Chapter Text
Sun Wukong hated that Bodhisattva.
She’d given Master that awful circlet, for one. That was a pretty good reason to hate her all on its own. But aside from that, she was just so… so perfect. So shiny white and squeaky clean. Pretty smile with pretty teeth, and it just made her countenance glow. Like the whole of Heaven, but this time genuine. Made Wukong wanna kill her.
Unfortunately, the more he saw of her, the more likeable she became. Like the whole of Heaven, but this time genuine— no facade, no whitewashing, she was herself down to her core. Wukong couldn't fault that, because Wukong was himself right down to his core, too. It was refreshing to meet anyone else like him, even if she were nothing like him and so infuriatingly elegant it made his blood boil. But even then, there were moments when she was just like him, and it was spectacular. It’d been the best moment of his life when she’d flung that vase over the ocean. He wished she’d do it again in a less fraught situation. He knew she wouldn't.
Awful self-controlled paragon of a goddess. She’d lecture him for days when she saw his latest mess. She’d definitely be inclined to use the circlet. She might even request another mountain.
Unfortunately, now Wukong had nowhere else to turn.
He cleaned himself up before he went to see her. He found a nice clear stream in some forest far away from everything and everyone, took off his clothes and stepped in to wash himself off.
The crystalline water went ruby. Just from the stuff congealed in his fur up to his midriff. He hadn't even put his hands into the water yet.
He squeezed his eyes shut and scrubbed himself down until the water ran clear once more.
He took his tiger skin and scrubbed it too, and hung it from a branch to dry. He picked up his shirt.
Master had been so proud when he first put on that shirt.
“Very respectable, Pilgrim,” He’d said, smiling approval, “Very neat, very clean— very good.”
The shirt was now encrusted with blood and slime and dirt.
Wukong plunged it into the water and washed it over and over until it was as clean as it was going to get. It would never be white again, Wukong realised— it had been stained beyond saving.
He lay on the warm rocks by the stream and waited until he and his clothes were dry.
What do I say when I see her? He wondered, having nothing else to occupy his mind with, What do I say to explain? She's the Merciful Bodhisattva, she’ll forgive me… right? But what if she's done with giving me second chances too?
It took a lot of effort to get up and fly to Mount Potalaka. Usually Wukong somersaulted through the sky at lightning speed— now he was reminded of his first attempts at treading the clouds, which Master Subhodi had ungraciously described as ‘cloud crawling.’
As if Wukong needed to be reminded of Master Subhodi right now.
Gah, he had to work himself out of this funk. She is good, she is kind, she loves helping, she will help you, Wukong repeated over and over in his head, until he finally touched down in Mount Potalaka. Yeah, Guanyin saw the good in every sinner, she would see the good in him even if it were hard to find.
Speaking of sinners.
“Uncle!”
Wukong was almost slammed into by a very enthusiastic young demon, who skidded to a halt just before the collision could happen. He stepped back, reigning in his enthusiasm, looking nervously at the Great Sage, as though he was unsure of how to act. Reasonable, considering that when they’d first met there’d been a whole lot of attempted murder and impersonation between them.
“Hello, Red Boy.” Wukong said briskly— he really didn't have time to navigate this particular relationship right now.
“Have you come to see the Bodhisattva?” Red Boy read the room and took another step back.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Are you not going to tell me?” Red Boy pouted, “But we are family.”
“Funny how we’re only family when it's convenient to you.”
“...But I am your favourite nephew—”
“ENOUGH, RED BOY!” Wukong snapped and whirled around, baring his teeth at him until he stumbled backwards, “I’m not telling you and that's final!”
Red Boy gave him a hurt look, but Wukong just snarled. He was done. He wanted today to be over.
“Great Sage! Good afternoon!” Longnü approached with cups of tea in hand, “I thought I heard your voice! You came at the perfect time, I just finished brewing up-”
He just shot a glare at her.
“You know what who wants tea at this hour not me I'll just go throw this all out shall I?” The Dragon Girl spun around on the spot and went right back the way she came, at speed, with beads of sweat glistening on her forehead.
Wukong gave a low growl, fur bristling, but was cut off by a gentle voice that seemed to travel on the wind, floating out from within a nearby grove of purple bamboo:
“Sun Wukong, rather than taking your aggression out on my disciples, would you like to come in and tell me what the matter is? That seems a lot more constructive than what you're doing now.”
He scowled at her sing-song tone, but managed to walk into the grove pleasantly.
Bodhisattva Guanyin sat on her lotus throne, reclining just a little. Her senior disciple Muzha stood beside her, ready to be of service, as always.
She smiled at Wukong as he entered, despite his stormy mood. He wanted to smack that stupid smile right off her face.
“Good afternoon, Wukong,” She said sweetly, “More trouble on the road West, I assume?”
Wukong just stared at her for a moment, face twisting with emotion.
Then he burst into tears.
“Sun Wukong!” Guanyin cried out in disbelief. She looked over at Muzha, who nodded and quietly slipped outside.
Wukong was shocked at himself. Just a moment ago he had wanted to scream in anger, and now he was wailing through big, loud, ugly sobs. In front of Guanyin, no less! It had to be her fault— he’d needed to explode, and something about Guanyin's presence had turned that explosion from a good healthy rampage into this.
“Sun Wukong!” Guanyin kept saying, over and over, “Sun Wukong, breathe! Just tell me what is wrong!”
Wukong tried explaining through his tears, but his words came out all wet and incoherent and far too much like distressed monkey vocalisations for her to understand them at all.
After a minute or so of this, Guanyin got up and left. Wukong all but despaired, but she came back quickly with a bowl of water and held it out to him.
He gulped down the water. Oh. Yeah, that was good. It was cool and crisp and was exactly what Wukong needed. His sobs diminished into soft whimpers.
Guanyin knelt down so she could look up into his eyes and placed a hand on his shoulder. Her expression was full of concern, and she asked, very softly, “What happened, Wukong?”
Wukong’s chin quivered, but he kept himself together as best he could. He didn't know what to say. Eventually, he just blurted it out:
“I… I fucked up so bad.”
“I see,” Guanyin said, “And what was this mistake that you made?”
Truly one of her greatest qualities was her ability to translate anything Wukong said into how he was supposed to say it without batting an eyelid.
“...Killed people.” Wukong muttered, avoiding eye-contact.
“Wukong.” Guanyin chastised him.
“I know I know I know!” Wukong felt the tears building up with a burning sensation in his throat, “They were bandits, they were going to kill Master, so I killed them first! I thought I was doing the right thing!”
“You could have just chased them off,” Guanyin said, “Wukong, bandits are wicked people, but killing them is still a terrible evil!”
“I know,” Wukong repeated, then asked in an uncharacteristically weak voice, “Are you going to recite the tight-fillet spell?”
Guanyin looked surprised, as if that hadn't been on her mind at all.
“I suppose your master has done so already?” She asked.
“Yes.”
“Then no, I won't.”
“Oh. Thankyou.”
Guanyin gave a heavy sigh.
“Are you sorry, Wukong?” She asked directly.
“...What?”
“Are you sorry for killing the bandits?”
Wukong didn't know how to answer. He didn't have much experience being sorry about anything. He wouldn't know what it felt like.
“I’m not sure.” He said.
Guanyin looked right into his eyes, as if she were searching his very soul. There was so much care in her face, so intense that Wukong had to turn his head away.
“You're riddled with guilt, Wukong,” She said definitively, “Apologise. Trust me, it will help.”
“...I'm sorry…” Wukong felt the words fight him all the way, but once they were out he realised he meant them, and he could meet Guanyin's eyes once more.
He broke down again.
“There we go,” Guanyin wiped his face all over with her sleeve, somehow managing to keep it pristine, “I forgive you, Wukong. Do better in the future.”
Wukong nodded fervently.
“I am so glad you came to me about this,” Guanyin stood up, “You may go back to your master now.”
Wukong froze.
“...Is something wrong?” The Bodhisattva asked.
“He— he told me to never come back,” Wukong said tearfully, “Or he would recite the tight-fillet spell until it killed me. He was… he was angry.”
“It sounds like he was.” Guanyin said, her brow furrowing.
“He’s not going to forgive me like you did,” Wukong went on, “Guanyin, can you please take this awful circlet off so I can go home?”
“That's a rather lazy way out, Sun Wukong.” She replied sternly.
Wukong glared at her. Lazy? Really? He’d said please and everything!
“If you abandon the quest now, you will never reach enlightenment.” Guanyin went on, and Wukong scowled.
“I'm not abandoning the quest, I got kicked out of it!” He snapped.
“Hmm,” Guanyin sat back down in her lotus throne, and her eyes began to glow. After a few moments, where her consciousness seemed very far away, she blinked the light from her eyes and smiled, “Good news. The Tang Monk will soon find himself in grave danger, and he will have no choice but to call on your aid. You will then rejoin the pilgrimage, and continue on the path to enlightenment.”
“Oh, that's… good,” Wukong said, though he didn't like the sound of ‘grave danger.’
Before he could enquire further, Guanyin had moved the conversation onward.
“You should stay here while you wait,” She said firmly, “It should only be a matter of days. I think I can tolerate you for that long.”
“Hey!”
Guanyin smiled, dark eyes twinkling with mirth.
“Uh, thank you,” Wukong felt his throat begin to burn again and began to awkwardly fidget with his tiger-skin, “For… uh, everything.”
“It is my pleasure, Wukong,” She replied. Then she took notice of his still-teary eyes and hunched shoulders and how tight his lips were.
“There's a nice little thicket over there if you’d like some privacy.” She said, pointing to a part of the grove where the bamboo grew a lot denser, “Take your time settling in— I’ll let the others know that you're staying.”
Guanyin truly was the Merciful Bodhisattva, Wukong reflected, as he found himself a nice hollow in the thicket to curl up in until his eyes finally dried up.
Wukong had been wallowing in his own misery for too long, feeling like he needed to move but not wanting to spend the effort, when Muzha came calling for him.
“Great Sage? Great Sage?”
Wukong felt neither great nor sage-like at that moment, but he sprung from the thicket with a bright smile as though he did.
“Yeah?” He asked, hoping that his eyes were not as puffy as they felt.
“Ah, there you are!” If Muzha noticed anything, he didn't mention it, “We’re all having dinner. Bodhisattva Guanyin sent me to fetch you.”
“Right.” Wukong wasn't in the mood for eating, let alone with a group of people he wasn't particularly close with, but well, Guanyin had done a lot for him today. He’d at least go to honour her request.
He followed Muzha out of the grove to where Guanyin and her disciples had gathered, all sitting cross-legged on a stretch of lawn with plates and bowls of food between them. Guanyin gestured for Wukong to sit between her and Longnü, who looked perturbed by this arrangement but didn't say anything.
In fact, when Sun Wukong sat down with them, most of Guanyin’s coterie went rather tense. The Monkey King had, at one point or another, made an enemy of almost all of them, and it seemed that none of them were sure where they stood with him.
Muzha seemed mostly at ease— the beating Wukong had given him had been hundreds years ago, and it really hadn't been personal— but everyone else was eyeing him warily. Red Boy kept meeting his eyes and looking away, aware that he’d messed up with his overly-familiar greeting earlier but still tentatively trying to relate to his uncle. The Black Wind Spirit— Wukong had almost forgotten that Guanyin had decided to take on that cassock stealing son of a bitch— appeared to be keen on keeping a distance, and fell away from the casual chatter when Wukong entered. From across their circle, the King of Spiritual Touch (Or, as Wukong subconsciously referred to him, the Goldfish) was glowering at him.
Wukong began to understand why Guanyin had wanted him to sit next to her.
Rather than focusing on what the others were doing, Wukong decided to focus on the food. There was plenty of cooked food, which he gave a wide berth, but there was some raw stuff as well.
There was a platter of fruit, which Wukong considered strange— fruit wasn't really what came to mind when he thought of dinner. He wouldn't complain, though. He loved fruit.
It was only as he was reaching for the platter that he realised it had been put there especially for him. Perhaps it was the fact that no one else had taken anything from it that tipped him off.
It was the fact that most of the platter was made up of peaches that really confirmed it though.
Ha ha. Clever Bodhisattva.
Wukong wasn't really all that hungry, but he ate one of the smaller peaches to humour her. It was a good peach, with rough skin against his tongue and sweet juice underneath. He almost enjoyed it.
He didn't eat anything else, and sat waiting for the mealtime to be over. He tried to join in some of the conversation, but found that the chatter died out when he began to speak, so he sat in silence.
He wished he was back on the road, eating with his master and brothers around a small campfire. They were probably out there now, eating their dinner without him. Did they miss him? Or were they doing just fine?
Bajie probably would be pretty well pleased that he was out of the picture. Master’s temper would still be simmering. Wujing would miss him, though.
Wukong missed Wujing. Wukong missed all of them. He wished he could turn back time and make a better decision. He wished he hadn't given into his violent impulses. He wished his shirt was still the white it had been that morning.
“Sun Wukong, are you alright?” Guanyin's voice cut through his spiralling thoughts.
Wukong jumped and realised that he was hugging himself tightly, and his face hurt from furrowing his brow and biting his lips.
“I, uh… yes.” He said quietly. His lips were stinging where he had dug his fangs into them. He ran his tongue over them and tasted the warm, salty flavour of blood.
He’d tasted that same flavour that morning, when he’d bit into one of the bandits to kill him. And again when Master had recited the spell so many times that every opening on his face had started to bleed.
“Wukong!” Guanyin cried out as he dry heaved, and continued calling his name as he jumped to his feet and ran away. He didn't answer her or turn back. In fact, he barely heard her.
He stumbled out onto the beach and sat down hard on the sand. There was a beautiful sunset going on, but he barely noticed it as he buried his head in his hands. No matter— he really didn't care for the colour red right now.
He didn't even understand why he was so upset. Guanyin had said that he would be welcomed back by his master, that all would be forgiven.
He wanted to believe it. Master had lost his temper with him plenty of times, and this wasn't the first instance of him banishing Wukong from the pilgrimage. He wanted to believe that his master would forgive him just as he always did.
But Wukong kept remembering the moment he’d held that severed head up, and all the shock and horror and pain that had flashed in Master’s eyes. He had looked sick, properly sick, not the pretend sort of sick that he put on when one of his disciples made a joke that was a little too much for his delicate monkish sensibilities. He had been afraid, afraid of Wukong and the horrendous violence he had just caused, and the fact that Wukong was laughing in triumph.
And it had all erupted out of him in white hot fury.
Wukong knew, deep down, that his Master would never ever want him back.
He raised his head as tentative footsteps thudded against the sand behind him.
“The Bodhisattva sent me to check on you.” Red Boy said before Wukong could tell him to get lost, “You did look rather ill— we were worrying.”
“I'm fine.” Wukong hunched up, going surly.
“Good! Good. She also requested that you meet her in the bamboo grove, when you are ready.”
Wukong grunted acknowledgement of the instruction.
Red Boy turned to leave.
He turned back.
“I am sorry you fell out with the Tang Monk,” He said in a quiet, sincere tone, “He seemed… kind.”
He was kind, Wukong thought glumly, and I pushed him over the edge, again and again, until he couldn't cling to his kindness any longer.
“Like you would know.” He said out loud, and Red Boy retreated.
Wukong sat on the beach as the sky darkened and crickets and frogs began to chorus in the mountains’ vegetation. A cool breeze came off the ocean, ruffling his hair and cutting through the humidity. Waves crashed gently against the sand.
It felt enough like Flower Fruit Mountain that if Wukong closed his eyes he could pretend he was there.
He shook himself when he realised he was falling asleep where he sat. Guanyin had requested he come to see her, he had to do that, no matter how nice it would be to just drift off here. Besides, the tide was coming in, so.
He got up and went to find Guanyin.
She was in her purple bamboo grove where she said she would be, sitting on her lotus throne. She appeared to be in the middle of a meditation, but paused briefly to crack her eyes open when Wukong entered. She looked pleased, and went back to her recitations.
Wukong sat down by the base of the throne and waited for her to finish.
The mellow, flickering light of Guanyin's lamp did nothing to help his drowsiness, and until the end of time he would argue that he really didn't remember lying down.
But by the time the Bodhisattva stretched and opened her eyes, a mere five minutes later, he was fast asleep.