I don't go to his room. He comes to mine.

By then the smoke is thick in the air and the whole place stinks of my cigarettes. His nose wrinkles as he steps in the door, the lord high and mighty Sanzou-sama, and he shuts it behind him and locks it. So fastidious. So precise. So careful without even thinking about it. Goddamn built-in reflexes to keep him safe from, heaven help him, getting a tiny bit of humanity on his flesh, let alone his soul.

He lets the robe slip off his shoulders like a high-class stripper, and tell me, why the hell does a monk wear black leather? Black leather gloves, even?

He smells like sandalwood under the cigarettes.

Most of the time he just comes across and lies down on the bed, letting me do the work, shuddering under my hands as I remove his clothing, tiny intakes of breath at the touch of my hair or mouth against his skin, but never quite enough to admit that he notices me or even is aware that it is me. I could be anyone there, bending over him, folding back the thin black leather from the pale skin, tracing down the line of his spine.

Sometimes we . . . struggle, I suppose you could call it. He wants to be in control for a while. I don't know why. It's not as if he sees me in the same way that I see him. I see Sanzou. He sees . . . I don't know what he sees. I'm not sure I like myself if I really am nothing more than what he sees. We roll over on the bed together, his hands on my shoulders, and I relax for a moment, let him taste my sweat, hear my breathing, let him pause for a moment before I roll him over and flip his legs up and take him.

Once the bastard fastened his teeth in my shoulder, and I had to try and ignore Goku all the next morning. The kid doesn't understand, of course. He's not old enough to understand. Five hundred years in the cave and still a child's mind and a child's innocent eyes. Poor kid.

Hakkai just looked at it, and looked at me, and smiled that happy little smile and said absolutely nothing and drove the jeep and didn't look at it again and behaved to me just the way he always does and smiled and smiled and he didn't do anything, didn't say anything, he didn't even notice, what do I have to do to make him notice me? He's always there, always smiling, slender like a willow tree in spring, graceful, bending, gentle, soft, and he doesn't . . .


Sanzou in my bed, coming to my room at night. He doesn't give at all. I have his body. I don't have him. All sweat and violet eyes and golden hair and muscles so firm under me and yet he's not there.

I don't love him, after all, so why should I want anything more?

He smells of sandalwood.


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