Work Text:
Goku struggled with the unfamiliar strokes, feeling awkward and ungainly. The brush twisted in his fingers as though it had a life of its own and a long line of uneven blots streamed across the paper. He put the brush back in the inkwell, and let his head sink into his arms. He was already covered with dark blue-black spots from his previous attempts, so he paid no mind to the ink bleeding onto his arms.
It’s funny, he thought, I never look so bruised when I come out of a fight. Fighting’s easy. But give me an inkwell, and it beats me half to death.
He rubbed his face, unknowingly leaving a long streak of ink on his forehead, crumpled the parchment and spread out a new sheet, painstakingly forming each word.
Little lark, my
Freind? Or friend? He paused with his brush in the air. What had Hakkai said? “Friends to the end.” So that was friend.
Winter
Which side did the b curve to, again? The left or the right? “A b is a line with a backwards c,” he murmured under his breath, slowly dragging the brush down the paper. buried you in snow.
I still miss
He just barely remembered to add the second ‘s’ to miss.
you, lark.
Goku
He reread his whole work, barely daring to breathe. He thought he’d gotten it right this time, but…
Little lark, my friend,
Winter buried you in snow.
I still miss you, Lark.
Goku
Perfect. It was perfect. He exhaled shakily, carefully set the brush down away from the parchment, and scattered sand across the inked words to dry them.
He shaped it precisely into the form he’d begged and begged Sanzo to show him. Fold by fold, a bird appeared out of the paper, and Goku smiled happily. He walked outside slowly, cradling the delicate paper to his chest.
He passed by Sanzo in the entrance hall of the monastery, who raised an eyebrow at his ink-stained charge to ask if he wanted company. Goku smiled and shook his head. This wasn’t something he needed Sanzo for. This was just for him and Lark.
Making his way outside, he reveled in the warm light of the sun and the friendly breeze, running his free hand through the tall grasses on the side of the path. He crossed a green meadow, heading for his favorite tree. Climbing it one-handed was easy, and soon he was perched on the highest branch. He stood, letting the wind rustle through his hair, and raised his arms, letting his creation go.
“Now you can fly again, Lark,” he whispered, watching the wind waft the small paper bird up and away. Long past the time he could no longer see it, he stood there, gazing at the distant horizon.