for his permission to record. “Just for reference,” he said, but perhaps he predicted this.

The feeling doesn’t fade even when they’re lowered, only growing stronger with each tie, the poses getting more complex and artistic as they go on. Their bodies bent in ways that seem impossible, working around and with each other, not always touching but just close enough he can feel the other presence. The connection remains in the ropes, holding them together and putting them both in strong, capable hands.

When Goudai is done with them, releasing them from their toes, he tells them to kneel, and he doesn’t have to do it twice. Facing each other, their heads bowed, he tells them to look up, and to thank one another for their performance.

Violet eyes meet maroon, and for a moment, neither move as breath seems stolen away. He doesn’t know who breaks the spell first, or who reaches out for who, but them when their lips connect, he knows the feelings are more than mutual. When they break apart, there’s the smallest of smiles on Jyoan’s face, one that he knows is mirrored on his own. Large, steady hands rest on both of their shoulders, thanking them both and praising them for their work, and neither say anything when they both lean into the touch in recognition.

------------------------

“Genjo, I need you to do me a favor.” Jyoan’s words come as a surprise, startling him enough that he turns without thinking, cocking a brow in confusion.

“With what?”

“I need you to model for me. Someone canceled last minute and this presentation is today.”

There’s a note of genuine distress in his roommate’s voice, and Genjo knows the plea hadn’t come without him exhausting every other available option. They aren’t in the same field, and Genjo doesn’t model.

“You sure it’s okay?”

“Yes, I called my teacher. The clothes should fit you, and I’ll tell you exactly what to do. I just need a live model who can pull off the look right.” Jyoan’s eyes meet his, and there is enough desperation there that he can’t stop himself, despite his misgivings.

“Alright. I’ll do it.”

To Jyoan’s credit, in his element he directs well; the perfectionist in him giving him an eye for detail. And yet, Genjo never feels uncomfortable with what he is told to do, though it’s certainly not his forte.

The class never seems to catch on, and he hears several of them mutter amongst themselves trying to find out when he’s booking. Genjo ignores them, because there’s only one person who can talk him into this shit. Jyoan tells him to keep the clothes when the project is graded and done - a perfect score - and hands them off to Genjo like it’s nothing. Genjo doesn’t miss the slight pride in his eyes on their next trip to the bar when he just so happens to find Jyoan’s design in his closet.

The clothes are comfortable, he says, and he leaves it at that.

----

“Jyoan, I need you to model for me.”

Weeks later find Genjo at Jyoan’s door, the same tone of pleading in his voice. When Jyoan turns to look at him, he sees his own confusion mirrored in delicate features.

“You do? Why?”

“Figure painting. None of the models are available until after it’s due. It has to be live.”

The concern in Jyoan’s voice is genuine, brows knitting together in uncertainty.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. It’ll be fine. You just have to pose long enough for me to get the sketch down. I’ll direct you where I need.” He doesn’t miss the pleading in his own voice, and neither does Jyoan. The verbal confimation almost isn’t necessary, the look on his face saying more than enough.

“I’ll do it.”

Jyoan barely needs any direction, and he stays impressively still for as long as Sanzo needs, despite the pose. With the light falling just so, the fabrics draped just right, and hair falling just so, the lines of his body make an elegant, delicate picture. Neither the professor nor the class can find anything to say, and it’s Genjo’s highest grade to date. They all praise the subject, and the remarkable way Genjo captured the look in his eyes. He doesn’t tell them his roommate is a predictable man.

When Genjo brings it home, Jyoan insists on hanging it on the living room wall, to celebrate, he says. He looks back every now and then, the same look of wonder crossing his features. Like he’s never realized what he is capable of.

He says art beautifies a space, and Genjo doesn’t argue.

----

They make a good partnership between the two of them. They work together well, and somehow manage to draw out the strengths of their programs, in their own ways. Genjo has an eye for design, even though he won’t admit it, and Jyoan knows color even better than Genjo. And if they both happen to model a lot in the process, it’s an added bonus.