(fic) Je Retournerai

[cicer]

Ever since I read louiselux's incredible fic, Ne Me Quitte Pas, I wanted to see some scenes from the time Hakkai and Sanzo were off on their little journey. Eventually, I decided to write it myself, and this is what spilled out. I do hope this is all right, louiselux. I apologize if I've gone off the mark anywhere. I wanted to get this up for your birthday, too, so I didn't get a chance to run it by a beta. Thus, a few details may be incorrect, or there might be a couple typos. My apologies for any mistakes. I hope you enjoy it. Happy birthday!


. partir


As they set out, it became immediately obvious that their travels were not at all reminiscent of the original journey west. For that much, Hakkai was grateful. The wounds were too raw, and he did not know if he could bear the memories now. Fortunately, though, the current circumstances were different enough. It was only himself and Sanzo now, two instead of four. And they were traveling on foot, Jeep having been left behind with everything else.

It was cleansing at first, or perhaps just a relief to be able to escape. The thought made Hakkai smile a bit. He could no longer whether his intentions were altruistic or cowardly. Still, the change of scenery was soothing. Some mornings, though, when Hakkai woke to the silence of the dawn, weak light filtering through the trees into the cold air as he and Sanzo silently gathered their things and pressed on, he found himself stopping to stare off into space. Some part of his mind still expected to hear the rustle of leaves as the others awoke, Gojyo and Goku squabbling over breakfast as Sanzo grumbled at them to be quiet. It was difficult to drag his mind away from the memories, to remind himself that the others were gone and the journey was over. There would be no more loud arguments punctuated with whacks from Sanzo’s fan, no more whines from Goku about how hungry he was. And that knowledge ached bitterly. The memories stung painfully.

It seemed to Hakkai that it was still impossible to soothe his lingering grief over Goku. Sanzo did not speak about him, ever, and in a way Hakkai was shamefully relieved. He would not have known what to say if Sanzo had wanted to speak. But the silence itself was becoming a raw, heavy thing hanging around them, casting a pall over the few things they did speak about. It was very much the proverbial elephant in the corner that everyone refused to acknowledge.

The silence, though, was the most difficult thing to get used to. It was odd for Hakkai to realize how accustomed he had become to chatter and noise over the past few years. He now realized, though, that the chatter had always been provided by other sources. When left to their own devices, he and Sanzo tended to speak as little as possible, and that was more obvious than ever now. Even the rare conversations they did have were about strictly mundane matters, like when to eat or sleep. But each conversation was becoming more and more difficult, and Hakkai no longer knew what to say. As painfully awkward as it was to avoid speaking of the dead, it was even worse how they avoided speaking of those who were still alive.

Sanzo had not asked Hakkai what had transpired between himself and Gojyo. He had shown no inclination that he wanted to know how Gojyo had taken the announcement that Hakkai was suddenly leaving for an indefinite amount of time. Perhaps he could not afford to care, Hakkai thought. All appearances aside, Sanzo was not at cruel or completely selfish man, and if he knew that Hakkai’s departure would cause him or Gojyo considerable distress, he may have told Hakkai not to come.

But Sanzo needed him; Hakkai did not doubt that for a minute. While Sanzo had not divulged any of his thoughts or motivations, it was painfully obvious to Hakkai that Sanzo was at loose ends. He did not seem to know what to do with himself, and that worried Hakkai. He did not believe for a moment that Sanzo would do anything foolish or harmful to himself, no matter how deeply he may have been grieving Goku’s loss, even if he never admitted it. Still that didn’t lessen Hakkai’s concern in the least. The idea of Sanzo wandering around, grieving and with no clear objective or job was no less alarming that the idea of Sanzo harming himself. It was perhaps ever more disturbing because this way there was no visible end to his pain.

Looking back, Hakkai found it odd that he couldn’t remember how Sanzo had reacted after Goku fell. There had been such confusion at the time, so much fighting and blood and lingering confusion of battle. When things had finally quieted enough for all of them to realize what had happened, Hakkai had been too consumed with his own anguish to notice much else. He could not recall Sanzo’s reaction now. If Sanzo had cried or screamed or said anything, Hakkai hadn’t seen it. He hadn’t shown any visible grief when Hakkai and Gojyo were watching. That should not have been entirely surprising, though. Sanzo had always been a private person who abhorred loud public displays of emotion.

Still in retrospect it seemed undeniably odd to Hakkai that he could remember nothing of Sanzo’s reaction. Surely there must have been something. No matter how reserved he might be, he had been closest to Goku. Hakkai was sure he must have felt something. It was true there had been something different about him since that last horrible battle. It was nearly impossible to put into words, though. Sanzo was difficult to describe at the best of times. Still, there had been a quietness about him since then, a lack of obvious emotion. He had not yelled at Gojyo or Hakkai, hadn’t laughed or cried or shown anything. Instead, all feelings in him seemed to vanish completely.

It disturbed Hakkai, and he realized he had always expected Sanzo to become vitriolic when he was feeling something strongly. However, he had been proved wrong, and it worried him. Passionate demonstrations would have been expected of anyone after they lost a loved one. Hakkai found Sanzo’s quiet grief disquieting. And it surely was grief. Hakkai did not doubt for a minute that Sanzo was mourning Goku, though it troubled him how little he showed it. In the time he had known Sanzo, the other man had demonstrated an obvious tendency for bottling up and repressing things until they overwhelmed him. He feared what would happen to him while he was alone. It seemed most necessary that he stay with Sanzo. He did owe Sanzo a large debt too, still and always.

But while it would have been nice to pretend that it was all guilt or altruistic concern that drove Hakkai to accompany Sanzo, in his heart he knew it wasn’t. His intentions were largely selfish and cowardly, as they often were. He too was hurt and confused. Sanzo wasn’t the only one who needed space and quiet to heal and reevaluate what his purpose was now that the journey was over.

It was a difficult thing to come to terms with. The journey had consumed his attention and perhaps changed him in fundamental ways, but instead of leaving him reassured of his place in the world, Hakkai was more lost than he had been before.

The fact of the matter was, it had become very apparent to Hakkai, shortly after the three of them had returned home that he’d been using his work for the gods as an excuse, a convenient way to avoid trying to realize his own place and purpose. It had been five years since his rebirth as Cho Hakkai. For three of those years, he’d managed to create a comforting domestic cocoon with Gojyo while running small missions and errands for Sanzo. He had been able to distract himself and keep himself from thinking too deeply about things. The years after that had been absorbed by the great journey west, a terrifying adventure that made Hakkai feel dazed whenever he looked back on it. Some days, the whole thing felt almost like a dream, or perhaps a nightmare. The things they had seen and done seemed surreal, and sometimes Hakkai half-expected to wake up in the apartment he and Gojyo shared before and discover that the entire thing had been some great hallucination, a product of his imagination.

It wasn’t, though, and it was difficult to wind down from such a trial, difficult beyond words. Hakkai found himself numbly realizing that he would have to continue on with his life and not knowing how. What could possibly follow such a thing? What else was he meant to accomplish in this life? After he thought about it for a while, Hakkai was somewhat shocked to realize that somewhere in the back of his mind he had not expected to survive the journey. Somehow he had never seen past the end, never imagined that anything could follow. Surely, after all, that journey was the purpose he had been born for, the thing he been kept alive for. Without even realizing it, he had thought he had been meant to aid this great quest, and afterwards his usefulness would be over. Somehow, the idea had been almost comforting.

Gojyo would have found such an idea quite offensive, Hakkai suddenly thought. The concept that they had been fated to accomplish this once thing and then would be permitted to die would have been disturbing to him. Slowly, Hakkai realized he had somehow known this on some subconscious level. It may have been the reason why he had never broached the subject with him. But then, Gojyo himself rarely brought up the topic of what they would do after the journey was over, so it didn’t much matter.

Hakkai was privately a little surprised to discover how much it hurt to think of Gojyo now. It hurt more to think of him than it did to think of Goku, and that made Hakkai feel deeply guilty.

He still felt sickly ashamed him whenever he dwelled on the memory of his last conversation with Gojyo. It had been terrible of him to just dump that on Gojyo, to tell him he was leaving moments before doing so. It was cowardly and despicable, and he would not blame Gojyo in the least if he felt bitterly towards Hakkai for what he’d done. Hakkai had simply not known how else to do it, though. He knew he had to leave, for himself and for Sanzo, and in his heart he feared that if he had told Gojyo earlier, if he had drawn out their goodbyes, he wouldn’t have had the strength to leave.

It was not that he thought Gojyo would prevent him from leaving, though. Hakkai knew that Gojyo would not stop him. He had never tried to stand in Hakkai’s way before, and he wouldn’t have started then, whether Hakkai had drawn the matter out of not. Gojyo, it seemed, had the strength to let Hakkai go. Hakkai was not the least bit surprised by this. Gojyo was infinitely strong when it came to such things, so much stronger than Hakkai ever was. Afterward, Hakkai had tried to tell himself he would have done the same had the situation been reversed. He had tried to remind himself that he had no claim over Gojyo and no right to tie him down.

It was a lie, though, and he knew it. No matter what he tried to tell himself, he knew perfectly well what he would have done if he had been in Gojyo’s position. If Gojyo had tried to leave him, he would have clung to him, refused to let him go. He was far too selfish to do what Gojyo had done and turn him free. The shame of his own weakness ate at Hakkai, nearly as much as the bitter guilt at knowing quite well that he had hurt Gojyo. The look on his face as Hakkai had told him he would leave was agonizing and Hakkai could not watch. He had to look away, torn at the idea of hurting Gojyo and even more shamed at the knowledge that Gojyo would not blame or hate him for it. For a moment, his resolve to leave had wavered.

He might have tried to reassure himself with the knowledge that he could return to Gojyo once his journey with Sanzo was done and they could be together then, but the simple truth was that he had no idea when he would return, or what would happen between now and then. And it would be horrible egotistical to assume that Gojyo would be willing to wait for him. Some prideful part of him liked to think that perhaps Gojyo would have stayed and waited for him, if he had asked. But he hadn’t. He couldn’t. He had no right to ask such a thing. He had chosen to leave, for reasons that may have been selfish or selfless or somewhere in between, but the point was, he had left. And he had done so without consulting Gojyo or warning him, or even letting him know of his impending departure until moments before he left. Hakkai knew that may have been cruel, though he had not intended it to be and desperately wished it could have been otherwise. But he had needed to leave, and he’d done it in a way he’d though was best for both of them. Now he had to live with the result. It was too late for regrets.

He had to accept that Gojyo might not wait for him. And though the idea of losing Gojyo made something inside of him shatter and howl, he forced himself to accept it. Gojyo was a wonderful, gentle, giving person, someone whom others were drawn to. And while he had his flaws, like his unfortunate tendency to use beer cans as ash trays, there was every reason to expect that someone else might be glad to be with him. Though the thought made Hakkai dig his nails deep into his palms in a silent but overwhelming fury, he told himself firmly that he must not expect otherwise. He had absolutely no right to expect to Gojyo to stay behind at their home, waiting for him, when Hakkai himself had no idea how long he might be gone. Gojyo may choose to move on with his life, to leave their small cramped home and find someone else. Someone who knew nothing of blood or murder or loss, someone who could give him everything and make him happy.

In some part of his mind, Hakkai knew he should accept this and perhaps even hope for it. There was no question that Gojyo deserved such happiness and if he was able it find it, Hakkai should wish him well. But he couldn’t. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he was completely unable to do the very thing Gojyo had done for him: he was unable to step aside. The irony almost made him laugh. He was, after all, the once who was leaving. Yet he knew without a shadow of a doubt that when this journey was done, whether it was months or years from now, he would seek Gojyo out again. And if he had found someone or something else, a new life, he would not step aside. It was selfish, unquestionably and unforgivably so. But Hakkai felt he could do nothing to change it. That too was simply the way it had to be.



. évasion


The summers in the new town were thick and humid, and fairly unpleasant, but Hakkai and Sanzo had settled in the city as much out of necessity as choice. They were both weary of being on the road, sick of the dirt and sweat and silence. It amused Hakkai somewhat that both he and Sanzo seemed to have a relatively low tolerance for such things now. He would have thought their experience with travel would have hardened them, but instead they seemed even less able to put up such minor discomforts.

Perhaps it was simply now that they had other options, they had lost their taste for sleeping outside and going days without a proper meal or bath. Without the driving force of necessity, it became difficult to push oneself to put up with such things. So when they came upon the bustling city, they had both been only too eager to stop.

The city itself was not particularly kind to peasant travelers, but that was perfectly all right. They both had other talents to fall back on, after all, and the city was rife with young men and old men, all eager to lose their money in cards and gambling. Hakkai could hardly take a few steps in any direction without tripping over a group of gamblers. And he had sufficient skill that money was surprisingly easy to come by.

Hakkai was a little taken aback at how much he enjoyed it, though. It had been quite awhile since he’d had so much leisure time and the opportunity to spend it playing cards and mahjong. And previously, he’d been accustomed to playing only with their little group. Thus, it was somewhat of a surprise to him how terribly untalented most of the other players seemed to be. It was almost embarrassingly easy to separate them from their money. But most of all, Hakkai was startled by how little guilt he felt in making a living in such a manner.

He had always privately considered himself to be the sort of person who would do an honest day’s work to earn his keep. Apparently, though, that was only arrogant delusion, a mistaken belief about the sort of person he was. He was discovering that he had accumulated quite a few of those, these days.

Still, he reminded himself that it was quite foolish to hold any sort of prudish morals about the dishonesty of gambling at this point. It meant nothing, and was only an imagined taboo. Once a person had reached a certain point with their sins, it made very little sense to try and refrain from committing other, even less consequential ones.

The money gambling brought in was good, anyway, and that was a help. Gaining room and board in the city was expensive, and Sanzo showed remarkably little inclination to assist in any way. Hakkai was not particularly surprised; Sanzo had never been one to labor when others would do so for him. Hakkai supposed that this may be the sort of assistance Sanzo had expected him to provide when he’d asked Hakkai to come with him.

Hakkai remembered, with a slight smile, that it had been a constant source of consternation to their companions when the four of them had traveled together. He remembered Gojyo had frequently accused him of spoiling Sanzo, and the accusation and its implications had always amused Hakkai. He often wondered whether Sanzo himself shared that opinion or what he thought or Hakkai’s treatment of him. Perhaps he assumed that Hakkai deferred to him out of respect or some misplaced sense of guilt. It was a fair enough assumption, and probably as true as not, at least in the beginning.

As time passed, though, and as Hakkai got to know Sanzo better, he found himself hard-pressed to decide why Sanzo had no compunctions about letting Hakkai take care of him in odd ways. Perhaps he was simply lazy or saw it as his due. Still, Hakkai was not sure that Sanzo felt this way, though it was entirely possible. Perhaps it simply comforted Sanzo somehow, though, to know he was not alone. That too was a feeling Hakkai was well-acquainted with.

He himself was not alone these days, though. The city was not only rich in gamblers, but in bars and clubs, thickly populated by attractive young men and women. There, too, it was amazingly easy to get what he wanted. The women were curvy and luscious, with long hair and painted smiles and clinging dresses, while the men were strong and hard-bodied, lithe with tan skin and white teeth and hard muscles. And all of them were always eager for company.

Hakkai had never thought he himself possessed any sort of charisma that would attract people, though he had often observed it in others with some wonder. He’d often watched as other drew to Gojyo like moths to a flame, as people stared whenever Sanzo entered a room, and wondered what exactly it was that was about them that nearly everyone, without exception, found attractive. Whatever it was, he did not think he himself possessed it.

Therefore, he had been startled to say the least the first time he stepped in to such a bar and had been accosted, immediately and repeatedly by quite a variety of people. The women seemed drawn to him, knowing he was the one who had pocketed the winnings at the card table that night and nearly every night before. Hakkai always was quite pleased to buy them a drink, and they all generously offered to repay him later.

The men seemed eager to discuss cards, too, and to talk about the other players and strategies and such. Hakkai bought them drinks as well, especially since several of those men were the same ones he’d cleaned out repeatedly at the card tables. Afterwards, the men would often suggest another game, a private one in their rooms. Later, it would usually lead to other activities.

In this way, Hakkai entertained himself in the evenings. In the beginning he was a little appalled at his own behavior, but by now they had been in this town for nearly two months, and it was rapidly becoming quite routine, even commonplace. As for Sanzo, he had said nothing about Hakkai’s evening activities, though Hakkai was absolutely sure that Sanzo knew exactly what was going on. It was hard to miss, especially when it became necessary for them to obtain separate bedrooms due to Hakkai’s frequent guests.

Still, Sanzo had said nothing in reproach, which was a bit surprising to Hakkai, considering how derisive he’s been of Gojyo’s behavior when the four of them had been together. But while Sanzo certainly didn’t approve, at times he seemed almost amused when Hakkai went in to see him before he left in the evenings, as if the whole thing were some joke that Hakkai hadn’t realized yet.

Tonight, Hakkai went to see him before heading out to the bar, he found Sanzo lying on his bed, smoking. He was not surprised; these days Sanzo seemed disinclined to do much of anything, and spent most days in his room.

“I’m going out now,” Hakkai said, studying Sanzo as he drew in a long careful drag on his cigarette. Sanzo exhaled a cloud of smoke, shifting slightly to look at Hakkai.

“Fine,” he said, his voice indifferent even as he studied Hakkai’s face. Hakkai paused for a moment, trying to decide if there was anything else to say. It was becoming more and more difficult to speak to Sanzo now, and Hakkai didn’t know which of them was to blame. He himself was quite preoccupied with his nightly activities, but Sanzo seemed to be withdrawing farther and farther by the day.

After a pause, Hakkai asked politely, solicitously, “Do you need anything?” Sanzo took another drag on his cigarette and shook his head, his eyes finally leaving Hakkai’s face.

The room suddenly seemed oppressive to Hakkai, small as most city bedrooms were, and he wondered at the fact that Sanzo could remain in here for days on end without becoming claustrophobic. Hakkai paused, watching Sanzo lie back on the bed to finish his cigarette and stare at the ceiling.

“I don’t suppose you want to come with me,” Hakkai said blandly, more of a statement than a question. When they had first settled in the city, he had asked Sanzo repeatedly, almost nightly, to join him when he went out to play cards. In the beginning, he had expected Sanzo to agree once he had gotten used to the city and recovered from the stress of their journey this far. But he still had yet to accompany Hakkai to the bars.

Sure enough, Sanzo barely raised his eyes to cast a vaguely scornful look in Hakkai’s direction, his expression that of slight annoyance that Hakkai would be so rude as to ask a question to which he already knew the answer. He gave no other response.

Faintly annoyed, Hakkai took in the appearance of the room: the closed curtains, the full ashtrays, the satchel that held Sanzo’s personal belongings lying in the corner, still unpacked. His robes were still within, but Sanzo had yet to put them on since they had left Chang-An. He confined himself to wearing jeans and shirts most days, and no longer even wore his sutra. This disturbed Hakkai most of all. He had never seen Sanzo so subtly refuse to acknowledge his title in this way.

“How long are you planning to stay in here?” he asked lightly, conversationally once he’d finished his perusal of the dark room. He worked to keep all judgment out of his voice. Naturally, he had no right to attempt to tell Sanzo how he ought to be living, but as a friend and a traveling companion, he supposed it was quite acceptable to express his concern.

Hakkai walked over to the side of the bed, brushing a bit of ash off the side of the nightstand, and turned to study Sanzo, who didn’t bother to meet Hakkai’s eyes. He stared up at the ceiling before closing his eyes and exhaling another lungful of smoke, blindly reaching out to stub out his cigarette in the already-overflowing ashtray. “Until I feel like leaving,” he said blandly, his tone suggesting that he thought the topic to be closed to further discussion.

Hakkai briefly weighed the idea of leaving Sanzo alone, but quickly came to the conclusion that there was really no point in leaving this conversation unspoken. It was already a long time in coming and they’d doubtless be having it at some point anyway. They really may as well get it over with now.

Finding a chair and removing the packs of cigarettes and discarded clothing from it, Hakkai pulled it over to the bed and took at seat. He noted, with a slight vindictive satisfaction, a flicker of annoyance from Sanzo’s direction. He obviously recognized by Hakkai’s unsubtle mannerisms that he did not intend to leave any time soon.

Ignoring his irritation, Hakkai reached out to take hold of the full ashtray and leaned over to pull back the closed curtain, emptying the ashtray out the window. “My,” he said cheerfully. “You generally aren’t so neglectful of your ashtrays, Sanzo. You’re reminding me a bit of Gojyo right now.” Hakkai ignored the slight pang in his chest that came from speaking about Gojyo.

Casting a slow look in his direction, Sanzo said, “Funny. You’re reminding me of him as well.” He smiled faintly, a mixture of bemusement and cruelty in his eyes. “Shouldn’t you get going? There must be several of your companions waiting for you.”

Hakkai silently brushed a bit of nonexistent lint off of his sleeve, taking the opportunity to look aside. This was the first time that Sanzo had made such a blunt comment about his new sexual habits, but he wasn’t surprised. Rather, he was surprised that Sanzo had not made more overt references to his behavior before. As Hakkai had previously considered, Sanzo had never seemed the sort of person that would be amused by, or approving of, such dalliances. Hakkai was a bit irritated that Sanzo had chosen to bring it up now, though.

“Do you have a problem with it?” Hakkai asked, mildly, curious as to what Sanzo’s response would be. Sanzo studied him for a minute, before reaching out for the pack of cigarettes and the lighter that lay beside him on the bed.

“Why would I?” Sanzo asked, looking Hakkai in the face once more. Hakkai shrugged, keeping a carefully calm expression on his face.

“You never seemed to approve of Gojyo’s behavior,” he offered, turning to replace the emptied ashtray on the nightstand and trying to gather himself. Sanzo shrugged, lighting another cigarette and drawing in the first breath of smoke with deliberate slowness. He did not respond immediately and Hakkai drummed his fingers silently on the arm of the chair, faintly disconcerted by the silence. Quiet bothered him these days. He found it increasingly difficult to be still and could not understand Sanzo’s self-imposed isolation.

“I said you reminded me of him,” Sanzo finally said, studying the cigarette in his hands as it let off a small trail of smoke, a thin tendril that extended slowly into the air. “I didn’t say you were him.”

Raising an eyebrow, Hakkai smiled politely, suddenly wishing for the conversation to end. “No, I don’t suppose I am.”

Another several seconds of silence followed, before Sanzo said abruptly, “But then, you’re not doing what you’re doing for the same reasons he did.”

Slightly surprised the unexpected comment, Hakkai looked up, watching Sanzo’s face in the waning light. “No?” he asked.

“No,” Sanzo said, flicking a bit of ash off the cigarette in his hand before meeting Hakkai’s eyes.

“Why do you suppose he did it, then?” Hakkai asked, curious in spite of himself. Sanzo had so seldom spoken of his thoughts on Gojyo. It seemed odd that he would choose to do so now, when he did not seem much enjoy speaking about anything. Hakkai could not help but wonder what he would say.

Sanzo sighed quietly, as if Hakkai were being extremely dense, and studied the ceiling and his cigarette in turns. After a moment, he said, “He was looking for something.” He paused and turned to give Hakkai an unreadable look. Hakkai held still, always faintly disconcerted when Sanzo looked at him in that way. It was a look that suggested that he knew Hakkai better than Hakkai knew himself. Hakkai did not particularly enjoy it.

“Yes, I suppose that’s true,” Hakkai finally answered, still striving to keep himself calm. Still, from what he knew of Gojyo, though he would never claim to be an authority on the man, it fit. Gojyo did always seem to be searching for something in his partners. Hakkai stomach twisted a little at the thought. He drew in a breath and studied his own hands. “And you don’t think that I share that reason?” he asked quietly.

For a moment there was no sound in the room but Sanzo’s deep drags on the cigarette. Finally, dusting a bit of ash off the bedspread, Sanzo said, “No.”

“Really?” Hakkai said, striving to keep his voice even. The conversation was unnerving him more and more with each word. “And why am I doing it, then?” He was not entirely sure he wanted to know Sanzo’s guess as to his motives, but he could not help but ask. Sanzo so rarely offered his feelings about such things, after all. Such an opportunity could not be passed up.

Sanzo turned to meet Hakkai’s eyes again, his expression vaguely reproachful. “You’re running from something,” he said bluntly. Hakkai felt his smile stiffen.

“Oh? I suppose that makes two of us then,” Hakkai said blandly. He had no desire to respond directly to Sanzo’s accusation, feeling vaguely offended. Still, his anger wasn’t enough that he failed to realize the truth when he heard it.

Sanzo didn’t respond, finishing his cigarette silently.

“I suppose,” Hakkai continued, determined to recover his original complaint, “that is why you’ve stayed up here for so long? Perhaps even why you’ve stopped wearing your robes. But I wonder what you think this will accomplish. Do you think it will change anything?”

Sanzo turned to look at him again, his expression bitter and faintly angry, suggesting to Hakkai that he had touched a nerve. “What would it change?” he snapped.

“I don’t know. That was my question. I can’t imagine you being so foolish as to think that hiding in this room for weeks on end will make any difference.” Hakkai said calmly, studying the expressions that ran across Sanzo’s face.

Sanzo stabbed his cigarette out in the ashtray violently. “And what do you think your behavior will change?” he asked icily. “Do you think your methods are so much better?” He glared at Hakkai, eyes hard. “You’re hiding too, Hakkai. You’re just doing it in a different way.”

Hakkai had no answer to that, and did not respond right away, returning his gaze to his hands. He kept silent for a moment, almost fearing what he might say if he spoke his mind at this minute.

“And,” he finally asked, unable to stop himself, “what do you think I’m hiding from?”

Sanzo gave him another flat look, silently telling Hakkai that he was being unforgivably dense or deliberately obtuse. Hakkai found himself rather hoping that Sanzo would name his fears so that they could both stop pretending they didn’t exist. But Sanzo said nothing, just looked at him.

Eventually he said, “You know. It’s not my problem if you’re too cowardly to recognize it.” He gave Hakkai a silent, disapproving look.

“Of course not,” Hakkai smiled, some of his anger draining away. It was quite true. Sanzo was quite good at seeing people who were choosing not to recognize things. Strange how he seemed to so often refuse to see it in himself, though. “I quite agree. It’s something everyone must confront on their own.” He gave Sanzo a meaningful look.

“And you think you know what I’m hiding from?” Sanzo asked, voice cold but eyes slightly distant. Hakkai would have thought his expression was almost pained, if Sanzo were in the habit of displaying such emotions.

“I would not presume to guess,” Hakkai said, though he thought immediately of brown hair and golden eyes, they way Goku had smiled for the last time. The way something in Sanzo’s eyes had changed at that moment, and stayed that way ever since. Sanzo snorted, showing clearly what he thought of Hakkai’s attempt at politeness. Still, as always, the one they had left behind in India remained unspoken.

It stung Hakkai a bit, and he could not help by feel it was vaguely disrespectful to refuse to speak of Goku at all, to pretend that he had never existed. Still, he found it difficult to bring the subject up, especially with Sanzo. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that there was a reason Sanzo refused to speak of him, and that reason was most probably rooted in deep pain. He did not entirely approve, but he knew he could not fault Sanzo for the method of mourning he chose. It was not as though Hakkai himself had any authority to judge such a thing. And it was not as if he’d never lost anyone he cared about, either.

Smiling faintly, Hakkai said, “Well, then, I suppose I was right. We are both quite the same, aren’t we?”

Sanzo stared at him for a minute before grunting something that may have been an agreement and turning his face away. He reached for the pack of cigarettes again. Hakkai looked to the covered window. It was growing dark. The bars would be filling now, and he really ought to leave. And though he was ashamed to admit it, he wanted desperately to leave this room and its unpleasant atmosphere, too heavy with painful, unspoken words.

“Well,” he said finally. “I’ll just be going then. I assume you’ll be here.” He stood. Sanzo didn’t answer. The dimness of the room was briefly split by the crack of flame as Sanzo snapped the lighter to life. Hakkai turned and walked to the door, opening it.

“I’ll tell the maids to send some food up, shall I?” The only answer was the fresh scent of cigarettes smoke in the air.

Hakkai shut the door behind him and headed into the bright lights of the evening.



. paix


Hakkai wandered slowly through the leaf-covered path leading to the monastery. He watched, surprised, as the colored leaves scattered from the trees. It was nearly autumn again. The days seemed to be flying by rapidly, and when he thought about it, Hakkai realized they had been doing so for quite sometime. He couldn’t quite remember when the days had started to blur together, but it seemed like it had been going on for a while and he had only just noticed.

But then, there was a certain sense of timelessness at the monastery. Hakkai found it surprising that he and Sanzo had been there for nearly a year already. Within a few weeks, it would have been almost two full years since they had set out together, leaving what remained of their lives behind.

They had come to the monastery shortly after they had left the city, both of them having grown tired of the stress and filth that seemed to cling to everything there, and perhaps a little ashamed of the way they had been living, what the city had made of them. Hakkai, at least, had been glad to leave. The embarrassment that he had felt once they had left had faded a bit though. Here at the monastery, he was willing to let that time go, to release those feelings.

He enjoyed the presence of the monks more than he had expected, and had spent quite a bit of time with them in the last year. He had spoken in depth to one of the head monks in particular, a man of nearly seventy years who had lived at the monastery for years, but had also traveled and seen the world in his youth. Hakkai quite liked him. The old man was remarkably free of the hypocrisy and naïve inexperience of the world that seemed to characterize much of Hakkai’s experience with religious types, aside from Sanzo.

Hakkai had spoken to the elderly man more candidly than he had spoken to nearly anyone in his life. He spoke freely of his past; though he had not gone into depth in his explanations of what exactly he’d done, simply giving vague references to his sins. The man was a good and patient listener, and never pressed Hakkai for more information. What the old man assumed Hakkai had done, he didn’t know, and he seemed remarkably disinterested in finding out. He did give gentle advice, though.

One of the main teachings he presented to Hakkai, one he repeated nearly every time Hakkai spoke with him, was the idea that one was only punished for their sins for as long as they clung to the memories of the past. The ideal of releasing one’s earthy desires and pains was not a new one to Hakkai, but somehow he found that he was only just beginning to appreciate it. In their talks, the monk had mentioned that many people chose to hang onto their painful memories as a way of punishing themselves or because they labored under the delusion that it would bring them some sort of comfort. This idea startled to Hakkai and he was faintly embarrassed once he realized how much that applied to him. The monk had pressed Hakkai to work at letting go of those sorts of memories and feelings, even the things Hakkai thought he should hold onto. Hakkai listened, and tried hard to do so, surprised at the change it produced in the way he viewed everything.

That was not the only change he’d undergone though, and it wasn’t even the most shocking one. The largest change had taken place before they had even come to the monastery. Some days after they had left the city, as they had been on the road to their next destination, Sanzo had confronted him suddenly. He had been angry with Hakkai for some reason Hakkai had not understood. Some reason he hadn’t wanted to understand. He had accused again Hakkai of running away. Hakkai himself had been tense and annoyed and did not respond, at least until Sanzo demanded he remove his limiters.

What followed after had been a long and painful conversation, one Hakkai did not want to relive. He shut his mind off to the memory. Sanzo had been right, of course. He had been hiding from his youkai heritage for too long. Still, even when he’d admitted that and agreed to remove the limiters, it had taken him much longer to accept and accustom himself to living in his other body.

For the several weeks they’d been on the road he’d left the limiters off, relearning the limits of his body and the strength of his senses. He felt like a child at first, barely knowing how to control himself. After a time, though, he had been stunned at the comfort he found without the limiters, and the new trust he developed in himself.

Still, he had replaced them before they’d gotten to the monastery. He couldn’t imagine the monks accepting a youkai into their midst, not after what had happened with the Minus Wave. Doubtless some of them had already seen his limiters and drawn their own conclusions anyway, but Hakkai thought it would be less shocking for everyone to simply remain in the guise of a human.

Sometimes, though, when he was alone in his room and the door was locked, he took them off. He let his hair fall down his back and watched the patterns of the vines blossom on his skin and stared at himself in the mirror for a long time. He found that, oddly, he was only just beginning to accept this part of him. He was only just beginning to feel whole instead of strained, forever hovering between human and youkai. Another change he hadn’t expected.

Though had struggled with several changes in himself during his time here, Hakkai greatly enjoyed being at the temple. The chanting and meditations soothed him in a way he had not expected, or thought he could possibly be soothed. The theories and metaphysical talk that floated around was fascinating to Hakkai, and he found himself listening closely to every conversation, surprised by how interested he was in their new interpretations of ideas he was already familiar with. The most valuable idea that the monks had passed onto him was the concept of destiny, an idea Hakkai had previously scorned. He used to be strongly of the opinion that, despite his belief in the gods, the actions and events that took place in his life were largely his own responsibility and not the result of some cosmic chess game played by the gods.

However, when he had broached this opinion to the old monk, the man had gently corrected him, suggesting that although some events might be out of the hands of mortals, it did not absolve them of responsibility. Quite the opposite, he said. If certain situations and circumstances were forced upon them without their consent, how they responded to such challenges and the choices they made became all the more important.

Hakkai had to admit he had never thought of it this way before, and if the idea had been presented to him some years ago, he thought he probably would have rejected it immediately. He was only now beginning to understand what sort of effects the journey west had had on him, and how far-reaching they were. It was odd, to suddenly realize things about one’s personality that threw every action and choice he had made into question and sudden reevaluation. He had never really taken time before to ask himself why he had done the things he’d done, too caught up in the actions themselves to question the reason behind them.

But if the old monk was right and many of the things he had been through were unavoidable, what did that mean for him? For his future, assuming he had one? It was a new thing for Hakkai, to wake up and see nothing but and endless procession of days stretching out before him. He only now realized how long it had been since he had expected anything from the future. It had been so long since he had thought he would live long enough for it to be worth making plans.

This was it, though. If there was to be a life for him, he could not spend it dwelling on his past any longer. If all the things that had come to pass couldn’t have happened any other way, there was little point agonizing about the ways that things might have gone, but hadn’t. It was time to let go.

Sanzo seemed to be of the same mind, though he was certainly going about it in a different way. Instead of being drawn to spirituality, as Hakkai was, he seemed to be drifting away from it. He hadn’t worn the robes of a Sanzo priest since they had returned from India, and though it was Sanzo’s position that had secured them a place at the monastery, he never spoke with the other monks or spent time in meditation. Now, whenever he and Hakkai spoke about what they would do in the coming days, a topic that was brought up with increasing frequency as the months went on, he expressed no desire to return to Chang-An or the duties his title as a Sanzo entailed.

Hakkai found himself strangely unsurprised by this. It was true that Sanzo was certainly not the most devout monk that Hakkai had ever meant, and frequently ignored the tenants of the religion whenever it suited him, but somehow, his decision seemed to have nothing to do with that. It certainly couldn’t be said that he did not dedicate himself to the instructions of the gods. After all, he had been closer to the gods than most people could claim.

But somehow, it seemed as if this too was meant to happen. Sanzo spoke often of how he thought his position was unnecessary now, and Hakkai could easily understand why. Once one had known the gods as well as Sanzo, and undertaken such a huge quest on their bidding, what else was there? He had done his duty, after all. Perhaps he felt no need to continue, to spend the rest of his life chained to the temple, signing papers and overseeing meaningless training of other monks. Perhaps he simply wanted a chance to live for himself.

It was true that he didn’t seem to be enjoying his current refuge at the monastery, at any rate. He shunned the other monks and spent most of his time, alone and apparently deep in thought. Hakkai thought that was rather a shame, since Sanzo seemed to confine himself to the halls of the building, which, while beautiful, could not compare to the attractive surroundings.

The monastery was surrounded by stone walls and kept well-protected from intruders. Still, the grounds were expansive and lush and Hakkai enjoyed walking through the trees. He did so nearly every morning, and enjoyed it thoroughly each time. Today, he took his usual route. He walked slowly though the halls, making his way toward the courtyard where the worn path led.

When he arrived, though, he was surprised to Sanzo standing there. He paused briefly, his steps slowing. He was had not expected to see Sanzo outside, as he so rarely walked the halls or paths of the monastery. Hakkai had not even seen Sanzo in several days, though that was no longer an uncommon occurrence. He stopped, watching Sanzo carefully, trying to gauge his mood. He was loathe to interrupt if Sanzo were deep in private thoughts. Sanzo did not appear to be doing anything more than smoking and watching the sky, though, so after a moment’s hesitation, Hakkai approached.

Sanzo looked over when he saw Hakkai. He glanced at him and nodded slightly, before turning back to his cigarette and contemplation of the sky.

“It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?” Hakkai offered, glancing at the blue sky dotted thickly with fat white clouds and wondering if Sanzo was truly appreciating it. Sanzo grunted something that may have been an agreement and glanced at Hakkai, who smiled at him.

“I should think you’d appreciate it,” Hakkai said mildly. “You haven’t been outside much recently, have you?” Sanzo shrugged indifferently and took a drag on his cigarette.

“I’ve been busy,” he muttered.

“Oh?” Hakkai asked. It seemed impolite to question Sanzo too intently, but he waited to see if Sanzo would expand on his answer. Sanzo seemed to know exactly what Hakkai was doing, and sent him a mild glare.

“I’ve been thinking,” he finally said, a little stiffly. Hakkai turned to face Sanzo more clearly, watching his face.

“What about?” he asked curiously.

“Plans, mostly. What I will do once I leave here,” Sanzo took another long drag on his cigarette and resumed his intent staring at the sky. Hakkai blinked. It wasn’t a surprise; Sanzo had spoken about his eventual departure before when they had talked about the future. But something in Sanzo’s tone suggested that he meant sooner rather than later.

“Ah. I see. You plan to leave soon, then?” Hakkai asked carefully.

“Yes. I think so,” Sanzo said, his eyes narrowing as he stared off into space. He was silent for several seconds before he seemed to come back to the conversation. He turned to look at Hakkai directly.

“And what do you think you’re going to do?” Sanzo asked, his voice even. Hakkai paused and looked back at him.

“Ah? How do you mean?” He asked, a little thrown by the nonsequiter. He had still been absorbing the knowledge that Sanzo planned to leave soon. Sanzo seemed dissatisfied by his response, though, and gave him a sharp look.

“You’re not going to stay here forever,” he said. It seemed to be a statement instead of a question, but Hakkai answered it anyway.

“No, I suppose not,” he agreed, and said nothing more. In truth, though he had spent a great deal of time thinking about the matter recently, he was not as clear about his plans for the future as Sanzo was.

Sanzo looked annoyed, and his expression seemed to convey the thought that he found Hakkai to be intentionally difficult. Bemused, Hakkai thought that he had never met anyone who could pack so much into a single glare.

“No,” Sanzo agreed, his voice faintly aggravated. “I’m asking what you’re going to do once you leave here.” The words sounded faintly ominous to Hakkai, suggesting something that made him turn around to study Sanzo more clearly.

“I’m not certain,” he said slowly. “But then I’ve no plans to leave anytime soon.” Sanzo stabbed his cigarette out on the concrete wall in apparent irritation.

“You’ve been here for almost a year,” he said, looking at Hakkai meaningfully out of the corner of his eye.

“Yes,” Hakkai agreed, baffled. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.” Sanzo studied him a moment longer before sighing slightly and shuffling his hands into his robes. He stared off into the horizon. Hakkai suddenly felt as though he had missed something quite important.

“What exactly are you suggesting, Sanzo?” he finally asked, watching Sanzo face for any sign of emotion.

“I’m not suggesting anything,” Sanzo said. “But what more do you think you’re going to gain here?” Hakkai blinked, slowly reviewing Sanzo’s words.

“Are you telling me I should leave?” he asked, slightly startled. The look Sanzo gave him confirmed that he agreed with Hakkai’s assumption that he was missing something.

“There isn’t anything else for you here,” Sanzo said quietly, and Hakkai finally understood that Sanzo was not only referring to the monastery.

“I see,” Hakkai said slowly, trying to process what Sanzo was implying. Sanzo looked at him silently.

“You disagree?” he asked, after a moment. Hakkai drew in a breath, trying to arrange his thoughts through the haze of confusion.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not sure exactly what I wanted to find here, so I suppose I don’t really know if I’ve found it.” It was only once he’d voiced the words that he realized how true they were. Sanzo snorted slightly, flicking a bit of dirt off the sleeve of his robe.

“I told you before,” he said, his voice sharp but not unkind. “You’re not looking for something. You never were.” Hakkai was silent for a moment as he tried to collect his thought enough to respond.

“I don’t know that I agree,” he said softly. “I have often felt like something was missing.”

“Don’t confuse the absence of something with being too stupid to see it right in front of your face,” Sanzo said pointedly. Hakkai said nothing, reeling a bit from Sanzo’s words. A moment of silence passed. Sanzo tapped his foot slightly, “And so? Where will you go?”

“I suppose…I would like to go back to Chang-An. To see Gojyo,” he said slowly. That had always been his intention, after all. Since the day he had left he had always intended to go back. But as the weeks passed, turning into months and then years, he had wavered. There was every possibility that Gojyo had moved on, forged a new life for himself. One that did not include ghosts from the past. It was very possible that he would no longer be welcome.

Sanzo nodded with almost grim approval, as though Hakkai were a particularly stupid child who had finally understood something. Hakkai was suddenly and overwhelmingly amused at Sanzo’s pointed words, finally understood that Sanzo was trying to encourage him to do just that. In an incredibly roundabout way, it seemed.

“If that was what you wanted me to do, you might have just told me,” Hakkai said, smiling wryly.

“You don’t listen,” Sanzo said blandly.

“Well. I suppose that makes two of us,” Hakkai said, and laughed a little, knowing that he had said these words before.

“So?” Sanzo said, rummaging through his robes, apparently for another cigarette. “When are you leaving?” Hakkai blinked.

“You’re that eager to get rid of me?” he asked, bemused. Sanzo rolled his eyes.

“Why waste time with things that are inevitable?” he asked bluntly. Hakkai smiled faintly and looked at Sanzo.

“Did you always assume I would return?” he asked, finding it strange that Sanzo had never said as much to him directly. Sanzo shrugged again, casting Hakkai a brief, oddly searching look.

“Where else would you go?” he asked rhetorically. Hakkai considered the question. It was true that he had always wanted to do so, but that didn’t seem enough.

“I don’t know. But that’s not necessarily a good enough reason,” he said quietly. Sanzo stared at him.

“Why not?” he demanded, sounding both surprised and annoyed. Hakkai hesitated, drawing in a slow breath before he spoke.

“He may have moved. He may have found someone else. I never expected him to wait for me,” Hakkai said quietly, slightly pained by his own words. Sanzo stared at him, his expression almost incredulous.

“I thought you knew him better than that.” He sounded shocked, and almost challenging. He looked at Hakkai seriously. Hakkai avoided his gaze.

“No. I don’t,” he said in a low voice. And that was the truth of it, apparently. Perhaps he didn’t know Gojyo well at all. Sanzo glared at him.

“If you think he’s not waiting for you, you’re an even bigger idiot than I thought,” he snapped, sounding thoroughly annoyed with Hakkai’s apparent idiocy. Hakkai blinked, startled at Sanzo’s words and the surety in his voice. It was apparent that Sanzo had no doubt in what he was saying.

“I…you think so?” Hakkai asked faintly, desperate to believe it, wanting validation for doing what he had always wanted, always planned to do: return to Gojyo. Sanzo just stared at him.

“Idiot,” he said, sounding surprisingly serious. He gave Hakkai an intense look before shifting his gaze to the trees. It was several minutes before Hakkai could regain his voice.

“And what will you do? I don’t suppose you’re planning to return to Chang-An as well,” he finally asked.

“No,” Sanzo said definitely, studying the trees as if they held the answers. Hakkai watched him silently.

“Where will you go?” he asked carefully.

“I’m not sure,” Sanzo said. He looked at his hands for a minute, unfolding them from the robes. Sanzo looked down for several minutes as Hakkai watched him in silence. Suddenly, he reached into his robes, removing something. He pulled the object free from the fabric, and Hakkai saw that it was his sutra, neatly folded.

“Take this with you,” Sanzo said, shattering the silence suddenly.

“What?” Hakkai asked blankly, uncomprehending. Sanzo held the sutra out to him wordlessly as Hakkai stared at him in shock. It was true Sanzo had spoken of leaving that life, but Hakkai had always assumed he would keep the sutra with him.

“You are leaving your position, then?” he asked, finally managed to form a proper question. He didn’t reach out to take the sutra, his hands hanging hesitantly by his sides.

“Not permanently. I’ll come back for it, at some point. Just take care of it for now.” Sanzo paused. “Take it to Gojyo. It should go to someone who likes picking things up.” He snorted quietly, as if remembering some old joke.

Hakkai stared at the scroll, and didn't take it. Sanzo held it out insistently. Hakkai wanted to refuse, to insist that he was in no way a proper caretaker for such a sacred object. But when he looked up into Sanzo’s eyes, fixed on his, he found he could not. There was something there, a silent plea that he knew Sanzo would never give voice to. Hakkai could not remember Sanzo ever looking at him or at anyone like this, ever asking anything so important or desperate.

Perhaps this was what he needed now, to be free of this thing that had claimed his life for so many years. Hakkai’s hands came up to take it almost of their own accord. If that was so, then he owed his assistance. Sanzo handed it to him, his own empty hands falling back against his sides. He looked strangely relieved. Hakkai could only stare at him, feeling oddly helpless. He had he sudden feeling that someone to take care of the sutra was only the beginning of what Sanzo needed, and the only thing Hakkai was capable of giving. He stared at Sanzo, not knowing what to say. He felt an odd finality in these words.

“Will you be all right?” he finally asked quietly. Sanzo nodded sharply, slowly recovering his former expression.

“Of course,” he said stiffly. He did not look at Hakkai. It suddenly occurred to Hakkai that Sanzo was saying goodbye to him. He looked from the heavy smooth paper scroll in his hands, radiating power, to the silent man in front of him.

“You know you can always come find us. We’d like to see you again,” Hakkai offered quietly. Sanzo nodded, his face relaxing a bit.

“I doubt I’ll be able to avoid it. The gods seem to like throwing use together.” Sanzo looked at Hakkai mutely, his expression unreadable. Hakkai lifted the scroll slightly, nodding to it.

“I will take care of it,” he promised. The only thing he could offer. Sanzo nodded, his eyes softening a bit.

“Good,” he said, before turning to walk away, heading for the path that led out of the courtyard, to the door of the monastery and the road. Hakkai watched him go. After a moment, Sanzo stopped, turning slightly to glance back at Hakkai.

“You should go,” he said. “You’ve been running away long enough.” Hakkai nodded, and Sanzo nodded back, ever so slightly, before turning and walking away. Hakkai watched him go.

Once Sanzo had disappeared around the corner, Hakkai tucked the sutra quietly into his jacket and turned around. He headed for his room, for his things. It was time to pack and to say his goodbyes to the monks and thank them for their hospitality.

It was time to go home.