Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Sha Wujing’s wounds had finally all healed over, and now this?

It had taken a long time after the Bodhisattva had rescued him from his torment for the gashes on his chest to fully heal. The swords had cut deep, and had cut over and over and over again. And even after they were gone, Wujing had kept accidentally opening the wounds back up just by moving wrong. Not to mention that it was difficult to keep wounds clean when living in a river full of constantly stirred up sand. But slowly, each wound had one by one turned to scars that, while still tender, were secure and not at risk of infection anymore. It was nice, freeing almost, to not constantly be in pain.

And then, just when his life had seemed to be on an upward trajectory, he’d gotten attacked in his own home.

Wujing was awoken from an exhausted sleep by a rake slamming into the sediment just inches from his face. He floundered for his staff, snarled and swam backwards several feet.

“Leave me alone!” He cried, exasperated. Because really, this was beginning to feel like bullying.

The bully in question, a large pig demon, just jeered at him.

“Don't run away, lil' fish!” He said, swimming upward enticingly, “Come fight me!”

“Where's your monkey friend?” Wujing retorted, insulted that this pig, several feet shorter than him, had the gall to call him little, “Is he waiting up there, using you as bait again?”

“I— No!” The pig demon stuttered tellingly.

Wujing just rolled his eyes and swam away.

“Hey— Hey come back!” The pig demon shouted after him, “Coward! Pussy!”

These insults failed to provoke Wujing, but he added them to his mental library in case he ever needed to rile up that awful boar in the near future. 

“Have a nice day.” Wujing said sarcastically, but it was unlikely the pig would hear him. The murky water was already closing between them like a wall.

A hand grabbed a hold of Wujing's ankle, and he kicked out reflexively. There was an impact and a porcine squeal, and Wujing found his foot free once more. He doubled his speed and went quickly to where he knew there was a place he could hide, navigating the opaque waters by making clicks and squeaks that echoed off what was solid in his surroundings.

Sure enough, he found it— a crevice in an outcropping of rocks. It was not too big of a gap, but Wujing could slip through small spaces impossibly well for someone of so large a frame. He hunched up to fit in the small dark cave and pulled his staff in after him just as the pig demon caught up.

“Ah, c’mon, where've you slithered off to now,” From the sounds of things, the demon was hitting nearby rocks with the business end of his rake, “Come out and take your beating like a man!”

The impact of the rake's prongs against the rocks made the water vibrate in ways it wasn't supposed to. It was discombobulating, deafening. Painful. But maybe that was what the demon was intending. Maybe he hoped it would draw Wujing out.

It actually had the opposite effect— Wujing curled up tighter, clenching his teeth and trying to shut out the overstimulating, befuddling waves. After a few minutes, they passed— the pig had obviously given up on that particular tactic.

“You can’t hide from me forever!” The demon yelled, and Wujing knew he had won.

He raised his head to peer through the entrance to his hidey-hole, so his luminous yellow eyes were visible to the pig demon.

“You’ll find I can,” He said, “You however, are running out of time. Pigs are not known to be aquatic animals—”

“Contrary to popular belief—” The pig demon began, but Wujing kept speaking:

“You're impressive in the water, I'll give you that. But at some point you're going to need to go back up for air. I, however, can simply wait here until you need to breathe, and then I'll be off to somewhere you won't be able to find me.”

“Oh yeah?” The pig laughed, “I reckon you'll regret that plan after a few hours. I can hold my breath for days, and that's a small cave for a big guy like you to live in! You’ll have to move if you don't wanna suffocate in there. And then I'll be waiting.”

Wujing hated to admit it, but the pig demon was right. His long legs had already started to cramp, and his back was beginning to complain about his posture. Still, he had endured far worse.

“I see,” Wujing narrowed his eyes, “Well, then there's nothing for it. We’ll just have to wait each other out.”

“You won't last five minutes.” The pig demon confidently settled on one of the nearby rocks so that he was still eye-level with Wujing.

They both sat still for a few moments, each eyeing the other. A tense silence settled over them.

Wujing gathered up a handful of pebbles worn perfectly smooth by the constant tumbling of the sandy river. He reached out of his hidey-hole, and dropped them on a conveniently close flat stretch of stone as the pig demon watched on incredulously.

“Would you like to play xiangqi?” Wujing asked.

“Screw it, I'm telling him you got away.” The pig demon up and left, swimming back upwards.

After a few moments of hearing nothing, Wujing poked his head back out of the cave and looked around, clicking a little, to see whether he was really gone, or just playing a trick on him.

He was really gone.

Huh. Well, Wujing was not at all impressed, but now was his chance. He could hide downstream for a few days, and with any luck he would never have to see that awful pig again.

WELL.

This was, er, embarrassing. Really quite awkward. 

Mortifying, was the word for it.

See, Wujing had kind of… planned out how he was going to meet his master. There wasn't much else to do, between meticulously tending to his wounds and figuring out which of the mushrooms that grew along the banks of the river were edible through some eventful experimentation. This was not to plan. Attacking the Tang Monk was not in the plan.

He’d, uh. He’d had this speech he’d been rehearsing. It was really stupid though, now that he thought about it. Best to scrap that. Umm… okay, okay, think think think, Wujing, he’s walking up to you! Don't think about how his first impression of you was that you were a terrifying monster who wanted to eat him! You're a terrifying monster who wants to help him! Come on, come on, you need to do something to show— BOW!

Wujing quickly and clumsily fell into a kowtow, almost tripping over his staff. He pressed his face right up against the ground, hardly daring to breathe.

He felt a feather-light touch brush his hands, and then, tentatively, take hold of them with cool, gentle fingers. He raised his head, and got his first good look at his master.

He was certainly different to what Wujing had expected. He’d always imagined an older gentleman, perhaps later thirties, early forties, a handsome face, stern eyes, well-shaped jaw, the works. The man who looked down at him now, face framed by his ornate vairocana hat, was certainly not that man.

He looked childlike. Pale and pretty and chubby ‘round the edges. His face was soft and… ‘handsome’ was a word to describe it, but ‘gorgeous’ or even ‘adorable’ did it better justice. And his eyes, big and dark and long-lashed and just… when Wujing met his gaze he realised he didn't care for his imagined master at all, because this one was perfect.

“...Hello,” Said the Tang Monk, sounding more than a little nervous, “I believe introductions are in order. My name is Chen Xuanzang. Or… Tang Xuanzang. You know what, just call me Tripitaka, or Master, the others do. Ah— these two are Pilgrim Sun and Zhu Bajie. Well, their real names are Wukong and Wuneng, but I— can you tell me your name, please?”

Wujing didn't like how stilted and shaky his master's speech was. He knew he was frightening, and he understood that this was a natural reaction, but he didn't want this soft-eyed man to feel anything close to fear in his presence.

“Sha Wujing,” He said, in a quiet voice, “My name is Sha Wujing, Sir.”

“Sha Wujing…” Tripitaka repeated. He was still holding Wujing's hands. His brow was furrowed, as though he was thinking hard.

“...May I call you Sha Monk?” He asked. Wujing blinked up at him in surprise.

“Yes, Sir.” He said. Was this a… nickname? He hadn't had one of those since his army days, and that one was so embarrassing that he’d banned the soldiers under his command from using it. It hadn't stopped them. This one, ‘Sand Monk,’ was actually rather sweet. And his new master clearly liked it, and Wujing liked his new master.

“Wonderful,” Said Tripitaka, “Uh… please get up.”

Wujing slipped his hands from his master's and rose. Tripitaka went wide-eyed and any colour that was in his face drained as he watched his new disciple stand at his full, towering height. 

Wujing suddenly became very aware of two very pressing issues.

The first was his clothing.

Or lack thereof.

He’d been fully dressed when he was thrown out of heaven, but the swords had shredded his shirt to ribbons almost instantly. He’d used the torn fabric to bandage up his wounds, until he’d realised there was no point in that. The rest of his clothes wore threadbare as time went on, and the clothes he stole from the humans he killed were too small, and there was nothing he could sew with. Still, he tried, a little desperately, to keep himself clothed. Any fabric he could get, he tied around his waist in a tattered loincloth. It had been enough for him, alone in the river. It had been enough for Bodhisattva Guanyin— well, it probably hadn't been enough, but the Bodhisattva seldom saw people at their best, and as she listened to his weak crying she did not indicate that she cared at all what Wujing looked like or what he was wearing. It was definitely not enough now. 

The only other thing he wore was his string of skulls, which was not doing him any favours. His Master's gaze fell on the skulls, and he quickly and conspicuously made a poor effort to not stare at them.

The second problem was that he was hungry. 

Being hungry was something he had become so used to in the river that he had become mostly numb to the panging in his stomach. He definitely felt more comfortable if he had something to eat every day, but he could go a week, maybe more, before he really began to feel it. It had been a week and a few days since his last meal— some tubers in the muddy riverbank that were bitter but bearable and only gave him a moderate stomachache— and he’d had to fight recently. As he stood he felt a wave of dizziness and some sharp pains in his stomach, and he realised he was in the danger zone. He staggered and hunched over a little, breathing through it. He wanted to cry out for food right away, but he could still see that fear in his master's eyes, and he knew the last thing anyone wanted to hear from the gaunt beast looming over them with a string of human skulls dangling from its neck was anything along the lines of “I am hungry.”

Best to wait a little while longer. He could wait a little while longer.

Muzha had stepped aside after calling Wujing out of the water in order to let him and his Master get acquainted. Now he stepped back in with a sharp clap of his hands and a pleasant smile that dispelled the tension that had choked the air between them.

“Well then, what are we waiting for?!” He said, all chipper, “Sha Wujing, may I have those skulls of yours? The Bodhisattva has instructed me on their use.”

Wujing quickly hauled the rope of skulls off from around his neck, and all but threw them at Muzha. Master hadn't stopped flicking his gaze back and forth over them, and Wujing wanted them gone.

Muzha took them, and held them at arms length. He took a gourd that had been tied to his belt and carried them over to the water’s edge. Most things sank immediately to the bottom of the Flowing Sands River, but the skulls floated when Muzha dropped them in, and the gourd did as well. The skulls arranged themselves in a perfect circle around the gourd, and the rope expanded out until it formed a circle wide enough to encompass, say, a god, a monk, a monkey, a pig demon, a horse and Sha Wujing. The space within the circle shimmered and crystallized, becoming quite solid.

Muzha stepped into the newly-formed boat, stamping on the iridescent hull twice to test that it was sturdy.

“Holy Sir?” He gestured for the Tang Monk to join him in the vessel.

“Oh!” Tripitaka gingerly stepped into the boat, and sat down, clasping his cassock tightly to keep his hands from shaking. Wujing could still see them shaking. No wonder why— who wanted a ride in a boat made from skulls?

Wujing mourned the potential of a good relationship with his sweet new master. Nothing about the impression he was making was salvageable.

“Welcome aboard, little brother,” The pig demon, the one Tripitaka had introduced as Wuneng, sauntered up to him leading a beautiful white stallion. He punched Wujing's bicep in what could have been play or earnest, “Coulda saved us all a lot of trouble by skipping all the fighting stuff, you know.”

Oh, Wujing knew.

“You could have saved him a lot of trouble by actually telling him who we are, Idiot.” The one named Wukong, a monkey with fiery eyes and a shock of unruly hair atop his head, countered. He shot Wujing a wide grin, dodged as Wuneng swung at him, and leapt onto the boat, landing directly on the skull furthest from the bank. The boat rocked wildly on impact, and Wukong dug his fingers into the skull to avoid being pitched into the water, carving divots into the old bleached bone.

The Tang Monk looked terribly uneasy.

Wuneng got in and, after making sure the horse was safely on, sat down right beside Tripitaka, while Wukong settled in at what he obviously considered the helm, nevermind that the vessel was circular, perching so he could look out at the opposite bank.

Wujing got in last of all, lugging his staff along with him, and sat down at the back of the boat, feeling very much like he wouldn't mind if he fell off somewhere along the way and was swallowed back up by the dark water, never to be seen or heard from again.

As soon as Muzha saw they were all situated he muttered something under his breath, and the boat took off like an arrow shot from a bow. The waters were turbulent, and every wave hit them with a terrific smack. Wukong cheered. Screeched, rather. But he sounded excited.

Wujing eyed the horse, expecting him to spook at any moment, but he stayed calm, almost stoic while the boat sped along. Wujing had worked with cavalry all the time in heaven, and he knew this must be an impressively trained animal.

Tripitaka did not seem to be enjoying this at all. His knuckles went white as he held on tight to his cassock, and he looked like he was about to be ill.

“Everything alright, Master?” Wuneng asked.

“When I was a child they called me River Float,” The Tang Monk replied queasily, “Ironically, I fare terribly on watercraft. Especially on such choppy waters.”

“Well, if you're gonna hurl, make sure to do it over the side!” Wuneng gave him a bracing thump on the back, which did not appear to comfort him at all.

Wujing felt a little relieved to know that at least a portion of his master's distress was not skull related. Not that he meant that he was glad that Master was feeling unwell. He didn't mean that at all.

He was terrible at this, even in his head.

Despite the boat moving at incredible speeds, the river was very wide, and it took the better part of five minutes to cross from side to side. As they hit the opposite riverbank, Wukong sprung up, performed an aerial flip and landed upright on the grass. His hair had been whipped up by the wind, which meant it was just as crazy as it had been before, but pushed a little to the left.

Tripitaka stumbled off the boat and immediately sat down, resting his head on his knees. Wuneng took ahold of the horse’s reins and guided him onto land with little words of affirmation that just made the animal look annoyed. Muzha stepped nimbly off, and Wujing got up and slunk onto shore as well.

As he stepped off the boat it seemed to disappear, disintegrating into dark, curling smoke that hissed awfully for a moment and disappeared.

Good riddance.

Wujing shouldered his staff and looked over at Tripitaka. Wukong had procured a silk fan from… somewhere, and was fanning the pale monk vigorously.

“I shall return to serve the Bodhisattva now,” Muzha began to gather luminous clouds around his feet, “Best of luck on your journey, Chen Xuanzang.”

“Oh, thank you!” The Tang Monk immediately fell into a deep kowtow as Muzha ascended, “And thank you to the Bodhisattva, and, and…” He hastily took a pinch of silt off the riverbank and scattered it like incense. 

Wukong smirked and fanned him even harder.

Wujing felt a stabbing pain in his stomach, begging to be fed. He could ask if they had any food on them now… but Tripitaka was still quite green around the gills, and he probably didn't want to even think about food at the moment.

Wujing could wait a little while longer.

As the Tang Monk recovered from both his motion sickness and his passionate worship, he stood up and unpinned his cassock.

“Sha Monk?” He held it out, “Come here a moment.”

Obediently, Wujing came close to his master, and bent down enough for him to fasten the cassock around him.

“There.” He stepped back, and, quite awkwardly, patted Wujing's arm. Now draped in the cassock, Wujing’s wardrobe situation was vastly improved. The cassock was far too small on him, of course, but it enveloped his chest and came down almost to his knees, and that was far better than what it had been before.

“It is not perfect, but it will do for now,” Master said, “We’ll beg for some fabric at the next town we come to, and make you something proper to wear. Bajie, you have a spare set of shoes, don't you?”

Wujing felt a little better as he slipped on the sandals Wuneng fished out of the luggage and tossed unceremoniously at him, not even wincing when he had to squeeze his feet into them. That was one problem solved.

It was probably a good time to ask about food now.

But the Tang Monk was now getting onto the horse, and Wukong jumped up, clouds billowing up beneath him before he could fall back to earth, and Wuneng had hefted up the luggage pole, so…

Wait a little while longer.

Wujing would be able to find something edible that grew along the roadside, surely. He didn't want to start his journey on an empty stomach, and he was beginning to feel lightheaded enough that he knew he really had to worry, but he could manage just fine.

He fell in beside his new companions, ignoring the sharp panging in his belly as he took the first steps of his new life, trudging away from the muddy riverbank that had been his boundary for so long.

It took all of five minutes for Zhu Wuneng to start complaining.

“I'm hungry.” He announced to the group.

Wujing looked up, optimistic about where this was going.

“Bullshit,” Wukong immediately replied, “You ate enough to feed a whole army for breakfast today.”

“And? I'm still hungry!” Wuneng whined.

“Well, let’s figure out something, then—” Tripitaka began to reign in the horse.

“Master,” Wukong cut over him, “We just started moving. If you want to make it to India in a timely fashion, I suggest you keep going.”

“Yes,” Tripitaka nodded, and steeled himself, “Bajie, you’ve had enough—”

“But Masterrrrrr…” Wuneng returned in a tone that was befitting of a five year old and not at all of a grown man.

“Oh, alright,” Tripitaka folded instantly, “Just find something you can have quickly—”

“Master!” Wukong snapped, “Come on!”

“Yes, Pilgrim, just wait—!”

“Master, he’s just going to wear you out—!”

“Don't listen to Idiot—!”

“Pilgrim, Bajie, please—!”

“He's just trying to slow you down, Master—!”

“But I'm hungry—!”

“ENOUGH!” Tripitaka snapped, “We are not stopping to eat until we make camp tonight, and I don't want to hear another word about it from either of you!”

Wukong looked smug, evidently the winner of this battle.

Wuneng sulked.

Wujing’s heart sank. 

It was early afternoon.

He was going to wait. He’d already had too much of a rocky start to be picking a fight.

He gave a tiny sigh. He hadn't meant for anyone to hear it, but Wukong looked around and caught his eye. Wujing supposed he must have looked terribly forlorn, because he saw a brief flash of pity cross the monkey’s face.

Pilgrim dropped down from his cloud and sidled up to the sullen Wuneng.

“Don't look so sad, Brother, it's not like you need the extra food,” He teased loudly, elbowing the pig demon's prominent belly. Tripitaka looked like he was about to yell again, but then Wukong added, “Now, Sha Wujing on the other hand, there's a guy who’s got something to complain about. He's practically skin and bone!”

Without missing a beat, Tripitaka reigned in the horse and looked over his shoulder to scrutinise his new disciple.

Wujing didn't keep track of his weight, and he had no mirrors with which to see his reflection, but he knew he was emaciated. A meal a week didn't exactly put meat on one’s bones.

Tripitaka knitted his brows.

“You are very thin, Sha Monk,” He remarked, looking concerned, “Don’t you eat much?”

“Enough to get by, Sir.” Wujing shrugged off the question, but his own stomach betrayed him by using that exact moment to growl as loudly as it possibly could. Wujing blushed.

Tripitaka looked even more worried.

“Have you had anything to eat today?” He asked.

“...Not today, no Sir.” Wujing replied.

Tripitaka looked horrified.

“Oh, you poor thing!” He slid right out of the saddle and rushed to fuss over him, “I’m so sorry, you must be so hungry! Sit down, we’ll make you something right now! Pilgrim, find us some firewood, please; Bajie, please start on the rice— Sha Monk I said sit down!”

Wujing sat obediently by the roadside. He was glad to do it, actually; he had been getting rather woozy.

Tripitaka pulled some cooking utensils and a bundle of wilted greens out of the luggage. He began to chop the vegetables rapidly, clearly very agitated.

“I am so sorry,” He fretted in Wujing’s direction, “I should have thought to ask if you needed anything before we started—”

“You're okay, Sir,” Wujing replied, “Here, let me help you.”

“No, no, no,” Tripitaka said when Wujing made the slightest indication of movement, “You will sit down and let me do this for you. It’s the least I can do to make up for being so inconsiderate.”

Inconsiderate? The Tang Monk had been nothing but kind since they’d met.

“If you insist, Sir.” Wujing said aloud, and settled back down, nursing his painful hunger. It was worse somehow, now that he knew that food was coming.

He had waited this long. It would just be a little while longer.

“Is there anything you cannot eat?” Tripitaka asked, snapping him out of a doze he didn't realise he had fallen into, “Any allergies, or the like?”

“No, Sir.” Wujing said. It wasn't entirely true— almost everything he had eaten after he became a demon had disagreed with him in one way or another. Everything, except, well, human meat. But there was no chance of him ever explaining that to his Master. Besides, he could handle his reactions just fine.

Tripitaka sighed and lowered the knife. He looked Wujing in the eyes.

“Wujing, while I do appreciate the respect,” He said, "You really don't have to call me ‘Sir’ every time you speak.”

“Yes, Sir. I mean, I’m sorry, Sir,” Wujing felt like bashing his head against the ground, “Sorry.” He managed, sheepishly.

Tripitaka gave a small, wincing smile, and went back to his work.

Great. Wujing was somehow being impolite while being as polite as he could. Would this day ever end?

Wukong dropped down right beside Wujing, shaking the ground in a way that was concerning for someone as small as him. He had an armload of firewood, which he handed off to Wuneng so he could start boiling the rice. He then came right back to Wujing and held something out.

It was a pear. 

Wujing hadn't seen one of those in… well, since he had left heaven. It was an especially big and ripe one too, and he felt his whole body quiver with anticipation at the mere thought of sinking his teeth into it.

“Well?” Wukong raised his eyebrows, “Go ahead, take it.”

The moment he was given permission, Wujing snatched up the pear and tore into it ravenously.

“You’ll ruin your appetite— oh, goodness!” Tripitaka watched in abject horror as Wujing massacred the fruit right in front of him.

In seconds, he’d shredded the fruit’s pale flesh to pulp with his fangs and swallowed it all down in two massive gulps. He looked up to see everyone just staring at him.

He hastily wiped away the juice that ran over his lips and beard. He had been so eager to eat… he hadn't even thought about… oh, they wouldn't stop looking at him.

“Woah,” Said Wuneng, finally, “You can unhinge your jaw?”

He sounded more impressed than horrified.

“Um…” Wujing didn't want to open his mouth, with all its rows of fangs that definitely had a lot of shredded pear flesh still stuck in them, so he mumbled through his reply, “Yes.”

“Shit, that’s awesome.” Wuneng said, and went right back to building up his fire.

Wujing hazarded a glance at his Master. Tripitaka met his eyes, and seemed to only just then realised he was staring. He quickly finished cutting the vegetables and busied himself by supervising the progress with the cookfire, all the while avoiding eye-contact with his newest disciple.

Wukong seemed to just shrug the whole thing off, and bounded a little ways away to practice (or play, the difference was unclear) with his golden-hooped staff. The horse had just wandered off by itself, but no one seemed too concerned about that.

Wujing sat in the midst of this, alone.

He hadn't thought about how he ate, mechanically, since he had become a demon. He went through the motions unconsciously, and no one else had been around to make notes on it.

Only now he realised how downright disturbing he must look, with his tearing teeth and elastic jaws and throat. Probably, when the others had seen him then, it had been hard not to imagine him biting into something warm and waterlogged and bloody…

Wujing felt a lot less hungry, and not just because he finally had something in his belly.

This made it easier, when Tripitaka handed him a bowl of gingery vegetables and rice, saying regretfully that it wasn't much despite it being the most food Wujing had seen in a while, to take his time and think about what he was doing. He focused on putting the food all the way in his mouth before chewing, keeping his lips firmly shut, and swallowing like… like a human would.

It was so unnatural that it hurt. His teeth kept grinding painfully against each other, and he had to swallow very carefully to stop himself from choking. By the end of his meal, his jaws ached.

But no one was looking at him like he was eating a fresh corpse anymore, and that made it worth it.

"Hey, new guy,” That evening, after Wujing had eaten another big meal and felt terribly pained around the mouth and terribly warm and comfortable everywhere else, Sun Wukong threw a bundle of blankets and rattan at him, with a cheerful cry of, “Catch!”

Wujing did not catch the bundle— rather, it caught him. It slammed squarely into his chest and knocked him right over.

“PILGRIM!” Tripitaka yelled from across the camp, “WHAT HAVE I SAID ABOUT THROWING LARGE OBJECTS?!”

“Don’t throw them at other people.” Wukong gave a tired reply, like it was a well-recited rule.

“THANK YOU!” Tripitaka shouted, and went right back to meditating.

Wujing sat up, rubbing his head.

“Sorry!” Wukong winced, “Thought you would catch it. That's my bedroll, but I don't really need it, so you can borrow it until you get one of your own, if you want.”

“Oh,” Wujing looked at the bundle, then back at Wukong, “Thank you very much.”

“No problem,” The monkey said, “Seriously, it doesn't make any difference to me whether I have it or not.”

“Thank you.” Wujing repeated, realising that the implication here was that if Wukong needed or wanted the bed he wouldn't have even considered lending it. Which was fair, of course.

And, well, Wujing was not one to speak when it came to physical appearances, but, well, he noticed a slight flaw in this plan.

“Um… Brother?” It was a strange, scary feeling, to just throw out a title and a relationship and hope that it would land, but Wukong immediately looked up when he called, so perhaps it had worked, “Er, not to be rude, but you are very…”

He gestured vaguely.

“Small?” Wukong raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, and see, I am very…” He gestured vaguely again, this time to himself.

“Large?” Wukong filled in, beginning to smile.

“Yes, so,” Wujing gestured vaguely a third time, to the bedroll, “I do not know if your bedding will fit me.”

Wukong laughed.

“Don't worry!” He reached up and ruffled Wujing's hair, “Believe it or not, bedrolls don't often come monkey sized. ‘Course, they don't usually come in your size, either but…” Wukong trailed off. He still had his hand buried in Wujing's hair, and now he furrowed his brow and leaned in to examine it closer.

Wujing didn't know quite what was happening, or how he was supposed to respond, so he sat completely still and silent as Wukong gently pulled at the tangles around his roots and scrutinised his scalp. It was about three full minutes before the Monkey King issued his verdict:

“Your hair is a disgusting mess.” He said, bluntly, and with emphasis.

But his voice had a tone of sadness to it. Like he felt sorry for Wujing, and all his apparently disgusting hair. 

Wujing had had no time to think about his hair and beard in the river. There had been too much else to worry about. Even if he had thought of it, what would he have done? He had no combs or brushes, and while he had been surrounded by water, it was not exactly clean and fit for washing with.

So his hair was a mess of tangles and matting now, and, with any luck, full of sand.

He was about to apologise, but Wukong spoke again.

“But you're not alone anymore,” He said, with the same open honesty which he had just called Wujing's hair disgusting and messy, “I’m gonna fix this, Little Brother.”

Before Wujing could understand what that meant or what Wukong intended to do, his new brother had dragged him over to a small clump of boulders with a shocking amount of strength. He propped Wujing up against the rocks and perched himself on top of them, so he was in the perfect position to reach all of Wujing's hair. Wujing himself went along with this obediently, like a puppet or a child’s doll. He kept very still as Wukong began to finger-comb through his hair.

He expected, from what he had seen of Wukong’s brash nature, to be in for a painful time, but somehow the monkey managed to do this slowly and carefully. And if it did hurt, Wukong somehow knew it was going to and gave him a fair warning first. Even then, the pain was not great at all, and if it was, Wujing could easily steel himself and keep strong until it was over.

It took about an hour of detangling and plucking and what seemed to just be admiring past work until Sun Wukong was satisfied. He got up and shook himself, and Wujing stretched and ran a hand through his hair.

It was silky, like a fiery red drape of gauze. So light and clean, and it settled like a soft cloud around his shoulders.

The sun had gone down quite a while ago, and the only light was from the dying fire, but Wujing felt all surrounded by a warm glow. Wukong jumped down from the rocks and looked up at him with wide, soft, ember-like eyes. For a moment they just gazed at each other, open and vulnerable.

Wujing got up.

“Better go to bed.” He said, trudging towards where he had left the borrowed bedroll. Night had properly settled, the others had all gone to sleep, and Wujing was tired. It had been an eventful day.

“Oh,” Said Wukong, “Right.”

He looked around and rubbed his eyes.

“Didn’t even notice it had gotten this late.” He murmured drowsily, and, as if the darkness had cast some kind of spell on him, he curled up on the grass and instantly fell asleep.

Wujing rolled out the bedroll, took off the loaned cassock and lay down. The mattress and blankets were too small for him, being only human sized, but he curled up tight and then he could mostly fit. It didn’t matter too much, because this was the most comfortable he had been in… in forever. 

He was drowsing within seconds.

Wukong suddenly sat up with a gasp, wide awake.

Wujing did not so much as wince as the entirety of his new brother’s weight landed on his shoulders.

“Your beard!” Wukong cried, trying to shake him awake, “I forgot—!”

Wujing just nestled into his blankets and fell into a deep, dead-to-the-world sleep.

After a few weeks, Wujing had formed an understanding of who his companions were, and how things worked with them.

Sun Wukong, or Elder Brother, as Wujing began to call him after silently picking up on some context clues, was a force to be reckoned with. 

The very day after he had joined the pilgrimage they had run right into the spirit of an old ginkgo tree who was endeavouring to create an elixir of youth and longevity, and had snatched Tripitaka away to be her key ingredient. Wukong had swiftly pulled out his staff from wherever he kept it and beaten the spirit to sap with just one blow. He’d then scooped up their badly rattled Master, dusted him off, given him some water, and put him right back on the horse.

Apparently, this was a regular occurrence.

Not only was Elder Brother a menace on the battlefield, but he carried that energy with him into the rest of his life. Wujing didn't believe that anyone, even a monkey, could be that loud and bouncy and committed to being a holy terror all the time, but here was Sun Wukong, who appeared to have made an art of it.

And, for some reason, he seemed to really like Wujing.

He was often attempting to pull his little brother into conversations, which did not work because Wujing made it a rule to only speak when spoken to, and the others were so talkative they often just forgot there was another, quieter person there. Wujing did not mind— this saved him from acting or speaking wrong and inducing a lot of strange glances and horrified stares. Wukong also kept on trying to get Wujing to play— i.e. spar with their respective polearms, and this worked only sometimes. The only thing that worked consistently was when Wukong jumped up onto his shoulders, either to inspect his hair and beard or just to be there. It felt good, like a connection. And Wujing's hair had never been so meticulous.

Then there was Zhu Wuneng, his Second Elder Brother. Wujing was not looking to make an enemy of any of his companions, but Wuneng was certainly easy to dislike. He was whiny to an annoying degree, and Master indulged him far too often for anyone's good. He had, unfortunately, learned just how to flatter and appeal to Tripitaka, and clearly had the monk wrapped firmly around his little finger at this point. They made a curious pair, Tripitaka being so nice and Wuneng being so… not.

Luckily for Wujing, his Second Elder Brother did not try to interact with him much. Most of their dealings involved Wuneng giving him calculating looks, like he was trying to size him up and figure him out, and Wujing shrinking away before he could. A couple of times Wuneng had pulled him aside and tried to have an amiable chat with him, which always ended up being one-sided on Wuneng’s part and awkward on Wujing’s.

…The horse. Wujing was not sure what the horse was, but he was almost certain he was not actually a horse. Wujing knew horses. Wujing knew not to let a horse wander unsupervised, but everyone else let him go all the time, and he was always back on time when they were ready to move on. Wujing knew that a horse ought to be spooked by a good percentage of the things this one took in his stride; and then he got all skittish when someone approached with a brush or a blanket or, heaven forbid it, a treat. And Wujing knew that Tripitaka was not riding him properly— he barely communicated with the horse, not using spurs or verbal commands and only keeping one relaxed hand on the slack reins unless he was desperately trying not to fall (he fell often). Yet the horse always seemed to know exactly where it was going and what it was supposed to do. 

But the horse had never bothered with Wujing, so he happily returned the favour and did not question any of these things aloud.

Then, finally, there was Wujing's Master. Any preconceived notions he had formed while imagining what the Tang Monk would be like had been completely and utterly destroyed. Tripitaka was not the hero he had envisioned; just the slightest provocation or hurt could bring tears to his eyes. He was not calm nor refined, no matter how hard he tried to be. When all was said and done, Tripitaka wasn't perfect at all. 

But he was a sweetheart. He was good and kind, and Wujing knew he didn't deserve him. And he was fairly sure Tripitaka knew it, too.

Wujing noticed his Master kept shooting him nervous glances as they travelled. His brow was always furrowed as he eyed Wujing's dark, lurking silhouette, with a sort of tightness around the mouth.

The skulls. Wujing knew he was thinking about the skulls. He had hoped Tripitaka would just forget about them, but who would? And what response would Wujing give when he finally asked about them?

Wujing put in an effort to avoid his Master's searching eyes.

Wujing himself was vastly improving, physically speaking. With at least two square meals a day he had to put on some decent weight already, so the hollows in his cheeks had filled out, there was a layer of flesh over his ribs, and his belly even began to jiggle a bit when he moved. He formed muscle, too, from walking and carrying luggage all day, and his hulking shape began to hulk even more.

What surprised him was that the food he ate on the pilgrimage did not make him sick like the things he had foraged around the river had. For the first few days he had worried about when it was all going to catch up with him, but after he hadn't felt the slightest nausea for a week his fears had dissolved. Probably actually eating his food cooked was doing him a lot of favours.

“There's a town up there.” Wukong’s voice cut through Wujing's thoughts.

They all looked to where the Monkey King was pointing.

The land around here was gently hilly, with lots of sloping cropland that had been rendered bare by the seasonal shift into winter. In the distance was the silhouette of a small town, more like a village. It was a bit out of their way, but—

“We should head over there,” Tripitaka said, and the horse immediately changed course, “There are some things we need to beg for.”

Wujing knew that by “some things” his Master meant fabric, and lots of it. Wujing was still only covered by his old loincloth and the borrowed cassock and sandals, and the winds got colder every day, so suffice to say some proper clothes were in order.

“Sha Monk?” Tripitaka beckoned him over as they came to the outskirts of the little town.

“Master?”

“Do you know how to beg for alms?” Tripitaka asked.

“No,” Wujing had to bite his tongue before he tacked a ‘sir’ on, “I do not.”

“Well, it is quite simple,” Tripitaka said, “Just be polite, humble and grateful, and you should be fine. People may be rude or brush you off, but that is the worst that can happen.”

One of the three men screamed and ran away sobbing like a baby, another immediately pitched sideways and fell onto the road in a dead faint, and the third pulled his sword and swiped right up at Wujing’s chest. 

Wujing stumbled back, hissing in fright.

It turned out that when a towering river demon appeared draped in a cassock that didn't fit, he did not come across to the casual observer as a monk, but as a monster who had killed a monk and stolen his clothes, and was here to kill some more. The man bearing his sword had real fear in his eyes, and rather than lunging after Wujing he took a defensive stance in front of the fainter.

“GET AWAY!” He screamed, “GET AWAY OR I’LL KILL YOU!”

Wujing froze, panicked. Equally panicked, the swordsman waved his sabre back and forth. Wujing stared at the glinting blade. His vision blurred as pain licked across his chest in all the familiar places. His body was on fire; the water stung, and turned red. He couldn't breathe, he was weak and shaky, his skin was cold. He was starving. He was going to be sick. Blood was everywhere, and the final sword went to land its blow— right next to the heart, so close, a hair's breadth from ending the pain, but just not close enough.

He gripped his Master's cassock tightly, trying to bring himself back, to breathe through it, to remind himself that it wasn't here, it wasn't now.

People were yelling and scrambling all around them.

“Wen Hao!” Someone shouted at the swordsman, “Run, you imbecile! You won't be able to kill it!”

Wen Hao, clearly terrified out of his wits, did not even respond. He made stabbing movements, warning Wujing off.

Wujing snarled at the blade, ears flaring, hissing through his rows of fangs. It was his own warning.

Wen Hao responded, perhaps predictably, by lunging at Wujing with his sword raised.

Wujing was pulled backwards by a tug he would have been able to resist if he wasn't so out of it.

“DON'T HURT MY DISCIPLE!” Tripitaka yelled, putting himself between Wujing and the blade. Wujing shrieked and grabbed his Master, pulling him just out of the way as the sword swung down.

Tripitaka was breathing heavily from running, and Wujing could feel his Master's heart pounding as the latter clung to him, gripping one of his forearms tightly. Tripitaka’s hands were too small even to close around his gigantic wrist.

Wen Hao took one look at the monk and sheathed his sword, stepping back. He kept a hand firmly on the hilt.

Wujing tore his eyes away from his attacker to look at his Master. He wondered if he might cry from the sheer relief and thankfulness; Master could make the threat of the sword disappear, he was safe, Master would protect him now.

Except then his Master fixed him with a glare so piercing that the sword would have been preferable.

“Why are you fighting?!” He demanded, and Wujing almost audibly choked. That… that wasn't fair, he’d done everything right— he’d been attacked.

But before he could compose himself and explain, Wen Hao started yelling at Tripitaka.

“That thing is yours?!” He demanded, pointing wildly at Wujing, and then in Tripitaka's face, “How dare you bring it here! It could kill someone! My brother is weakened from a long illness and that monster made him…”

He trailed off as he looked at the man sprawled out on the street. His eyes widened, and he dropped to his knees and rolled his brother onto his back.

Wujing released a breath he didn't know he was holding when he saw the unconscious man’s chest rise and fall.

As Wen Hao felt for his brother's pulse, his eyes blinked open.

“Hao…?” He propped himself up on an elbow, “What…?”

His eyes fell on Wujing.

“Ah!” He gasped, looking like he was about to faint again.

“Daichuan!” Wen Hao grabbed him and kept him sitting up, “Daichuan, stay with me!”

Wen Daichuan breathed heavily and clutched at his chest.

“I think…” He gasped, “...I need a doctor.”

Wen Hao immediately stood, lifting and supporting his pale, sweating brother.

“My father is an influential man around these parts,” He turned back to Tripitaka, all anger, “If he finds out about this, he shall likely take you to court! You ought to be arrested, and that thing ought to be put to death! What kind of monk are you, making friends with violent demons?”

With that he marched away, his brother leaning on his shoulder as his knees almost buckled with every step.

“Master…” Wujing whimpered.

Tripitaka was red in the face and blinking back tears. His shoulders trembled.

“You just had to go and get into trouble,” He snapped, “Why can't any of you just behave, just for five minutes?!”

“But I—” Wujing tried.

“I don't want to hear it!” Tripitaka yelled, “People could have been grievously hurt because of you! How can you justify that? You ought to do better, Sha Wujing!”

Wujing took a breath, trying to compose himself.

“I did not—” He began, slowly and deliberately.

“I saw you snarling at him!” Tripitaka cut over him, “Everyone saw it, Wujing! What kind of monk are you, engaging in such a violent fight?”

Wujing realised there was no reasoning with his Master's temper. He’d been in plenty of battles, both as a heavenly general and as a demon— he had learned well when to cut his losses and surrender.

“I'm sorry.” Wujing relented, though he wanted to rage back at the injustice.

“Alright, thank you!” Tripitaka replied, exasperated. He took a deep breath, and calmed down a fraction, “I forgive you.”

Wujing swallowed back a boiling anger, burying it deep down inside his chest. It wasn't fair at all. But it meant the fight was over.

“I…” He took a deep breath after his voice came out all shaky, and tried again, “I believe I am no longer welcome in this town. I am going to wait somewhere without people around.”

Without waiting to hear Tripitaka's response, he turned and walked swiftly away. He hadn't even gotten that far through the village gate, so within seconds he was out and into the surrounding farmland.

He walked numbly, instinctually, to the nearest body of water— a creek, surrounded by a small bit of evergreen woodland. He sat down on a lichen-covered boulder at the water’s edge.

The rushing water warped his reflection. He stared down at it, thinking of how easy it would be to just dive in and follow it to whatever river it fed. Maybe it went right back to the Flowing Sands.

He shook his head, killing the idea before it took root. This journey was his only chance to be more than… than a violent demon. He would keep at it if it killed him.

And, even if his opinion of his Master was a bit tarnished now, the man had done so much for him. Wujing could bite his tongue, if it meant keeping things sweet between them.

He could do it. He could survive this.

Footsteps crashed through the undergrowth behind him, and he swiped an arm over his face just before his two elder brothers appeared.

“Little Brother!” Zhu Wuneng came up beside him on his left and threw an arm around his shoulders, “We heard you’ve been fighting!”

Wujing turned his head away, but Sun Wukong jumped up onto a rock on his right and ruffled his hair.

“Hey,” He said, “What's wrong? Is there someone we need to beat up for you?”

Wujing shook his head silently. He looked down at the water again.

He was aware of his brothers exchanging looks over his hunched back, and suddenly both of them sat down beside him, closer than usual.

“Look,” His Elder Brother sighed, “We’ve all had bad experiences with humans who have a problem with us.”

“Yeah,” Wuneng added, his voice tainted with a real sourness that Wujing hadn't heard from him before, “And it’s fucking unfair, I get it. You can do everything right, but people are always gonna be assholes who judge you by your appearance.”

“You’ve either got to wallow in self-pity or get up and make them respect you,” Wukong said, and then grinned, “Or get your big brother to make them for you.”

“I am not asking you to beat him up, Elder Brother.” Wujing said.

“I'm offering.”

“No, thank you.”

“Aww…” Wukong slumped. He lifted his head when Wujing spoke again.

“Anyway, that is… that is not why I am upset.”

Both of his brothers gave him questioning looks.

Wujing bit his lips. He was talking too much. They were all being a degree of vulnerable here, but not that much. Besides, to bring it up could incite mutiny.

Elder Brother studied his face.

“Master yelled at you, didn't he?” Wukong ask finally.

Wujing inclined his head just a fraction to nod.

“Aw, shit,” Elder Brother said, “Look, Master's not immune to the whole ‘judging by appearances’ thing. He’s a good guy, but at the end of the day pretty much all humans are short-sighted like that.”

“Besides, we make him look bad,” Wuneng said, still all bitter, “You know things would be easier for him if he had a bunch of human disciples instead,” He surveyed his reflection in the water, as Wujing had done before, “But he's got us.”

“Focus, Idiot.”

“I'm focused!” Their Second Brother jumped and glared at Wukong.

“Sure.”

“I—!”

“We must cause Master a lot of trouble.” Wujing murmured, and his brothers’ fight stopped before it had begun.

“Yeah, but he likes us,” Wuneng shrugged, “More than most people do, anyway.”

“He keeps us around,” Added Wukong, “He wouldn't do that if he didn't want us.”

“He just doesn't get some things,” Wuneng said, “And fair enough, I mean, he’s a perfect pretty human and we’re a bunch of ugly demons, how would he know what it's like?”

They sat in brooding silence for a while, only the sounds of water running and birdsong disrupting the quiet.

Wukong fidgeted, then shook himself as if shaking off the melancholic atmosphere.

“I got you something.” He said abruptly, and held out a thin, polished stick to Wujing. 

Looking at it closer, he recognised what it was— a zan, a hairpin, used to secure hair in a bun. Wujing had owned a beautiful one in heaven, carved from jade into an intricate dragon design, and for less formal occasions he had some made from ivory and tortoiseshell. This was clearly a peasant’s model, made of simple wood.

“Thank you, Elder Brother,” Wujing said, “It is wonderful.”

He was about to take it, but before he could even lift his hand Wukong had jumped into his shoulders and was gathering up his masses of hair.

Wuneng smirked.

“You two look like a couple of girls playing hairdresser.” He said, which was not the devastating insult he apparently thought it was.

Wukong just stuck out his tongue at him, and Wujing quietly added the insult to his mental library.