midnightdiddle

Three drabbles. Two Naruto, one Saiyuki.

First, a Genma-centric drabble for

ainasiriel's birthday. Vague Jiraiya/Genma.

Birthday Songs

Genma never expected to grow very old. This was mainly because he was a ninja, and as such, the likelihood of growing to a venerable old age was as microscopic as, say, nothing.

So Genma had a habit of celebrating his birthdays hard, and fast, and with the kind of actions that had always made his mother cry. He drank, he danced, he fucked his way in and around Konoha-- He did a great many things one probably shouldn't do on his birthday. His reasoning behind what his mother (late, and had been late since she was thirty-seven and Genma was sixteen and she died on a mission coming home) had always called his madness was this: Live for today, and die for tomorrow.

Or something like that.

He couldn't quite remember. He knew he had a catchy motto, somewhere in his head, where he kept thoughts and ideas and memories, picture-perfect replicas of grotesque bodies and beautiful girls and old men with their hearts cut out. But right now, he couldn't quite remember what his catchy (or not so catchy) motto was, because he was a little too involved with drinking away the night.

It was, after all, his birthday.

There was an old man next to him, white hair and lined eyes, old tattoos on a face that didn't look like it smiled (really smiled, the way Raidou always smiled) very often. Genma thought about elbowing the old man, telling the old man his motto, but Genma wasn't quite sure what his motto was--

"Your birthday?" the old man asked, turning to glance at Genma curiously, and Genma nodded.

"Yeah," Genma said again, and his slur wasn't too pronounced. Good, that. "It's my birthday," he repeated. "Thirty-four today." The old man smiled at Genma, but not the way Raidou always smiled, and Genma smiled back.

x

Jiraiya wasn't quite as old as Genma remembered, not that Genma had ever remembered much about Jiraiya.

Most everything was word-of-mouth, quiet legends people handed down, words falling like so many pebbles. Jiraiya was strong, Jiraiya was fast, Jiraiya was eccentric and loud and completely irreverent. His name was always linked with Tsunade's, with Orochimaru's, with Hatake Sakumo's name and the Sandaime's name.

There was a bit more about Jiraiya that Genma learned, though. Jiraiya talked too much, laughed too much when he was drunk, and had a tendency to steal people's drinks. Jiraiya didn't care for ramen, had something almost close to a sweet-tooth, and liked to give his books to all his friends. Jiraiya also, Genma learned, didn't know any birthday songs.

Part of this might have been due to the fact that Jiraiya only sang when he was drunk, and Jiraiya usually never drank enough to be drunk enough to sing. It didn't really matter much to Genma, since Genma didn't sing much (hadn't since his mother sang "happy birthday, happy birthday," then came back two weeks later dead, sword through her throat).

x

Genma had never really expected to reach age twenty, let alone twenty-five, or thirty, or thirty-five. Each birthday was something of a surprise to him, a moment of curiousity and puzzlement. He wasn't quite sure how he'd managed to stay alive this long, but he never cared enough to think hard upon it. He had a motto about things like that, something like "think on it tomorrow, if you're still alive tomorrow," or something similar.

He had a great many mottos, little phrases that made Raidou laugh and had always made his mother cry, because his mother had always cried over things like that, things that made Genma laugh as he bled and coughed and choked.

Sometimes Jiraiya would sit next to Genma, drinking and laughing, and Genma would hum "happy birthday, happy birthday" under his breath. Jiraiya never really smiled, and Genma never really felt happy, but all in all, they were pretty good birthdays.

Genma had never expected to grow very old, but sometimes, sitting next to old men, drinking and complaining about kids, wondering how his mother had felt-- Sometimes, drinking next to Jiraiya, and sometimes, kissing Jiraiya, and sometimes, wondering if Jiraiya would smile this year, or maybe next year, or maybe the next year--

Sometimes, Genma didn't think it'd be such a bad thing, to grow old.

Now, an Iruka-centric drabble for

drelfina

Cups of Coffee

One cup of coffee.

Iruka's mug is plain ceramic, almost the color of eggs in cartoons. Not quite white, not quite cream, and entirely uninteresting.

The coffee is hot in the cup, heating through ceramic and glaze, and Iruka shuffles the mug from hand to hand as he shuffles back to the desk. Shuffles the papers on the desk.

He shuffles his feet, shuffles his hands-- A few minutes later, when the papers are shoved into a drawer, he shuffles cards, then deals them out to Genma, laughing over the hand of cards between his fingers.

Three cups of coffee in the middle of the night, and it's another all-nighter in the teachers' lounge. All the teachers are there, grading last minute papers, working on tests and theories and formulas.

There aren't enough children coming out of the Academy this year, and there aren't enough kids going in, either. Teachers are complaining they'll lose their jobs, and parents are complaining they'll lose their children.

Iruka drinks down a cup of coffee, feels his stomach twist. He wonders if the drinking fountain is still broken, and wonders if it's worth the trip, to get a drink of water.

In the end, he gets another cup of coffee.

Seven cups of coffee, and Iruka's sitting in the hallway of the hospital, heat of the coffee sinking through the styrofoam cup. He takes a slow sip, then sets the cup down on the tile.

He's been here for a while now, but he really doesn't know how long. Maybe a day, maybe three. Time passes slowly, hints of sunlight sneaking through hospital rooms into the hallway, nurses coming and going.

His mouth tastes bitter, like coffee and vomit and maybe a little regret, and he takes another sip of coffee, because that tastes better than the regret.

Medical papers are easy enough to fill out, with Raidou's name at the top, next to his age, his birthdate, his sex and his identification number and his address.

Iruka fills out the papers, sign them, and drinks another cup of coffee.

Thirteen cups of coffee, and Iruka thinks this might be the meaning of addiction. He doesn't remember sleeping, doesn't think he's slept for days. The mug in his hands, an egg-color of white, shakes, and he winces a little too slowly as the coffee sloshes over onto his hand.

He's waiting for someone, only he's forgotten who. There was supposed to be a poker game tonight, he's thinking, but he might be wrong. Maybe he's waiting for students, or for someone to come home from a mission, or for his parents to walk through the door--

Twenty-one cups of coffee, and Iruka doesn't drink anymore.

And for

nezumiko, a Gojyo-centric Saiyuki drabble.

Touch

Touch is a strange thing to Gojyo. It's odd to him, exhilarating and new, to reach out and feel warm skin beneath his fingertips, to feel another person, human or youkai, breathe. The feeling of being touched in return, of feeling hands run along his body, over his cheek, around his neck, down his chest-- the feeling is something he could never describe, something delicious and terrifying all at once.

When he was a child, he used to sneak as close to his mother as he could, quiet and small, hunkering down next to her chair on the off-chance that when she turned around, when she reached across the table, that she might brush against him.

Sometimes, when he was a child, he'd wait, breathless and staggering, for her to hit him again, because a touch was a touch, and a touch meant that she cared about him, in some way or shape or form. A touch meant that he was there, and that she knew he was there, and that she cared, whether it was love or hate or something so mixed up and ruined that it'd never get untangled again.

He used to stand outside the bedroom door, hand pressed against his swollen cheek, and he'd listen to his mother and brother touch. He'd listen to his mother cry, and he'd listen to his brother murmur, and when Jien would come out, sweaty and stinking and avoiding Gojyo's eyes, Gojyo would shuffle a little to the side, just so a little of the heat, a little of the sweat, would rub off on him, too.

It was harder (and easier) to get touches as a teenager. There wasn't anyone waiting at home, and it was easy to follow girls and boys into hotel rooms, because 'home' meant cold empty rooms where Gojyo had to sit by himself, because there was no one to sit with him.

'Town' became a beautiful word to him, a word that meant drunk people, laughing and shouting and fighting, touching in so many ways, so many places, always hot and needy, not caring if Gojyo was a kid, or if Gojyo's hair was red, or if Gojyo's eyes were red (from sex or from birth or from crying, he never knew which--).

The transition from childhood to adulthood was through touches, from slaps on the face to caresses below the belt, mouths pressed against his hip bone, fingers curled around his cock. There were fistfights, hands grabbing him by his shirt, throwing him against the wall. Rough, soft, everything in between, and Gojyo was hooked.

People touched him, and he could touch them back, could fondle the girls' breasts and break the boys' noses, and it was all there, warm skin and loud heartbeats and the feeling of life, beneath his fingertips and across his wrists.

When he found Gonou in the mud, cold and rain-slick, he dragged the man home, because there was the faint warm of a pulse at Gonou's throat, a slippery breath from Gonou's mouth.

Gonou became Hakkai, and then there was the idiot boy and the stick-up-his-ass priest, and Gojyo didn't think he'd ever been quite so happy (or at least he thinks it's happiness, this feeling almost like contentment ) in his life.

The others are always next to him, a faint warmth through clothing, shoulders bumping into his. The beds are small, the rooms are cramped, and it's easy for Gojyo to sprawl across a chair, and wait for someone to hit him.

It's easy for him to be touched.