Categories > Anime/Manga > Saiyuki
amazing still it seems
1 reviewdon't get caught in foreign tower. slash and burn, return, listen to yourself churn.
2Ambiance
Title: amazing still it seems
Author: Neo
Genre: Drama
Rating: K
Summary: don’t get caught in foreign tower. slash and burn, return, listen to yourself churn.
Hakkai can still see aristocracy in the halls. The palace is a colorless dream.
The youkai are scattered in what might have been a ballroom, once upon a time. They stand on edge and Hakkai almost feels sorry for them; they have so much left to live for.
“We're so close," Gojyo mutters, compassionate. "Not here, not now.”
“One last dance?” Hakkai breathes, expectant like his distended hand, and it is not an enemy that accepts it; it is Gojyo, shakujou flaring to life. Hakkai does not feel particularly remorseful anymore; he is selfish and knows for what he lives.
• • •
the sun is in your eyes
the sun is in your ears
Sanzo found it in a plush toy, innocuous paper caught beneath compacted fluff; he danced his fingertips atop the parchment. Sutra. He knew not which this was and cared little; he just knew it was not his, not his master’s, but it was there so he took it.
Mind carefully blank, he unraveled it, expertly—experimentally—setting it on his shoulders. It was light yet burdensome. The spell inscribed long unused—the lettering was telltale, cool and smooth.
The text disintegrated at his touch.
He spun, insensate with terror of which he thought himself long incapable, just as Ukoku reemerged.
• • •
but you can’t see the sun
His life had been a simple one, once upon a time. Neither he nor Koumyou could cook, but others could, and they cooked for Koumyou out of reverence. He took the trays back to the kitchens and Koumyou contemplated the meaning of life and curry with a cigarillo between the calluses of worn fingers; he spoke only sometimes and plaited Koumyou’s hair without remembering how he knew how.
After a while, Koumyou instructed him to retire; he would nod—so acquiescing—and turn, walking through the fusuma and pretending not to notice the presence of cold eyes behind his head.
• • •
ever in the darkness
And now he was running, running from a face attached to a concept that thunderclouds spat wrecked at his feet. He was Theseus with no ball of twine and palace-labyrinth; he always ran only in rain-filled rooms and eyes but he had to make an exception this time.
Finally—voices. Voice. His boy. His—
—Goku. He gathered Goku in his arms and stepped once, twice, a nighttime dance.
The door would not close.
Gun hefted in his palm, he aimed, but the silhouette was stockstill. Voice as vulgar as he recalled: “He always said you, too, would hear a voice.”
fin.
it does not much matter to me
Author: Neo
Genre: Drama
Rating: K
Summary: don’t get caught in foreign tower. slash and burn, return, listen to yourself churn.
Hakkai can still see aristocracy in the halls. The palace is a colorless dream.
The youkai are scattered in what might have been a ballroom, once upon a time. They stand on edge and Hakkai almost feels sorry for them; they have so much left to live for.
“We're so close," Gojyo mutters, compassionate. "Not here, not now.”
“One last dance?” Hakkai breathes, expectant like his distended hand, and it is not an enemy that accepts it; it is Gojyo, shakujou flaring to life. Hakkai does not feel particularly remorseful anymore; he is selfish and knows for what he lives.
• • •
the sun is in your eyes
the sun is in your ears
Sanzo found it in a plush toy, innocuous paper caught beneath compacted fluff; he danced his fingertips atop the parchment. Sutra. He knew not which this was and cared little; he just knew it was not his, not his master’s, but it was there so he took it.
Mind carefully blank, he unraveled it, expertly—experimentally—setting it on his shoulders. It was light yet burdensome. The spell inscribed long unused—the lettering was telltale, cool and smooth.
The text disintegrated at his touch.
He spun, insensate with terror of which he thought himself long incapable, just as Ukoku reemerged.
• • •
but you can’t see the sun
His life had been a simple one, once upon a time. Neither he nor Koumyou could cook, but others could, and they cooked for Koumyou out of reverence. He took the trays back to the kitchens and Koumyou contemplated the meaning of life and curry with a cigarillo between the calluses of worn fingers; he spoke only sometimes and plaited Koumyou’s hair without remembering how he knew how.
After a while, Koumyou instructed him to retire; he would nod—so acquiescing—and turn, walking through the fusuma and pretending not to notice the presence of cold eyes behind his head.
• • •
ever in the darkness
And now he was running, running from a face attached to a concept that thunderclouds spat wrecked at his feet. He was Theseus with no ball of twine and palace-labyrinth; he always ran only in rain-filled rooms and eyes but he had to make an exception this time.
Finally—voices. Voice. His boy. His—
—Goku. He gathered Goku in his arms and stepped once, twice, a nighttime dance.
The door would not close.
Gun hefted in his palm, he aimed, but the silhouette was stockstill. Voice as vulgar as he recalled: “He always said you, too, would hear a voice.”
fin.
it does not much matter to me
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