Drabble 1: Oasis.
Warnings: None really
Dedication: To my Lummy-ness, whom I hope gets better over the Thanksgiving break. These will be small drabbles of Koumyou- or Goudai. Somewhere around those parts. (These sentences are taken from the Manhwa, The Great Catsby. More are soon to come)
Koumyou and the rest of the Saiyuki characters belong to Kazuya Minekura.
Nights like this were unreasonably hot.
As in, steaming, simmering above the surface, and sticky on the tender flesh of women, who had come to the bar to regain their youths and passion. The stars fluttered, dimmed by the heat, and were uselessly scattered over the dry night sky. The town lights were too bright- too hot and messy. Like bright, yellow paint smeared over the wooden roofs of shops and houses.
A small bar containing too many people had lost its luster about an hour ago. The women had stopped flirting and curling, and simply laid back against their men and armchairs, so they could rest like cats on grass. The men were silent, almost depressed, and would occasionally snake an arm around an unsuspecting female and hold her close- like a child's toy long forgotten.
One man, (a priest?) had just finished his 3rd shot, and had began to outline the carvings of a candle. The hot wax licked at his finger, but he didn't seem to mind.
"You'll get burned," said a soft voice, almost breathless against his ear. Koumyou, startled, jumped nearly out of his seat. "What? Oh no, I'm fine. I wouldn't." He laughed with ease, like water onto grass.
The young woman beside him blinked curiously, perplexed, and trailed her gaze over his hand. Her eyes, brown and soft, became weary. "You were close. I'm sorry if I startled you. It just seemed...weird," She began to struggle with her words. "I think you're drunk."
Koumyou smiled, tracing his fingernails over his forehead. "I don't think so...I have a high tolerance for alcohol." She felt him puff up with pride.
"Oh," She chuckled softly, her eyes trailing upwards, towards his forearm. "Why do you have long hair?" Terribly random.
"Because...I like it long. You don't like it?"
(At heart...I believed her to be an 'oasis'...)
"Do you have a home to go to?" Her tone was sympathetic.
"No, but I have a man." Her answered simply then paused when her face became shocked, and flustered. "Ah, I mean, a man. I live with him."
"I see." Her blush faded.
He wanted another shot. "What are you doing here, anyways? This place seems to...hot, for you." He tilted his head. She looked away, full lips parting. "I wanted to see people. I heard there would be dancing...but there's nothing but drunk men here. Too many hands."
(This place...!! I don't ever want to come here again...)
So they spoke, for a few hours, in the heat. People passed by, kissing, laughing, and some praying. Praying to go home, and be able to call it a home. By the time they were done with their 50th something topic, her skin had grown flush and warm. Her hair was dark, out of place, tumbling over her shoulders. Under thick lashes hid soft, silent eyes.
He swallowed, and found his lips dry again. "I think I'll leave."
"To your man?"
"Yes, I expect he's quite sore with me right now. Do you want me to take you home?
"I don't want to go home." Her voice rushed, as she leaned in close. "Take me somewhere else. I can't see you properly here."
So he did, and they left the bar, and walked out onto the streets, where the air became cool and gratefully cut their skin like ice to a fire. She held onto his arm, and pressed herself against him, like some women do. Her persistence was almost refreshing, but it was also unexpectedly unwelcome.
"I have no where else to take you." He said, voice quiet as they came upon a large bridge, over looking a small river. She shook her head. "It doesn't matter. I'll be gone tomorrow. Go home to your man." Like she was...waiting for something.
And he did let go, gently at first. He didn't have time to think, why a man his age still sought closure, when her lips suddenly pressed against his. And they stayed there, for a long time. She willingly gave herself to him, what she could afford. Very little, was something of a blessing to him.
Finally, when they parted, she crossed the bridge and never came back. He went to his home, his palace, and castle.
(That marriage is merely a formalilty was a silent agreement. No...I remained silent.)
He did not tell Goudai where he was. Or any of the other men who were so suddenly avid with detail about his 'bar gigs.'
He lay in his bed, and slept. The next morning, he wouldn't have a hangover, or an unfamiliar taste in his mouth.
It would just be him and the mere memory of an Oasis.