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The last syllable scrapes up Sanzo’s throat and out into the air. It feels like he’s swallowed a bullet or two, but he lets the end of the incantation drop, because he always finishes. The air shudders as the sutra settles, paper seals burning down to ash and drifting away on the breeze. The glow around him fades, leaving nothing but him, kneeling in the dirt, and the colourless dark of the ravine before him.
Whatever had been crawling up over the edges of reality loses cohesion and tears itself apart with a sound like wet cloth ripping.
Silence drops around him. Sanzo stays where he is on the ground, his spine locked tight by force of habit more than strength. His breath comes ragged, painful in his throat. Remnants of the sutra slip down his arms, hanging loose at his sides, scorched edges still hot. His hands tremble; he balls them into fists before anyone else can see.
Too long. The fight ran way too fucking long. He’d felt it slipping halfway through — that familiar ache in his chest that meant he was pushing himself too hard, the way the words started to drag and thin and waver at the edges.
“Oy,” Gojyo calls from somewhere in the distance. “You alive over there, priest?”
Sanzo doesn’t answer.
He isn’t sure how much time passes. His muscles are still locked, holding him in place; every time he uses sutras, it gets harder and harder to ease himself out of the aftermath. If the others notice, they don’t say anything. One small mercy.
Below the smell of burnt paper and ozone, Sanzo picks up a hint of soap and medicinal herbs. And blood. Always blood.
Hakkai stops beside him and drops to one knee. That alone tells him things are contained: Gojyo won’t get eaten, and Goku won’t walk into anything sharp.
“Sanzo,” Hakkai says quietly.
“Don’t,” Sanzo mutters.
Hakkai doesn’t touch him. “Sit,” he says instead.
Sanzo huffs a laugh that holds no humour. “I am sitting.”
“I mean, lean back.”
Irritation flares so fast and hot Sanzo’s almost not ready for it. He never knows what to do in these moments, when he’s pulled between pain and exhaustion, and the absolute calmness of Hakkai’s presence. He opens his mouth to retort—
—and then the strength drains out of him in one swift flood, his muscles letting go all at once.
Sanzo sinks back without arguing, letting his weight settle against a small boulder, the stone cold and grounding through his clothes. He shuts his eyes but the world still spins, so he opens them again.
Hakkai crouches in front of him, his movements steady as he picks up Sanzo’s gun, checks the chamber, and then places it within easy reach. Then he roots in his rucksack.
“Water,” he says, holding the canteen out.
Sanzo takes it and drinks too fast, some of the water spilling down his chin. It does nothing to ease the burning in his throat.
“You pushed yourself,” Hakkai says.
Sanzo snorts, tossing the canteen back. “That’s the job.”
“It went on longer than it should have,” Hakkai says contemplatively, staring just past his shoulder.
“No shit.” Sanzo hesitates, his brows drawing down. He knows that look, the one that says Hakkai is calculating beneath the surface. “What, you keeping score now?”
Hakkai meets his eyes. “I always do.”
“Tch,” Sanzo says, letting his head tip back against the rock. The sky above is clear, stars tiny pinpoints of light far above. He tries to focus on one, but they start to blur together. “Unbelievable.”
“Cigarette?” Hakkai offers, already reaching into Sanzo’s pocket to retrieve the pack. He slots it between Sanzo’s lips and then lights it, shielding the flame with one hand until it catches.
Sanzo draws in a lungful and lets it out in a long, pale swirl into the dark. Tastes good.
Hakkai remains where he is, crouched beside him, close enough that Sanzo can feel his presence without looking. He never hovers, exactly. He never retreats, either.
“You always do this,” Sanzo says eventually.
Hakkai glances up. “Do what?”
“Know.” Sanzo’s voice comes out rough, worn down to something more honest from the heat and tiredness. He doesn’t bother to adjust it. “When to touch. When to shut up. When to stay.”
Hakkai considers that for a moment. “It’s because you’re predictable.”
Sanzo barks a short laugh and says, “Fuck you,” but there’s no real heat in it.
Hakkai’s mouth tugs up slightly. “You ground faster if I don’t crowd you right after.”
“Hm.” Sanzo takes a second drag. “You really have been taking notes.”
“Years ago,” Hakkai says easily. “I update them as needed.”
Sanzo studies him for a moment, that calm expression that can be often be grounding and infuriating at the same time. The steady set of Hakkai’s shoulders. The fact that he’s still here, still close, after everything.
“I don’t like needing it,” Sanzo says before he can stop himself.
“I know.”
Sanzo flicks ash onto the dirt. “Makes me slow.”
“No,” Hakkai says. “It makes you human.”
Clenching his jaw, Sanzo looks away, focusing on the smoke twisting up into the cooling air. His cigarette’s over halfway done; he doesn’t like the way it feels like a countdown as the glowing tip creeps closer to the filter. The night is suddenly too quiet and too still. Which is weird, he thinks, because he usually wants quiet and stillness.
“You don’t flinch,” he says after a beat.
“Should I?”
“Most people do.”
When he looks up, Hakkai is watching him closely, thoughtful. “You don’t want flinching. You want presence.”
Sanzo can’t exactly deny it. One more drag, meant to be a small one but it ends up almost burning the cigarette out. He tosses it aside anyway, and lets his hand drift, without quite meaning to, to catch hold of the fabric of Hakkai’s sleeve. Sanzo feels rough stitching under his fingertips where Hakkai has repaired and re-repaired it.
Hakkai stills immediately, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Stay,” he says, voice coarse and stripped of pretense. He’s too tired to give a shit how it sounds.
Hakkai’s voice is quiet when he answers. “I am.”
Sanzo waits until the last of the sutra’s echo fades completely and the world settles back into something survivable.
“Where are the others?” he asks after a minute.
“They went into town to get repairs done,” Hakkai says. “Some of our gear was damaged during the—”
When he finally pulls Hakkai in, there’s nothing gentle about it. The mouths meet hard, breath and teeth and smoke and heat, nothing left to discuss, no space now to be negotiated. Hakkai freezes for half a heartbeat, and then he sinks further into it, kissing back without hurry. It’s like he’s been waiting for this, Sanzo thinks dimly, and then his mind unhelpfully supplies: maybe I have too.
He doesn’t let the thought stick; instead, he angles his chin just slightly higher, and breathes into Hakkai’s mouth, because he knows, deep down, that Hakkai can take it. Take the ache and the pressure and the violence and everything Sanzo never says. He feels Hakkai’s fingers at his jaw, then, and wants to—what? Keep going?
No, it’s not the time. Sanzo breaks it first, forehead resting briefly against Hakkai’s before he pushes him back. Before the moment can shift from grounding to something more dangerous.
Hakkai moves away because that’s what the moment calls for. Wordlessly, he picks up the canteen and his rucksack, rises, and heads over to sort their remaining gear. He doesn’t look back.
Sanzo stares off over the ravine, at the immense shadows that fold across the space. Nothing rises from them now.
Inside, things have… settled. Mostly.
Tipping his head back against the rock again, he watches the horizon, vaguely listening for the rumble of Jeep. Once the kappa and monkey are back, they can hit the road again.
And next time, if it comes to that—and it probably will—Sanzo knows that the aftermath doesn’t have to be kept alone.