When playing with fire...
The lighter came to life, the small flame flickering against what little breeze managed to come through the window. Cigarette dangling carelessly from smug lips, turning bright and glowing as it met with the lighter.
A snap and the flame disappeared.
Red and burning and untamable.
So much like /him/. Sprawled out across the bed, splashes of color on plain white linen. Smoke from the cigarette curled lazily towards the ceiling, drifted up past jaded crimson eyes like a dragon watching its prey. Those same eyes watched him, watched him through a grey haze and red tendrils. Arrogant, lustful, wild, calm. All flickering in his gaze, one after the other before mixing together like the smoke on the ceiling.
Sanzo was drawn to it, over and over again. To burning flesh and red, red eyes.
Even if he'd never admit it.
And he didn't have to. Wasn't that part of the charm? It was the flame that enticed and seduced, with knowing eyes and expert touches. One could hardly blame the moth.
And they both knew that, even if they didn't quite believe it.
The flame came back to life, an offering in the afterglow. Instead, unlit cigarette was pressed to burning ember.
"Get out," Sanzo growled. The monk was surprised when there was little complaint, a rustling of clothing and the door closing shut. Surprised to hear the moans coming from Hakkai's room as the night went on. Surprised that he fuckin /cared/.
Exhaling, he watched the smoke curl towards the ceiling. "When playing with fire..." he muttered to the empty room.
Red and burning and untamable. And every bit as painful.