voidtreckerexpress | there's more than meets the eye, there's more than meets the price [OPEN]

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there's more than meets the eye, there's more than meets the price [OPEN]

Who: Koumyou Sanzo, OPEN
Where: Carriage J: Music Carriage - upstairs, in silence
When: Forward-dated to Jelly 4!
What: Sneaky solo martial arts practice a couple days before the next mission. Folks are welcome to catch him doing his thing, despite his effort to be secretive. If you ask for lessons (in anything, ever), he will almost certainly say no... but folks are totally welcome to try to convince him. (Also if anyone wants to just ATTACK, he'll adapt accordingly.)
Warnings: Otoha thread has some sensitive topics (warned in the comment titles). Devero thread same and same, but also some kinda graphic self harm injury shit from Koumyou etc.

xxxxxif you can't see the sky there's too much artificial light

Muscle memory requires rote practice. Patterns mastered, then broken, to keep one's actions independent in a real fight. Even at his level, Koumyou needs to sharpen the blade once in a while, lest he lose his edge when he needs it most.

Koumyou Sanzo has picked a time when most of the train seems otherwise occupied. Maybe it's the middle of the 'night' and they're sleeping, or perhaps this is a typical meal time in the dining car. One way or another, he's gone out of his way to have as few witnesses as he can, tucked upstairs in the silent music car.

He stands still in the middle of the stage, and checks one last time that the room is truly empty, at least here at the start. Satisfied, Koumyou drops his center of gravity, bare feet sliding into position. One hand tucks against his shoulder, the other out before him, fists loose.

Breathing carefully, in through the nose, and out through the mouth... slowly, he lets his eyes slip shut.

And then he begins to move.

A block, a duck, a shift to one side. Another block; flowing, diverting an imagined attack away with the edge of an open hand. A step back, one kick at the level of a stomach. Spinning to the right, his braid and the long ends of his clothing flutter behind him. Fluid, each graceful movement morphing into the next without hesitation or pause.

There is nothing rigid here. Not until it's needed. A fist tightens at the instant of impact, not a moment before. The snap of force in the air, even without a real target, is audible in the quiet room.

If one watches him for more than a second, one can almost see the invisible opponents rushing him. They come from all directions; some are even armed. With a knife he side-steps, with a sword that he ducks beneath to rise again with the arc of an uppercut palm-strike. To a chin? A nose? ...A throat?

He flips as though it's easy, as though up and over someone who had been rushing to tackle him from behind. Landing, the heels of both palms snap out in a strike to their back, his whole body behind the movement. And then he's gone, rolling backwards, momentum changing directions as fast as a stray gust of wind. Up with another kick; that foot comes down, and he spirals out and up into a spin-kick aimed even higher than his own head.

Sometimes, he gets quite close to the drop off the stage. But he never actually touches the edges, and he certainly never falls.

Koumyou's braid whips behind him as he moves. His long sleeves flutter behind each sweeping attack or diversion of his arms. The hem of his robe skims against his bare ankles with every wide movement of his legs. Light though it is, the bamboo breastplate on his chest barely shifts on his thin frame. The sutra certainly doesn't go anywhere, though the ends and the back both flutter as if it were real paper.

It would be easy to turn this into a dance, and it would be equally easy to turn this into death. There is not a single second in which he isn't moving, flowing, striking, diverting.

If left alone, this will go on for a while longer.

His eyes do not yet open; his movements do not yet slow.

He will not lose his edge.

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Koumyou doesn't say anything until Devero's turned his back and moved several steps away.

"...Are you running away?"

That sounds fucking livid, in that quiet, dangerous way that Devero's never once heard from the priest. He lunges to his feet, too, but otherwise stays where he is.

"It's true I don't know anything about relationships or sex or anything-- anything like that-- but I know about monsters! I know about people who exist to consume others, who can only see light when they rip it out of another person's soul and snuff it out in their hands!"

He's yelling loud enough to echo around the music car, now. It might even carry down stairs.

"And I know what it's like to-- to feel like the only person you're worth the attention of, is one of those monsters!"

Isn't that why he'd always egged Ukoku on? Isn't that why he'd encouraged the raven to sink his claws into his heart and twist, courted being consumed by him? The worst person he'd ever known? The man who'd tried to beat Koumyou's sick and dying friend in front of him--? Who'd killed his friend?

Isn't that why he'd let Ukoku in so close?

That's all he'd deserved! That sucking void, unendingly hungry, without a single shred of a heart--!

And if only it hadn't endangered his son, he-- he wouldn't even regret it!

The sheer fury in Koumyou's voice stops Devero dead. Fear hooks its claws that much deeper into his heart and he almost, almost goes down to his knees in response to that tone alone. Perhaps only the fact that it's a man's voice and not a woman's spares him.

He turns jerkily, as if being drawn against his will, to face the priest.

"Maybe that's why you like me so much, then," he says in a twisted, almost dead voice. "I am one of those monsters. Maybe you can't help yourself."

Isn't that what she always says? He's just as bad as any of those self-absorbed monsters who ended the world; he'll consume anything if his selfish appetites aren't contained. He's an emotional predator and a drain on the society that supports him. All he wants to do is take without bothering to give back.

No, you're not. That's what Koumyou wants to say, but he's tried so hard to tell Devero what he sees in him, he can't help but see those words as futile here in the storm they've generated between them.

So instead, the priest lifts his chin and fixes Devero with a flat look.

"Prove it."

He laughs, harsh and ugly in the empty space around them. "Prove what? That I'm a monster? That you can't help yourself?" He closes the space between them in a couple long strides, stepping right into Koumyou's personal space and looming over him. "I don't have to, do I? We're both right fucking here."

"Prove you're a monster. Here, I'll help."

Oh, that can't be good. Koumyou reaches up and yanks the sutra off his shoulders, and slings it over Devero's in one quick, blink-and-you'll-miss-it movement, far too fast to stop. The thing even adjusts to how broad Devero is, laying on him properly.

"All monsters crave power. Take it, I won't stop you."

And then he digs into his sleeve for his arms band, and produces a sharp knife he'd taken from the kitchen. He holds it up by the blade in the narrow space between them, fingers tight.

"Monsters love inflicting pain. Go ahead, I won't lift a finger. Or maybe you prefer inflicting fear? Take this knife to my eyes, then. Slow, like my nightmares."

He finally lifts his head to look right up at the looming Devero, and his face is so unbelievably calm in the middle of the storm-- "Or perhaps you're a monster who doesn't like to get his hands dirty? I can help there, too. Would you prefer that? Here--"

Those fingers, tight around the blade of the kitchen knife, begin to squeeze.

"I'll help."

Edited 2021-01-10 07:16 (UTC)

When Koumyou slings the sutra over Devero's shoulders, his aggressive posturing evaporates immediately. He startles and rocks back half a step, his hands lifting to snatch it off again. Only his fear of the power contained within the artifact stops him from flinging it away; he's more afraid to even touch it.

"Koumyou--" he protests, or tries, because now the priest has a knife between them and he's still talking and he's-- and--

"Don't!" Devero grabs at Koumyou's hands as those bony fingers test the blade. "Koumyou, stop, what is wrong with you?! You're going to hurt yourself!"

Koumyou just stares up at Devero, willing him to get the point. His words haven't been able to reach him--!

Blood drips onto the stage from his grip on the knife, which doesn't relax at all. But it also doesn't tighten, either.

"Koumyou, please--!" Devero begs him. His hands are on Koumyou's but he's afraid to force them apart, lest he cause more damage than he'd be preventing. He knows how delicate hands are...!

Oh, Devero.

"You don't really want me to hurt you, do you?" he asks, tugging futilely at Koumyou's wrists. He meets his eyes, but the priest's gaze is inscrutable. "I don't-- I don't think I can--!"

Oh, Devero.

"I want you to prove what you are," Koumyou says calmly, but he allows the pain to enter his voice, to lance sharp across his expression, as he applies just the slightest bit more pressure. Then, baring his teeth against the pain, "--to yourself!"

"Stop it!" There he goes, roaring again. He feels so helpless and frantic as he tries to keep Koumyou from doing permanent damage to his fingers with the fucking knife.

He releases his impotent grip on the priest's hands to scrabble at the scripture draped over his own shoulders. He drags it off and slings it clumsily around Koumyou's neck, where it belongs. "You're right, okay?" he says desperately. "I don't want this! And I don't want to hurt you, so just-- just stop, please!"

And Koumyou immediately lets go of the knife, letting it drop to clatter against the floor in the splotches of his blood, added to now by the little stream suddenly unleashed by the metal leaving flesh.

He'd gone pretty fucking deep into those slender, bony fingers of his.

He'd been very, very serious.

"Ahn..." Shit that hurts.

Devero catches Koumyou's wrist and turns his hand. One look at the wounds makes his breath catch in his chest; when he looks back up into Sanzo's eyes, his own are dark with fear. "What the fuck is wrong with you," he says. It's not actually a question, not with how flat and helpless his voice sounds. The way Koumyou's hand looks, they don't have time to stand here andd hash out what just happened-- not as far as Devero's concerned, anyway. "These need a doctor immediately!"

There might be bone showing in a few of those fingers if there wasn't so much blood in the way. There's so little meat to slice through...

Koumyou reaches up with his other hand and pulls the sutra from his shoulders, but only to wrap it around his hand. As a bandage?

"Look away," he warns, and-- "cover your ears."

He gives Devero a few seconds to either comply or not, and then the sutra lights up with blinding white light that floods the entire music car. It's so bright it washes everything out into vague, hazy shapes--

And Koumyou drops to his knees with a scream.

Devero wastes those few seconds furrowing his brow and trying to ask why, only to be absolutely buffeted away from Koumyou by the light that erupts from the sutra. It's not that there's any physical pressure in play, but his brain can't help but interpret light that intense as a precursor to an explosion. Danger. Instinctively he backpedals away, stumbling and landing hard on his ass. He throws up both arms up to shield his face from the blast--

That doesn't come.

Instead of an incendiary roar, all he hears is the Sanzo's scream and the thud of his knees hitting the stage. Devero lowers his arms, his eyes so dazzled by that flash that he can't see clearly. In fact, the most he can see is an incandescence like a sun, and behind that a shadow.

He scrambles on hands and knees towards that shadow anyway. "Koumyou?" he asks, his voice shaking.

The priest just collapses from his knees onto his side on the stage, his brain blank for a moment as it tries to process what just happened. Even though Koumyou has felt the power of the sutra before, and even though he himself controls it, it's never any easier.

One fifth of that which made all of everything and nothing, light and void, life and death -- that power isn't gentle. It can't be, even a fraction of its power bent to a single person like that. At the absolute best, most controlled, careful application -- it's still a falling mountain versus an ant.

"Koumyou!"

Devero's at his side immediately, heart hammering in his chest as he reaches for the priest. He can see that Koumyou's eyes are open but there's nothing in them, and Devero's hands shake as they feel for a pulse in his neck.

He finds one, which is a relief, but not much of one given how limp and unresponsive the priest is as Devero lays him onto his back. He cups that narrow face in his hands. "Koumyou, can you hear me?"

It doesn't take more than a couple seconds for Koumyou's brain to essentially reboot. He nods against Devero's hands, and reaches his bloodied ones to pry them off his face.

"Healed."

That's all the explanation he offers at the moment. And indeed, while there's still a lot of blood on his hands, the injured one is no longer a thin line of gaping wounds.

Under the blood, there's a fresh new scar slashed across those fingers, thin and delicate like from a surgery.

"Thank the virtues," Devero whispers, his own eyes closing for a moment with relief when the priest speaks. He lets Koumyou take his hands, but switches their grip so that he can hold the injured one and examine it.

It's just as he's said, of course. Devero uses the hem of his shirt to try and wipe away the blood on Koumyou's hand. He's not very successful, but it doesn't take much to reveal the healed and whole fingers.

"You used the sutra to heal yourself," he says, his voice faint. Make that overwhelming relief. Every part of him seems to slump, his hands even releasing Koumyou's and falling back into his lap.

Koumyou sits up after some effort, and actually shifts a few inches away from Devero, for once. Normally, he's the one moving closer.

What is wrong with you echoes in his head, said twice within moments. What indeed. Devero's seen just a flash, just the tiniest hint, of the darkness hiding inside the priest's soul.

"...I said I'd do anything," he says quietly, tiredly. "If dragging you into the light means you end up hating me, I'll accept that cost. It's probably better that way, anyway."

Then Devero will be free to find someone to be in the light with. Someone who isn't Koumyou Sanzo.

Someone whole.

As Koumyou sits up, he's not the only one moving away. Devero scoots back as well, skittish in the face of the storm that has just passed between them. Is it dissipated? Or are they just sitting in the eye?

He doesn't know how to respond, actually curling up and covering his head with his hands as Koumyou continues to talk about him like-- like he's-- like--

But his head comes up at those last few words, and suddenly he's-- angry?

"Oh, fuck you!" he snaps, and before he can think about what he's doing he lashes out, kicking Koumyou in the hip. It is a rare display of temper-- Devero tries not to ever let himself touch someone in anger or frustration. Not with how big, how strong he is.

But he does so now, and the only thing that restrains the force is the awkward angle.

"You don't get to do something like that to me for--" His voice breaks and twists. "--'for my own good' and then sit there and feel sorry for yourself if it changes things between us!"

Koumyou doesn't react to the kick, even though it definitely hurts. "I don't."

And it's totally honest. Feeling sorry for himself would require something the priest honestly just, lacks. Something that broke a very, very long time ago.

Koumyou doesn't react; denied an outlet, all the adrenaline and panic and fear just keeps churning inside Devero. His trembling now is not from fear as he gapes incredulous at the priest. "You don't? What's that even supposed to mean!?"

"I don't feel sorry for myself."

He'd miss Devero, absolutely he would. So, so much. But that isn't the same as feeling sorry for himself. It's a flame he's willing to hold his hand over, even though it will hurt.

The priest has no sympathy for himself, in general. The only person's attention he's ever been truly worth is Ukoku's anyway. He's not like Devero, who cares so deeply for everyone around him, who tries so hard to bring everyone else light while himself being held down in a dark pit.

Devero deserves better, and Koumyou just isn't it. The moon helps no one.

Devero recoils from Koumyou, rocking ungracefully up to his feet and turning his back on the priest. He wraps his arms around himself and closes his eyes, trying futilely to anchor himself the storm of his agitation.

It doesn't help. Instead he finds himself raking through what just happened between them, trying to find the moment where things changed, the moment that all the charged emotion had crystallized into this-- this violence--

So he can make sure it never happens again? He realizes what he's doing, realizes the significance of the emotional reflex, and he just starts to laugh.

"Do you know who else likes to terrorize me for my own good?" he asks after a moment, his voice dripping with vitriol. Directed at who? Good question. "My Madame does."

He turns to look over his shoulder at Koumyou, so blank and distant where he lays on the floor. "At least I understand what she gets out of it."

Koumyou says nothing, he just brings his knees up to rest his head on, staying sitting on the floor.

He feels ill.

cw depersonalization, abuse trauma

subcircuits - 2021-01-10 21:35 (UTC) - Expand

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its_dad_sanzo - 2021-01-10 21:46 (UTC) - Expand

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