Saiyuki: Hungry Ghosts

[what_we_dream]

Title: Hungry Ghosts
Series: Saiyuki
Pairing: 58
Rating: PG-13
Notes: This was written for the generous chomiji   in the first round of help_pakistan  ; thanks for the prompts go to her. Otherwise, this is set post-Banri but pre-Journey.

Summary: Gojyo and Hakkai run an errand for Sanzo on the night of the Ghost Festival; it turns into a more difficult trip than they expected.

“I’m a lazy jackass and need you to do my work for me,” is not actually how the droopy-eyed bastard phrases it, but it’s what Gojyo hears on the hot summer day at Chang’an Temple.

Of course he protests, and Sanzo gives him a heavy-lidded stare while beside him Hakkai smiles passively. Outside Goku romps through the garden chasing cicadas, making a din a herd of elephants would be proud to produce. In the end the shitty priest wins by exploiting their financial situation – as if he weren’t a tight-fisted skinflint whose fee scale makes slave labour look profitable – and they end up going on the bastard’s mission despite Gojyo’s complaints.

In fact, though, beneath the petty complaints he’s pleased the blond roped them into this stupid assignment. Because the last thing Gojyo wants is to have Hakkai sitting around the house with nothing to occupy him on the 15^th day of the 7^th moon – on the first Ghost Festival since Kanan.

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They’ve been lucky in the weather at least. It’s been quite a dry year, and if the merchants hike their prices at market, well, Gojyo’s willing to pay a little more in return for days without Hakkai sitting hunched by the window. He’s getting better, getting past the physical pain the damp seems to cause him, but Gojyo can still see it in his eyes. Hakkai has one smile for all occasions, but it lies like a sheet over the true sentiments beneath, and with enough experience Gojyo has learned to see the shape of the emotion it hides. Hakkai’s real amusement is soft and rare as blooms in the eastern desert, his anger hard and uncompromising as granite and his compassion tender and persistent as a spring creeper, but his pain is sharp and barren as icy mountains. And Gojyo hates that, hates that there is no appeasing it, hates that nothing but time will heal the wound in Hakkai’s heart and in nearly a year it has barely ceased to openly bleed. Hates that he is so useless.

It’s overcast as they set out early from their small house, the new door stiff on its hinges as they pull it shut it behind them. Autumn isn’t quite here yet, but the harvest has come and Gojyo knows the cooler weather won’t be far behind. The grey skies above are proof of that.

“Perhaps we should have brought camping equipment,” muses Hakkai, glancing up at the thick clouds. His small talk has been thin on the ground this morning, his greetings to passing farmers shorter, if no less polite than usual.

“Screw that; I’m not sleeping outside. If this damn mission takes more than a day, we’re going back and making Sanzo do it. He can send his monkey if he’s so worried about the cash.” Gojyo shifts his light pack higher on his back, pulls the ends of his hair out from under it – it’s only now growing long enough to be caught. In the field to their left a farmer stands and hails them; Hakkai responds for both of them while Gojyo continues grumbling.

“Shouldn’t be so hard anyway. Find temple, drop off sutras, accept grovelling, get home for dinner.”

Hakkai takes out the rolled sutra, written out by the monks of Chang’an upon special request and prayed over by his holiness Sanzo-hoshi-sama himself before he bummed off for a smoke, and runs the expensive paper over with his long fingers. It’s been elaborately sealed and tied, the name written in the beautiful calligraphy of Chang’an’s top scribes. A fancy little scroll indeed, and probably the product of long and arduous begging on the part of the requesting temple. Its purpose, Sanzo informed them in a bored drawl, is to put angry spirits to rest. A not unimportant accessory for any temples experiencing spiritual problems before the Ghost Festival has even begun.

Hakkai’s smile is beginning to turn brittle at the corners, eyes still on the scroll, and Gojyo steps in. “You’d think the damn priest could have delivered it himself. After all, it’s a holy artefact. What the hell kind of delivery men do we look like?”

Hakkai blinks, relaxing, and slips the scroll back into his pack. “Sanzo believes people should be more… strong-minded.”

Sanzo, in fact, refuses to acknowledge the existence of ghosts. He also refuses to acknowledge excuses, bankruptcy, and compromises. (As Gojyo’s existentance is highly dependent on all those things, it can make relations tense. Although as far as he’s concerned pretty much everything about Sanzo makes relations tense.)

“Yeah, well, ignoring a problem’s not always the answer. Ghosts aren’t gonna exorcise themselves.”

“Perhaps not,” says Hakkai, eyes staring into the far distance. Gojyo kicks himself and stumbles to recover the conversation.

“And why can’t he teach his monkey some proper manners? I’ve seen better behaved baboons. Course, they’re probably brainier than Goku…”

Hakkai glances at him, eyes clearing. His smile holds a tinge of mischievousness. “I’m sure he will repay effort. We may someday advance to multiplication.”

Gojyo grins. “Whoa there, Hakkai, you sure you’re ready for that? After that it’s just one step to division, you know.”

“I will proceed with caution.”

They continue on under the darkening sky, leaving the rural outskirts of Chang’an behind them and entering the wilderness beyond.

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The untamed land to the west of Chang’an is flat and barren. It’s too rocky for good farmland, and with the sea nearby people would rather ply the rich ocean for their food than difficult soil. With no irrigation ditches and the dry spring and summer, the grass and thickets are burnt and dusty. Here and there wild poppies grow in their midst, single points of brightness against the otherwise dull landscape. Spots of blood, Gojyo still thinks, but at least knows now that  isn’t all they might be.

 

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They hike along gritty paths worn unevenly through the untended prairie, heading for the hills beyond and the shrine nestled at the far end of a lonely valley. When Gojyo looks back he sees what look like clouds settled over the horizon, and knows the rain is following in their footsteps. 
 
They eat lunch as they walk, neither of them wanting to wait for the rain to catch up. They pass into the hills shortly after midday, leaving the flat bleakness of the burnt grasslands behind them and entering into a greener, darker forest. Here there are homesteads, tiny cabins and huts spaced miles apart, cut into the living wood around them. Some are empty and abandoned, others overflowing with life, and Gojyo knows that here the preparations for tonight’s Ghost Festival are well underway. Out here on the edge of civilization neighbours band together to cook the banquets, to prepare incense and paper money to be burnt, and to organize prayers to be read. It reduces the work of people already labouring all their daylight hours just to survive, and more importantly ensures company on the one night of the year that unsettled spirits roam the earth. At some crossroads little trays of rice and millet and candies have been set out already, surrounded by slowly-burning incense sticks pushed into the ground and bolstered by tiny, carefully-built hills of pebbles. The scent lingers in the air, so that often they can tell when they are coming up on an offering before they see it.

Hakkai grows steadily quieter as they press on, smile slowly fading to a flatter expression. Gojyo marches on, and pretends not to notice.

They reach the temple early in the afternoon. It has been built at the base of a man-made cliff, part of the rocky valley wall hewn roughly vertical to a height of fifteen yards or so, to ensure safety from attacks. It’s a small temple, just one main building with a small shed and a protective roof constructed over the soup tureen-sized bell. All the buildings seem in good repair and well-cleaned and tended to.

Here preparations for the festival are more apparent: more elaborate offerings of food sit on decorated tables outside the entrance, surrounded by expensive incense rising from delicate porcelain holders. Inside, someone is beating a drum and reading a sutra in a nasal voice. Apart from the darkness of the forest pressing in on them from either side and the sheer cliff-face above, there is nothing particularly ominous or eldritch about the place. It’s just a small, rural temple.

Gojyo turns to Hakkai and raises an eyebrow. “This is spooksville?”

Hakkai shrugs, and pulls the sutra from his pack. “So it appears.” He steps forward past the offerings and into the temple building; Gojyo follows.

Comparing it to the main temple at Chang’an would be a joke, but it’s not very dissimilar to the smaller temples around Gojyo’s house. All the usual accoutrements are there and well-polished. There are perhaps more than the usual offerings carefully arranged on their trays, and the brass of the statues may be brighter than it often is, but it strikes Gojyo just as it did from the outside – a well-tended, rural temple.

The monk beating the drum and praying with their back to them is clearly thin and weedy – even his thick robes don’t hide it. His head has been freshly-shaved, but the smooth skin and lack of age-spots suggests a young man, as does his whining voice. Several villagers are kneeling behind him, offering their own prayers to any ancestors who did not receive a proper burial or tribute and are expected to walk above-ground tonight.

They stand in the doorway for a few minutes before someone coughs quietly behind them. Gojyo turns fast – there was no sound or ki to give away anyone approaching. Hakkai, he sees out of the corner of his eye, has been taken equally off-guard. But when he turns, it becomes apparent why he neither heard nor felt the new arrival.

It’s an elderly monk, so old the weight of his clothes seems to be slowly crushing him. His face is heavily wrinkled, eyes narrow and peering. His robes have been newly cleaned, but he has already spilled something down the front of them.

“Can I help you?” His voice is a raspy whisper and hardly comprehensible, explaining why the junior monk at the temple has been given the vital task of reading the sutras.

“We have been sent by Genjyo Sanzo from Chang’an to deliver a sutra into your care,” says Hakkai politely, stepping away from the doorway so as not to disturb those inside.

“Eh?”

“Genjyo Sanzo sent us,” says Gojyo, leaning towards the old geezer’s ear. “From Chang’an,” he adds, when enlightenment doesn’t immediately dawn.

“Oh, from the revered Sanzo-sama?” quavers the monk. Gojyo suppresses the urge to pass a hand over his eyes.

“Yeah, him.”

“Please, come with me. Such an honour. Such an honour. From Sanzo-sama himself. I could never have imagined our tiny temple would be so blessed.” The man turns, and slowly begins shuffling around the side of the temple. Gojyo gives Hakkai a despairing look and follows the monk, shouting after him.

“Right, right, you’re honoured, great. But can we just give this to you? We should be getting back.”

“Yes, Sanzo-sama is very great. And so gracious. To grant our humble, undeserving request. You must have some tea, some refreshment. I could not turn away Sanzo-sama’s esteemed representatives.”

“Sure you could, happens all the time,” says Gojyo, but under his breath. “Often even the esteemed Sanzo-sama does it.”

“Tea would be delicious,” says Hakkai, patient smile plastered firmly onto his face. Gojyo knows this one well enough: Be polite!

He sighs, and follows the old geezer into the back of the temple to be served tea.

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By the time they escape the elderly monk’s clutches – after being thanked copiously by both him and his younger colleague, as well as those villagers who are present – it’s late into the afternoon, and the air is muggy with the expectation of rain. In the thick woods with the sky so grey above them, it seems as though night is already falling. There are no inns between here and the outskirts of Chang’an, and no family would take in passing strangers on the night of the Ghost Festival.

It’s a problem, but as it turns out, it’s not one that he worries about for very long.

They haven’t made it halfway out of the valley when Gojyo finds himself tensing. The trees on either side of the trail are thick, and there are no homes for more than a mile in each direction. And yet, something is watching them. No. Several somethings.

Beside him in the poor light, he sees Hakkai take off his pack and put it carefully to one side. He rises with a sharper smile on his face, like cold steel under moonlight: Trouble.

Gojyo’s expecting bandits. Maybe some punk kids out playing tricks for the festival, but that’s doubtful. Maybe someone sent specifically after the Chang’an sutra, but that’s so improbable as to be nearly inconceivable.

What he really, really isn’t expecting is several slow-moving figures in white, drifting out of the dark trees and approaching with slow, uncoordinated movements. They stagger and lurch, and then dart forward a few steps, heads tilted awkwardly and torsos twisting back and forth as though their spines are snapped. Gojyo freezes for an instant while childhood washes over him with the force of a tidal wave: ohshitohshitAnikialwayssaid-theywalkatnightinthewoodsallinwhite-roamtheearthfortonightonly-lookingforrevengefortheirpainanddespair and then reality kicks in and he slams around to nail the closest one in the head with a full-on roundhouse. His foot connects with a satisfying crunch, and the ghost gives a very earthly scream through a broken nose.

“Hakkai!” snaps Gojyo, feels the man break out of his own confused horror to flow smoothly into a fighting stance. Gojyo brings up his fists, and cracks his knuckles.

“You really wanna do this, you bastards?”

There’s no answer. There’s also no more bothering with appearances. The mixed group – Gojyo can’t see well enough in the low light to see whether they’re fighting men or youkai, but he can feel the difference both in their ki and the strength of their blows – attack together. This isn’t about frightening ignorant peasants into giving up all the food and money they can spare to appease angry ancestors anymore, it’s about preserving a secret. In the false twilight, knives and claws gleam, and Gojyo wishes for a weapon between his hands.

He makes do instead with hands and fists, as he’s always done, lashing out and pummelling and throwing anyone who comes within  range. When they push him too far back, when they run in under his guard with blades that whistle as they slice the air, he falls back against the wall that is Hakkai – solid, dependable and deadly – and finds his pace again. He breaks a wrist to take a knife, and now there is nothing that can stop him and –

And then the sky breaks open like sluice gates before a flood, and the rains pour down.

There is no warning, no dramatic thunderclap, no light drops. It is simply dry one second, and pouring the next. Gojyo kicks a man in the gut, spins around on the dampening dirt, and drives hard pummel of the knife into a youkai’s throat. Behind him, Hakkai coughs once, quietly. And Gojyo, the hairs at the back of his neck standing on end all at once, stops sucker-punching and starts breaking necks.

There are more than ten of the bandits but fewer than twenty, and Hakkai’s put several down for good already. Two of Gojyo’s aren’t getting up, and turning the knife to strike blade-first he quickly adds to that count. The footing’s already getting iffy, dirt churning to mud beneath their boots, and a lucky few get in some light scores in the dark – a claw-strike to his side, a knife rasping over his upper arm. Gojyo returns the favours with a snarling viciousness that he’s not used to in himself, that is fuelled by the sudden white-hot mix of rage and fear in his gut.

He very suddenly realises that it’s been a long time since he had something to lose.

The attack ends in an uncoordinated, staggering way, one or two still trying to fight while the rest of their comrades limp off or lie in the wet earth. Gojyo, in no mood for games, puts them down with a strength equal to crushing a mosquito with a boulder.

With the rain falling in a heavy curtain around them, it’s nearly impossible to see. Gojyo reaches out and catches hold of Hakkai’s shoulder, feels the man tense to attack and then shudder out of the cloak of violence as he belatedly takes in the situation.

“Are you alright?” His voice has a tinge of strain to it, but otherwise sounds nearly normal. Of course, the infuriatingly compelling thing about Hakkai is that it always does. It’s only to be expected from the kind of guy who could smile with his guts smeared across the road.

“I’m the one who should be asking that. The hell’s wrong with you?” Even in the rain Gojyo can tell that he’s not moving right, is favouring his right side and shivering at the end of his movements as if exhausted.

“I’m afraid I was rather careless… a close knick to the femoral artery. I believe I have mostly stopped the major vessels from bleeding…”

Gojyo’s no anatomy major, but he’s seen a hell of a lot of barroom fights. “You telling me you got knifed in the thigh?”

“Ahahaha…”

“Not fucking ‘ahahaha!’, you moron! What the hell’re you doing walking on it?” Gojyo stops so quickly he skids slightly in the mud, incredulity warring heavily with anger. Hakkai’s already leaning lightly on his shoulder, so it’s easy to find his wrist and clamp down on it. Bend his knees and with a strong pull and a twist of his spine, drag the shorter man over his shoulders. Hakkai makes a quiet sound, more of protest than surprise. His voice is all honest concern, as if Gojyo were the one needing care.

“I can walk, Gojyo –” With his mouth beside Gojyo’s ear, his voice is so near that the red-head has to suppress his immediate instinct to jump. It makes him all the more irritated.

“Bullshit; you’ve got a damn hole in your leg. ‘Sides, I’m not so weak that I can’t carry a featherweight like you.” It’s more than a slight exaggeration: although Hakkai is thin and light for his height, he’s not a light man. But Gojyo’s shouldered heavier burdens; letting Hakkai bleed to death here would be one of them.  

“You can’t carry me all the way home.”

That, unfortunately, is true. But Gojyo’s damned if he’s walking all the way home in the rain in any case. “Yep. We’ll have to stop somewhere else.” Fortunately, he already knows where.

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With Hakkai on his shoulders, it takes nearly half an hour of stumbling through the traction-less muck to reach the next homestead, apparent only by the fact that suddenly there are no trees framing the road on their right. Gojyo’s muscles are beginning to ache, as are his wounds. There’s something to be said for the damn priest’s approach to fighting: get a gun, and don’t be anywhere near the other guy.

There are no lights on in the cabin, and Gojyo finds the door only by reaching out a hand and running it over the rough surface of the wall until he finds the appropriate depression. Hakkai shifts uncomfortably on his shoulders but says nothing; they have no other options.

The inside of the cabin is warm and dry and smells of wood shavings and incense. Gojyo swings Hakkai down carefully, guiding him down to sit on the floor, and flicks open his lighter. By the tiny glow of the flame the cabin is revealed to be a single long room, kiln-style stove and table at one end and room for sleeping pallets at the other. The table holds a small assortment of food offerings, probably to be left out for the rest of the week, surrounded by slow-burning incense.

 

Gojyo lights the half-used candles sitting on the table and a few others set about the room in ancient iron holders. Shivers, and sneezes as his damp hair snakes against the back of his neck when he bends down to light a lantern on the floor. He curses under his breath; doubtless his spare clothes are soaked through by now as well.

He turns back around to find Hakkai staring out the dark window with a flat expression, cat-green eyes dark in the candlelight. He’s sitting with his back straight against the wall, one leg outstretched and the other crooked to help him stand quickly if necessary. Hakkai’s clothes are soaked, his dark hair now oil-black and slick, with delicate drops of water clinging to the ends of the damp locks. Only now in the straw-soft candlelight can Gojyo see the stain his pant leg, dark blood diluted to a variegated coral-pink by the rain. He seems completely unaware of it, caught entirely by the rain beating against the window pane. Gojyo sets his mouth in a thin line and drops his pack onto a corner of the table. Digs through it until he turns up his spare shirt – it’s mildly damp but not as bad as he expected.

“Here,” he says, and tosses it to Hakkai. The man’s eyes snap to track the fabric, an instant of surprise replaced by calculation as he reaches up to catch it. Gojyo turns his attention to the wide open stove. The wood basket beside it has been filled recently, kindling pre-cut. He begins laying the branches and logs, listening to the quiet murmur of his shirt being methodically ripped apart behind him. It’s not cold enough that they need the warmth, but it will lighten the darkness, and chase away the rain’s oppression.

The wood is dry and the fire starts easily, licking in air eagerly as the kindling catches the flames from his lighter. Gojyo lights a cigarette while he’s at it, chewing in irritation at the end while he pulls his wet shirt from his shoulders, forces himself to lay it out in front of the warm flames rather than toss it across the room. His stomach’s beginning to churn, the light lunch and ceremonial tea long in the past. He grabs his bag and strides across to sprawl down heavily beside Hakkai, back resting against the rough wall, and begins to look through the soft-sided pack. Hakkai is still beside him, staring morosely out the window again.

The handkerchief wrapping Hakkai’s home-cooked dinner, when he finds it, is loose and wet. He unwraps it to find that the food’s been beaten to mushy crumbs, many of which have already spilled out into the larger bag. Gojyo curses and shoves it aside, tired and disgusted, and aware that even if he doesn’t need to eat Hakkai sure as hell should. But before Gojyo can move to stand, before he even glances across the room at the kitchen table, Hakkai shifts beside him.

“I’m fine,” he says quietly. He doesn’t bother to wear a smile.

“You need to eat. We’ll leave some money.” And then, more softly, voice so rough Gojyo can barely cut words from it, “It’s just food, Hakkai.”  

Outside, the rain is tapping on the windows, the fingers of hundreds of hungry ghosts. Inside there is only one, hovering beside Hakkai as always. Tonight she is sitting between them, so palpable Gojyo thinks he can nearly smell her – the sweet scent of hay and honey, like her brother, he imagines – can nearly feel the cold of her shoulder against his. The shitty priest is so fond of believing that it’s strength of mind that defines existence. Well, here and now there is only one thing that Hakkai believes. Gojyo doesn’t have to look at him to know it, doesn’t have to be told; he can feel Hakkai’s lover, Hakkai’s sister, feeding hungrily from her brother’s pain. Can feel Hakkai giving it to her, too sick with despair to know any better.  

“Fuck it,” he snarls, and stands so abruptly he nearly twists his ankle. Strides over to the table in two long steps, spits his cig into the stove, picks up a plate of rice wafers and another of dumplings, and returns. Sits down, and shoves the dumplings at Hakkai. “Eat.”

Hakkai looks up, startled, eyes dilated in the low candlelight so that there is only a tiny sliver of green ringing the black. “Gojyo –”

“Eat, Cho Gonou,” says Gojyo harshly. Sits there without releasing Hakkai from his hard stare, pushing the plate into the empty long-fingered hands. Hakkai’s eyes grow wide, face pale even in the warm light. “This is your night: eat.”

Hakkai makes a low choking noise in his throat, unable to get any words out.

“And then you can haunt the man who didn’t pray for you, who didn’t see you laid to rest, who didn’t do a damn thing to appease your suffering,” Gojyo continues in the same rusty voice, refusing to let Hakkai look away. “Tonight you have nothing to give and everything to take, so don’t you fucking dare offer what isn’t yours.”

Hakkai slowly closes his eyes, lips twisting upwards in a crooked, bittersweet smile. Sighs, and drops back against the wall in a loose-limbed slump. He takes the weight of the plate from Gojyo’s hands and rests it on his good thigh. “Not mine to give?” he asks, voice softening.

“No. Eat your damn dumplings.” Gojyo passes a shaky hand over his brow, pushing his hair out of his face.

Eventually, Hakkai does. He places them placidly in his mouth and eats with a bland expression; he eats the rice wafers Gojyo hands him afterwards as well. When he finishes, Gojyo takes the plates back to the table and eats a bowl of millet and some rice cakes himself. Fishes some change out of his bag and leaves it on the empty plates, and then stokes up the fire. Hakkai watches silently. Doesn’t say anything when Gojyo sits back down beside him, pulling his still-damp shirt off and drawing him in close.

“You’re cold,” he mutters, chafing Hakkai’s arms. Hakkai doesn’t move, his head resting on Gojyo’s bare shoulder.

“I didn’t notice.”

Gojyo sighs, warm air ruffling through Hakkai’s hair. “You’re an idiot. And you’re crap at haunting. The hell am I the one making you do everything? You should be the one yanking my chain.”

“I’ll remember that,” murmurs Hakkai, shifting his weight against Gojyo. He’s warming up now, and Gojyo settles him more comfortably against his side.

“You damn well better. You can haunt Sanzo next year, he deserves it more.”

They sit quietly for several minutes, listening to the logs crack and spark in the stove and the rain drumming on the windows. Gojyo rests his head against Hakkai’s, closes his eyes. It’s been an even crappier ghost festival than he expected, but it’s almost over now, and they’re both still here. And then Hakkai opens his mouth, and Gojyo sees the image of safety shattering in front of him.

“Gojyo – I’m sorry –”

“Don’t.” He snaps the word out whip-fast, trying to kill this conversation dead before it happens.

“It’s not fair that –”

“Hakkai. Don’t. I don’t mind – I don’t want – you don’t need to be perfect. No one is, never, and the harder the try the closer you come to breaking. I don’t want that.”

“I’m already broken.” The words aren’t self-pity, they’re simply a disclaimer. As if he didn’t know. Gojyo rolls his eyes, and pulls the other man closer.

“Yeah, but I taped you up nice and good. The scars just make you more unique. Less scarily close to perfect. I’m okay with broken things. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

“I think that would be impossible,” replies Hakkai, with just a hint of his usual dryness.

“Everyone’s a critic.” He bends his head to press a soft kiss against Hakkai’s temple, feels Hakkai’s hand tighten momentarily around his wrist, thumb rubbing at the soft skin there. He drops his head back down and closes his eyes.

Outside, the patter of the rain begins to lighten up.

End