Fandom:  Saiyuki
Author:  Sunspot
Title:  Cant dels Ocells
Rating:  PG 13
Note:  A Christmas gift for Lawless, who wanted Sanzo and Goku and birdsong.  El cant dells ocells is a Catalán Christmas carol.  The title means “Carol of the Birds.” Advent Challenge day 25

Cant dels Ocells

Sanzo stayed very still.  There was something . . .

Catalogue:  gun a hard lump under pillow, no one in the room who shouldn’t be, Goku still out—half draped over Sanzo, but a sharp elbow to the ribs and he’d be off and up and ready to fight and . . .

Birds.

It was birds.  Singing.

Curru, curru, curru.  Cheep, cheep, cheep.  Tu-whoo.

The light was all wrong—even Sanzo knew the stupid birds didn’t start their racket till right before dawn.  He cut his eyes at the clock:

One-two-oh-oh glowed red in the dark.

They’d been asleep less than a f**king hour.  He’d think it was the damn kappa playing a joke, but last he saw them Hakkai had been pulling Gojyo through their own door with intent.

And everyone knew you didn’t mess around with birds and Goku.

Goku.

Goku shifted against him.

Okay, less than a f**king hour after more than an hour of f**king.

Sanzo could feel his muscles stand down.  It should make a creaking sound the way it felt.

But the only sound was birds, and breathing.

Curru, curru, curru.  Cheep, cheep, cheep.  Tu-whoo. 

Inhale.  Exhale.  Sigh.

Sanzo settled on his back.  Goku shifted again, got his head half on Sanzo’s shoulder, breathing into Sanzo’s neck.

What the hell.  Sanzo slipped his arm around the saru, settled him closer.  He was warm, and Sanzo was well f**ked, and it felt good.

Curru, curru, curru.  Cheep, cheep, cheep.  Tu-whoo. 

Inhale.  Exhale.  Sigh.

Sanzo’s eyes adjusted.  They were a weakness.  Goku, Gojyo, even Hakkai, could see in what might as well be pitch-black to Sanzo. 

But the stars were bright tonight.

They weren’t at the inn.  They’d had dinner there, and drinks at the bar, but it was some kind of pilgrimage, or census, or some shit Sanzo couldn’t be bothered with.  No vacancies.

They were only saved from sleeping in Jeep because the inn’s cook was devout enough to offer a Sanzo priest his grown children’s old rooms.  And trust them with the keys.

There were even people sleeping in barns, Hakkai had reported.

Curru, curru, curru.  Cheep, cheep, cheep.  Tu-whoo. 

Inhale.  Exhale.  Sigh.

The bird thing was really weird, though.

What the hell.  Sanzo craned his neck down and gave Goku a kiss.

“Huh, wha?”  Goku said blurrily, and stretched against Sanzo.

Which was hot.  But.

Curru, curru, curru.  Cheep, cheep, cheep.  Tu-whoo. 

“Listen,” Sanzo said.  Cocked his head toward the window.  He knew Goku could see him.

“Ohhh,” Goku said, propped up on one elbow.  “’Time s’it?”

Not that Goku couldn’t turn his head and see.  “Just after twelve.”

Goku settled back down, but awake.  Head back on Sanzo’s shoulder.

Curru, curru, curru.  Cheep, cheep, cheep.  Tu-whoo. 

Inhale.  Exhale.

“’S pretty,” Goku said.

Sanzo nodded.

“Y’d think they were celebrating something.”

Sanzo stroked his fingers through Goku’s hair.

Title:  Transform
Author:  Sunspot
Rating:  PG 13
Note:  This was an Advent Challenge story and a gift for Laurose.  A fairy tale.  Written before I learned (thanks to Laurose) of the Jeep-Goujun connection.

Transform

“Transform Jeep!”

Sometimes it is urgent, like that.  Usually it is Hakkai who says it, but it can just as easily be Gojyo, or Sanzo, or even Goku, who shouts the words that mean escape, or Jeep’s own safety from a blow that would wound flesh but not steel plate.

Most times it is Hakkai, and mildly:  “Now might be a good time to transform,” or even, “if you would, Jeep.”

And often, most often, it is Jeep himself, who sees what is needed and does it, for what ever exigency of flight or fight or ordinary travel, or even just to spare himself a dunking and never mind the passengers or gear.

And then.  And then.

There are the times such as these.

They are alone in a forest, just out of earshot of the others at the hastily made camp.  Winter chill in the air and the crisp feel of thin snow underfoot.  Jeep launches from Hakkai’s shoulder, but not to fly far.  He can do that, stay close, nearly hovering in air.

“Transform?”  Hakkai will ask.

And Jeep gives almost a nod, head dipping as the white wings give a final beat.

And then there is not a tiny dragon, nor a vehicle that will carry four men and all their gear, but a slender young man, barely more than a boy, with a cascade of bushy white hair down his back and eyes not the blood-red of Gojyo’s, but a translucent crimson that is nearly pink.

This Jeep speaks in fluting tones that are nearly song, and the meaning of the words, for all that half their time together is spent in Jeep pointing to things around them and singing their names, never sticks in Hakkai’s mind.

They will walk together, side by side, and Jeep will flute and trill, and the birds about them will echo back his speech, and they will come to a farther, stiller place, and perhaps Jeep will take a twig from a fallen branch and draw diagrams in the snow.  Are they maps, or equations, or horoscopes?  Hakkai’s mind will never hold them by the time Jeep is on his shoulder again.

And in these quiet places, far from the others with their noise and their needs, Jeep (for it is always Jeep who reaches out) will draw him near, and whisper his songs as they lie down, whisper at Hakkai’s ear and into his mouth, and for a time the words are clear as the bells they echo.

Home