A/N: While this is techinically a oneshot, it goes along with some of my other fics; a oneshot called "Fire" and the "Intimacy" arc, which currently includes two stories. You don't have to read them to understand this, but it'll probably help. And, as always, I thank my beta, befanini.

Disclaimer: If I owned Saiyuki, the sexual tension would not be left to languish in the subtext.

Elemental

People sometimes call me fiery. I guess it's the convenient adjective to use, what with the red hair and red eyes. And it's not like I ever complained; "fiery" was always sure to get a lay. But I'm really not like fire at all.

See, fire is strong. Fire is unrelenting, and unapologetic. Fire is sure of itself. And I'm not any of those things. Believe it or not, I actually do think about things before I do them, I'm not like the bakazaru, and I feel like shit when something I did makes things harder for someone else. Hell, I used to be apologetic about my own existence as a kid—was ready to die if it would really make everyone happier. Fire would never do that.

But then again, if I'm not fire, what am I? Earth and wood are too grounded, and water has a sort of fluid strength that's more like Hakkai than like me. Metal doesn't seem right, either. So I guess I don't belong to anything.

Big fucking surprise, there.

You know who is like fire, really? Sanzo. I know that sounds stupid, especially since I'm the one always accusing him of being a frigid bastard, but it's true. It took me a little while of traveling with him to see it, but it's there. It's the only reason that a human pushes himself to keep up with all of us, and, more than that, to lead us. It's the only thing that's kept him going through the shocking number of times he's almost gotten killed.

I saw it, really saw it, on that night that we first really admitted what was happening here. I guess it was his equivalent of sharing some kind of secret. That he wasn't just human.

I don't mean that he's actually youkai, or that we've got some creepy alien stuff going on here. No, his body is one-hundred-percent certifiable human. I've seen, felt, or tasted every part of his body (and in some cases, a combination of those things, heh), so I know for sure. But no normal person could survive the sort of fire that's constantly going on in there. It's hard enough to dance around the outside of it, trying not to get burned.

But then there's other times when it's not like that at all.

There are times Sanzo scares me. The kind of scared that makes the space behind your eyes go ice-cold, the kind of scared that makes you feel the spaces between your bones. Not the kind of scared I felt when Mother held that ax over her head and over mine. The kind of scared I felt when Jien ran and told me not to follow. The kind of scared that makes the whole world fall out from under you.

He doesn't think I catch him at it, but I see it. He'll pretend to be sleeping, and I'll see that dead look in his eyes. More than once I've wanted to say something, to touch him, make sure he really is breathing with his eyes looking so dead. But it's even more frightening when he has that dead look and he's still moving. Every action turns horribly mechanical, lifting a cigarette to his lips, tapping his foot on the floor, or sometimes in the Jeep, brushing the same piece of hair out of his face over and over again instead of just tucking it behind his ear and leaving it alone.

I know Hakkai sees it, but he never comments. I guess he feels like he's got no leg to stand on, what with all his own craziness. Goku doesn't see it, or else he'd be a hell of a lot more vocal about it—he doesn't hold back from yelling at Sanzo when the emptiness scares him.

Hit me with the fan and call me stupid monkey. That's what Sanzo's like.

­I see it, but I don't say anything either. I guess I'm afraid of what I'll hear. Because I know that dead look is only there because something is really wrong. I mean, sure, if you look around this group you'll see that we've all been roughed up in some way, but we're damaged. Damaged isn't broken. Damaged is okay, damaged is actually better than whole, sometimes, because once you've been damaged you know how much you can take, and nothing scares you any more. Nothing except broken.

When I see death in his eyes, I think he just might have broken this time.

It's hard to predict when one of those times is coming. He gets into a funk when it rains, yeah, but sometimes it just makes him angry, angrier than usual, and that's okay. Sanzo doesn't fall over the edge when he's angry; he falls over the edge when he's numb.

I saw glimpses of that cold lurking in the back of his eyes all day today, whenever I could catch a glimpse at him in the side-view mirror. They weren't dead eyes yet, but they weren't burning the way they should.

So I wasn't expecting a whole lot to happen when I opened the door tonight—as much as I hated to waste an opportunity to be together, I figured that wasn't what he needed right now. You can't say that I am an ungenerous or unthoughtful lover. So I was absolutely shocked by what happened.

I was barely inside before two iron hands grabbed me and slammed me against the door, reaching past me to lock it tight, a pair of hard lips attacking mine. His body was screwed up so tight that his whipcord-thin body felt like steel against me, every muscle in his body straining to be as close as he physically could. I felt crushed, completely melded to him from the chest down, my wrists bruising where he held them, my lips bruising where he kissed me. But I went with it. You can't say I'm ungenerous.

His hands came off my wrists, as if he'd just remembered who this was, realized that I wouldn't go anywhere, and fisted themselves in my shirt. The kiss slowly gentled, though its ferocity stayed, exhausting and thrilling me at once. He finally broke it off to breathe.

Trying not to sound too out of breath, I asked, "Are you alright?" My hand came up from its place on my side—it had felt frozen there even after Sanzo had released it—and brought it up to his cheek.

He shuddered, and I could tell he was resisting the urge to pull away from the touch. That's one thing that's weird about Sanzo; he can handle sex, and the sort of touching that inevitably comes with it, but if you try to touch him without the intent of fucking him senseless, he's immediately suspicious and shy. We're working on that.

"I'm fine," he snapped too quickly, and turned his lips to my neck. Almost involuntarily, my head fell back and my hand entwined itself in his hair.

"Sanzo . . ." I breathed.

He pressed open-mouthed kisses down my throat until he found the juncture of my neck and shoulder. He latched on there, licking and sucking and God I'm gonna have one hell of a hickey in the morning.

He was reaching a hand under my shirt, skimming my stomach, coming so close to a nipple but dancing away before he'd touched it, going around to my back to scratch with short fingernails. I groaned and made myself break away to take my shirt off. I tried to reach for his, but he wouldn't slow down long enough; he was already back, his arms around me, pulling me closer to his hot, hard body, fusing his lips with mine. He took advantage of my open, gasping mouth and thrust his tongue in, seeming determined to touch every single inch of my mouth with the velvet softness.

"Come on," he murmured against my lips and pulled away to grasp my hand and start pulling me toward the bed. I followed unresistingly.

It wasn't until we were coming down, panting for breath, that he allowed any sort of gentleness at all. And by that point, it took just about all my energy to lift myself up enough to kiss those harshly gasping lips. Just a kiss—even the legendary Sha Gojyo was going to need a little breather before we tried that again.

We were both covered in bruises, though I think I had the majority of them, rosy ones that looked way worse than they felt, and dark purple ones that felt way worse than they looked, though neither of us would ever admit it.

"Feel better?" I asked impishly.

He hummed contentedly in response, the rumbling in his chest just below where my head rested on his shoulder. He curled his arm around me so he could play with my hair. And believe it or not, that made me way happier than having sex had. I'm somebody who likes to be touched. I don't mean being groped constantly, I just mean being able to put your arm around somebody, hold their hand, play with their hair. I constantly want that the same way the stupid monkey wants meat buns. At least I don't whine about it, though.

I draped an arm across his chest and murmured into his ear. "Good."

There was another few minutes of silence while we just listened to each other's breath, watched each other's chests rise and fall, until Sanzo had to push me off of him so he could pull the covers up.

"Aww, is the little ice princess cold?"

Sanzo glared and pulled the covers around himself so I couldn't join him, "What did you call me, baka?" he spat.

I smiled, "You're not really like ice at all, you know?"

"Oh?" He was clearly amused by my amateur attempt at psychoanalysis, but still trying to sound irritated. God, he's cute and doesn't even know it (and would kill me if I ever said it. Scratch that—I'd kill myself if I ever heard myself use "cute" and "Sanzo" in the same sentence).

"You're like fire."

He suddenly got quiet. The conversation had slipped onto serious ground. I couldn't seem to make my eyes meet his, so instead I scooted as close as I could to him, hoping he would understand what I meant.

"Sometimes, you look cold, like you did today." Every muscle in his body clenched up with that, I could feel the tension without touching him. "I worry that you'll go out on me."

He was quiet when he reached over to the side of the bed to get out a cigarette. He lit it and took a drag, blowing the smoke into the room. I felt something inside me go cold. Goddamn it, Sanzo, say something.

"Do you know what you're like?" He said in an unreadable voice. I waited, even though I was probably only going to hear something along the lines of "cockroach."

He took another drag, "Wind."

I blinked. What the hell did that mean?

"You don't let anything keep you down—even if the only way out is a space too small to see, you can make it. You have a way of insinuating yourself into places that you aren't wanted—"

"OI!"

"But as long as there's air around, a fire won't go out."

I looked up at him, wanting to make sure I understood right. He'd just as good as promised me forever. Because, you know, he would be just the guy to point out that "I love you" only applies to the moment when it's said, and doesn't guarantee anything beyond that. The look in his eyes gave me hope; the cold was completely gone, there was life in those eyes again. But the burning was gone, too. Just as well—that look was arousing as hell, but it was also mighty scary. His eyes looked like they were melting. Liquid amethyst looked down at me as he loosened the edge of the sheet to let me back inside. Damn, he was cold. I snuggled as close as I could, twining my legs together with his, holding one of his hands in mine until I felt his skin warm.

"Is that a promise?" I asked

He reached over to the nightstand and put out his cigarette and returned to the warm blankets, wrapping his arms around me.

"It's a promise."