Disclaimer: Saiyuki and Macbeth are properties of Kazuya Minekura and William Shakespeare, respectively.
Warnings: Gojyo POV, Kanan bashing, Macbeth quoting. And, of course, the usual shounen ai and whatnot.
Author’s note: For some reason, Kanan reminds me of Lady Macbeth. Except that Hakkai is the one who feels gulty in the end.
Look like the innocent flower
You always made him so happy.
I’ve heard the stories, seen the dreams of when you were with him. You laughed, you cried, you loved more than anything. You two were the happiest people in the world, and nothing could change that. Nothing else mattered.
But be the serpant under’t
And then everything changed. I know, I’ve heard the story before. The centipedes came for you, the townspeople gave you up without a fight. That wasn’t your fault.
But why did you give up, too?
Death and nature do contend about them
You were raped. You were frightened. You could see no way out. But how could you forget your saviour? He was there for you. He wanted to save you, to take you home, to make everything okay.
A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight
Did you think he would be ashamed of you because of what happened? Did you think he would blame you? Did you think he would see you any different, love you any less? Did you really trust him that little?
These deeds must not be thought
Did you think of him at all? Or did you just think of yourself, of how horrible it was to have the child of that monster inside of you and how you couldn’t possibly bear it. Did it cross your mind that killing yourself just might kill others, too?
After these ways; so, it will make us mad
Maybe I’m not giving you enough credit. Maybe you did think of all these things, maybe you thought ahead. Maybe you just didn’t care.
You didn’t care that you drove the Cho Gonou you supposedly loved mad, you didn’t care that you brought him to his death.
Hell is murky
He wanted to wake up in hell. I wonder why sometimes, I’m sure he’s sure that you’re in heaven or wherever. If he went to hell, I guess it would have been just as well for you, since you’d be together again, if you still care about him.
But it doesn’t really matter, since he came to me, instead.
Will these hands ne’er be clean?
And yet, even though you’re dead, you’re always here. When it’s dark, or it rains, you’re always haunting him, hanging on his consience. He won’t forget you; you’re keeping him from living again.
Here’s the smell of blood still
He has nightmares of you, nightmares where you’re hurt or taken and he can’t save you. He rips blindly at nothing (I can feel him roll around in bed), he tastes blood, smells blood, feels blood on his hands.
He wakes up in a cold sweat. I comfort him.
Look not so pale
I warm him up, hold him close, tell him it’s all right. I normally don’t think of you when I do, because he’s what matters now. I sit up with him until he can go back to sleep. I don’t mind, because I love him, and because it hurts me when he hurts. Unlike you.
Give me your hand
I hold his hand until he falls asleep, and when he does, I smile. We have one thing in common, you and me. We both love his hands.
When I look at his hands, I don’t see the blood or the short lifeline or the repressed claws. I see nothing because his hands are innocent.
The blood is really on your hands.