Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Macaque was very happy. Has been for a while. 

The sun was unrelenting today. With not a cloud in the sky, its heat beat down on the world, seeping into Macaque’s black fur and leaving it hot to the touch. It wasn’t necessarily a pleasant warmth either, in fact, it burned. 

But the breeze was nice, the canopy of a tree not too far behind him offered some mercy, and the grass was still a bit wet with leftover remnants of morning dew. So he was content to be scorched by the sun if it meant he’d lie in this grass peacefully with only the sounds of the wind, birds, the ocean, and some distant chattering monkeys to accompany him.

In the distance, a new, familiar noise joined the wind. Its whooshing followed a sporadic trail, before it began steadily increasing in volume. It stopped right in front of him, the red behind his eyelids becoming overcast with black. He smiled.

Lazily, he opened an eye to see Wukong grinning at him, his figure harshly highlighted by the sun behind him as he momentarily blocked its onslaught on Macaque.

“I was wondering where you went,” the king said softly, clambering down from his nimbus. He flopped onto his back next to Macaque and sighed. “This is a good spot.”

Macaque closed his eye and hummed in some sort of agreement. His tail languidly moved to wrap around the other’s in a loose hold.

They did this often. Lazy days spent sunbathing or stargazing. It was a simple life. Basking in the sunlight, eating the fruit that they grew, and occasionally fussing over the younger monkeys on the island. It was sickeningly domestic. 

Macaque’s tail tightened its hold. He felt the other tighten too. This was all he ever needed. This home, the sun, and his sun.

He hears Wukong shift beside him, his shoulder dragging across the grass and tail pulling Macaque’s closer inadvertently. He inhales, as if about to speak, but nothing comes out.

He waits.

And he waits.

Macaque opens his eyes and glances at Wukong, catching him shamelessly admiring the other with a smitten smile on his face. 

He smirks. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

Macaque rolls his eyes and Wukong’s infectious grin spreads to his face.

Wukong slides impossibly closer, cupping Macaque’s cheeks to guide his head over to face him properly. Then, he pulls himself flesh with Macaque’s side and presses a firm kiss on his forehead.

Macaque’s smile crinkles into his eyes. He hugs the king in a loose hold and presses their foreheads together, allowing his face to be cradled for as long as Wukong will dare to hold him for. Comfortable and content, he shuts his eyes once again.

When he awakes, Wukong is gone. Only an imprint of where he laid pressed into the grass beside him is left in his trace.

Coming from deep under a mountain to a cloudless sky only made his anger worse. As the sun assaulted his eyes, he let out a near feral hiss and angrily kicked at the rocks beneath his feet. He squinted in contempt at the calm iridescent waves that stretched beyond the horizon.

It was a beautiful day and he should be enjoying it. Instead, the heat felt like nothing more than an oppressive weight against his fur. It beckoned him to go inside, but the only place to go was the house and if he had to see anything of Wukong’s right now he might lose any composure he had left. 

His fingers danced restlessly at his sides, desperate to unleash the lingering frustration at his best friend. He grabbed a large rock at the cliff’s edge and threw it as hard as he could. It flung out of his line of sight and landed somewhere distant in water with a loud splat. He threw another and another and another. With each hasty snatch and hurtle, the breath in his lungs simmered in his throat till it burned.

Stupid, stubborn, selfish Wukong. He knew going against heaven was a bad idea. He’s an idiot for following the king around like a lost puppy for a cause he never believed in. All for what? Empty reassurances? A promised future that hadn’t been a priority for years? His own willful ignorance? For Wukong to have the gall to blame him for it? 

Rage this intense felt like a foreign visitor in his body. His muscles held a tension he did not know how to release. Part of him wanted to drop into his shadow and beat Wukong’s face in. Maybe violence would finally get that idiot of a monkey to listen to him for once.

He shook his head at the thought. He didn’t really mean that. He wouldn’t do that. Not to him. He took a step back from the cliff and huffed out a deep breath, then briskly walked down the mountain. A walk might shake some of the remaining adrenaline from his fight with Wukong. A few monkeys gathered in the trees chittered at him questioningly. Sensibly, they kept their distance from their tempestuous warrior.

By the time he had circled the entire mountain and made it back to the cliffside, the sun had set. He wasn’t entirely sure how long it had been and he honestly didn’t care. Exhaustion didn’t urge him to go to sleep, so instead he curled up at the edge of the cliff and glared at the stars.

The walk had waned his anger, but he didn’t feel calm. He felt numb. After all this time, he had forgotten what it feels like to be hopeless. He hasn’t felt this lost since before he met Wukong, but now here he sits, alone, atop the very mountain he promised to protect while the one who vowed to stay by his side is crushed underneath another. All because the Great Sage couldn’t keep his damn head out of the clouds. All because he couldn’t listen to his so-called equal. 

All hope he had for a better life was ripped away by the very impulsive, egoistic monkey that made him believe in it. How ironic.

A better life, his thoughts echoed bitterly. As if this hadn't been good enough.

Macaque’s ears flick towards the sound of tiny hands and feet scraping along the dirt before he even registers that it’s there. He lets out a tired, yet not unwelcoming, sigh.

“Isn’t it a bit late for you to be up?” he asks without turning his head.

The baby monkey slowly creeping her way up to him squawks in alarm. Annoyed that she had been caught red handed, she defiantly hops up onto Macaque’s shoulder and wears her most intimidating glare.

It’s a commendable attempt, really. Unfortunately for her, no expression a baby can make could ever be intimidating in the slightest.

“I don’t think your mom would be too happy to find out you climbed up here by yourself,” he smiles wryly.

The monkey pouts. Clearly understanding that she wasn’t supposed to be up here, but stubbornly not wanting to be ratted out. He lets out an amused huff and shakes his head. He’s always had a soft spot for the rulebreakers.

“Well, you got this far on your own. Might as well let you enjoy the view, right?”

She squawks triumphantly and clumsily loses her grip on Macaque’s shoulder in her excitement. His tail grabs her waist before she can fall too close to the ledge and he places her safely on his lap.

“Wukong won’t be coming back for a while, you know,” he announces absentmindedly. The words feel numb on his tongue.

The monkey blinks up at him confused. She is a bit too young to be accustomed to it, but the older monkeys wouldn’t even fully notice Monkey King’s been banished until a couple months into his imprisonment. It’s not like Wukong going missing for weeks at a time was an uncommon occurrence, afterall.

“I don’t know when he’s coming back,” he says mostly to himself, then a bit more bitterly, “Not even sure what I’ll do when he does.”

Absent-mindedly, he continues to groom the baby’s fur until it lulls her to sleep. He’ll have to make a quick stop to where the others were spending the night to make sure she gets back to her mother before he decides to go to bed himself. His next words bear no witness but the new moon above him.

“It’s just all of you and me now, I guess.”

Peace on the mountain lasted about a month before chaos struck again. 

Macaque awoke before the sun had risen to the faraway marching of footsteps approaching the base of the mountain. He wasted no time portalling outside of Shuilian Cave and transformed into a bird to scout whatever threat dared to come this close.

It’s not hard to find exactly what he’s looking for, yet while the dawning horror creeps up on him as he watches hundreds of celestial soldiers carrying torches up the mountain, all he can think is that, honestly, he should have been expecting this.

He swoops down to the back of the army, propelling himself through the air to try and get a feel for the opponents he’s about to face. Drearily, a sense of eerie equanimity settles in his gut. The celestials knew who they were up against. They came swiftly and quietly enough — magic seals, he assumed — that he wasn’t given the time to run to the brotherhood to help. It was probably for the best. They’d only make things worse.

Erlang Shen led the army. His hound prowled a couple feet ahead, vigorously sniffing the ground following a trail. 

His trail, most likely.

Of course his involvement in the Brotherhood’s rebellion wouldn’t have gone unnoticed. Of course he would be sought after and hunted down for a punishment befitting him just as Wukong had been. Unlike the rest of the brotherhood, they knew exactly where to find him too. They probably waited as long as they did to lure him into a false sense of security. He really, really should have been expecting this.

Gliding to a branch low to the ground, he gets as close as he possibly can without drawing attention to himself. Unfortunately, he greatly underestimated the dog’s sense of smell. The moment the breeze picks up, its body goes rigid, tail stiff and alert in the air, and its head whips over to Macaque’s disguise in the trees. As the dog stops, so does Erlang and the rest of the celestial army and he signals them all to stay quiet.

The dog’s eyes narrowing is the only warning he gets before it barks at him. Without hesitating, Erlang’s third eye lights up and within a second a spear is being thrown right at Macaque’s talons. He throws himself out of the way, diving towards the ground before shapeshifting back into himself.

“Six-Eared Macaque,” Erlang’s voice booms, “You will be punished for your treason against Heaven.”

“It’s cute that you brought a whole army just for me,” he warily taunts as he spirals the shadows around him into a palpable staff.

“Foolish monkey,” Erlang chides humorously, “the army isn’t for you.”

Within seconds, dozens of flaming arrows shot out from within the hoard of soldiers. Their target being anything and everything flammable they could strike upon and their aim far too sporadic to put the blazes out in one swoop. Macaque’s eyes widened as he watched the flames grow across the trees and grass around him.

A boot crunches on the dirt near him, his eyes snap back to the opponent in front of him, and he holds his staff up to block Erlang’s spear from stabbing him. Macaque keeps his footing stable, not keen on fighting back just yet. This approach was not one he was expecting. The celestial army should know by now that attempting to burn celestial primates alive didn’t seem to have the desired result. 

So, while he reeled trying to figure out how this — how harming the innocent fauna of the island – was a just punishment in any way, he focused on Erlang as he dumbly said, “What?”

“We have tried many times to tame that beastly king of yours,” Erlang thrusts himself forward, knocking off Macaque’s balance just enough to have him stumbling back, “this punishment will certainly humble him.”

A distant, dying part of Macaque has a cried defense ready at the tip of his tongue. It screams, he’s trapped under a mountain for the unforeseeable future, has he not been humbled enough? But it dies where it’s made. He beats it down with a growl of Wukong’s name under his breath as though it alone could curse him for eternity. It’s a level of disdain he would have never thought he was capable of uttering. Especially toward him. This is exactly what he had warned him about. Every time he went out of his way to prove his strength, to make himself known, to draw attention to himself; he inadvertently put a target right onto Flower Fruit Mountain. Something he was never concerned with because of course everything would be fine! They’d teach the monkeys to fight. Macaque, such a virtuous and loyal warrior, would always be there to protect them. Wukong alone would be strong enough to fend off any foe.

Only, when they need him most, Wukong is trapped under a mountain because he had finally taken things too far. Now the monkeys on the mountain and Macaque had to take the brunt of his consequence while he’s incapacitated.

A distant, growing, enraged part of Macaque screams at himself because, while this punishment was designed for the Monkey King, it was him who would reap the consequence and it was the only lives he cared about being burned to ash.

Macaque had never wanted to go against the Jade Emperor. Why did he do it anyway? Why did he strip himself of his autonomy and free will repeatedly for Wukong? For empty reassurances? For a broken promise?

Erlang propels himself toward Macaque once again, and he allows himself to fall into a portal back into Shuilian Cave just as the spear stabs where his head had been. Peng would have called him a coward for that. He knows for certain they will if they ever catch wind of the specifics of this fight, but Macaque was anything but a coward. His retreats were tactful. Meticulously planned out. 

Erlang will get Macaque eventually, that much he is sure of, but right now there’s a rapidly growing fire with monkeys both immortal and, more pressingly, not to save.

He makes shadow clones, urging them to go out and hold back the army as he listens as intently as he can for the monkeys and other helpless animals on the mountain. Through his portals, he piles them all into safety from the blaze behind the waterfall. The magic seal should ward off any soldiers from entering the cave long enough for Macaque to herd them all to safety in the event that they manage to break through, but there are too many monkeys. All of them spread out. None of them had been prepared for a sudden attack. The fire was burning all of their hiding places and leaving them exposed. The smoke was suffocating them, leaving them gasping for oxygen they could not find. He’s stretching himself thin with his shadow portals and can only get to so many at once.

A sense of déjà vu slams into him all at once in this cave as the panicked inhabitants of the mountain swarm around him. Years ago, the Demon King of Confusion had invaded and taken over the cave. That attack was the reason the seal for Shuilian Cave had been created in the first place. Back then he hadn’t been nearly as skilled with a staff and Wukong had yet to share Subhodi’s teachings with him, so the Demon King of Confusion had been too powerful for him to handle on his own. Not without putting the monkeys at risk. That fact hadn’t felt as damning back then because he knew everything would be okay once Wukong returned.

This time he didn’t have that luxury. Wukong is gone and it’s up to him alone to protect them all.

As if this couldn’t get any worse, he hears the soldiers start attacking the monkeys. 

All hell breaks loose as he rockets out from behind the waterfall with an angered shout. He makes more clones to save anything they could, then wraps shadows into a giant war form around him to smash into the largest formation of soldiers with his fist. Pummeling them over and over, he furiously tries to draw them back. Anything to give the clones more time to pile as many survivors as they could.

The battle whirls by in a blur. He blocks hit after hit. Slams fist after fist and bashes his staff into soldier after soldier. He keeps going even when he feels he’s reached his limit. His lungs burn from exertion, the smoke feels like it’s strangling his throat, and he can’t feel his body through his adrenaline but he doesn’t stop. Not for a second.

At some point, the soldiers retreat. The risk of injury no longer worth it with the mountain successfully set ablaze. The flame no longer needed them to continue growing.

He keeps his eyes peeled for Erlang. Tries to focus as much as he could to the sounds around him, though he cannot hear much of anything through the crackling fire, the scared whimpers of the monkeys, and his own pounding heart knocking on his eardrums.

With stumbling, unbalanced feet, he tears his way through the mountain to salvage anything he could get his hands on. Monkeys, ducks, sparrows, rabbits, fruit; it all blurs together. The fire rings in his ears, deafening everything else around him. Scorched branch after scorched branch gets snapped out of his way. 

He stumbles out of a small clearing towards one of the many small streams on the mountain where a small, soot-covered pelt of fur lies deathly still. His eyes snap to it instantly. With it, reality crashes back into him unkindly. His muscles scream at each agonizing step forward till he drops to his knees in front of the poor creature. Not a single centimeter of skin is left unmarred. The monkey — a baby — is covered head to toe with burns. Her tiny, melted hands reaching toward the stream tell a clear story. She had been set on fire and futilely crawled to extinguish the flames burning her alive.

Tentatively, with the utmost care and as delicately as his exhausted arms could muster, he scoops the poor monkey into his arms. His attempts to wipe the grime off of her were null. His own ashy hands only smudged it worse.

Behind him, something crosses through the thicket. The panting, padding of paws, and extra set of footsteps beside it lets him know exactly who it is.

His breath hitches. He doesn’t dare take his eyes from the monkey in his arms. He lowers his head even further in defeat.

“Erlang Shen,” Macaque quietly croaks in a shameful acknowledgement, “what punishment could be worse than this?”

And he means it. He really does. The Six-Eared Macaque is good with words. His ability to listen allows him to pinpoint weak spots and openings both physical and verbal. Like his portals, he could whisk himself out of a situation within moments to evade a swing. Evade words. He could weave a narrative as easily as he could disfigure the shadows. Lies were easy. Right now, he could claim that he was simply following his king’s orders. His powerful, threatening king who he never stood a chance against. Perhaps even take the route of his king being away from him was punishment enough. Something sickeningly pathetic with undignifying displays of pity that stripped him of all integrity may very well sway a celestial.

He can’t this time. His best friend is trapped under a mountain and the thought of him churns something acidic in his gut. His home is destroyed. Innocent monkeys have been slain. Truthfully, there is nothing worse than this.

The steps behind him stop. Erlang seems to assess the sight before him. The Six-Eared Macaque, a dangerous warrior in battle, on his knees, back turned and hunched over in grief. Killing a foe could not be made any easier. 

He lowers his spear.

“Let this be a lesson or suffer a fate worse than death,” he warns. Mercy, handed unkindly before his lowest.

The monkey in his arms feels like the heaviest thing he’s ever held. He holds her body close to his chest as the flames around him burn the land to ash. In his frazzled state, there is one singular thought of his that he latches onto.

Sun Wukong, self-proclaimed handsome Monkey King and Great Sage Equal to Heaven, will know the wrath his beloved best friend has over his negligence and forsaken trust. That stone monkey better be sorry or Macaque will personally challenge what being seven-times-immortal entails.

His visits to the Brotherhood over the past five hundred years were sporadic. Besides official meetings, recreational visits were spread thin. Practically non-existent, even. Of course, really this just meant that his visits were practically nonexistent. Demon Bull King was off wherever with the ex-celestial he had fallen in love with. Peng, Yellow Tusk, and Azure shared residence in what was progressively becoming the most pitiful excuse of a kingdom he has ever seen. His distance didn’t bother him at all though. He never particularly cared for them much, especially Peng, but Azure had offered to help clean Flower Fruit Mountain after it was burned. Through everything that had happened, at the end of the day they were allies he could depend on which was worth something.

However, his loyalty had never been to them. Their kindness to him was more so due to Azure’s respect for Wukong than it had ever been respect for him as an individual. That much had been clear for centuries. His quietness at the table or as he stood off to the side was always met with a gibe, usually from Peng.

One thing about being quiet is it makes others uncomfortable, he’s noticed. People will fill the silence with their own presumptions. Not only that, but people will often fill the silence by sharing way too much about themselves. As did the brotherhood. Macaque prided himself on how well he can pick apart a person word by word. It was one of his greatest strengths. Listening. Unfortunately, it came with being seen as cowardly, timid, anxious, and undermined. Peng could jab him for it all that they wanted, but so far he had only ever been right.

The reason for his visit to the brotherhood today was unlike any other. Wukong had been released from his prison and had not returned to the mountain. Macaque himself had seen him from his shadows, adorned with a golden circlet that served as some kind of punishment and aiding a monk in his travels. He was quick to inform the rest of the Brotherhood.

Unsurprisingly, the others seemed pretty dead set on striking first to get the upper hand on what they perceived as a betrayal. Macaque had, as he always did, warned them that making brash decisions against the celestials without knowing the full repercussions was a bad idea. It was a warning that wasn’t received kindly. Much like most of his others in the past.

For as good a listener as he was. It seemed nobody was ever interested in listening to him. A pattern that was starting to get on his nerves.

As for what Wukong was, traitor or victim. He didn’t know anymore. He’s not sure he had the strength left to care.

Macaque wanted so badly to believe Wukong wouldn’t betray his sworn brothers, but his lost confidence came free with broken promises, words spat out in anger under a mountain, and smoke-filled lungs. Ultimately, this was not a fight we wanted any part of. He had seen firsthand what going against Heaven would lead to and he had been offered a cruel mercy for his transgressions.

No. All of his issues were with Wukong. Personally.

Peng had, predictably, called him a coward for slinking away into the shadows, but Macaque couldn’t disagree more. It would’ve been more cowardly for him to keep his mouth shut and stay to fight for a cause he had no belief in. That is a cowardice he knows as intimately as he desires its estrangement. That very thing had bitten him in the ass more than anything else. If no one would then at least he could listen to himself.

Still, he had watched the battle from the safety of his shadows. And it was from those shadows that he watched Wukong imprison the very people he had considered sworn brothers without remorse.

As he watched the memory scrolls be handed off to some celestial soldier, he couldn’t help but wonder; had he been there would Wukong have pleaded with the celestials to give him a chance? Or would he have imprisoned him along with the others, tossed aside as if he meant nothing?

Memories of gentle hands get ripped apart by claws scraping across his skin. Wukong’s staff collides with his and he screams as he sends him flying into the ground.

Wukong pulled his punches in the beginning, which only enraged Macaque further. He quickly learned he couldn’t after Macaque refused to relent. Any opening he would take advantage of. Any chance to hit him and he would. He is a weapon. Mindless. Merely an object to pierce its enemies and to be discarded, victories forgotten, when it inevitably falls apart from wear. 

His magic was crackling under his skin. Each portal felt more exhilarating than the last. He drowned in it. His shadows enclosed around him and he felt vindicated in the burst of adrenaline as he laughed at his old friend’s plight.

“MACAQUE, STOP!” he bellows. Angry and bitter, unlike anything Macaque had ever heard him sound like. Not toward him. “Don’t make me do this!”

If he cared, he’d consider how uncharacteristically desperate he sounded.

The Monkey King’s staff thrusted into Macaque’s shoulder, sending him tumbling to the ground. He hears something crack. His bones, probably. He doesn’t care. The staff comes hurdling into the ground beside his face, the sound horrifically loud to his ears. He lets out a scream from the pain, but its source is indistinguishable from the roar that rips out of his throat in its stead. His pain was nothing more than his fury if all he can see is his face.

Once upon a time, that face would bear a smile, not a snarl. Once, that gaze would be so soft and so full of love that Macaque believed it was all that mattered in the world. Once, once, once, once. 

Now, he wanted nothing more than to rip it apart so he could never see that smile ever again. So it would never hurt him again.

Naturally, he lunges, right for Wukong’s face. They tumble into the dirt and Wukong grabs him. He’s pinned down by a fist slamming into his chest and the king pulls a fist back to punch him in the face, but Macaque doesn’t let the swing finish. He bites the hand with as much force as he can muster. The taste of iron trickling into his mouth makes him laugh. As Wukong kicks him away, his laughter contorts to something sinister.

“Macaque,” he orders with a snarl. “Go home.”

He clambers onto his hands and knee, coughing the other’s blood out of his mouth. He claws at the ground, shakily holding himself up. He’s losing. He knows he’s losing. A part of him deep down had known the whole time that he would, but he ignored it in favor of revelling in his rage. He had been ignored and cast in his own shadow for so long that he chased the feeling of eclipsing the sun. He hated that he loved him. He hated that he cared about him. He had been burned over and over till his blood boiled and erupted out of him with his spit. He chokes on it. He doesn’t care.

Once they were both bright lights against the world, but Wukong’s had always shown brighter. The Moon was doomed to be outcast by the Sun and leave the Earth in a perpetual darkness. Warriors live to serve. Warriors are vessels. He is nothing but a weapon for the hero to wear and tear.

He was never meant to be a hero in the end.

Macaque falls through a portal, takes Wukong down with him, and they messily wrestle on the ground with the grace of untrained children. The king frees a leg and kicks the other simian off of him. He stumbles to his feet. 

“What is wrong with you!” he shouts. “Are you insane?!”

Macaque lunges again, but as he leaps forward, a blur of red whips into Wukong’s hand and his eyes widen as the staff that had once been wielded with a vow to shield him from the dangers in the world bashes directly into his eye.

His knees hit the dirt with his scream. His hand frantically grasps at his eye and the sight of blood pooling onto his palm finally makes him completely still.

Behind him, he hears the king’s feet shift, “That’s enough,” he growls. His voice, cracked and garbled, is thick with an emotion Macaque couldn’t put a name to. Didn’t want to put a name to. 

Blood drips out from his socket. A puddle is slowly trickling on the floor beneath him. Laughter bubbles up his throat. This time it’s hysterical. Every moment of his life has led him to being half blind, bleeding out all over the grass and on his knees before Sun Wukong.

“You’re nothing to me,” he condemns the bloody grass beneath him. “You ruined me.”

For a moment, it’s just the two of them, as it had always been, in the grass under a sun veiled by thin, feathery clouds, providing a pleasant warmth and comfort. A gentle breeze that carries Wukong’s exhale uncomfortably against the nape of his neck. He stands about three paces behind. Both could level mountains, traverse oceans no matter the weather, fight their way to Heaven and Hell and back. Nothing could get in their way. 

The distance between them is uncrossable.

“You’re doing this to yourself,” Wukong solemnly echoes words used toward him five hundred years ago.

Something awful inside him snatches at the wound. He feels his shadows twist and break. They feel foreign as they strangle the wound in as if to erase it’s pain themselves.

He lets out a guttural hiss at the hero standing before him. He wants to scream an insult back to beckon the Great Sage to finish the fight. He wants to get the last word, to be heard, but each croak has him coughing up more blood. Something tells him it isn’t Wukong’s anymore. Strangely, the pain keeps building. A feeling of impending doom slams into his chest ardently with each cough of blood and his own shadows claw into his skin and tear. He thrashes as the tendrils pull his body apart. Each desperate pull resulted in him sinking further and further into a volatile void. Panicked, he chokes on yells over and over with increasing trepidation. The shadows mercilessly wrap around him until they are so tight he can feel his lungs spasm underneath his ribs. He wails desperately. Wukong’s name chokes out of his mouth. He reaches out a hand, hoping foolishly that he would take it. 

Everything goes dark. His last living thought wasted on the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. 

He’s really not sure how he ends up in the places he does in his life. If there’s not a billion other reasons to not believe in destiny, then his life alone was certainly enough of an argument standalone. Despite everything, despite it all, he’s ended up here. Maybe he doesn’t know what to do with it. Maybe he doesn’t know anything.

There’s one thing he does know for certain.

Wukong has changed.

This was something Macaque had already noticed, of course. He taunted the other monkey for it repeatedly as they fought. Futilely provoking the sage to fight him with as much vigor as the day he killed him.

He never did.

It infuriated him at first. His judgment was so clouded by his anguish that he was beyond frustrated with the sudden shift in maturity. Was he not enough? Would he have ever been enough? How much had he meant to the king?

He would take great pleasure to say his anger was due to seething hatred, burning him up from the inside till he took the cause down with him in a fiery blaze. Only, being ignored, neglected, taken for granted, and even killed wasn’t enough to make him truly hate Wukong. No amount of anger and bitter animosity could ever destroy how much he cared. 

He couldn’t hate him, not truly. He could merely use love’s pain as fuel to the fury. Perhaps that was more volatile. More heinous. More insulting. More degrading. The one he loved most may have beared the skin veiling the hands that killed him, but Macaque was guilty of letting them get close enough to tear him apart in the first place. In that sense, he killed himself just as much as Wukong had bashed his skull into the unforgiving underworld. 

Centuries of his head succumbed to gravity, the weight of tight chains keeping him from ever laying a respectable rest, a vengeful resurrection later, and the Monkey King was still as idiotic and stubborn and carefree as he used to be. Yet, more docile. Less ambitious in regards to strength. 

The Great Sage, self-proclaimed equal to heaven and seven times immortal, wanted to hand down his staff to a successor and retire. To move on from everything in his past. To lie it to rest. To ignore it. 

Or at least, that’s what he assumed.

Until he saw it. The remorse, the guilt, and perhaps the most important of them all, the desire to make it better.

So, as Wukong sat there relaying his past mistakes to MK, Macaque glanced down at him, observing. For the first time in centuries, he felt a bit hopeful. Then, for what may be the first time in Wukong’s life, he looked to Macaque for permission. Or maybe guidance. 

Either way, Macaque gave him mercy on a silver platter—because despite it all, for some gods forsaken reason, he loved him—and he smiled. Not a forgiveness, anything but that. An offering.

Wukong smiled back.

And that was that.

Except now that left them with… whatever this is.

“Why is it so itchy?!”

MK and Wukong were hardly ever quiet when they were training, but today they had been exceptionally loud, much to Macaque's mild irritation. Wukong was training MK's monkey form, which had taken a lot persuading. MK was still super hesitant about the whole thing.

“Bud, when was the last time you groomed your fur?”

“I showered last night!”

“No, I mean,” Wukong lets out a frustrated huff. “Nevermind. Sit down.”

Macaque listened to the two other celestial monkeys from the tree he lounged on. He was at Flower Fruit Mountain for a moment of peace and quiet, though MK and Wukong might be just as, if not more annoying, than the entire city of Megapolis. Their training only now finally settled down as MK let Wukong sift his fingers through his fur and Macaque stupidly allowed himself to relax once again.

Wukong made a contemplative noise. “So uh, good news, I know why you’re so itchy!” 

That tone of voice. Oh boy.

“Bad news!” The king continued, “You miiight have fleas.”

The entire mountain went silent for a moment as if it too anticipated what Macaque knew what was coming. He braced himself with a wince.

Predictably, MK screeched.

“I HAVE WHAT?! I CAN GET THOSE? GET THEM OFF!” 

“Bud, calm down,” Wukong unhelpfully said to an MK rolling around on the floor as he frantically swiped at his skin.

Macaque sighed, knowing he was not going to get a single moment of quiet with these two around, and certainly not with Wukong taking care of it. Which was a shame because it was the whole reason he dropped over here in the first place. Opening a shadow portal at his side, he rummaged around it with his hand till he found the box he was looking for from Wukong’s house. He examined it, checking the expiration date twice over, then dropped into a shadow and came out from behind a still frantic MK.

“Kid, you can’t shake fleas off of you.”

MK startled with another scream, whipping his head over to Macaque.

“Why can’t you ever walk up to people like a normal person?!” 

“Ah, there’s no fun in that,” Macaque grinned.

“Why are you here?” Wukong’s tail flicked in annoyance.

“Oh, you know, just looking out for MK while he’s with his lesser mentor.”

Wukong grumbled under his breath. Macaque ignored him.

“Anyway, scratching’s just gonna make it worse,” he holds out the box to MK.

The kid’s arm freezes before he takes it and he squints up at the older monkey.

“That’s for dogs.”

“It’s flea treatment, isn’t it?” 

He could feel Wukong’s eyes on him as he instructed MK where to put the ointment. He risked a glance at him. Wukong’s eyes instantly darted over to some monkeys goofing off in the trees a little bit away with a deep frown on his face. Macaque didn’t want to read into it any further, so when MK finishes, he drops into his shadow and emerges all the way across the island by the shore underneath a familiar tree.

Macaque was perfectly content to just sit by himself, but of course deciding to make an appearance made the most annoying person in the world seek him out. 

“What?” he calls out. Wukong’s footsteps didn’t stop. Instead, they got faster. 

“Have you been spying on all of our lessons?”

“It’s not really spying if you’re so loud the entire mountain can hear you two.”

Wukong’s eye twitches. “What’s your deal?”

“What’s my deal?”

“Why are you here?” he asks again.

Macaque considers him with a distasteful frown. He huffs. 

It is getting late.

“Don’t worry, Monkey King,” Macaque says in the perfect tone to piss him off. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

He disappears into a portal and shoots himself out into his apartment all the way in Megapolis. 

His place isn’t particularly well cared for considering it’s some random, probably abandoned, building he’s squatting in, but it puts a roof over his head away from other people. He barely spends time in it anyway. He snatches one of his hoodies from the closet—the only other clothes he had—throws it on, then pulls it over his head before setting out for the streets.

The one thing he likes about the world is how it keeps spinning after shit goes down. The world almost ended not even three weeks ago like an old shattering vase, yet for some stupid reason what has now become his favorite bakery has still been open twenty-four-seven since. 

He had stopped by in the middle of the night the Jade Emperor died. The worker, although looking stressed and frazzled from everything that had been going on a couple hours prior, still greeted him with a smile and happily picked out a pastry for him. She had said something about now being a great time to have sweets, how they were sometimes the only good thing in a day.

It was easy to agree with. Sometimes the only good thing happening to him was a strawberry-banana tart. It being paid for by stealing shit from Wukong’s hoard was a neat little bonus.

As always, his entrance into the tiny corner shop was greeted with bell chimes.

“Good morning! I’ll be with you in one moment.” 

Macaque made his way to the register and leaned against the counter as she cleaned the oven in the back. He recognized this worker from the overnight shifts, but it seemed too early for one of those. “Did you get moved off overnights?” 

She perked up excitedly and waved. “Hi, Mr. Macaque!”

He waved back. She went back to cleaning.

“Yeah,” she continued. “My mom’s out of town for the next month, so I gotta take care of my sisters and stuff.” She closes the oven when she finishes and hops up to the counter. “Your usual?”

He nods. 

“Amazing.” She grabs a strawberry tart from the display and puts it in a bag. “How have you been? I haven’t seen you in a bit.”

“Not too bad.”

“That’s good!”

He puts the money on the counter then takes the pastry.

“Take care!”

“Thanks.”

He slips out the door and keeps walking down the street as he eats his tart.

Past him would’ve hated this. A bustling city with loud machines. Loud everything. People chatting, yelling, children screaming and crying. Buses and trains. Motorcycles. He doesn’t love it. Not even close, but he had known deafening silence for so long that he can’t find it in himself to mind. It could be fun at times. It was certainly always interesting with the amount of things he could eavesdrop on. If it was ever too much, well, he had ways to get around it.

Still, the sound of birds flying overhead and the sea being drowned out under man-made mechanical clatters made him feel like an animal migrating somewhere uncharted. The phantom sense of where he belonged urged him to return where the constellations and pull of the planet aligned to settle the itch. Like no matter what, he would always be stuck somewhere in the interim.

He turned into an ally then dropped through a portal straight back into his apartment. He grimaced at the strong stench of mold coming from his bathroom, but did his best to ignore it. The whole thing is probably one giant mold spore pretending to be a bathroom.

When he throws himself onto the gross, stained with gods knows what mattress he found at the end of a driveway, it only takes one look at the water-stained ceiling to start mulling over some new options that have been presented to him.

Wukong hadn’t immediately kicked him off the mountain. Maybe he could afford to be a little less cautious while he lurked around.

For about the fifteenth time in this month alone, Macaque found himself on Flower Fruit Mountain. What could he say? The island was isolated and quiet, allowing for a quaint existence and nice escape from modern cities. Technically, Macaque could go anywhere. There were plenty of places far removed from mortals and immortals alike that he could reach with his shadows. Places where most couldn’t find.

But the mountain was comfortable. Familiar. Even after all these years. He knew each nook and cranny, though time and erosion and Azure had altered much of it in his absence. He knew every sound, every smell, and unlike any other place, there wouldn’t be any surprise visitors to stumble upon him. Besides the monkeys, of course, but he could handle a few of the little guys using him as a jungle gym.

Wukong seemed to be… okay with these visits. Maybe tolerated was a better word for it. Regardless, he never told Macaque to leave. He only confronted him if Macaque showed his face on purpose. He would, at worst, complain under his breath if he happened to find signs of his old friend and sworn enemy stalking in the shadows. Beyond that? They lived in a very strange coexistence that was almost domestic, if not for the fact that they rarely spoke and chose to willfully ignore the other’s presence if they accidentally crossed paths. Amongst… other things that went unsaid.

MK and Wukong are training today as well, but Macaque isn’t trying to listen in or watch like he usually does. In fact, they were easy to ignore as they were being rather quiet. Odd, and usually within his interest to investigate, but not today. He just needed an out from the noisy city for a couple hours. He’s further out, sitting firm on a softer patch of grass and completely exposed to the sun. His legs are spread out to his sides, his arms are straight down in front of him as he loosely grasps grass strands, and his eyes are screwed shut as he takes in uneven, labored breaths.

Some monkeys poked and prodded at him, a couple even making questioning coos, but none got a response. He remains entirely focused on the grass and dirt bunching against his palms; and the weight of his lungs painfully rising and falling within his chest.

He hears the heavier footsteps walking towards him. Footsteps that are certainly not one of the monkeys and didn’t have the same rhythm as Wukong’s.

“Are you meditating?” MK said cautiously. Bending around to the older monkey’s face with uncertainty. 

A shaky exhale, “Not really.”

“Oh,” MK adds with a newfound confusion. “Then what are you doing?”

Macaque shrugged. His heart’s unsteady thrashing picking up as he did. “This spot’s nice.”

The monkey at Macaque’s backside lets out a worried coo, looking at MK with a pout. MK’s own face mirrors it as he shifts on his feet, his concerned eyes dancing across the older monkey.

Macaque let out a heavy sigh and let his whole body drop, finally opening his eyes. “Did you need something?”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, kid,” his tail wrapped around the Monkey who’s fingers pawed at his back and dropped them as far away as his tail could stretch. They scampered off to cling onto MK insead.

“Okay…” he looked around for a moment, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Well, Monkey King was trying to help me meditate today.”

That explained why they weren’t nearly as loud this time. 

“Did you have fun?” He knows he didn’t. This is MK. The kid’s probably more hyper than Wukong back in the day. Without the destructive tendencies, thankfully.

MK’s movement abruptly stopped. “I hate meditating.”

Macaque let out an amused huff, “Of course you do.”

“I just don’t get it!” MK ranted, dropping to the ground in front of Macaque. “How are you supposed to clear your head?!”

“Easy. You’re focusing on the wrong thing,” Macaque stated bluntly.

“Huh?”

“It’s not really about clearing your mind as much as it’s about controlling your breathing.”

“So you are meditating?”

“Sure.”

MK’s confusion stares right through him.

His shoulders drop with a sigh, “Look, kid, just sit up straight, close your eyes, and focus on your breathing. The rest comes after that.”

MK looked incredibly unenthused, but he followed the directions. Macaque watches him for a moment before closing his eyes, each inhale rattling with his lungs in a fight to keep working.

They continued to do this for a while. MK squirmed around fighting to stay still while Macaque fought to keep himself moving.

“Your breaths don’t sound very even,” MK commented bitterly with a mixture of frustration and concern.

Macaque hummed a meaningless response. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Macaque opened his eyes. MK was staring at him, eyes dancing around the older monkey. He probably had been staring for a bit.

“Told you, I’m not really meditating.”

“Then what are you doing?” he asks a second time.

Macaque slouches, ripping a clump of grass from the ground absentmindedly. He rubs it between his fingers, the motion causing a throbbing ache. He drops it.

Stories always make resurrection out to be this fantastical thing. And it is, in a way. Rejuvenating the dead to make them anew is something fantastical, but rejuvenation is not the word he’d use to describe it. It felt more as though he were tethered together in haste. Meticulously woven, but not immune to coming loose or to fray. Like an old, refurbished machine. Working, but slow. Functioning, but prone to needing maintenance. 

That is to say, on some days, like this one, Macaque felt more like a walking corpse than he did alive. On these days, breathing did not come easy. His limbs and muscles – even his bones – felt as though they weren’t working as a unit, rather, they were separate pieces carelessly slotted together. On these days, his slow heartbeat pumped strenuously as if it could give out at any moment. This was all in a silent protest from his body to remind him that he technically wasn’t supposed to be here anymore. Tissue, muscles, organs, and skeleton creaked and groaned as they were forced to be used beyond their initial demise.

And, well…

It hurt.

A lot.

Breathing hurt. Moving hurt. His body was constantly plagued by an ache that progressively got worse until it left him exhausted enough that somehow bending his arms felt too difficult. Sleeping it off usually worked fine. Sometimes it left him so exhausted doing anything at all only succeeded in causing him nausea or worse. Sometimes, like today, he’d have to take a couple hours to sit it through till it passed.

This, however, is not something he particularly wants to tell MK.

So he doesn’t.

“Sitting in the sun,” he answers immediately.

MK frowns, shakes his head, then stands. “Sure,” disbelieving, “I’ll leave you to it then.”

Macaque shakes an exhale out of his chest. “See ya.”

It was getting worse.

Almost fourteen hours of sleep and he woke up feeling as though he had been awake for an entire century. Exhaustion pulled at his already closed eyes, willing them to close further than they were capable, but his body wouldn’t allow him to sleep. He had gotten plenty the night before and before that and before that… and before that.

His heart felt as though it weren’t settled in his ribcage where it belonged. Or perhaps it was and instead it was him outside of his own body. Whatever it was, the force that tethered him together had broken enough to let him float away. 

Macaque was not dead merely on a technicality because he certainly did not feel alive at this moment. For as much as he prided himself on his eloquence, disorienting is the only apt way he could describe it.

Spending a day or two—or three in this case—doing absolutely nothing wasn’t beyond him. Nor was it anyone else’s business but his own. Generally, the most annoying thing to rise out of bouts like these was how exposed it made him. To his surroundings, to people, to himself.

On bad days, he could usually manage without anyone getting too suspicious. Lurking to the side, arms folded across his chest as he wallows in the aches? Easiest way to keep curious, dissecting eyes off of him. Brooding is what MK and his friends liked to call it. Not inaccurate either, to be fair. 

Sitting off on his own while counting his breathing? Not abnormal. Clearly passes as meditation from a distance, at least to MK. The wall begins to crumble if anyone gets close enough to hear the wheeze of his breath or see the tension in his muscles, but there’s no use prodding further. He has enough energy to bite still, so no one smart would dare try.

In a constant haze, half-awake at best, unable to muster the energy for even a bit of composure? This was a problem. Nobody could see him like this.

And it was happening more and more often. It was getting worse, somehow. He didn’t even know that was possible. 

The issue is that he is too exhausted to keep his magic up. His magic getting weaker is one thing, being too exhausted to keep up simple seals and illusions is another. Megapolis is loud and his six ears do not make that a pleasant experience without some kind of seal to protect them. Not to mention, he’s selective about his appearance. For that, being perceived in his entirety caused him nothing but trepidation. He cannot stand stares at his scarred face or mangled two-toned fur. They were the remnants of death that clung to him. It made him look weak. Frail. 

He hated it.

Unfortunately, his ears can only take so much. It’s the sudden loud roar of an engine right outside his apartment (stupid mortals and their stupid motorcycles) that leaves him opening a shadow portal without even realizing. It spits him out on Flower Fruit Mountain. Of course it does, where else? It’s the one place he always goes for peace and quiet without interruption. At least, without a possibly unpredictably dangerous one, anyway.

He can feel the sun on him, warming his aching muscles. He’s not sure if he’s annoyed or glad that he didn’t throw himself out under the comforting shade of a tree. Maybe if he’s out here long enough the sun burning him will make him feel a bit more lively. Or at least maybe the discomfort could distract him from all the failing organs in his body.

He’s aware of what he must look like strewn across the dirt, clutching the grass as firmly as he can in a last ditch effort to feel somewhat grounded to his own body. His breathing is labored, his eyes painfully scrunched up, and there’s not a single trace of magic to disguise his appearance. Illusions of well-groomed, obsidian black fur and clear skin are replaced with his very real matted black fur, marbled with big patches of white. Scars litter his body for all to see, the most unsightly running jagged across a glazed over eye.

He looks like roadkill. Plain and simple. Some poor, pathetic animal rotting away till something else comes along to dispose of it. He hopes the residents of the mountain leave him to rot untouched.

He loses himself in a nauseating ebb and flow. The world tilts as he feels himself drift. He tugs at the grass and he comes back down. This continues endlessly until the pattern is interrupted by footsteps so close he feels his own heart startle. 

Maybe several meters away the rhythm of steps stutters before speeding up, but Macaque can’t be bothered to lift his head to check.

“Macaque?” a confused and concerned voice meets his ears, which don’t even twitch.

Gods, he really does look as dead as he feels, doesn’t he?

Wukong pads around him, inspecting the roadkill deposited so kindly in his kingdom.

“Macaque,” he repeats, more commanding. 

A hand touches his shoulder. He bares his teeth and hisses. 

“Fuck off.”

“What’s your problem?” Monkey King asked him. It wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t friendly either.

Macaque weakly tugged at the grass. “Nothing. Go away.”

Wukong circled around to his front, arms crossed and tail flicking brashly behind him. He eyed Macaque with a special scrutiny.

“You look terrible,” he states bluntly.

Helpful. Macaque mused to himself. A painful sounding wheeze left his lungs. Go figure Wukong would come over here to prod at him like he was the carcass of a pitiful animal that died in an unfortunately unsightly place, only to then tell him off like it was something he could control.

Wukong sighs, kneeling down again and grabbing the shadow’s shoulders. He lets out another weak warning hiss. Would this guy catch a hint for once in his life? He wanted to lie here in his misery, not be tormented. 

“Come on,” he says, ignoring Macaque’s continued noises of protest as he lifts him up. “At least get off the ground. You’re freaking the monkeys out.”

Wukong moves his arm a little too fast. The joints crack and pop as they’re bent. Each noise is accompanied with a sharp sting. He isn’t able to stop the pained whine he lets out and grimaces in embarrassment.

The arms lifting him still. He could feel worried eyes fretting over him, checking for an injury they won’t find. He decides that it disgusts him. Being pitied by Wukong of all people was the last thing he wanted today. Or ever. He puts all of his energy into gathering the strength to shove himself off Wukong, and in doing so, he manages to propel himself harshly onto his back with a pained grunt. 

His chest heaved as he gasped for breath. His arm covers his good eye from being assaulted by the sun. I don’t need your help, he tries (and fails) to wheeze out. 

Wukong squawks, as if offended, a near hysterical breath leaving his lungs, “What’s wrong with you?”

I don’t want your help.

“You’re always like this,” he spits bitterly as he crawls towards the undead corpse struggling to breathe in front of him. “Why do you have to be so difficult all the time?” 

Leave me alone.

The king stills, his breath getting caught in his throat. Macaque shifts his arm to glance at him. 

His gaze is stolen by Macaque’s eye. The eye.

He growls, covering both his good eye and blind. “Let me rot,” he bites out.

“You’re not rotting,” his words come out quiet. He can’t place the emotion behind them, so he reacts accordingly.

“Fuck off.”

“Why did you even come here?” Wukong reprimands weakly. He almost sounds sad, but that wouldn’t make sense. The Monkey King doesn’t care about him.

Macaque’s chest burns with each inhale and even worse with each exhale. Exhaustion tugs at his eyes. Wukong picks him up. He can tell he’s gone completely limp as Wukong throws him over his shoulder. Wukong’s steps are careful to not jostle him around, but he’s speed walking. The way he does when he’s in a hurry.

There’s a sound coming from his left. He thinks it’s Wukong’s voice, but he can’t make anything out. Everything’s all hazy and dreamlike. Did he fall asleep in the grass? Was this a dream? He doesn’t know.

When he comes to, he’s on a stiff couch covered in peach chip crumbs and the fur on his head feels significantly less mangled. Not sure what time it is, or how long he’s been here, he blearily squints at the door left open ajar to his right.

It's dark out. At least an entire day has passed.

His bones still ache, but it’s bearable. There’s a warm, all too familiar magic working its way through his system. He ignores it. Everything about it.

Across from him, some stupid Monkey King show is paused on the TV. 

Waiting for him patiently on the coffee table sits a perfectly sized peach. He takes it, not bothering to clean the sticky droplets of juice that squirt onto the floor as he bites into its skin.

He does not bring it up the next time he sees Wukong, which unfortunately for him is only a couple days later. 

His illusions are back up, of course. His black fur is pristine without a knot or mat in sight. His right eye looks completely normal and his malnourished skin doesn’t cling to his bones.

MK and Mei were in his dojo today. He had originally ordered some noodles, but apparently he was the last customer for MK’s shift and somehow that led to him the two of them swinging around the old weapons lying around the room. It was mostly for fun, but he figured they could both use more practice and started tripping them with his shadows to get them to start taking it a bit more seriously, which sort of worked. It led to them attacking him though, forcing him to join in.

At some point, Wukong decided to show up under the guise of making sure Macaque wasn’t “scheming.” He didn’t even know how the other monkey knew MK was here or where he lived. However he did, Macaque wishes he didn’t. He kept tossing worried glances his way whenever he thought Macaque wasn’t looking. It was annoying. Macaque could handle himself just fine and nobody needed to worry. Especially Wukong, but he grit his teeth and vehemently ignored him in favor of focusing on keeping MK and Mei from causing too much property damage.

They’d been at it for around two hours when they decided to take a quick arcade break, which Wukong and him both politely declined joining, and the two wasted no time flinging his door open with a loud bang! that made him grit his teeth. A shadow tendril closed the door softly and he slid down against the wall to stretch his aching hands.

To his displeasure, Wukong lingered in the middle of the room instead of leaving. 

“So, you live here?” he asked stupidly, in Macaque’s opinion. 

His tail flicked defensively, rebelling his impassive,  “Yes.”

Wukong hummed, “A dojo’s an interesting choice.”

“Says the guy that sleeps on a glorified bench.”

Wukong ignores the bait. “Thought you’d hate being around all the noise.”

“It’s convenient,” he starts off briskly. “And cheap.”

Wukong eyes the broken boards on the ceiling and laughs. “Yeah, no kidding, but, uh, why a dojo?”

“Can’t exactly swing my staff around in a regular apartment, can I?”

“Aren’t there gyms for that?” 

Much to Macaque’s surprise, his tone isn’t even a little acerbic. Why he cares about this enough to keep prodding for an answer is beyond him. It’s also not something he’s particularly keen on sharing either.

He went for this place over some other abandoned building because he felt weak after being resurrected. He didn’t want to be near anyone because of it. He certainly didn’t want to exercise his shadows back in shape around others either. Not until he got his strength back at least. Nothing like a demon showing off publicly that he was powerful to other demons who may also be hunting for a roof over their heads.

Besides, he’s made it far from his days on the streets barely scraping by. It was better than nothing, and he’d rather not have to share the space with some kooky martial arts teacher or a cluster of strangers.

“Gyms are loud,” he answers simply and, in his defense, it wasn’t even a lie. “What’s it to you?”

Wukong sighs, his lips twisting to the beginning of another question. No doubt one that pokes and prods, but wasn’t straightforward.

Macaque cuts him to the chase. “What do you want?”

His previous words die on his tongue and Wukong blinks a couple times before responding with a shrug. “To check on–”

Macaque laughs. “MK, yeah sure–”

“On you,” Wukong speaks over him.

“I don’t think I know what you mean,” Macaque lies through his teeth.

Wukong gives him an ugly frown. “Of course you’re not gonna even acknowledge it.”

Obviously not. Macaque couldn’t fathom why he would want to. “Acknowledge what?”

Wukong bristles, his fists ball up out of irritated shame. “Whuh!” Wukong sputters and throws his hands out. “Oh, I don’t know. You– Ugh, whatever. You’re clearly doing fine,” he growls.

“How kind,” he hisses.

“Okay,” Wukong says angrily as he stands, stomping right in front of Macaque. His hand juts out. Fingers tense. “What’s your deal? You can’t just show up unannounced all the time then, I don’t know! Be so! GAH!”

“I’m not being anything, and you showed up here. You’re kinda in my space right now, bud.”

Wukong’s eye twitches and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Whatever,” he resigns. The hand slides down his face, “Do you have a bathroom?”

“Upstairs,” he answers quickly. He’s more than happy to get Wukong out of his face. Maybe the mold will scare him away. “First door on the right.”

“Cool. Thanks.”

He waits there on the floor until he hears the telltale click of the bathroom lock. Only then does he lean his head back against the wall with a deep exhale. His eyes trace the cracks and crevices in the busted wooden ceiling. 

He had no idea how to navigate them, their relationship.

The problem is that they both knew each other intimately. Far more than anyone else could ever claim to. He knew most of Wukong’s tells, his favorite color (it’s light blue, the same color of a scarf rarely worn these days), his favorite hobbies, his morning routines, but he was different. So, so different. It all came down to the little things. His reactions weren’t always what he would expect them to be. He didn’t hold himself the same. He wasn’t as quick to anger or as quick to bore. He had practiced walking away from a problem to clear his mind rather than punch it unconscious, or worse. His mannerisms were all slightly altered. Crafted carefully through lifetimes. Influenced by people and changing cultures that Macaque didn’t have the privilege of being around for.

Simply put, Wukong is uncanny to him. A doppelganger of the friend he once knew. Like the sunrise on a familiar horizon. All the same, yet completely changed. Something old, something familiar, something entirely brand new. 

Despite everything, they were on tolerable terms. They were being friendly. That in itself was a commendable feat, but they mutually ignored the worst of their past. They ignored angry shouts echoed under a mountain, bitter insults screamed in bloody fights, and the most damning of them all, a blind eye with a nearly six hundred year death sentence.

By shoving everything under the rug to keep the place tidy, they’d fortified the walls of their relationship with paper and feeble sticks. 

Wukong’s worry felt familiar, and it’s not something he thought of fondly. This is the same man who had claimed to worry for him before. A lie, even if once true, that had left him a bloody corpse abandoned in the middle of nowhere. No matter how much he wanted to believe it, could he ever after that?

And Wukong, he’d keep Macaque at a distance just as he did with everything else. Placate him by keeping things at arms length to prevent him from fighting back with gnashing teeth that tore skin and kissed blood. Why else would he keep pushing him away?

A phone vibrated against the floor over to his left. It was MK’s. Typical for him to leave it on accident. Desperate to distract his current train of thought, he snatched it from the ground to read a notification from an unknown number. It was Mei asking if he could drop the phone off at Pigsy’s where they would be having food if he wanted any.

He opens a small shadow portal beside him. It’s just large enough to stick an arm through. By the noise coming through it alone he can tell the place is busy. He puts the phone down on what is definitely Pigsy’s counter. It’s followed by a swift “Thanks!” from MK that is cut off early when the shadow portal promptly closes.

He’s not going to join them. Obviously.

Now that the plans are officially done for the day, he stands up from his place on the mat and makes the trek upstairs to his kitchenette. It’s a small thing, barely big enough for two people to stand in. Some of the cabinets hanging on the wall are missing doors or look like they’re about to fall off the hinges. There’s a counter directly behind where a stove should be that looked right out into his living room, big enough for an L-shaped couch nabbed off a curb and a big board of wood raised up by multiple books serving as a stand-in for a coffee table. A TV would fit perfectly on the wall, but he didn’t pay an electric bill so it’d be kind of pointless to have one. If he really wanted to watch something he’d break into Wukong’s house for it. He’s done it before. He’ll absolutely be doing it again.

He had a fruit bowl with bananas sitting on the counter. He glanced over to the bathroom where he could hear running water from the faucet and reached into one of his cabinets to grab some canned diced peaches he kept around and slid it onto the counter.

After rummaging through his mostly empty cabinets absentmindedly, he settled for grabbing a banana and sitting on the couch.

The bathroom door opened. He listened to Wukong’s footsteps recede, then awkwardly shift around once he noticed the dojo was now empty. He called out a quick, “Over here,” to the Monkey King with a mouthful of food, but otherwise paid no mind to the other simian.

It was only after he heard the other cautiously walk further into the apartment and mess with the peach can’s pull tab that he realized he had just welcomed him into his home.

Subconsciously. Without thinking about it.

Lovely.

“MK and Mei are done for the day. They’re at Pigsy’s.” He pauses for a moment. “You’re welcome to join them,” he says pointedly.

“Eh, I’d rather not.”

Wukong sits down on the other, longer side of the couch. Once situated on the cushion, he plucks a strand of hair from his head and blows on it, turning it into a spoon. Disgusting, but he’s not offering one of his spoons. 

As if their spat from before didn’t happen, the two sat in silence. When Macaque finished his banana, he opened a shadow portal beside him and dropped it into the dumpster outside. Then he grabbed a book waiting for him on the coffee table and opened it to the bookmark.

Wukong finished his peaches, placing the empty can on the coffee table. His hair spoon dissipated and floated off somewhere on the floor, which was absolutely going to annoy Macaque later when he had to clean. The king lounged back onto the couch cushions, making himself comfortable.

For some incomprehensible reason he was not leaving.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he starts, and suddenly it makes sense. It’s an interrogation. Figures. “How do you even afford rent?”

Macaque looks up from his book to pointedly make a face. He hopes the raised eyebrow is enough for the other to pick up on the silent “you’re stupid” from it.

“I have a job?” he replies incredulously when the message doesn’t seem to reach him. 

Wukong makes a strange face back. “That’s so weird. Thought you’d be robbing people or something.”

He chooses to ignore the latter comment and scowls, “How is that weird?”

The king throws his hands up in a mock surrender. “I don’t know! It’s just weird! I mean, imagine if I had a normal job.”

Macaque laughs at him. “Last time you had a job all of heaven showed up at our doorstep to fight you.”

“We do NOT talk about that.” 

“Oh, of course not, Great Sage,” he chides with a wide smile.

“Equal. To. Heaven,” he adds pointedly with his eyes closed. “And I won all of those fights soooooo!”

“You also got thrown into a furnace, so I don’t know if you won, necessarily,” he claps back easily with a casual tilt of his book and no real heat to his words.

“Last I checked, that was an execution attempt that I survived, thank you very much.” Then, bitterly, without hesitation, without thinking, “No thanks to you.”

Macaque’s smile drops. He averts his eyes and tightens his grasp on the book. 

Wukong’s face blanches, as though the words had slipped out by accident. He clears his throat nervously, “Anyway, what do you do?”

Macaque warily eyes the other monkey from the corner of his eye, wincing at the awful recovery. “I work at a theater.”

“Really?!” he says excitedly. He seems to realize he sounded too excited and brings it down a couple notches. “Of course you do.”

Something heavy slides down his throat as he swallows. He sweeps it under the rug, refusing to look down at it knowing he’d see the uneven bumps under his feet threatening to make them both trip and fall.

“Usually I’m just stage crew,” he continues. Why isn’t he stopping? “But I’ve performed some of my own shadow plays too.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It is.”

Wukong looks at him thoughtfully.

“Next time you do one you should let me know so I can watch. For old times sake,” he’s wearing a soft smile. One Macaque hasn’t seen in centuries.

“Yeah,” he chokes out, “I’ll do that.”

They easily slip into another prolonged silence. Wukong throws his arms behind his head and closes his eyes while Macaque takes his time flipping through his book. He’s reading through it considerably slower now, his focus feels like it’s being stretched thin when every second he’s interrupted by the tiniest movements of the other breaking the silence.

He gets through about fifteen pages when Wukong clears his throat. 

“You know,” he says hoarsely.

Macaque’s thumbnails scrape against the book’s pages. His tail spasms with an irritated flick.

“If there’s something wrong…” his voice is barely above a whisper.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he interrupts sharply. 

He does. Is Wukong actually going to try to have a conversation about this? Why the hell does he even care?

“Sure you don’t,” he snarks. “Are you gonna let me ask anything?”

“No.”

Wukong sighs. “I had to use my magic on you.”

“Sorry for the inconvenience. I’ll make sure to collapse on someone else’s doorstep next time.”

Wukong rolls his eyes. “Why do I even bother with you?”

“Beats me.”

“Well, just so you know,” he attempts to say casually, “you have meds on the counter.”

Macaque slams his book shut and snaps his head over to the other monkey. Wukong’s eyes flit over to him, unbothered, as if he were anticipating the outburst. Somehow that makes him even more angry.

“Why were you looking through my stuff?” he growls.

“I wasn’t!” he appeases, genuine. “I didn’t even read the label! It was literally on the counter. Kind of hard to not see it.”

“So?”

“Are you sick or something? Why do you even need those? You’re not mortal.”

Macaque’s cold stare assesses Wukong’s concerned face. He snarls, sharp canines flashing dangerously with it, “Why do you care?”

“That wasn’t a no,” he annoyingly states without answering his question, having the gall to sound irritated with him.

Macaque squeezed his hands into fists. His beating around the bush was getting annoying, “Would you just tell me what you want already?”

“I answered that already, didn’t I?”

To check on you.

The tension in his fingers was beginning to make them ache horribly. And he is so, so tired.

“It’s my bones,” he growls out.

“Your bones?”

Macaque nods, “...And my joints.”

“What about them?”

He almost snaps at him for prodding again. Bares his teeth and all…

…but his glare meets Wukong’s eyes; ones that cogitate him earnestly. It takes him back to a different time. Lifetimes ago, back when it had just been the two of them lying in the grass. When Wukong would keep quiet when everything felt too loud. When he would clean his cuts and wrap his wounds with a gentle care entirely foreign to his typical foolish impetuousness. 

“They just hurt. Sometimes.”

“Do they hurt now?”

Macaque gnaws on his lip at the softness in Wukong’s voice. Like he cares.

He does.  

“No,” he lies. They always do.

“Uh-huh.”

Macaque scowls at him. Again. Though this attempt was more half hearted than any of the others and it’s short-lived. He lets out a tired exhale. For once, he’s giving up the usual fight and bite performance he desperately clings to. He reopens his book. Or he tries to. When he curls his thumb, a jolt of pain ricochets up to his shoulders and causes him to drop one side of the book. He immediately flexes the fingers outward, but it doesn’t help much at all. 

Wukong lets out an exasperated groan and rolls his eyes. “Give me your hands.”

Macaque’s fur bristles out. “Why?”

“So I can help you, dummy.”

“Why?” he repeats. Never say he doesn’t go down without a fight.

“Because I want to. Is that so weird?”

“Yes.” Obviously. What the hell is happening?

Wukong’s expression allays, his tone significantly softer, “Well, I do, so are you gonna let me or not?”

Macaque stares at his hands and flexes them, his frown twitching in discomfort when it throbs.

He refuses to look him in the eye when he holds them out. Mentally, he chastises himself for giving in so easily. If he refused one more time Wukong would’ve let it go. He’s about to take it back, but Wukong cautiously takes his right hand into both of his rough, calloused hands and slowly turns Macaque’s wrist to gently press his fingers down in a soothing circular pattern. It’s nice and as it continues he finds it harder and harder to be angry about.

“Tell me if I’m pressing too hard,” he mutters. And Macaque is left to fight his dry eyes beginning to sting as he realizes how honest Wukong has been with him this entire time.

Unable to trust his voice, Macaque simply nods and resolutely ignores the way the evident care being displayed makes his heart burn. His tail timidly curls around his leg, unsure how to react under Wukong’s careful ministrations.

“How long has this been going on?” he quietly asks as he switches to his other hand.

“It’s the Bone Demon’s fault,” he murmurs bitterly. It’s all the information he’s willing to give. Anything more and the hands massaging his would tense and whatever fleeting tender moment this is would be over. A deep pit forms in his stomach when he registers that he wants this and he can’t stop his face from downturning into a shameful frown.

Wukong exhales from his nose and the corner of his lip twitches solemnly. While he’s an idiot, he’s smart enough to know that saying anything about that would be a bad idea.

Macaque lets out a failed laugh at the absurdity of this situation and the way he naturally melted into Wukong despite everything in him telling him to stop to retaliate against the pressure building in his tear ducts. It’s a sad sounding thing. Coming out a little wet. He doesn’t cry, but he sounds awfully close, which is mortifying in its own right. Wukong doesn’t comment on it.

Eventually, he finishes, gently dropping Macaque’s hand. The touch lingers through an uncomfortable, fuzzy burn. Pathetically, he yearns for their hands to be touching again to get rid of it. He clasps his hands together to neutralize the sensation and brings them close to his lap. To Wukong’s credit, they feel much better.

“Thanks,” he croaked out robotically.

“Sure,” Wukong replied easily. As if that hadn’t meant anything at all. He stands, stretching as he does, and leans over to grab the peach can. Always so annoyingly nonchalant and uncaring.

“I’ll get it,” Macaque says. Mostly because he wants Wukong to leave ASAP. 

“Right,” Wukong eyes him up and down, searching for something. He doesn’t seem to find it. “I should probably head back. Make sure the monkeys aren’t causing problems.”

Macaque doesn’t say anything as he leaves. He simply watches him go down the stairs, waits for the sound of the front door closing, then he tosses the peach can into the trash and pretends the metallic thunk it makes as it knocks into the sides is his own head smashing into a metal pole. Preferably with enough force that it would knock him unconscious for a day or two.

With his head in his hands, he paces the kitchen for a moment. His claws drag down his face harshly enough to leave faint, red lines and he mentally curses the fact that, for the first time in a whole week, the act of curling his fingers didn’t make them ache.

He was drawn out of his sulking by footsteps coming near his door. He sifted through the shadows to see a mailman slipping a red envelope from the city into the mail slot. He lifted it, and let out an annoyed chuff at the giant words reading “EVICTION NOTICE” stamped atop it.

Well, he hadn’t told Wukong he was good at paying rent.