Title: Longing 3: The Sunset Road - Chapter
4
Author: Befanini
Website: http://www.fanfiction.net/~befanini
Disclaimer: I have absolutely no rights
whatsoever. For melancholy daydreaming purposes only.
Rating: T for language. Shounen-ai.
Summary: "All I have are the ashes… one small spark from your glow."
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Chapter
4
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XxXxX
My life closed twice before its close,
It yet remains to see
If immortality unveil
A third event to me,
So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of Heaven,
And all we need of Hell.
-- Emily Dickinson
XxXxX
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When he had secretly switched the
portraits back, so that they each had the original painting they had
commissioned in the first place – when he had taken Sanzo's likeness and left
the High Priest his own – that was when his wandering days ended.
Haunted by the
merciless, relentless passage of time, he abandoned his traveling and limited
himself to frequenting the nearest towns and villages surrounding Kinzan.
Gradually he established "residences" in these places; whether a modest,
"permanent" room at a village inn, or a semi-comfortable apartment of
his own at the fairly big towns.
He still
roamed, his restless spirit – now made more restless than ever – refusing to
give him any peace. But now he made sure to keep within two or three days'
travel from the Temple, ready to go at a moment's notice.
Yes, he was
paranoid.
He'd tasted
unbearable loss twice before – no, three times in all. The first when his
stepmother's blood sprayed his shirt; and damn if he didn't still recall the
irrational thought that had crossed his young mind as he stared numbly at the
blood: And so it is red, too; and how lucky you cannot see it anymore, or
you might have gone insane to think that this red stuff was pumping INSIDE your
veins the whole time. You could crush the flowers under your white, delicate
foot – you could tear at my hair and scratch my eyes out – but how could you
have escaped from your own blood?
The second
loss came immediately after: when, with his eyes still wide with horror, gazing
down stupidly at the woman for whose love he had so yearned – his big brother,
strong and silent Jien, had grabbed him by the hand and told him to go. He had
raised pleading, puzzled eyes to the only anchor he had ever known, and Jien
had hugged him fiercely and shoved him away, running in the opposite direction
himself. We have no choice now… You have to be strong, brother. Perhaps we'll
see each other again, someday…
And when they
had met, they had stood on opposite sides.
The third loss
was just as inevitable, just as abrupt, and just as cruel. No – it was more
than that. The third loss was damn downright funny – to have held his dream in
that instant; that their souls should have embraced all-too-briefly… and then
the wrenching, unbelievable pain of having to let go. Had they never come
together, he might have borne it better. He might have gone on living in hope.
Hopeless hope perhaps, but he could have kept his dreams.
But having
tasted the reality… having the reality shuddering in his arms, scorching his
flesh, drowning his senses… dazed, captivated, entangled, inflamed… having
shared that one moment of rapture – that made all the difference. That rendered
everything else drab, colorless, meaningless.
To have bathed
in Sanzo, and then to grit his teeth and close his eyes and set him free – Ah,
now that loss was so excruciatingly exquisite, it was almost a pleasure.
The kind of sick pleasure that sadists who mutilated themselves exulted in.
Much like the first puff of that cigarette when you've been smoke-free for so
long.
But this
loss… this impending doom – there was nothing bittersweet about it. Nothing
remotely funny in its promise of grim finality. The hours and the days and the
months passed, the sun rose and it set, and each second ticked by, counting
down… Unforgiving time marched forward relentlessly, and there was no turning
back. He was going to lose Sanzo, and this time it was absolute.
No more could
he look forward to the anticipation of making the trek up the mountains. No
more could he enjoy the simple pleasure of buying his corrupt monk his
cigarettes and his sake; of dreaming about that split-second before their eyes
met on his arrival, when Sanzo's unguarded eyes let him see the terrible hunger
in the purple depths… the yawning, utter yearning that he himself felt, the
longing that had sustained him all these years.
No more would
they sit together in seeming companionship, while between them burned the
awful, unabating desire and heat that they struggled – and mostly succeeded –
to keep banked. No more would their gazes do the talking, as, with one fleeting
glance, they came together in a fierce onslaught of raw, blazing emotion, with
their eyes caressing and stroking and kissing across the physical distance that
circumstances had imposed between them.
No more would
he be blissfully shocked and exquisitely rendered helpless, at those very rare
moments when sanity and self-control failed, and they ended up in each other's
arms, in the darkness and the moonlight and the shadows, murmuring, breathless,
gasping, desperate, shuddering and intense and so greedy for each other that
the brief encounter of mad frantic kisses and passionate caresses and
possessive embraces inevitably left bruises and marks that Sanzo had always
cursed him for.
No – in just a
little while, there would be nothing left to wish for, nothing left to dream,
nothing left to look forward to. In just a little while he could only look back
at those precious moments, those precious few moments, and drive himself mad
with the knowledge that it had never been enough in the first place… And in
just a little while all he would have left was the certainty. It never was
enough. And it never will be. Ever again.
He stopped
walking, gasped, and clutched his gut. He doubled over and emptied his stomach
again, sweating and shaking and cursing. And then he walked forward a few more
paces, and sank down against a tree by the side of the road, uncaring of the
heavy drift of snow all around. He drew out a crushed pack of smokes and his
old, battered Zippo, and lit up, inhaling fiercely, welcoming the searing
sensation of the smoke in his lungs. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back
against the tree trunk. Just a few hours' rest. Just a few more goddamn hours
to delude himself and pretend that everything was just fine. A tanned hand
reached up and pressed against his chest, where the miniature oil portrait of
Sanzo rested in an inside pocket against his heart.
He opened his
eyes, and stared up at the dear, familiar, snow-covered trail up the mountains.
His vision blurred.
I'm
coming, bouzu. As I always have. Please wait for me. I'm coming.
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XxXxX
They say that 'time assuages' –
Time never did assuage
An actual suffering strengthens
As sinews do, with age –
Time is a test of trouble,
But not a remedy –
If such it prove, it prove too
There was no malady.
Emily Dickinson
XxXxX
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A/N: This is killing me. This is really killing me. A few more
chapters to go… Have had to do a bit of research to get the last part accurate.
As always, check my profiles page for replies to your great reviews, okay!
Grazie!
'Art is the
stored honey of the human soul, gathered on wings of misery and travail.' -
Theodore Dreiser
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