Warnings: Very light allusion to m/m
Summary: Sanzo and Goku consider one another before sleep.
I Thought You Were Sleeping
I don't know how he can sleep like this, tangled messily in sheets, his limbs in a jumble, half of them still over me. I'd move for a cigarette, but I'd wake him. He's got my left arm under his chest, and I swear he's scalding it. The kid's like a radiator. Not that I complain most nights.
Closing my eyes, I ignore the gradual numbing sensation rolling down the left side of my body. I moved for the sheets half an hour ago, but he squirmed, twisted, and effectively drew them up and around him like so much fiber of a cocoon. If I could find a happy medium between the icy air blowing in from a cracked window and the embers that must be resting beneath the saru's chest, I might just get to sleep.
And then the crickets started.
When Hakkai called them nature's musicians, I ched and glanced off at the horizon. Now I have a more eloquent rebuttal.
Well count my blessings. He's not snoring—yet. That will come when he drifts into a deeper sleep, though I know his habits well enough to brace myself for lying stationary like this for the rest of the night. His immobility in sleep is directly proportional to his activity when conscious. But I'd be the last person to complain about his endurance and boundless energy.
I'm able to turn my head on the pillow we share, feeling his warm breath against my shoulder, dampening the skin, but keeping me warm. He has that goofy smile on his face; it doesn't fade, even in sleep. He looks particularly content, and I won't deny that my ego swelled a bit with the observation.
He sighs. Winding, churning through the room, the wind brushes my exposed skin, ruffles his kinky auburn hair, pushing it to the side. Moonlight glints from his diadem; I can see a distorted reflection of my chest and arm in it, and then she shifts, darkening the reflection.
I'm still trapped against his heat, tormented by the cold trickling down my right side, the irritating rasp of crickets beneath the window. Goku wiggles now, just a little bit, and to the right. His left breast is pressed to my palm, and I can feel the steady pulse of a heartbeat, hot beneath bronzed skin. My eyes fall closed, breath steadying, softening. It feels like meditation, when I'm able to fall asleep naturally. I find I'm unable to do that anymore if he's not right there at my side.
A faint snick of fabric's rustling draws me halfway into consciousness, but it doesn't last long. I feel the pulse of a heart against the center of my palm, and realize somewhere in the whorls and folds of my mind, that it's beating in time with mine.
I can tell he thinks I'm asleep. He's gazing longingly at the cigarettes, and even tries to extend his arm, but only once. When he sees it jars me, he stops. That almost makes me smile, but then I'd give myself away, wouldn't I?
He's looking everywhere but at me, glaring at the window, rolling his eyes at the crumbling ceiling. As perfectly oblivious as ever about the picture he makes, tangled up beside me, the saint and the heretic. Sometimes when I say that, he asks me who's who.
Moonlight suits him, and he doesn't even know it. It settles over his skin like a gauze, making him look like some chryselephantine statue out of a temple, a prize that comes with a price. But no victorious centurion or Byzantine emperor can claim him; he already belongs to me, the stupid monkey. Now I can't help but grin, and I hope he's not looking. I can feel him grow tense for a moment, and I wonder why.
And then suddenly the crickets are chirping; I feel sleep press closer at the sound of their song. I don't think Sanzo likes it. He looks a little annoyed. I squirm, adjusting and mumbling appropriately for a sleeping person. I can feel his hand on my chest, right over my heart. His fingers rise incrementally, ghosting over flesh that is already familiar with his touch. I want to purr.
He's perfect like this, when he's not yelling at me, or trying to hide himself away, building barriers he knows I'll just scurry over. Every so often, Sanzo gives in. To me. I'm not just talking about making love; we do that too, but when he really gives himself to me, it's got nothing to do with his body, and everything to do with his eyes.
Pretty amethystine navettes, glowing beneath a chakra, a mop of hair like burnished gold. I'm not like Hakkai, and I can't write a poem—or at all—but I could talk to you forever about Sanzo's eyes.
I open my own, peering up at him curiously only to find that he's fallen asleep. Dark lashes rise higher, and I see his hair gently tousled by a breeze. He must be cold; Sanzo always gets cold before I do. Detangling myself from our awkward embrace, I straighten the covers out, draping them over both of us. Shadows dive into the tangles and folds, moonlight basks over the flat planes in stretches of silver.
I adjust my position, cheek resting against a warm chest, my arm stretched out to press my palm over his heart. The steady beat tells me his dream is pleasant. I know mine will be.