Part 3
(05:38 AM, 18 Dec 2004)
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Small crucifix, a few inches long. Silver, Celtic
knotwork engraved on one side and an inscription in Latin on the other,
a phrase Sanzo couldn't read that pressed etched backwards into the bishop's
hand, held clenched in his fist. Clung to desperately, even for how the
metal cut into the palm, for how the edge dug into Sanzo's shoulder. As
Hazel held close, fierce, arms wrapped tight with all dear life, shaking
and shivering and his breath might cloud in the air were his face not pressed
so close against the monk's skin.
Small crucifix taken from the window where he'd
set up his make-shift altar, where the candles still burned unadorned and
glowed a golden halo and tainted color on everything the eyes caught. Small
crucifix that was pendant to a long silver chain, a necklace worn normally
under the bishop's clothes even after the vestments and the Star of David
he wielded for his work. Small crucifix that had no power, no coil of aura
around it but the weak trace of a long-ago baptism and sanctification.
Small crucifix that was nothing but an article, just an adornment, just
a superstition Sanzo couldn't wrestle from his grip however he tried.
Leave it, he'd told him.
Allow me this, he'd been answered.
Tonight was a holy night. Tonight the snow swirled
down outside this cold hotel room trailing curls of aural energy thick
as the air, that swarmed over and through, danced over the dust and sung
unknown songs on the subatomic frequencies until the two priests' ears
rang.
Among the sheets, in the wash of heat, arms and
legs of the slighter man clenched and shaking around his body, Sanzo's
mind flooded and for the briefest moment he could see it, the network of
energy that crisscrossed over their heads. The lines that spun around them
both like insubstantial spider's thread, traced the virgin candles on the
window sill, snagged on the dormant maten and the Star of David pendant
somewhere among their clothes on the floor, visited briefly the silver
cross in Hazel's fist.
And when the view faded and the only song remaining
was the whimpers from the Westerner's throat, he still felt the presence
lingering on the small crucifix. Held back and held strong on nothing but
the pagan's god-fearing paranoia and self-damnation.
In the morning there'd be prayers, Hail Marys and
Our Fathers and he'd say them in Mandarin and English and Latin. And he'd
purify a basin of water just to resanctify the cross, and who knows what
he'd do to resanctify himself. Such a blasphemy, on a holy night. Such
a sin.
Such a trespass. Such a rape. Such a crime without
possible penance.
It seemed like so long ago, when Gojyo had looked
up from between Sanzo's thighs, licking lips and saying, Damn you're repressed.
The bastard had had no fucking idea what the word meant.
And yet how loud and how shrill Hazel cried when
he came into Sanzo's hand, how his back arched and pressed their chests
together and Sanzo could feel the vibration of his lungs against his ribs.
Until the air cut bitter and metallic as the edge of the cross broke the
skin of Hazel's palm, and its lines burned against Sanzo's shoulder. And
he knew without seeing it that it would be a mark to stay for a day or
more, pagan knotwork etchings carved into his flesh where even the leather
couldn't mask it.
So be it.
In the darkness and the sway of candlelight, the
silence and the song of Hazel's breathing slowing, Sanzo said it before
his mouth could stop him.
"Sin onto me."
"What?" Hazel murmured, dazed and hoarse.
Sanzo didn't know either, he only said it again
louder and clearer.
"I don't understand."
"In the morning," Sanzo relented, for lack of anything
else. He pushed himself up to climb off, but Hazel's arms kept him. "I
can't stay," he told him, growing annoyed now.
But the arms were persistent. Involuntary, pure
instinctual action. The bishop would be alarmed at himself if he was any
more conscious. But Sanzo didn't find it worth the fight to struggle anyway.
Tomorrow, before the hours of the truce expired,
he would see that there would be no prayers. No Hail Marys and Our Fathers.
And the cross, he would insist, was fine as-is. Really. He could tell.
The night trailed on, snow falling. And the mark
on his shoulder stung loudly until he fell asleep.
Deus Misereatur
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05:38 18 Dec 2004
End
"What's upside-down, what's coated in silver?
This crucifix, my four-leaf clover."
--Alkaline Trio, "All On Black"
So where was Gato?
Gojyo: *pokes* Ain't you got a room to go to?
Gato: Asked to leave.
Goku: Asked to leave? Why?
Gato: *shrug*
Gojyo: I'll bet I know.
Hakkai: *humoring* Yes, Gojyo?
Gojyo: He got kicked out so Sanzo and that priest could have mad sex
without an audience.
Hakkai: *chokes on tea* Gojyo--!
Gato: ...
Gojyo: *after getting things flung at him by Goku* It was a joke! A
JOKE! D'you think I'm stupid?
Hakkai: *harumphs and goes back to drink*
Gojyo: ...Hey, know what?
Hakkai: =_= Yes, Gojyo?
Gojyo: If they did knock boots, yanno what you'd call it?
Hakkai: ?
Gojyo: A "holy fuck."
...
Gojyo: *gets more things thrown at him*