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It was over at last; he was freed of the pain of his body, released from the weight of his sins. He was buoyant and floating, and he could look down from a height upon the smoking, bleeding remains of his body, mildy perturbed that he had died as a youkai, and not as a man. It seemed such an indignity, somehow, that the last gasps of this life had taken place in the guise of his deepest shame, but he was (finally, oh finally) beyond that now, released from this life and on the way to the next. And yet...
He lingered.
A flash of man's face: another (the same) beloved face, just as beautiful but unscarred, black hair spiky and untamed, the picture of his eyes and mouth captured in a moment of laughter. ("You left me. You left me, you left me first.." ) and howled silently at nearly overwhelming grief and loss. Then it was gone, and he wondered briefly at the surge of rage and despair that flooded him, and why he could hardly bear to watch as Gojyo worked over his body.
But whatever that was, and whoever that was (and he could hardly remember it now, couldn't take remembering it) the pain it caused him was as nothing to the expression he could see on the other man's face from the heights of his own privileged position, Gojyo's strong and elegant hands clenching together rhythmically over the burned and battered chest, trying to pulse life into the unresponsive body. "Hakkai... work with me here, please.." and Gojyo's voice was strangled and strangely hushed, his face contorted and terrified.
Another flash of memory: the killing rage had engulfed him and suffused him, his essence giving over to destruction and chaos, and he whirled around, so swift, so lethal in his frenzy that the observers could hardly see him (and even if they could, why would they stop him: youkai, animal, unclean, fit only for death), his hand poised to begin the new assault on whoever had dared (dared!) to lay hands on him and prevent him from utterly crushing his enemy. And there behind him Gojyo had stood braced, shoulders hunched, his expression stoic and almost resigned, waiting for a (yet another) beloved hand to flay (the other side of) his face with its claws, waiting (again) for his death to come from the blood-soaked hand of a loved one. And with a gasp of recognition, he had found the strength and the courage to return to himself, his fist clenching in sudden horror as he managed to pull his punch. But even now he could remember how delicious was the scent of his enemy (his friend), and how the sweet, seductive essence of blood on him and around him had made him crave it all the more.
But now... he could hear Gojyo's voice cracking, a voice generally given over to joking and laughter rather than grief. "Come on, Hakkai, please, I am begging you..." and the words he didn't say: ("Don't leave me don't leave me don't leave me don't you leave me.")
...And abruptly he knew that he couldn't bear to be (one more) name that Gojyo added to the list of people he (believed he) had failed.
Even now, he could see the ghosts gathering on those lean shoulders and weighting them down, shoulders hardened with all the muscle of a hundred battles, but still so fragile.
A beautiful woman, her long, lovely hair flowing as she whirled to kill (over and over and over and over), her face wet with tears, her claws dripping gore on one hand, the moonlight glinting off the razor edge of an ax on the other...
A gangly teenager, blood sluicing from a sword, his expression at once aghast and anguished (leaving, always, always leaving)...
A child with golden hair, robes rich and refined, his delicate face sweet and innocent as he smiled up (forever laughing), uncaring that Gojyo was taboo...
Even that idiot Kamisama, striking his hand away (the sound of the blow echoing, echoing), preferring to die from blood loss or having the ceiling fall on him rather than accepting his help ...
And if he squinted hard, he thought he could see some light shadows gathering on Gojyo's back that might be forming in the image of Sanzo, and some that perhaps bore a resemblance to Goku. But there was nothing there (yet) of Hakkai, and he knew with great and terrible clarity that he couldn't add the weight of his ghost to those Gojyo already bore, a weight he knew would utterly crush those deceptively bony shoulders and destroy a heart he knew to be fragile beyond words.
But it was so hard to want to return, and he sighed. ("Really, I was always aware of the stupidity.")
("Gojyo. Gojyo listen. You have brought me back to myself despite myself. Again. Twice. Today even.") And he opened his mouth to tell him so, but all that came out was a ragged gasp as he drew a breath and felt his heart jolt agonizingly and resume its fitful beating (and ohgodsthepainthepainthepain). "Goku?" he managed to choke out, reaching out to grasp a shaking hand and entwine trembling fingers.
"Okay, he's fine, he's normal again." And Gojyo's voice was rough, subdued. "Hakkai -- "
"Why are you making that face?" And he smiled through the pain (he could feel the bones in his ribs grind, and his leg was badly damaged, and the scent of blood, always blood) and the blackness creeping at the edges of his vision, reaching up and cupping the scarred cheek.
And right before the darkness claimed him, he saw the curtain of scarlet hair fall forward (just as it had all those years ago) as that beautiful face turned, and felt his kiss in the palm of his hand. "Shhh. Sh-shut up you, just stop talking." And he could smell salt then, but he was smiling, smiling as the blackness flowed over his eyes and mind, and he wondered briefly if they could now (finally) stop dancing.