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Chapter Text

The air is terribly warm. 

So much so, that even Wukong can’t help but shed a few layers of his own clothes. The weather called for rain today. So Wukong brought a thin bamboo umbrella. But it just sat on the side, fending off the scattered drips of sunlight weaving between the gaps of leaves above.

“It’s nice, right?” Wukong asked. But he didn’t get a response. Wukong doesn’t need one. His fingers pluck apart the pebbles and twigs in ebony fur. Wukong doesn’t know why Macaque is so dirty these days. Macaque should be cleaning himself. Should take up grooming. But he doesn’t. He won’t. That's Wukong’s job now. Maybe Macaque’s too tired to do it himself. Too hungry from the days of fasting.

“Your hair is growing long, say, we should trim it up a little. When I was with my..-Master. He was very adamant about shaving our heads. I wasn’t gonna do that. Duh. So stupid. So I like, trimmed my hair. Snipped it with shears. I should start doing that to you. How does that sound?” No response is given to Wukong. Wukong won’t let his rage control him. But he’s weak. “I’m taking your silence as a yes. Or something. Look. Could you say anything?”

When Macaque doesn’t offer a response. Just a laboured breath. Wukong huffs. “Are you still upset over that? Look. I’m sorry, pal. What more do ya want from me?” Wukong can’t fathom being this distressed for so long. Macaque still won’t speak. He refused after a while. Wukong apologized countless times. But Macaque won’t say a word. Like a toddler. Macaque will ignore him til the end of time.

Just great. This is exactly what Wukong needs. If his guilt wasn’t already enough.

Wukong’s arms cross, there has to be more to this. They always bounce back. Wukong can bounce back. Macaque can bounce back. They can fix this! Without another comment, Wukong lifted himself, patting his pants and leaving his sworn brother slumped against a tree stump. With meek breaths that Wukong cares not to hear anymore.

Wukong needed a walk. Or air. He needed to meditate. With nothing else to do. Wukong paced. Watched as the birds chirped their silly songs. The familiar chitters of his troop playing with each other. Hopping along the ground or resting on trees. Wukong sighed. Drew a long breath. Felt out of place. And plopped down. 

The air was unsavory. Charted with uneasiness that Wukong didn’t want to exist in any longer. As if parched from peace. Wukong draws his eyes closed, relaxes his shoulders, and crosses his legs. His mind grows blank. Senseless. Empty. Pageless.

Wukong wants to draw himself into the blank parts of his mind. Fueling his growing animosity. Wukong was angry. As he always was. His learned peace was overshadowed by the loneliness he couldn’t brush away. No brotherhood. No buddies, no master, no friends. No Macaque. How could Macaque do this to him? Ruin what they had? Be so childish even after everything. Wukong cared.

Wukong always cared. That was his issue! He didn’t take shit from no one and wouldn’t serve shit to anyone, undeserving. It was always him. Sure he was dramatic. Sure he annoyed the heavens. But he was just doing his best. Why did Macaque have to fuck it all up? 

He really cared for Macaque. It surprised him. Wukong never knew he could invest his feelings into another person like that. Who isn’t his first made troop. He wants to matter to Macaque. He had thought he mattered to Macaque. At least in some parts. But Macaque proved him wrong. Time and time again. This was the last straw. Wukong is frustrated. Agitated. Mourning the relationship. Because Macaque hurt him. Wukong was hurt. And it’s painful.

But didn’t Wukong hurt Macaque even deeper? Took away that trust, threw it in the dirt. Kicked it dead. Wukong knows that. He has no way of telling Macaque now. The simian had no way of letting the shadow demon know. He won’t. He can’t. Did he ever care for Wukong like Wukong did for him? At all? Did Macaque slink back into himself, the shell of whatever was cast aside? Pretending? Macaque is not the troop. Macaque is not the Brotherhood. He’s a pearl from a clam. Bountiful, refreshing springs, wavering in Wukong’s cold hold.

So Wukong returns. Because he can’t quiet his emotions. He follows back his footsteps. Recounts them a third time in his forgetful mind. His present mind. His childish mind. Wukong sees how the skies grew restless. Ashen waves that roll over shapeless clouds. That have no figures. No edges, just blurring. Stormy up ahead. He takes a few steps closer, and the dirt is heavy under his weight. His eye twitches, a soft whimper leaves his soul. It’s so soft Wukong isn’t sure it ever left him actually. It never came out of his body. The present subjects are unusually quiet, poking and anxiously staring. 

Wukong gets onto his knees, brings his hands to Macaque’s soft face, and sniffs. Sniffs the crusted wound where glamor fizzles. Prods away the lids to peek. Shudders from the grotesque scene. Scans Macaque’s other eye. Speaks into the world. Wiping the wetness off of his cheek. It must’ve been the rain.

“It must’ve hit your nerve. Or your spine?” Wukong said that, no, he didn’t. He asked that. He needed an answer. But he had none. There was no time for games. For jokes. For playtime. They were too old for this. “Are spines located near the eyes?..No..spines are close to skulls..right? Well..” Wukong brought his arms around the waist of Macaque, slotting their bodies close, his tail mirroring his sworn brother. “I’ll wash you up. It’s about to rain. You know..you won’t have to worry about doing anything. I’ll do it for you.” So Wukong calls for his flying nimbus. 

Doesn’t hear himself. Hunches, tugs, lifts, and settles his sworn brother onto it. Pats the cloud to carry the paralyzed primate. Wukong feels empty. He feels lost. Confused. Dazed. Angry. Shame. His tail lifts and curls, his shoulders tense as he straightens up. He looks down at his subjects. “..you can tell the-..others. But nobody is allowed to be around him for a while.” At the end of his directions, Wukong roughly gets it out, grunting to get the idea across.

It does more harm than good. Various subjects recoil before hesitantly bouncing off elsewhere. Wukong feels the droplets of wetness hit him. He’s slow on his feet, balanced but out of it. Walking through shrubbery. He doesn’t need to try and find where he is or will need to be.

Wukong can smell Macaque’s heavy form from here. Sweat. Blood. Wukong thought that with how much time had passed, Macaque would have taken care of himself. Wukong didn’t mean to do it twice. Not again. It was different when Macaque pretended to be him. Not quite getting Wukong needed to be redeemed. To go through this. How wrong he was. Macaque was petty. Wukong was too. Wukong takes his time. Or as much time as it takes to move without his senses. Staring blankly ahead.

When he reaches the hot spring. The steam trembles when it froths, Wukong wishes he could evaporate too. But he won’t. “Nimbus!” he shouts, calling out into that unsteady air. “Nimbus! Flying nimbus!” he shouts, growing impatient as the wind was. And then it comes down. Sweeping by his side. It wasn’t far off from their other hot spring it seemed. 

Wukong falters. Feels the heated bubbles dance before becoming ghosts. Whispering warm kisses to him. Sweet embraces, shared memories that will stay stuck in Wukong’s dingy but so grand, so amazing mind.

The heat would not do.

“Bring us to my house. I’ll clean him up properly.” Wukong said as he climbed on as well.

And off the nimbus went.

It was an easy trip. What wasn’t so easy was situating Macaque. Poking fingers over the seam of the ribbon, pulling to tug space into it. Twisting and yanking the damn bunny loops, throwing the fabric onto the grass, the pelted skirt easily comes apart, spreading. Wukong shifts himself on his knees, wedged between Macaque’s thighs. Watching from above. Macaque lies on damp grass. Only a few feet away from the house. On the right side in the front.

His fur is laid so peacefully on the ground, the grass cushions that head perfectly. Macaque was made from the earth. Made to be a part of it. Not whatever silly play Wukong needed.

Wukong thinks his eyes hurt a little. Macaque still ignores Wukong. He’s so quiet now. Silent. Silent treatment. Ignoring. Hating. Bitter. Wukong won’t blame Macaque. “I’m sorry..” Wukong begins to mutter, peeling back the busted shoes Macaque always wore. Tossing them. Ignoring the thud. It’s the silence that follows. Macaque wore shoes a lot. But he always took such deep care of them. Said it was hard to find the material in China. There is no scolding for Wukong today.

With a few droplets that turn to many, Wukong is mindlessly yanking the hem of Macaque’s pants down. Struggling until he props the small of the darker simian’s back up to shimmy it off those hips. Wukong’s softer eyes follow the lick of exposed skin that Wukong never gets to see anymore. His breath leaves him. But the shame leaves fumes of heat in his mind.

Forcing the great sage to undo the neckerchief, placing it down gently. Watch as the grass grows sodden. The overwhelming scent of rain lulls Wukong’s senses into a calming one. His eyes blinked.

Gets back up, rips a chunk of hair out with the intent for a clone to fetch the sap bottle. It is quick. Too quick. Wukong didn’t know how much time had passed of the searching, all while he took in the image of this defiled warrior.

The motions are quick. Simple. And so Wukong soon sat bare with Macaque. Both of them. The clothes made everything harder. The raindrops soak down Wukong’s face, down his cheeks, onto Macaque’s forehead. Beading, dribbling over curves. Yanked by gravity. They’re being drenched. Soaking it up.

It doesn’t matter, Wukong’s slamming the balls of his palm into those joints, as if crushing them. Macaque won’t care to scold him. Still holding his tongue. Disrespecting Wukong on this damn mountain.

When Macaque has gone through the motions of cracking, with each apology for each strike, he’s pulled into the chilled embrace of water. Where Wukong scoops handfuls of icy water with his smoothed wooden ladle. Pouring the liquid onto the skin of Macaque. Where it divots along that chest and shoulder. Where it meets Wukong’s because Macaque rests against Wukong’s chest, his head leaning on that sturdy shoulder.

From the hole above, where the mountain has its gaping ceiling. It pours down onto them. Bouncing off the wooden parts of the roof. Draining the color of straws. Making the beach yellow dull with dampness that might leak puddles into the house.

Wukong would have to dry it all. Dry the roof. The floor. The lanterns. His eyes fall. Down. Down. Meet a calming look. Macaque muscles relax in his hold. Wukong sets the ladle down, digs his fingernails into the itty-bitty bowl of herbal pastes, dragging his fingers over velvety pelage until it’s all sleek. Even going as far as unscrewing the bottle of charged tree sap. The one that the two only use for special occasions. The thick syrup is spread thinly over Macaque’s right eyelid, like resin. 

Swiped over the jawbone and cheekbone, until Macaque’s face becomes glossy and sticky. Wukong harshly scrubs the rest off onto the grass, hating its texture while he uses more paste to clean Macaque. Letting his fingers slip intimately where he’s never ventured. Never felt. Never seen. “You’ll feel better, Mac.” Let's his fingers brush over non-expressive ears. Seeing as the glamour was gone.

Macaque never let Wukong touch those ears.

The rain thankfully was pelting them. Letting trails of natural substances leak off Macaque like a washed statue. Until they pool onto the ground and seep into moistened dirt. “We really need to clean up that wound of yours, pal.” Wukong uses the thumb of his nail to scrape off some of the dried blood that cakes Macaque’s right lashes. The tree sap helps. Wukong’s lips touch the tender side of Macaque’s skull, or so he hopes to bless it with his warmth.

Wukong doesn’t want to let go. He likes anger. It carries over, hardens him, keeps him standing. He doesn’t want to look at it anymore. Anger is a coping mechanism. A facade for another emotion. But he will. And he’ll burn the memories with hatred. Because he’s so hurt. He hopes to drown it in his waters. Of rivers and clashing waves.

Or repeated statements and lost sounds. Until they both wear their tethered hearts out. Because they have tough skin and their tears are bites. A rabid dog they both are. They come together so fondly. So they both will have to let go of resentment. Won’t they? Won’t Macaque forgive Wukong?

It reminds Wukong of a fog. But it dissipates. Leaving traces of tears shed from the clouds. The leaves bounce in an unmatched rhythm they only sing, the teeny explosions of glitter remind Wukong of iridescent. He hopes Macaque forgives him. No, he needs Macaque to forgive him. The scenes beyond Wukong’s eyelids haunt him. Taint him. Mock him. They play out in his mind feverishly. 

Until Wukong is swallowing the croaks he begs to let out.

Macaque had to forgive Wukong, right? 

Wukong thinks so. But then again. Macaque still won’t talk to Wukong. Show his emotions. Wear them out. Wukong is used to this. At times during their biggest fights, Wukong would become petty. A child, cross his arms, huff, and pout. You name it. But he always came around. After the week of silence, he could no longer stretch it. Handle it. A burden the task was. Revolting even. Sickening.

He’d break. Break a thousand times. Again and again. The distance between them lessens until one speaks up. It always ends up being Wukong. He missed Macaque too much. Too dearly. Needing him. Always needing Macaque. When would Macaque need him? Wukong always chases Macaque. How is that fair? How just of Macaque to do that.

And now to sit in the face of Monkey King. The king of monkeys! To play these games. Like an unbeaten child. To mess with Wukong’s free will. His emotions! His feelings! His love. Devotion. Loyalty. The things Wukong does and did for Macaque. 

Wukong let out a frosty breath. His house has gotten colder over the past few weeks. Enough that Wukong starts to dislike the mindless fog his thoughts kept creating. Now Macaque doesn’t want to step outside anymore. Rather sit in the darkness. The shade like he always does. Feel the cooling of the open room touch his skin.

“I think you look nice today,” Wukong shares, really, he’s just commenting into the dead stale air between them. The type that Macaque intentionally pretends Wukong is no longer talking to him. Words reaching deaf ears. The soft silks adorning Macaque’s lax frame truly brought out those sharp edges Wukong loved so much. “I’m gonna get pearls soon. From a bud of mine! He’s got the best pearls in the entire world of China! You know, I could travel out and find another place that has them..” Wukong agrees with himself.

The charcoal kept in the golden bowls around the house have been replanted. The thick blankets of salt lay all over the floor. Already swept and refreshed with a new batch. Wukong’s starting to think Macaque is taking charge of the house instead. Needless of the sudden changes. Wukong doesn’t mind it. Sometimes. He hates stepping on the crunchy pebbles of salt under his bare feet. But it’s okay. Because Macaque enjoys it. 

Wukong never knew how much Macaque loved such fine things. 

Beautiful grains and midnight ores. “Do your shoulders ache? I hope not. Oh hey, lookie what I got!” Wukong finally presents the gift to Macaque, shaking a bottle of mugwort-infused oil at his companion. It swirls in the dainty honey bottle he has. Swishing as he draws himself to Macaque’s side. Ready for their daily massage. 

Stepping over the lines of dusted charcoal, Wukong let himself be embraced by Macaque. Enjoy the presence. Soak in the forgiveness that he pleads for. Gentle fingers rub the silky fabric that is transparent. Wukong lifts the ends where they pool between the thighs, sees nothing. No leakage. Thankfully. Tugs down. Rests his palm onto the chest that is so soft. Takes a deep breath. 

He wants to feel Macaque. Feel his warmth. Heart. Soul. Wukong peels back the messy papers of the talisman neatly placed on the palms and forehead of Macaque. Wukong swears he’ll perfect his handwriting so the strokes are more organized, he’d have to renew them.  

“Maybe we should have a medical doctor look at you. Yeah? Maybe we could try and revert the-..your injury.” Wukong thinks out loud, speaks the words, lifts Macaque up until he’s situated between Wukong’s sweaty thighs. The cork on the bottle of blended oil pops with beads of gloss liquid that scatter. Easy, easily Wukong pours droplets onto the heart of his hand. Sets the bottle down and rubs his hands together until they shine with slick.

Thankfully Macaque was so easy to move. Or so it felt. Rubbing the oil into his hair and clothes. Wukong wants Macaque to forgive him. Look at him. Look at how he takes care of him. Looked after him. Seeks him. Sought him. Wukong cared for Macaque so deeply. Wanted to ingest every fluid, every word, every tear that exits the body of Macaque. Every single cell. Until Wukong was Macaque himself.

Wukong used his forearm to swipe at his eyes. He believed he had gotten oil on his cheek. Wukong smiles softly. But frowns. Macaque must be in such pain. Macaque’s head falls to the side. Wukong pulls it back. Smears the traces of leftover oil over the smooth forehead and hairline, drags the tips of his fingers over those lax ears. All over the six of them. Until they’ve been done properly. They don’t shine like glitter. But there is a glimmer on the back of Macaque’s ears. The surface glistens from the oil texture. 

Wukong sighs softly, his emotions so heavy. Maybe Macaque was still angry. Frustrated. Childish. Maybe Macaque grew tired of Wukong. Didn’t want him. His words or his touches. His cuddles or their prolonged eye contact. Maybe this was it. The end of it all. It was Wukong’s fault. He hadn’t meant to. Macaque just kept pushing and pushing. As if Wukong desired this ending. Wukong doesn’t know. 

His heart is so stuffed. So heavy. A burden inside his chest. A beating complex system. The blood pumps. Rushes to Wukong’s needy head. His lips brush the cheekbone of Macaque’s. Feels how it narrows. It grows gaunt each day. Because Macaque won’t eat. Macaque will fast. Refuses to take food from Wukong still. 

“I love you..” Wukong whispers, allows his lips to caress those gelid ones. Very softly. That is. No pressure added. Not until Wukong feels wetness on his lip. And pulls back with a gag. He doesn’t know if it’s oil, sweat, or something else. Wipes his own bottom lip and sniffles. “Because we're sworn brothers. Ya know? Love you through it all..” Wukong needs Macaque more than Macaque needs him.

Their bodies shift closer, Wukong clutches onto Macaque, their embrace so foreign these days. Hides his face in the crook of Macaque’s neck. Smells the mugwort and obscure mint in the onyx fluff that covers the simian. Wukong could feel the solid definition of a spine on his own skin. Somehow, Macaque looks puffier than before. Like he’s gained weight. Wukong could feel it. Feel how his own ribs met with those that aren’t his. A weighted spine to his chest. When did Wukong stop eating too?

“I’m gonna go get some food. You should rest, kay? I’ll finish up your ankles and stomach with the oil soon..” Wukong shimmed up from Macaque. Carefully rested him back on the floor. 

Where Macaque would stay uncomfortable on the floorboards. As if the bed were too small for both of them.

But Wukong thought the floor would be better for the wound. Wouldn’t all the blood stay in Macaque’s head if he were laid on a flatter surface? Wukong wasn’t sure. He isn’t equipped to deal with wounds like that. He usually heals up after a while. Wukong drags his feet out his home. Stands blankly on the porch before he’s hunching over. Eyes squeezed shut. Whimpers leave his body as it shakes without his consent. His nails dig into his clothes, and the sleeves of his robe are dirty. Marred with stains of ashen plants and charcoal marks.

He takes a countless number of steps down the stairs. Recalls how he and Macaque set them up. Until you reach the wooden abode. His fingers were tracing the string on the way down. Until he meets the bottom. The light from above makes the building look majestic. With golden haze. 

The house looks isolated. Daunting. All alone rests Macaque with no one inside but himself. Laid in those laced garments with mugwort stuffed into its crooks. It could be so beautiful. But it is lonesome. At a standstill. Unfortunately. That is. Wukong needs to turn his back on it. But he can’t help the longful stares. Turn his heel. Peeks his eyes over his shoulder and struts away. Forward and forward.

Not until he realizes how long it has been since he left the space from under the mountain. The house. The water sloshes behind him as he stares ahead. Splattering droplets. And the stains on his skirt and chestplate remind him that he hasn’t washed them in a week. The red of his two lengthy feathers needs to be brushed and fluffed. Cleaned and stayed pristine. The air is fresh and stinks of a flowery aroma. Light. Airy. Honeysuckles that are freshly bloomed. Wukong suddenly knew he missed it. Missed the world. 

Missed the sound of the tree leaves fluttering. The sight of grass waving when he passes. The song of the birds as they chirp. Stroll of swirling clouds. Breeze that carries the scent of the earth and sap from fruits. The calls of various of his subjects. Hear them whisper in the trees, play on the ground, snooze, and chatter amongst themselves.

“General!” Wukong greets, seeing as the little guy walks over. But he makes no effort to greet Wukong back. Just staring with an observing gaze. Not until Wukong grunts. It’s deep. Enough to make his highest-ranking subject walk over and check him out. Grimacing and hesitating as it hops onto him. It would be questionable, but Wukong could tell his highest-ranking subject was only wincing from the stench. “I know, I know. I gotta wash up…”

Wukong totes himself and his little general through the thicket of greenery they flourished in. Thriving in familiar paths and trees. Wukong can feel the energy buzzing above. Under all those roots, under his bare toes. Wukong feels some weight lifted from his stable bones, sturdy shoulders. Wukong chitters. Calling the attention of his subjects.

He sees them relaxed, playing, nibbling. Many many subjects notice him. Hesitating. Wukong quirks a brow, hands on his hips, “Anyone try to throw you off General? You were in charge here..” he asked, whispering but the quietness from his general led Wukong to believe it might’ve. Even if he was the one with the say-so. A few monkeys prance over, greeting him with excited vocalizations. Their fur has twigs and little dirt specks in it. It’s noticeable on the creamy fur.

Wukong knows it’s ivory to cream to white. Never white. Wukong’s ex-sworn brothers assumed the monkeys were albino. They aren’t. They’re a vanilla cream. A soft swirl cream. A lily cream. Never white. So it’s easy to see how dirty the fur can get. And they’re all dirty. Though it confused Wukong. Made him observe. His subjects are still making noise with glee. They always groom. But without Wukong to call for group grooming. They weren’t keeping up with it.

Unfortunately, not all his subjects come to greet him.  A few. But not all. So Wukong makes a series of high-pitched noises similar to chirps. To show he is back, to command the lights on him.

That doesn’t work. 

Wukong realizes he’s getting flimsy. He isn’t being taken seriously. And his patience has wanned too quickly. Wukong shrills with his tail swatting the ground. A holler and that is all it takes for them all to properly address him. His general flinches, perched on his shoulder blade. Wukong will personally deal with anyone who has been acting a fool without his supervision as he always does.

He is in no mood to threaten or scold his subjects. They’ll listen.

Wukong sits himself down, plucks off his phoenix Feather cap, places it down on the dirt. Let's his fingers brush under his chestplate for the straps. And slowly the clothes come undone. Until he’s bare in all his glory. But he doesn’t feel so glorious. The spaces between his ribs have gone gaunt and deeper. Wukong wasn’t used to that. And then he knows he’s been away for too long. There is complaining in his ear.

“I know, listen, we’ll make it quick, alright?” Wukong announces the few subjects that he comes across. Though they’re much more than few. A few dozen. He can already tell who is who, their scents are a welcomed smell that calms his jagged senses. Though each blink and tail proves discomfort. The scents blur, merged in a way that leaves him nauseous. 

They pick through his fur, and slowly with each second, they whisk away to groom each other instead of him. Until all that is left is his general and three more trusty subjects he knew too well. They grew dodgy and apprehensive when he sought to clean them. Wukong knows why. 

It should be Macaque grooming him right now. But it isn’t. He’s left Wukong. Left him all alone. Petty and spiteful. Wukong doesn’t know when it happens, but he’s sure it’s because of allergies. Because of the pollen in the air. Pulls apart his bones. Not even Buddha would console him. Departs from the rest. Shoulders slumped. Kicking soil off the ground as he stalks nude in his trance. A clearing. A familiar clearing. His eyes grow wet. A yawn leaves him as his waterlines well up. Spilling from his lids, like wax from a candle. Wukong sniffles. He misses Macaque. Even through all the buttery anger.

Wukong wished Macaque wouldn’t be like this towards him. It hurts so much. Hurts so much to see him, to feel his seething coldness. It burns more than it stings. Leaving Wukong’s palms to melt into puddles. Bleeding through bones until they go frail. Until Wukong bleeds red. Drains his liquids out onto the damp moss that grew where leaves could not shelter the land.

Wukong’s palms gravel at the ground, scooping, plowing, breaking roots with his mighty hands. Fingers feeling raw and used. Each layer peeled back until the hole was gaping at him. It swallows up the darkness perfectly. A shadow-like pit for a certain hole to be filled senselessly. He wants to scream at the world. He wants to claw himself until he becomes unrecognizable.

Just wants to part from it all, to connect back to the source. To feel Mother Nature's love for him once again. While the world banishes his existence.

Wukong knows how to feel that cold hole.

Wukong is warm. His clothes leave him hot. His dirty palms. His nails that conceal the soil under them. His gushing heart that throbs in his chest. Wukong’s ribs must be warm too. Along with his joints. Tiendons. Finger bones. Wukong’s ankles are warm. 

His stomach and belly are too. 

Wukong itches and burns. So much so that he’s peeling away fur. Tugging it out in chunks. It hardly hurts when his chest is bleeding out. His heart. Wukong sucks in a breath, holds it, holds it.

His teeth clatter, grit, “Jerk..” but as sponges soak up liquids, Wukong’s eyes ingest the pile of dirt. Enough that Wukong lurches forward, stealing from the earth once more. Selfish he is. So selfish. In all the wrong ways. He can’t fill this hole. He can’t! Not yet not like this!

Chucking the dirt, tossing and scraping it away. Dare he stop. It would all vanish. Macaque would vanish! No! Wukong wouldn’t let it be! Macaque would be swallowed up, forced to attend his goodbye. Stood in the diyu. Wukong would not go back twice. Not willingly that is. This couldn’t be the end.

His breath quickens. His eyes watered. His chest heaves. Wukong sees the wrist. Pulls on it. Hopes the rest pops out. He sees dirty silk. Swats the soil. Dusts Macaque off gradually. Digs him out this sore. Until Macaque has soil covering his body. Entirely succumbing to it. How pitiful.

As if he were just born again.

“It was a joke,” Wukong tells Macaque, hoping to end this all here. For things to be okay again. But Macaque ignores him. Always. “Cmonn’ laugh..”

When Macaque doesn’t laugh, Wukong holds him like he always will. “..You’re no fun, plum.” Wukong let the teasing words flow through his soul. The bitterness is long forgotten. His throat swells with pride. With a need to hide. The rain must be coming down today. Even with no sunshine or raincloud. Because a drop of wetness sticks to Wukong’s skin, leaking onto Macaque’s pristine face.

Macaque is Wukong’s river, his hide, his open skin. His crushing depth to his sea, the pressure of two lungs giving out, the cackle to his lightning flash. Wukong’s everything. 

Wukong forgives Macaque. He just hopes Macaque forgives him too.

Chapter Text

There is no promise. Not one that could fix anything ever again between the eclipse and sun. Blanched and dried. Hung within the ivory tolls of an eye. A great show for nothing but fleshy weakness. The sky beyond is tattered with a hulking fog that grew suffocating with each draw of breath. Snuffing out the lungs of anything that ever mattered.

Pushed into his warmth, whispers of promises, of weepings, of devotion sweep past the dulled senses of the one who listens. Of past gushings that are long charred. Who was it to remember? To recollect? Passion beyond a thin veil. Each coat of fur shedded as long before the casted reflections. They speak, they glare, but they offer no mercy. Coldness tightens over each joint, flimsy, but weighing each drag.

There is no sense of direction. Mulling. Pushing forward, anew it isn’t, just shackles that strangle the limbs of matted fur that has fallen out far more times than counted. Then possible. The drowned-out murmurs against its skull have become empty rumblings. Buzzing underneath its skin. It's already dug out the chunks to find the itch, but it won’t.

An itch that becomes mind-numbing. There is a pain that is crawling out of its pointer finger, telling it each time it lifts, that it should’ve been better. But it is not. No matter how far it lifted itself, it succeeds in pestering the world, rotting it with its outbreaks until it splatters on the doughy cheek of Mother Nature. It stood on it, inert with its truths and words, its honesty and hate. For is it shallow? 

The desire of reaching a new height. But will it ever? If it looks away from what sets it free? Compliant. Comfortable. Swaying. Stangnant. Still. Stiff. Unbecoming. To unfold, unravel, to crease, and be torn. To relish in that death. To stay with its canines in its ribs. How pathetic it all is. How pathetic it is. How deserving it is.

Those long-smeared images of familiar bodies quiet their shamings. The quietness is new. It is a quiet place where it can hear its own panting. Own mingles of torment. Freshly stood. The saturated chill of blue. The thousand-foot steps all lead to the master piece. Tongue to lips. To recognize. It doesn’t. The mirror speaks, “Liu Er Mihou..” She says, imposing, commanding, indifferent to his battered vessel.

Disgust ignites, pleasure, a snide gaze with the corner of her mouth quirked into a grin. Her hands break off, present to his collapsed mind, his howling voice won’t ring out. Rather whimper. Until her fingers mend his mind once over. Twice over. Cementing her voice into each ear. “Oh, warrior. You’re perfect..”

Sputtering. Strings of spit fall from his jaw. The sight that often blurs paints his vision with stars, cosmic twinkles, the darkness fueled tarnished until it clears. The palette of his reborn into his mouth, licking the roof. Macaque can see. He forgot he could. Could use his eyes. His eye. She is a candle. Wisp. Steps carrying the Earth with it. And she smells of fresh wax. The Earth's opposite. The chains that plague his body freeze over, bulking.

“If, only if. If I let you free, you will have to free me, release me, help me carry out the truth. My entrapment. In return. I’ll give you, breathe life into you..free you from your deathly chains that held you,” she had said, with a sickening smile, where her teeth were presented to him. As if pearls of her skin. Her ring finger brushed over her cupid's bow. The color caught his attention at the time. The offset red. Magentia, not quite vermilion. Her fingers brushed over his wet chin, her touch burning scars into his abyss of a mind. Until he pathetically sobbed out. 

Keen to her whispers. It was no good. But she’d save him. Save the punishing offenses he was subjected to.

Of course, he agreed. 

Or maybe he should’ve held still, waited with a bated breath for her to choose another warrior. Macaque was no warrior. Macaque can’t recognize himself. Macaque needed to do something with his hands. Read books. Like he wanted to do. Like he had done for so long before appearing. It was books. To let his tongue relax, to allow him a word, a letter again. But he had to stand here. Stand by the other. Feel the cooling breeze of the wind on his skin.

Macaque stands over his confusion. His words don’t come out that well. But they still come out. Tethering the edge of his fuzzy mind. Jewels he’s gifted. For what purpose? He knows it's his. They gleam under trickling faded sunlight. But don’t sparkle. The heated star of the world is out for the night. And the sun is sodden. His eyes don’t meet Macaque’s. It’s chilling in all the wrong ways. The air is fresh. Warm. Gross.

The crickets, they sing. It is only moments after the last of light.  “Those are pearls for you. I was meant to give them to you..a long time ago.”

“What century?”

Wukong won’t answer, but Macaque knows. Their feet point towards each other, the leaves and sticks crunching under heels, Macaque has nothing to say. But Wukong does. “I thought the white would go well with your fur. Those are rare now, they don’t make ‘em like that anymore.” Wukong sighs.

Macaque doesn’t respond. 

Wukong knows what he saw at the pagoda. And so does Macaque. Over the lines of death and suffering. They both knew. “Where did you bury me?” Macaque breaks their silence. As he always does. As he always seems to do. Stalking behind Wukong who will charge forward. Lead them. Macaque doesn’t know if he should be pissed.

Wukong is dirt. Dirt beneath Macaque’s feet. But he is the lively sun. The bitter shimmers. It simmers. While confusion and hate boil out of Macaque. Until he’s doused it all out. Only left in his pity party of misery. “Oh come on, seriously- what type of question is that?” But Wukong is taking a new path anyway.

Macaque won’t repeat himself again. He doesn’t even bother. Wukong is letting him trail, the grumbles bleed into the stuffy air as an afterthought of each decision made. Their steps are off-beat as they once were, chasing. Wukong is the first to pause. Macaque is the first to halt. The clearing is free from the prying fingers of trees. But the overgrowth of frizzy grass blades sway. 

The entire section of grass is living, lush, and vibrant. All sorts of flowers blossomed. The spring air lets the fireflies camp around. Flutter by. It makes Macaque unsteady on his feet. The reality of his death was too much to bear. The reality of what Wukong had done. The padagoda wouldn’t tell the full story. But Macaque had seen a glimpse. Seen in the memory scroll while Mk was too busy. Had seen it between those moments. Wukong cupping his cheeks. Wukong embracing him. Wukong weeping with rot to his fur. With his body falling apart by Wukong’s side. As beautiful as it could be. It shows just how far Wukong would go. He’d never let Macaque have peace. Not even in death. Selfish.

“You’ve trimmed the outside area of this,” Macaque said, picking up on how the outside world of jungle-like nature never stepped over the invisible barrier of the burial. Macaque doesn’t need a response. He steps over a few bushes. Feels them brush his pant leg. Peers down at the site. Recalls the suffering he went through. His unpaid deeds for his karmic baggage. Would he have to go back and pay the rest of it off? More ears to be stretched and plucked? Mirrors to point and accuse? Tongues were to be pinched until they were numb. Gone? His voice stripped? “When did you realize I passed?” Macaque turns his head to the side, studies Wukong.

Macaque wanted to be sly with it. But he couldn't care less. His body decomposed here. He has every right to know when Wukong took his death seriously. When Wukong cared to notice the bleeding and soft pants die out. When Macaque went rank. When he spoiled. Expired. Became too sweet for the sage to ignore. Macaque will push the buttons of Wukong until he breaks or gets his way. 

Macaque doesn’t want to gaze at the unresponsive simian. Doesn’t need to. To see how Wukong stares blankly at the marker of a grave. The quiet land. Macaque turns his heel, crosses his arms, faces the gravesite, “You left sigils and offerings for so long. When did you realize it was a waste of time?” Macaque doesn’t test the waters. But his back is turned. So he won’t put his guard down. It is an excuse to pester Wukong further. He is righteous. Wukong had his body, for how long? Macaque wants to know all the details he doesn’t. Any of the details.

Why would Wukong do such? Macaque and Wukong weren’t a part of a troop anymore by that time, Wukong could go back to hating Macaque all he liked. Nobody would judge Wukong for burning Macaque. Throwing him off into the ocean. Feeding a corpse to Mother Nature. Replanting life when he withered.

Wukong winces, grunts, and pulls his gaze to look over at Macaque with wide eyes, as if discombobulated. As if speaking were so difficult. “That was all I could do for him. To..ya know…preserve him. The best I could do for what I did.” 

Preserving. Bloating. Keeping. Withholding. Decomposing.

Macaque blinks, Wukong steps closer, an inch closer. Macaque loses it. “Wouldn’t have to happen if you kept your fucking word. But oh, that little action of taking care of me surely will, will away your crimes, huh? You’ve never changed that thought process..” Macaque grunts out. He’s pissed. In all the right ways. Wukong doesn’t have to try. Each word pisses Macaque off even more. How dare Wukong act like a savior. Like he did something so magical. Macaque should call Wukong out for being some creep.

Throwing around a sigil or two didn’t help Macaque. It didn’t help him down there. Wukong traveled through the Diyu before. But never went through it. The long moments of waiting in a fuckass line. Until your feet go raw. Until your body goes numb, until you aren’t sure if you’re really feeling anything.

Yet Macaque falters in his own thoughts. Wukong’s stare is being held until he blinks and sighs. No point in staying any longer. Either of the two could simply leave. But they stay put. The tension will grow until they yell and scream. Until Wukong can’t feel his face anymore. Until Macaque is spitting up blood. Wukong refused.

He refused to spill blood here. Anywhere but here. Not in front of him. There are no last looks. Wukong trudges back, following the beaten path Macaque knows Wukong worshipped too frequently.

“You hadn’t eaten at the function, kinda rude don’t cha’ think?” Wukong taunts, looking back to see Macaque glaring at him with those arms crossed still, “Tang was hopin’ you’d try some of the noodles. But don’t worry. I got them to go.” Wukong had a cheeky smile, laughing loudly as he marched out of the shrubbery. Looking for the next spot to frolic in. Macaque was tired. Wukong wanted to go home. So they walk.

When Macaque doesn’t feed into Wukong’s amusing cackles. Wukong sighs, “I’m joking, I ate them.”

“I know you did.”

“You’ve seen enough. Ready to go?” Wukong is done. There is no smile left in him.

Macaque opens his mouth. Promptly shuts it. Hums. Wishes to speak. But the way Wukong rests his palms above his hips offers Macaque an indication of that terrible invitation. It would be one of the many but not new start of a fresh fight Wukong was itching for. Anything to get Macaque to allow Wukong’s pretty mouth to open. To bite back. So Wikong could feel justified when tearing Macaque up. 

Macaque exhales deeply, and Wukong blows the air out of his nose. They come to each other's sides. They don’t have to walk. But they do anyway. Wukong will suggest it’s about his weight, and Macaque will recommend walking this late because he’s a monkey.

Neither will say why they can’t use their magic to travel. It makes the task more tedious than necessary. But the night is young. It probably doesn’t matter. When would it? Just excuses to piss either off more. So Macaque walks at his own pace. He’ll arrive at the house when he chooses. Wukong will arrive at the house when he gets there. With his little phoenix feathers bobbing along the forgotten path.

The waterfall sprays them both with mist when they finally reach pebbles and stumps that keep them from being drenched. Macaque forgets when he last took a real bath. His fingers tense, palms clammy with sweat. Sticky in the way they usually get. There is an edge that leaves Macaque with bated breaths. Steeling before the river turns to a sudden drop. His breath is as faint as lilacs when they step past the magical barrier. It fizzles out until he’s barely existing. To quiet himself down. To put his fire out. 

Macaque doesn’t bother to chide Wukong for his mutterings. Rushing up the stairs on all fours, eager to get inside. Acting all fine when in reality Macaque knew. Wukong’s eyes were creased, his mouth a little more widespread than before, breathy laugh, he was winded. “Whew! We really should change these steps, huh? I should’ve had Mk and them fix these up when they remade my house.” Wukong is panting.

Macaque notes down in his brain that Wukong deserves it. The dark simian drags his feet up each step, hears the old wood creak. Keeps his hands busy to himself. So he won’t have to touch the worn yarn that surely has Wukong’s peach chip dust on it.

His left eye twitches. Neither will point it out. Macaque won’t. They make it to the house, and Wukong uses his shoulder to push open the door. It swings. There is no handle. They didn’t need one. The two shuffle inside, Wukong already going on about some meal Macaque doesn’t know the name of. His eye focuses on Wukong stepping through the house tracking pebbles of dirt. Prints here and there. 

They leave evidence of past activity. Just because Macaque hates Wukong doesn’t mean Macaque forgot manners. Did families still practice certain traditions? Macaque wills himself not to harp on it. “I’m gonna order us something to eat, bud.”

Macaque slides his shoes off right before he fully enters. Leaves them limp by the doorway. Steps through. His feet feel funny on the wood. They hurt. Do Wukong’s feet hurt too?

“Ramen probably. Mk might be around to deliver..” 

Macaque doesn’t know why his dead heartbeat is hammering away at his ribcage. Or why his mind is so fixated on things that leave his stomach fuzzy. Wukong sits by a desk, patters away on the device. Macaque sees a few juvenile subjects stealing a couple of soft peaches from the coffee table. They scatter out quickly.

He stalks over, picks up one, and digs his teeth into it. Compels his stomach not to empty out in front of Wukong. “The peaches taste different.” He said with a mouthful, chewing until it went down. It’s hard to chew. Abnormal. Wukong spares no glance. Tail raising higher. It irks Macaque. Macaque laughs, leans over Wukong’s shoulder, “Where’d ya steal this one?”

“I bought it actually. Do you even know what it is? Hey! I just ordered us three servings of noodles by the way! Should be Mk comin’ over soon, we shall get what we wanted!” Wukong swivels in his chair, tongue poking out from his bottom lip. Making Macaque back off.

Macaque stares at it. The device, then Wukong’s eyes. Wukong’s speech is different. Not so direct as it used to be. Wukong’s words are so drawn out, lengthy, and long. The poetic nature of their words spinning with context are remnants of fragmented memories that could only serve to be false. Macaque can’t help but compare. Wukong says so much without saying anything. Too many filler words.

‘I bought it.’ is simple. Macaque doesn’t know what the device is referred to as. Wukong knows that. The question wasn’t rhetorical. Wukong actually asked him that. ‘I bought food.’ is simple. Macaque already knew Wukong would get food. He said it earlier. ‘Mk is close.’ is simple too. Why is Wukong’s Chinese so complex now? 

Macaque could use common sense and the context of the last hour to put together that Wukong was buying food and Mk was close enough to deliver it in under an hour.

Macaque noticed it with Mk and Mei too. Pigsy and Tang tended to get to the point it seemed. It takes two seconds for Macaque to tunnel focus on what part of Wukong’s speech he will go for. Things are so different now. His brow quirks. “What even is it?” he asked, eyeing the device now. He knew things. Sure. Lady Bone Demon’s hench-fuck had easily spoken about all sorts of things for her. 

But Macaque doesn’t know the name of this one. What it really does. Leaning closer, it was bright. Such an eyesore. The buzzing it whispers is like static to his ears, causing them to twitch. He could feel Wukong leaning close too. So close. Their faces are inches away. Breath ghosting Macaque’s right ear. Shudders can’t depict what runs through Macaque’s head at the moment. He gets lost in the closeness of it.

Macaque can smell the peach off of Wukong from here. It’s familiar. Like acid to Macaque’s head, drowning him in intimacy. “A laptop.” Macaque doesn’t think that makes sense. It’s one of those words. The weird ones. Just how much of modern words were mashed words? Macaque nods, as if he understood. 

Laptop. Cell phone. Airplane.

Wukong lifts himself out of his seat, the cushion is warm. Macaque knows because it feels warm under his palm. Wukong is stumbling off into the house. The house isn’t too different. But with rich wood furnishing. It feels different. Yet the energy and mess are stagnant. The natures of the ginger monkey never quite change. No matter how he evolves. It all is a gentle thing. Macaque’s fur puffs out, gradually. He doesn’t have to turn to hear the shuffling of feet across the flooring, the hums and grunts of satisfaction.

Thumps echo off the walls until Macaque’s tail tingles, air moving past, his fingers paused on the buttons of the laptop, pulling away, his thumb rubbing over his fingertips. He turns. His eye twitches. Wukong’s face. Wukong staring. Their noses are almost touching. Macaque scoffs, trying not to breathe in the same air as Wukong. Or it might make him say something equally stupid right now. “What are you doing?” Macaque isn’t asking. 

Wukong’s nose crinkles, that is after the moment grows tense. “You smell..weird,” Macaque winces, crossing his arms. Huffs when Wukong speaks again, “I didn’t notice before.” he hums. Macaque should feel threatened. He does. 

“You’re one to talk. You still smell bad, your highness.” Macaque was frothing inside, always Wukong having to start something. Macaque is met with a blank stare. Leans in so quickly that Wukong is flabbergasted, quietly staring with wide eyes. All offended. In a way that amuses Macaque. But his expression falters, relaxing when he recognizes the stench of stress reeking from that ginger fur. “See. I was right.” Macaque chimes.

Wukong is doing it again. Macaque doesn’t know what it is. The word for it. He’s only seen Wukong do it when around the kid and his gang. He just goes quiet sometimes. That blank look. Like he’s zoning out. It doesn’t look pretty on Wukong. Suddenly Macaque is uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot. Nails dug into his forearm. “You’ve got twigs in your hair.”

“I do? Huh. You’ve got a bug on ya,” Wukong reaches forward, Macaque takes an easy step back, the small of his back bumping along the desk, but it’s still plucked from Macaque’s scarf, thrown into Wukong’s mouth. “You smell of rot,” Wukong the nerve he has, gets another whiff, suffocating Macaque in the meanwhile. “You smell like you’ve..” Wukong trails off, quiet.

Macaque struggles to find the words, so he lets it out anyway, whatever is on his tongue. “Shut up. Shut up,” grunts at Wukong, which works. They separate, but a bag of something is shaken in front of Macaque’s face, like dangling car keys. “I’m not eating that.” It’s whatever the hell Wukong stuffs his damn mouth with all the time. It makes Wukong smell sweet. No wonder the bees bother him.

“It’s chips. Cmonn’ try it!”

Macaque has a low tolerance for not giving in to Wukong’s whims. He thought that solidified with his hate too. It didn’t. Not after recent events. It feels so new. Fresh. Like it were only hours ago. But it’s been five months since the world might’ve ended. Distasteful. 

Macaque sticks his hand into the gaping hole of the bag. Hears it wrinkle. Of course, it wrinkles. Things these days are loud, annoyingly so. Macaque picks up a few of the ‘chips’ that Wukong calls it. He’s staring at Macaque still. As if the dark simian’s answer will change so soon. Macaque wouldn’t drop it back into the bag. Not after he used his hand to pick it up. Maybe if he shoves enough of this junk into his mouth, Wukong would forget that Macaque smells. Still lingers of death. Yeah. That should work.

Macaque feels the light crisps of pink ‘chips’ slide over his tongue, brush the roof of his mouth. Yeah. This should work. He thinks. Macaque chews. They’re hard. No. Firm. 

Macaque’s tail twitches. The chips are good. The chips taste great. Macaque stuffs his mouth full of them. Savors the fragile sweetness. He can’t help it. Macaque sticks his hand in again, feels the control slip out of his veins when Wukong smirks with a lidded gaze. It shouldn’t be hot. Macaque shoves more into his puffed mouth. Grumbles, looks away bashfully. Flakes off crumbs on his pant leg.

Wukong snickers. The image makes Macaque’s nerves fry off. Was it so wrong to use Wukong as a shield for his own feelings? Macaque isn’t defensive about this. He isn’t. This isn’t funny at all. It isn’t a part of their natural diet. 

Macaque wasn’t sure when he last tasted something so sweet.

“Taste good, huh?”

“Yeah. No wonder you act like a ravenous animal with this stuff,” Macaque doesn’t want to continue the conversation, but he can’t let Wukong one-up him. His fingers have a shake to them. He’s fine. He swallows down more, Macaque should be glad. Happy. He isn’t. His stomach feels fine but his arms buzz. He feels sick.

“Oh! Mk’s here.” he watches wordlessly as Wukong spins on his heel, bouncing to the door with gusto, swinging the door open with a resounding thump! His hands squeezing his hips, as if they’d somehow fall off in a matter of seconds. The fabric of his red sash belt was worn, beaten down from centuries of use. Mk stands with his hands full of white plastic bags, which crinkle when he moves. Always moving on those dirt-covered shoes. Wukong tosses an arm on the doorway, where it squeaks at his applied weight. 

Macaque doesn’t bother to engage with the conversation, only giving a small nod to Mk who notices him over Wukong’s sturdy shoulder. Tired eyes all wide in whimsical joy at seeing the second mentor. Macaque wonders if Mk thought the same as Wukong. Did he really smell of rot still? The dark of Macaque’s sleeve is brought closer to his snout, wrinkles and he chokes on a gag. 

The fine gravel of dead weeds and grass will follow like a stain. Suddenly Macaque can’t breathe. Something clawing its way out of his lungs and throat, stinging, burning. His hands ball into fists, so tight it hurts. Nails digging into his flesh. Head hung low with his worries. Macaque tries to inhale sharply. Feels it escape him. His anger, pain. Cheeks flushed. Fretful.

Gone. Vanishing now. Macaque is gone. Macaque is absolute now. Macaque becomes one within himself. Drowns in each of the shadows. Until his cracked head of misery deflates. Mellowed out perfectly, even at the withered edges. Until he slips out of the shadows of a stagnant cloak of memories. Macaque steps over vines and jagged stones to worm his way through the gap between earth in an untouched cave.

He needed to get this stench off of him. Finality of his new life. All traces of who he was must be erased.

Macaque could feel how the ceiling of the canal brushed his tangled hair. Always him bumping his crown to its body, wiggling through, careful with each foot that traveled over untouched stones of the pathway. Until the darkness swallows him, enough that the next opening greets him with sprinkles of droplets. A spray of water already present.

Moss and flowers. 

Macaque pauses. 

He then looks down from the foot drop, worn stones that could crumble await, so he weaves through his shadows, stepping from the wall of the teeny grotto. His gaze casted, the missing memories that have fogged over entirely bleed like spilled ink over the pages of his mind. Hot summers spent resting in the nooks, naps where he awoke with a moist side. 

He stepped closer to the edge of where land and water met, ripples welcomed him back, he could see the powdery white of the bottom, it was mostly shallow outside that one part that nestled deeply behind a few rocks where the drop off of levels would slip. The overhead crack where spilling water linked off from Wukong’s waterfall poured in, and a mist hung lowly from each penetration of moonlight.

Today is a third-quarter moon.

The glimmers along the fading ripples were ingrained in Macaque’s brain. He always went here when Wukong would annoy him enough. Even when Peng once found it and called him, ‘Lagoon monkey’ even if it weren’t a lagoon. Macaque glances off to the side, lush blankets of thick moss comforting a Buddha statue. His muscles tense. 

He peels back, chucks, swipes off the chunks of moss that became skin of Buddha. His hands shake again, stomach stirring. Macaque hums silently into the air, he has no incense, no fruits to offer. Nothing. But that is materialistic, correct? So Macaque slips off his scarf, undoes his tight stash so he can properly remove the hefty skirt and chest armour. Feels slowly with each article of fabric tossed the weight leave his brittle frame.

His ru is so soft, so very soft and fragile. But it has dirt on it still. Stained with weather. Stained with splotches of dark brown he’d never wash out. Of centuries of mourning. That Wukong’s tears would not let fade. A history marked, so present in his life. There is nobody but Buddha and Macaque here. So Macaque lets his glamours fizzle out. Focusing on letting his guard down for a second.

His right eye aches. Aches in a way he can’t fathom. It still itches. His under-eye, all of his ears flick at the feeling of spring drizzle from the ceiling where rain and moonlight pour. His ru slowly unsheathes him. Macaque doesn’t want to look down at his chest. Last time he held his palms to it, he thought he’d die twice. The phantom feeling ghosts over his fur and skin, supple, so soft. Easily broken. Bubbling with pops. A water of no other. Macaque needs to wash up now. He needs to. But the water looks so nice. So nice it might burn him. Sizzle. 

Cackle with the whispers of his wrongdoings.

Macaque falls forward, onto his palms, knees digging into moss, gasping for air. He’s not boiling. He isn’t being punished again. He’s fine. He’s on Flower Fruit Mountain. Mount Huaguo. He’s got that sweet smell of oils to distract him. The type he could never name. That just showed up once. He’ll be fine. This isn’t the pain of stretched memories. Not the pain of the underworld. He’s sat at the edge of the old grotto. His old hideaway. He’ll be fine. 

Why isn’t it going away? Why does it stay? Why does it hurt? Should it be hurting? Why won’t it stop?

Macaque’s body lurches, expelling chunks of liquid pink. His stomach hurts, there is a trickle of sweat running from his face, or is it a tear? Macaque sputters, spits, and coughs up the forgotten sweetness of ‘chips’ onto stone floor. Shamefully hiding his face away from the Buddha sculpture. Just because he’s done worse does not mean he wants to be witnessed. But who can hide this? Hide this from whom?

The charcoal-furred simian whimpers. Body convulsing, the bitter battery of acid in his mouth. The iron he was used to was far too much. It tasted like those endless days. Wailing when they took what was his. A part of him. No. He had a tongue now. To pay for his lies, his deception. For his crimes of killing and fighting against the heavenly realms. His tongue was intact, and his body was not submerged in a pot of simmering water. His reflection would not morph into Wukong to list each of his secrets to shame.

Macaque scooped the water with one palm, brought it to his lips, slurped and swished, staring down at the then shiny surface. The water looked okay. The water wasn’t stagnant. The water felt clean. He would be clean. Macaque scooped more into his palms, shoveling the liquid far back into his throat to rid himself of that acid. His stomach couldn’t handle the sugars. Or so assumed. Modern food smells amazing. It looked amazing. But his little empty stomach couldn’t handle it, he was far too sensitive it seemed.

Macaque spat the water back out, felt his spit dribble down his jaw with drippings of spring water. His eyes watered with untold feelings, a baggage he wouldn’t escape. The efforts of his light meal were tarnished, only bits of the dissolving ‘chip’ even left. He thanks the gods it’ll go away. Macaque sat back on his heels, tail stiff, he’d have to massage the muscles to keep it from aching later. 

There were dark circles, where droplets of water dampened his maroon pants. Thankfully he hadn’t gotten sick on his clothes. So he slowly lifts himself onto his wobbly feet, unsteady, kicking off his boots until he can shimmy out of his suffocating clothes. Until he is as bare as he was in birth. Gazed upon for all the see. The water looks inviting. It has to be inviting. It will cool his shivering body.

Macaque mentally braces himself for it. Becomes the meal for the earth, let mother nature drink him as much as she pleased. The spring water is not deep here, so his feet instantly touch the bottom, feeling the sand beneath them. Between his toes. The water around his legs becomes murky with lifted sand until it settles once more. 

There is a constant chill that buzzes in shockwaves through his knees, rattling up his spine, hitting each notch without pause. Like a frozen lake, Macaque feels it spread through the tissues of his muscles, collecting moisture as he tenses from the frigid waves of water.

In order not to feel as chilled. He had to embrace that cold passion. His muscles relax, no more teeth clattering, no longer will he shiver. He will take it, take it as he takes everything with his back. Trying to create relations with the water, become comfortable, fluid. Sleek. The cold sticks to his skin. Stays present. So Macaque drags himself under, until the water reaches his waistline. 

Feels it stew in his gut, a bottomless pit of chill. His bottom lip becomes tasty, being nibbled on with no pressure, his eyes staring forward at the water, thumb clawing at a nail. If Macaque died again. What would happen? Would he still have to deal with his deplorable actions?

He could be like Wukong. He could do good. Try to do ‘good’ and attain nirvana. Macaque could easily try. But how many times was he almost sent back? Lady Bone Demon could’ve done it, Wukong could’ve, hell, the world almost ended! Multiple times! Macaque would be none the wiser. Would he become anew with living life or would he be born stricken in poverty and struggle?

Macaque doesn’t like that idea. His past shouldn’t dictate his new life. He understands though. The weight of his actions. But who is to judge him? Buddha? The universe? Some other deity? Who are they to balance what truly is justice and unfairness? Does intent matter if you still hurt? If violence is conditioned. How do they know the weight of that crime? If it is deserved to be a vile parasite? Macaque thinks he’ll become sick. Sick of those who think they can rule him. Rule himself to concepts.

It left him vulnerable. Unfavorable. Weak. Reliant. He needed to repay this weighing debt of wrongdoings. Didn’t he? Macaque hates being so reliant now. His edges are all soft and sappy. He’s losing his sharpness in all the worst ways. In ways he can’t make up. His stomach can’t keep anything down, it’s so hard to chew. When did the fruits get so sweet and mushy? Pigsy gives him a helping of noodles, Wukong finds bananas to let him nibble on, and Sandy tells him about medical scans and uses terms Macaque has never heard in his lifetime. Sure he should talk things out. But he isn’t glass. The damn world. That damn city.

Every second of that city felt like torture with bright neon signs and loud thrumming that shook his core. Rumbling under his feet. Blaring.

Macaque hates being reliant. Hates having to wait for either idiot to complete a task so he could solely mimic it. Macaque won’t lie to himself. He’s good at it. Good at impersonating. Copying. Replicating. Hence why they put him in those chambers. Reflections that knew what he truly was. A price to pay. Macaque dips his head down into the water. Just like old times. Keeps all six of his sensitive ears out of the water, listening to the sounds of nature while he holds his breath.

It's been so long since he last did this, felt this alive. Did something so mundane. His fingers dig through his roots, forcing the air out of his nose. Bubbles float up his side until they pop upon the surface. Blowing until he thinks his lungs crumple. Shrivel up. There were only moments of peace in the Diyu. Each talisman slipped in another layer of protection that would lessen the pain somewhat. Numbing he was, but Macaque should think about it. If there were any other offerings of peace sent his way. But. Who knew he died?

Wukong buried him centuries ago. Did that mean anyone else found out? Macaque insults himself under his breath, under the force of water as he inhales deeply. Spitting it out with a burning cough, blowing air out his nose roughly until all is left is a sting. “That bastard..” Wukong couldn’t respect him then. Couldn’t respect Macaque’s death. His body.

Probably threw him in the dirt, let him rot after playing dress up with his stale carcass. The droplets of water run down Macaque, he shuts his eyes, feels his eyes hurt, and assumes it’ll be spring water rather than salty warmth leaking from his waterline. A mind that transforms is one that is great, he knows that. So he lets it wander, wondering about fuzzy concepts. Cluttering his jigsaw of a mind. Unable to piece it together. Not furnished. Incomplete. Fog that reeks of bittersweet words. Emotions with blank memories to hold onto.

He visualizes it pouring off him in a stream, in waves, being rebirthed in such a way. Maybe he doesn’t have to hold onto this. Sure. He doesn’t believe in forgiveness. He doesn’t believe in all that fairytale mush to excuse actions. But he’s clung to his hate like second skin. Let it turn his insides bitter. He can move on from Wukong. He could. He can. He will. He doesn’t have to let Wukong walk on him any longer. Feel above him. Why does he feel that Wukong is above him anyway?

Why doesn’t Macaque focus on himself?

He came back, back to Wukong in the end. As he always has. And followed, followed. He could go back to that busted dojo where he trained Mk in. But he’s here. Around Wukong. The one he despises. He could easily go back to hiding. There are no icy tendrils binding his ankles and wrists, crushing his soul, choking him until he lost himself in anger. 

Macaque is the side character still. The main character to his own performance, and the villain on stage in the eyes of anyone. Something to blow over. Always. Macaque is to be that puppet. Useful for what he can provide. Learn what he can. Sticking to no strings. Bouncing to whatever is the strongest in that moment. His fucking name shows up once in that damn book. That fight across the realms. They didn’t even use his name again. Doppelganger. Until The Buddah put him in that damn Alms bowl.

Mounted, written, and impacted. Swirled on paper as that copycat. They didn’t even use his name for the fight against the celestial heavens. Macaque doesn’t think it really matters. Apart of him is grateful not to be depicted in such foolishness. It was a terrible plan. He knew it. They knew it. But they were stupid, prideful. Not him. But like a dog, he followed.

Maybe he wanted to matter.

Maybe he still does.

Does Macaque matter?

Nobody came to his grave. Nobody missed him. Not a single soul outside of Wukong and the troop. Macaque had felt it, sensed it through that terrible trance of agony he faced. Of course, nobody would come. The sworn brothers weren’t allowed on Flower Fruit Mountain again. Not that Wukong would bother telling them. But if Macaque is correct, based on that book and what Wukong said, were they sealed away? 

Did Macaque need to be remebered? He has no family that should hang a picture of him on their wall of frames. No china cabinet where his old papa and mama will keep their fine cups for important guests. No wife to mourn his life with weeping tears and wet flowers that collect her tears. No monkey to remember him for a century, it would lessen over the spanning years until he’s a trademark of someone who once existed. Born to waste away.

Born to have potential. Born to be something. Nobody. A nobody. None to weep for him. The tears he’s already given out. Been sapped out of. Dried when he came back to a quiet bed where Wukong wouldn’t stay. Where Wukong’s words of mockery would let Macaque rest with no dreams. No Wukong.

Macaque’s world revolved around Wukong entirely, orbiting the ginger, all of what Macaque is. He scrubs at his cheeks, all of what he could’ve been. All he is. Everything he is. Who is he without Wukong? What importance does he bring? He has a second shot a life. And what? He wastes it on Wukong? Wastes it on the kid? Makes no name, no family, nothing of himself. He’s meant to rot away by now. 

His fingers tear out the hair of the grotto, where lush flowers grow, crushing them until they are mangled, but not fine dust, just until he can scrub the ripping petals onto his skin. It isn’t even the petals. The pollen. The scent shall cleanse him. The flowers should cleanse him. Banish what weighs on his mind. 

Macaque is petty. Bitter. Nasty. Like parasites in the brain. Rotten to his very core. A sabotaging demise. Like that coffee gunk everyone shoves down their throats. Coarse. Taint as everything he touches. Moldable palms that crumple, as organic matter would too. He isn’t satisfied. But if he were to do anything about it. How would that satisfy him? How would that fix anything? 

Wouldn’t that mean he’d have to stoop to Wukong’s level? Again. He could care less. Macaque is willing to stoop low. Willing to get on his hind legs and bite like a nasty dog. Maul at Wukong’s face with all he has. Spit back into the mouth that speaks. Chew the foamy yellows out of Wukong’s sockets. Macaque is a sick monkey. Sick of the idea of having to be better, bigger. For what? For who? So Wukong can attain his nirvana, help some monk, save the world, turn over a new leaf, try to better the world, and not go through what Macaque went through? 

Maybe Wukong should burn in hell too.

Or maybe Macaque hadn’t suffered enough. Hadn’t learned enough. He is back where he was. Back at square fucking one. No spades, no queens, no honor to his name. No hopes, no nothing. He’s stuck. As he always was. 

No longer a true warrior like he imagined. Just a child playing at a game he can’t win. With no spaces to go back. No chances to do better. It would be better if he just got off the game board.

Let the other winners get their go. Getting off to their greedy moves, selfish beings. Selfish he is. Rather sat in his undying agony than flourish with a need to appease. Appease who? Who is there to appease, to appeal? To use his sultry lashes on, batting them at. Macaque was tired of himself, tired of this, no wonder Wukong tossed him when it got good..

Macaque could’ve just walked away, could just take his losses, skipping and frolicking, just like Wukong after all the pain he caused. All the crimes he’s committed. How is that fair? Is Buddha listening? Is Buddha or some goddess going to reap that? No. Macaque knows that won’t happen. And maybe the thought passes as he scrapes at his skin with flowers, watches the torn petals spin on the surface of the water.

How childish. How childish Macaque truly is. Everyone moved on. But him. Maybe it was deserved. Some unseen reaping Macaque sowed. Or would have to sow. Macaque is sick of maybes. He came back with a game plan. But he’s still stuck at the beginning. And there is no way forward now. He knows nothing. He’s never known anything. Everything he knew was wrong, everything he’ll know is incorrect. Inevitably he is who he is. He will end up at the same spot. He put himself here. 

How fair was that?

How fair exactly?

“You’re comfortable.”

Macaque’s head snaps over to where the noise was, like a pin rolling onto a grand floor, a creak onto wooden boards of a home, the snap of his skull he’ll never forget, the thud and hack of his throat when his head met the ground. 

An ‘eek’ shooting out his mouth, eyes widened as his hands shot up to the sides of his head, “Fuck off, Wukong!” he blinks as he screws his eyes shut to get the water out if them, baring his teeth instinctively, “Idiot! You idiot! Turn around!” but Wukong just stares dumbfoundedly, as if he lost all hearing. Macaque focuses on gathering the energy of his whimsical stupid weeping magic to cast over his ears. 

Pathetically that is.

And back to sqaure -fucking. One. He is.

Wukong blinks, blinks, blinks, blinks again. Squeezes those knowing eyes once more. Like a lash is stuck in his eye, twitching, lid fluttering as he tries to blink it out. Always staring. Always gazing. Always somehow fucking knowing, fucking pestering. That no good ginger fuck. His hopeful fucking eyes. His lively sun that blesses Macaque once more.

Bleaching Macaque out, like scum. The scum of earth Macaque was. Wasting away once more. “I got the noodles!” Wukong preaches, fingers clamped tightly, coiled with mayo colored plastic. Wagging the bags like they’re some award, wrinkling, creasing, folding inwards on itself as it rustles annoyingly over-top Wukong’s swirled curls of creamy clouds and peaches. Above his head. The entitled bastard. Still staring over at Macaque like he’s lost his mind once again. Chestplate gleaming, the mist of spray wavering candidly, arm kept to his side, rather unanimated with the full body. Wukong is carrying himself confidently. So Will Macaque.

Macaque’s silence stretches on for far too long. Just a beat. A second more. Oh – Wukong is still shaking the bag. Until his free will kicks in. Like some jet lag, making him dispose of the snide remark entirely, opting to make himself useful. Both palms pinching the strap of the food. Fine wrinkles crease under Wukong’s eyes as he looks more closely. 

Not quite awkward yet, not quite embarrassed. Honestly not anything but observing. Something Wukong is bound to do. Something Macaque is bound to replicate, in do time. 

He always does.

Macaque forgets so often that Wukong was used to this. Subjects staring, people staring, he was the center of the attention after all. What would Wukong expect if nothing else? If all fails, Macaque will go back into his gibbous, where nobody has to shine a spot light on him. Sizzling white to burn his damp skin off. Ripping the flea bag mask, tossing what was left of his makeup. Where he tries to sneak. Tiptoeing into its fullness to lose himself. To splatter, be rebirthed into a new moon of wombs.

“Oh, how nice, your majesty. This really will make this situation all the better.” Macaque pulls himself close to the edge of the water, where the bulky rocks sit. Round and dull from decades of nature. The water wans at his movement, Macaque shifts a little more, drawing closer to the sun so he could rest properly on the shorter rubble of smooth stones. No longer so awkward but at a ledge of all.

A barrier is taut between them both. Macaque hadn’t realized Wukong would find him so easily. Macaque hasn’t He doesn’t care to focus on Wukong anymore. The scent from the bags is overwhelming. Dizzying. 

Leaving Macaque to blink the feeling away as he sees Wukong sits down in front of him. Crossing his ankles. Tearing open the bag. Spine straight, tail still, brows pinched. When did Wukong become so readable? Macaque can see straight through Wukong. It made him uncomfortable. But Wukong was an actor. Yet an idiot. Maybe that is how he lured his victims into his web.

For now. Macaque can figure it out. Day by day. The pig and monk descendants aren’t fond of him. Macaque holds no grudges for that sentiment. Have he and Wukong not caused enough trouble for Mk and them all?

“Your noodles,” Wukong plops the container of brothy brew in front of Macaque before jostling the bag for chopsticks, pops them out, and slides them over to Macaque. Smooth, wooden, Macaque carries them with ease. But his stomach still drops. The flimsy container sloshes around, sweaty, dribbling with beads of condensation while he stares at it. Seeing Wukong peel back his own lid, getting into the scene of feasting. 

Macaque will too. Uses the sharp point of his index to poke, peel, and pop back the transparent seal. The aroma that it carries is amazing. No. Quite divine. Simple, cozy. Warm steam with bubbles of broth droplets scattering like a cheer when it opens. There are bland noodles, swimming at the bottom while greenery clutters at the top with other vegetables in this stew. His chopsticks poke at the surface before pulling out a treat for himself, sniffing at it, and going in for the bite.

Oh, they cheer for him! Scream his name that is. Clap and applaud. This time he doesn’t look so silly trying to consume. Macaque knew how to perfectly use the chopsticks from his youth. The flavours burst on his tongue. But Macaque can’t help it, his cheeks flush wonderfully. Wukong is stuffing his mouth full of noodles, like this was his first meal ever. It reminds Macaque of that time Wukong wouldn’t stop begging Azure for that thing called, ‘Plums’ where he pleaded for days on end for another exotic fruit.

Macaque feels his body tingle, his cheeks heat, and spits out the food back into his container. Tastes the silky oils on his tongue. It was odd to chew. Soft, crunchy. Too savory and rich. Macaque shouldn’t eat this. Unlike Wukong. Macaque did not get the chance to be blessed with such cuisine. Wukong did. Of course, the second he worked under the Jade Emperor he’d have a knack for human food. 

Wukong blinks at him. Macaque blinks back. Maybe drags his body closer to the earth, so Wukong won’t look down at him. “There is no way,” he started, Macaque didn’t think about his sentence fully. Maybe he should. He’s witty. “--That..this is good for you. I hope you aren’t feeding this crap to the little guys.” Macaque lolls his head to the side, rolling his shoulders as always, to get out that stiffness.

“Only sometimes. Eh, they don’t get it a lot.”

Of course, Wukong would. Who was Macaque kidding? Wukong probably fed all sorts of crap to the monkeys. Macaque could feel his vacant stomach grumble. His warrior habits were like nature to him when it came to food. He hadn’t really needed it. He just needed enough for fuel. But his body keeps repelling him from it. Death did something to him. But then Macaque had a knack for fruits. Not noodles.

He’ll eat when Wukong goes away.

Speaking of Wukong. He’s still giving Macaque that look. His full undivided attention with stuffed cheeks and broth dribbling down his chin in a quick swoop, breaking off like a droplet of rain from a stray leaf. Both eyes meeting Macaque’s eyes. Macque’s eyes. Macaque’s gaze falls to the ripples of water, his reflection is antsy, hard to decipher, his wet palm brushes up his cheek, to his cheekbone, wipes that wetness over his right eyelid, tickled by lashes, rubbing until his glamour is in place once more. 

So Macaque makes eye contact again. He would not fall back onto his back the second Wukong is around. He will not tiptoe in his shadows to fan back the growing flames of Wukong’s emotions and thoughts. Off he is to march like a mighty warrior always does. 

“You’re pathetic..” Macaque starts, he doesn’t stop, he snickers even, leaning on his palm, tossing his head to the side with lidded lily like lashes, curled, batting in the way he knows so well, to throw Wukong off from his mistakes of vulnerability. “But what can I say? You always were..” his nails tap at the rocks he won’t stray from. To find meaning, to fill the air. To what, pass the time?

Wukong ticks a brow, agitation. That is the way Wukong should be. Aggravated. Despaired. Macaque likes to think he isn’t a terrible person. Not exactly the worst. Should he give Wukong a break? Stop pestering the godly monkey? Nah. Macaque earned this. “How’d you find this cave?” No. Macaque knows Wukong could easily track him.

If golden vision was anything. Scent markers. Macaque tried to limit that. Thankfully, luckily Macaque knew every in and out of this damn mountain. Wukong still hadn’t found many spots thanks to his lack of shadow manipulation. Yet that brings the question. If he could transform into almost anything. Can’t he just use those powers?

Maybe Wukong is scared of the dark.

Macaque stopped caring to ask. Wukong chose not to do a lot. He’d rather not get stuck in an endless span of questions that Mk and Mei brought to him countless times.

“You followed me. Found me easily, your majesty.” Macaque drags his ‘ty’ with prominence to the ‘t’ so he could mock Wukong all over. The aggression ends. The quick heat pinched off. The flame snuffed. Not blown.

“His smell was everywhere-”

“Don’t say him. Say me. I’m right here you asshole.” Macaque can’t help it. Whatever that hard-to-know feeling is. Wukong acted as if he mourned Macaque. As if he weren’t the same one who went through everything. Macaque changed. Like energy. It doesn’t leave. It transforms, “Funny way to cope.”

“Shuddup. You and..your past self aren’t the same. You know that. It is difficult..”

“Oh? How difficult was it for you? What was so difficult? Go on, tell me. Was it plunging your staff into my socket? Or was it rough to try and pull out? Or maybe keeping me around. You know I’d never give you a blessing to do that you sick fuck.” Macaque knows he isn’t as mad as he makes himself seem. 

Wukong still offered him so many offerings when he went. Macaque doesn’t want to think about that. To acknowledge it. But he’d be a fool not to. So he’ll rub the dirt in where the wound hurts the most. 

“I didn’t do it in a weird way. You know that. And be lucky I chose to show you mercy. I still haven’t forgotten that entire Samadhi fire situation.”

“Oh? Really? Right. The situation that you caused, due to your recklessness and lack of communication?”

“I did it for a reason!” Wukong glares dead center at Macaque. That rush flies in, drowning all those despairing feelings, heightening their senses, Macaque swallows hard, breathing roughly through his nose, excited. Egged on. 

“Yeah. Good luck pulling another excuse out your selfish ass.” Macaque is itching for this. He needs this. More than he’d ever know. It is so much better than whatever was before them. The silence of their hurt and passions. The uncomfortable ooze bubbling in each organ he had. Stuffed finely like sausage. Bursting. If Wukong wanted Macaque gone, he could’ve done it at any time. But he won’t. For the kid. Wukong won’t.

That is the line Macaque likes to roll around in his head. It has truth to it. Mk wouldn’t dare look at Wukong the same if anything really did happen. But the spinning of reasons goes on. Macaque doesn’t need to think about it. About Wukong reaching his palm out when everything had threatened to end.

Macaque almost died. Again. And again. And again. How many times was his life threatened over each life span he had? He wanted so much. So much more. But he bore no fruit each time. Macaque is an empty monkey. An even greater one at succeeding with nothing to show for it. Sour. His insides are sour. “How has the path of enlightenment treated you? You think now that you’ve got a little back handling from some monk you’re absolved from your wrongdoings? Up on your damn throne.” Macaque can’t stomach it anymore.

He never could. He never would.

“Shut up,” Wukong warns. Macaque isn’t listening.

“Can’t handle your own actions? You-”

“Macaque, shut up.”

Macaque sweats. Sweats like he used to during the heated months of summer, early July when the air was fresh. The salty shores of Flower Fruit Mountain purified his hatred and confusion. The only one to listen was YellowTusk. Macaque was realizing too much. Too soon. He had nobody.

Nobody to know he was alive or gone. Nobody to mourn him anymore. No one to tell it straight to his face that he mattered. Is that the truest life of a warrior? Macaque is not the hero. Macaque is not enough of a villian to leave a meaningful trace of himself on anyone. Macaque is in a world that has moved on beyond him.

“Mac-”

Macaque has no connections here. Just because Macaque aided Mk and his gang didn’t mean he meant anything to them. Not that Macaque considered them friends. Rather allies. To a degree. Macaque hadn’t been recognized by anyone but a few little people. If Wukong wanted to erase him once more, a fraction of memories would be the only thing left. Only for those who knew of him.

“Did I even matter to you? Or was it all an elaborate scheme to look heroic again, like you’re the good guy here?” Macaque turns, faces his back towards Wukong, and stares at the moving waterfalls. Listening for each breath Wukong takes so he knows when to vanish. Macaque doesn’t know what is going on right now. He never assumed it’d go down this way. He’d go down this way. 

The water is frosty to the touch. It looks lukewarm, but it isn’t. “I’m sick of you. I’m sick of this. What do you want, Wukong? Really. What do you really want? Bringing me food. You took your time to seek me out, so don’t play stupid,” Macaque draws his knees closer into his chest, spreading his thighs apart so he could see how his inner thigh fur floats freely under the surface.

Like a butterfly, his toes dig into the sand. Wants to ask why Wukong tortures him still. Watch how faded scars and old knicks become present on his skin. Feels the chilled water lap swiftly at his burning belly. Feels the excitement bow out. That anguish settles like dust. 

Wukong holds back. Wukong and Macaque are alone. Macaque seems vulnerable. There is nobody to see what Wukong could do. Wukong could finally kill him here. For good. Take him apart. Keep his corpse and bury him again.

Pause. 

No. There is a pause. A long pause. The pause between a setting seed and it exploding. The supernova of all things. Right before it kicks off. That pause. The type where you have to ask, ‘what was next?’ or the one where you both look into each other's eyes silently asking for validation that you both heard the same absurd thing.

“..I don’t hate you.” 

Macaque thinks he’ll bleed, he knows he can. He waits with his own baited breath. 

Even when the sharp inhale from Wukong is too heavy. Macaque knows Wukong doesn’t truly hate him. Hate is a strong word. Macaque is hate. He is hateful. If Wukong is the light, Macaque is the dark. If Wukong is the sun, Macaque is the crescent moon. If Macaque is the warrior, Wukong is the hero. Macaque is not the villain, or sidekick, not the plot armor to build Wukong up just right. Just a counterpart to it all.  Not balanced. Just a factor. 

“..It has been a long time. Heh. Longer than we both could ever fathom,” the word leaves weirdly. Wukong speaks lowly, softly, as if he is afraid of talking anyway, Macaque is in no mood for it. Macaque doesn’t want to hear the soft rasp and chuckle of Wukong awkwardly trying to ramble, “I just..we-..you know. Yeah. You know. It is hard to..be like this with you.”

Macaque inhales because he feels like his lungs aren’t getting enough air. Macaque knows he is getting anxious now, too anxious, so he takes a breath, fills his lungs perfectly, as deeply as he can, hoping his organs would touch his ribcage if he is lucky enough. 

“I’m.. no-no. You don’t deserve that. I should’ve spoken to you sooner, you know that. I know that. Things have changed. I have changed. And I know you don’t really see that, but there is growth. And with time..” time, time, time.

Wukong is doing that weird thing where he clicks his tongue, the habit Macaque hates. Ebony fur is dipped further into the smooth buttery waters. Making room for the sooty monkey to exist in. Macaque has no clue why he is so sweaty. 

“I’m sorry. No. I apologize. We both messed up. But..I regret it. I can’t change anything, Macaque,” Wukong takes charge, changes the air, brings his body forward, on his hands and knees, knocking both their containers in the process. Cluttering in mute. Splashing their broths together in a large clumpy mess. What a waste. 

Macaque won’t dare turn his head. Not until a beat passes. He won’t look eager, his eyes find Wukong’s. He’s swallowing, they’re so close. “You’re saying that now?” he whispered, not quite trusting his own voice. Wukong has that awful look. That hunger-stricken, the guilt lapping shallowly at that heart, the one where Wukong gets what he wants. The one where he gets desperate enough to do something incredibly, obviously, stupid.

“Yeah. Yeah..yeah I know. Okay? It isn’t the easiest conversation starter, alright? Look. I never intended to do that. To..hurt you. We were young, I was stupid, and..” Macaque instigated in the last act. But Wukong knew his own strength. A bit of roughing up in the final act did not need to lead to Macaque’s bowing at the closing curtains. 

How predictable.

“I missed you. I missed you, Macaque. When he-..you died, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want you to leave. To go. I’m sorry for that too. You haven’t really said anything too much about that but..” Wukong doesn’t want to brush over that, Macaque doesn’t want to think about that. “But I should’ve buried you sooner. I just..I was delusiona-”

“Shut up. Just be quiet,” Macaque voices so fondly, like he always does. It is his knack. Quieting Wukong down. The explosive fired up Sun Fucking Wukong. Macaque thinks he’ll get sick if Wukong tries to elaborate on what he did exactly with his body. Macaque does not need to delve into the aspects of a decomposing corpse kept by The Sun Wukong himself.

Macaque feels queasy, feels heated, feels excited, that fight stirring back in him until they both die off. Embarrassed for acting like children. Wukong is all in his face now, and Macaque is allowing it. Leaning into that space. Pulling himself somewhat up from the rocky ledge to equal to Wukong, not below. Right where a silver of his stomach shows. Where his chest rises quickly. Where his pubic hair barely is noticed. “You don’t respect me, you didn’t respect me. Don’t say I matter. You value nothing I gave you, and took it all for granted. Everything! You took me for granted. Didn’t have respect for me alive, or dead. You have a funny way of showing you’re so sor-”

“I know, but you were my world. My everything.”

“Bullshit.”

Wukong has that look, like something needs to get out, a poetic pause, not that awkward weird one, “I loved you.” Wukong said that. Said that so quietly. His eyes held to stay glued onto Macaque. He clicks his tongue, looks at the spilled noodles, and looks back at Macaque.

“-Like a brother. I loved you like family,” Wukong rambles, spits the words out quickly, shifts closer, devotion, all that infatuation mush when the grand monkey fixates on anything. “You were my sworn brother, my everything. I know I didn’t show that, but my very own words cannot..describe how I feel.”

Macaque needs to hit his head. To go away. Do something. Lash out. Silence himself. This isn’t a part of any script he had in his mind. This is down the narrowly used text that was tossed during practice. Improv. 

Macaque stills, moves, squirms, stills. “When I died, you didn’t do anything funny, right?”

“What? What! No! What..you- Mac- why- you..Ugh! Listen to me! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. I hurt you. I’m..I..” Wukong is at a loss for words, hurt. Disgusted. Flabbergasted while Macaque gives him that empty gaze. The one where he takes sick enjoyment in that disheartening whine Wukong plucks out his monkey brain.

Macaque looks down at his fingers, digs at his cuticles, his voice carrying between the steady closing gap bridged between them, “That sorry doesn’t really fix anything. But to have The Sun Wukong himself apologizing is no small feat.” Macaque’s eyes bore into Wukong now. Eating what he can pick up. Macaque’s lips fall into a flat line before he chews at the bottom lip. 

He’s been at the end of Wukong’s undiluted anger. Felt Wukong stomp Macaque out with the gods behind his back. Snuffed all of Macaque’s tricks when it came to the monk. Cried under the weight of a shoe to his chest when Wukong realized he was the impostor. The anger funneled through the end of the staff. Twice. For the last time. Like Wukong knew he’d mourn. It was a sad anger. An anger where you know you’re powerless, that you cannot stop this.

Needing some way to get out all this fizzy energy. An unneeded yawn escapes Macaque, entering Wukong’s orbit, his usual smirk is gone, silent, “You mean it?..” 

Wukong means it. He fuckings means it. He has to. “I thought I was righteous. I was a fool. I truly was a fool to hurt you, betray you, and break our oath. Our bond was like constellations, it was meant to be connected, not apart, Liu Er Mihou.” 

In one swoop. Their lips brush, their teeth smash into each other and their noses bump. It hurts at first, so painful Macaque stills, his tongue awkwardly tense in his mouth, with Wukong’s oddly twirling around it now. Like he is trying to copy a sappy scene that they’ve seen too many times. It always is Wukong to do the most. To do too much.. Really the two are just licking at each other's mouths. They fumble as they grip for one another, Wukong’s tongue gliding over Macaque’s top teeth, where Macaque keeps his mouth open, jaw tingling, his eye squinted at Wukong who focuses all his energy on maintaining confidence. Even when they both struggle to inhale.

Macaque can’t tell whose salvia is whose anymore. All he knows is that this is happening. And that he’s breathing in Wukong’s air, feeling that moistness ghost over his lungs. Fizzle through his throat. Their chins bump, their faces smooshed into one another. 

Macaque could feel the roof of Wukong’s mouth; he felt the sharpness of those canines, the taste of broth evident on Wukong’s tongue. So savory with rich flavours, enough to have Wukong turning his head, pulling away. They exhale together. Only Macaque inhales when they become one.

Clumsily, Macaque doesn’t know what to do with himself. So his hands stay close to the ground. But Wukong will know, so he places his palms heavily on those shoulder blades, feeling Wukong’s fingers stretch over the small of his back. Brushing into the soggy curls of black tufts that have grown too long because Macaque hasn’t groomed or touched himself up in centuries.

A growl causes Wukong to shift his focus, hesitant but all-knowing. Easing his hands up higher, resting where he can. Marking Macaque like he always does. How was that fair?

Macaque couldn’t see that well on a good day. With one working eye. He can’t see well now, when Wukong is all in his face. Smothering him. Trying to steal every ounce of his damn dignity. Shame on Macaque for stooping this low. Quelling this burning heat between his thighs, he can’t even get it up anymore. So it burns out.

And Wukong is having the time of his life. Using and abusing Macaque like he always does. And Macaque just lets it happen again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. 

“Will you forgive me?” Wukong whispers into Macaque’s spit-slick lips.

“Again?” Macaque holds himself better than Wukong. He always will. He hopes.

“Yes.” Wukong finally speaks again, pressing wet open-mouthed kisses to Macaque’s cheek, littering his sweaty cheekbone in passionate apologies. 

“No. I won’t.” Macaque turns his head. Doesn’t shove back the ginger, just exits out of his life like he always does. Macaque has been burnt by the sun. The sun is selfish. It is a star. But it burns so quickly. You’d never have a chance to even be seen by it. Touched by it. Burnt up, crisped with radiation and heat.

“Even if you don’t forgive me-”

“I won’t ever forgive you.” Macaque turns his back, he sinks into the water all over again. Back to the shadows he is cast in. The heat is gone. The warmth is gone. Macaque doesn’t miss Wukong’s warmth. His touch. He is longing for a man long dead, long gone. That Wukong hasn’t been alive in centuries. He died the second they all left that damn mountain to carry out their shitty plan.

“Okay..”

“Okay.” Even if Macaque never plans to utter the words. ‘I forgive you.’. He turns his back on the sun, basks in that radiating sunshine, all over once more, he’ll reflect, gaze, stare, observe, study, peek, watch, cast his eyes, mull over each word, each atom of savory noodles that he shared with Wukong’s tongue. 

But he won’t reach. Dare touch that sun. The sun doesn’t deserve him and his spite. Macaque always wants to be a part of something. Something. Anything. It’s okay not to be anything. Macaque can hear Wukong sigh and stand. Whisked away. The spilled food left to be picked over by organic matter. Nature.

Macaque is not a good person. He never said he is. He is as dirty as the back of a human. All the blistering pettiness fumbled into one big heap, oozing from his molten core of hurt. Of pain.

The source of all that bursting energy until Macaque emerges from another shadow portal. Maybe Wukong isn’t the villain of his story. Maybe just a part of it. And maybe Macaque is not a part of that. Just a name with a face. Dribbling with water droplets. Back to hiding he is.

Macaque mourns himself, like always. Mourns Wukong. Mourns all that his life has, been, and will be.

Chapter Text

This should be the break. The end. Where the curtains hang and are brought together now. Wukong thinks not. Macaque knows not. He knew better. What changes now? Macaque has seen it all. Each new mask Wukong would wear.

How is this any different?

Macaque was there when Wukong was the king. A leafy crown and skirt that hid nothing from the imagination. Six inches above the right knee and five over the left. Macaque remembers fondly counting the space and time it took for each leaf to curl back out when Wukong stopped jumping in excitement. Fondly knows how Wukong wouldn’t stop trying to follow him around. Stick by the waterfall for days as if that was where Macaque hid for so long.  All mighty and chirper. Even when Macaque would toss a word or two. When Wukong cared to listen.

Macaque was there when Wukong scraped the shit off the ground in those stables. Not quite in the heavenly realm, side by side but a fish in a shadow, listening as he always did. Wukong was so loud with everything then. The world was much quieter. A hum then. Wukong was a nobody. Not the sun. Not a star. Just toasty comfort. Heat that Macaque bathed in. The one where early morning dew clung to the grass. The one where Wukong would complain to him. That he wasn’t being taken seriously by the celestials. Macaque cared to listen.

Macaque had been there when Wukong held his hands high to the night, when he was dizzy with heat to his name, when he began to wear more. Where Wukong spoke with a charm, ease, a star so bright it heals your internal wounds. Where his eyes were that dandelion yellow instead of blood that spills when cut. Even when so punished, he stood all mighty, like a victim harnessing the strength to stand. When Macaque could no longer enjoy the mocking of Peng. Where confusion grew. Where Macaque grew unimportant again. When Wukong stopped caring to listen.

Macaque had seen when Wukong had failed. Utterly optimistic about such a stupid ideal. It was never about truly winning anything. This is what happens when you team a false group with fake hopes. Peng wanted the royalty, Wukong wanted to spite, DBK enjoyed the heat of the fight, YellowTusk followed, knowing wrongs, and the justice while Azure led. He was a diplomat, good with words. Speaking kindly and calmly, even if his statements were bullshit. Macaque knew. Macaque knew. Heard. Heard the clashes. His top ears, masked by glamor had heard the openings of their cheers. Not the endings. Macaque wanted to listen. 

Macaque knew when Wukong was not a sun of light. A beacon to be hung, to measure your steps and count your days. When Wukong was all the gross parts of a human. An animal. Baring teeth, sinking its claws into your skull, tearing your teeth, splitting your mind. Macaque hoped the flames that began would never reach him. But he wasn’t stupid. Never stupid. Macaque could not listen. 

Macaque was aware that he was the one to see it all. See how the sun burns. To be the one to understand it overstayed its welcome. Hung high with heat in the air, humid mornings, and childish wastes. When Macaque stood by his brothers, opposite of Wukong once again, to see their words become a reality. Wukong betrayed them all. Macaque was a fool. He was a fool. He was caught in the flames. He was burning. He was exhausted. He was burnt, crispy where Wukong leaves him. Wukong did not listen.

Macaque had to know, didn’t he? Wukong wasn’t anything Macaque could ever be. All that Macaque can’t be. Macaque is forgotten in history. Stuck in decaying memories.

Macaque is a figment. He can’t hear his future. He can’t hear a sound. He can’t hear what happens next. It is static.

But Wukong is there. Wukong is always there. And he shines on sand and dried plants that wither.

That beg for bloodshed. For a lick of rain. Where Macaque fears that stepping out will scorch his matted fur.

Where he sees Wukong from the sidelines glowing, reaping the benefits of satisfaction. Macaque shouldn’t listen. Macaque will never forget each side of The Monkey King others push to the side. He won’t forget the thrill of Wukong’s smoke.

When his flames ignite and blow out. Where Macaque can’t escape, where they cloud his throat and soul. Wukong wasn’t listening. He wasn’t listening. He didn’t listen. He took Macaque. He ruined Macaque. He showed Macaque what the demon spawn really was. Macaque did not listen. He should’ve. He should’ve. He doesn’t remember the dirt, the tiring drag of them both fighting forever. He just knows his face wasn’t his. That his skull throbbed.

Macaque doesn't think about the last one. That image of Wukong. Clad in his attire. The sun did not hurt. It did not burn. It did not mock him. It was evening. Wasn’t it? That was when Macaque came from his shadow. Where he could see what mask Wukong could wear that day. Macaque doesn’t know what took place, he just knows Wukong held misery with each swing. Just knew that he laughed all while dread settled in his gut. Wukong had listened. Macaque did not.

Wukong was listening. He was listening. Macaque wants to tear his hair out. Macaque had finally listened too late. When he couldn’t breathe, Wukong just sat by him. When the sun could not allow the warrior to bask in its glory. For the warrior would not feel it. Not with the shore in his ears, the next whispers of the Diyu. Macaque knew he was going to the diyu. He knew it. He should’ve listened.

Macaque thinks so heavy. So weightedly. Maybe he should listen now. Hear for Wukong’s heartbeat. It is so strong. So sturdy. So linear. This is what Macaque is. He burns it all down again. Down. Down until flames die out. He stands by it all, up straight, upright. Like he is expected. Taught. Stand by. Until all he can see is red. 

The truth is. Macaque is no good man. He won’t pretend to be. He is just as stubborn as Wukong. Yes. He knows he is as immature as Wukong was. But who cares? 

Who?

Maybe Macaque should hold more love in his heart. But that isn’t him. He is a soft lily of the Valley. But his anguish is rooted so horribly in the soil he is the weed now. Taking what he has to take. What he needs. Macaque is sour, Macaque is no moral man. But Macaque is not a monster either.

Macaque stares up at the ceiling, looks down at his lap. He’s watching the little monkeys play. They’re tiny, small, and follow each other. Playing some game of tag that ends when they grow tired of each other. Wukong is babbling on some device to some guy.

Macaque doesn’t know. He doesn’t care either. But Wukong is too loud, too animated. Pacing in a broken loop around the home, the floorboards groan when his hard stomps meet the wood. His agitated shouts rise with each passing minute. And his clothes jostle with each turn.

The little monkeys are climbing over Macaque, jumping over his shoulder, and leaping off. As if he were furniture to play their games on. There is no promise. Not one that could fix anything ever again between the eclipse and the sun. And the air is terribly warm. So much so, that even Macaque worries that he’ll die of a heat stroke too. No wonder Wukong was so snappy today. 

The weather called for rain today. Macaque will go outside when it pours. Wukong will stand under a tree. “It is nice, right?” Wukong will ask. But he won’t get a response. Passion beyond a thin veil. Wukong just wants to kiss Macaque again. Macaque won’t allow it.

Not while it rains. Not today. Never tomorrow. It isn’t to punish Wukong. It is to free Macaque from being punished by the sun itself. Macaque will grow damp from the rain, and at some point, he’ll forgive Wukong. Wukong will mourn Macaque, like always. Mourning all of Macaque. Mourns all that his life has, been, and will be. 

Macaque is Wukong’s river, his hide, his open skin. Wukong's crushing depth to Macaque’s sea, the pressure of two lungs giving out, the cackle of his lightning flash. Wukong’s everything. 

Maybe then they both will see what changes. Maybe it won’t be stupid to kiss the sun. To let it love the shadow. But Macaque won’t bet on it. He won’t. Everyone wants a happy ending. The ending is the same. It always is. It always will be.

Macaque mourns himself, mourns his life. Wukong seeks forgiveness. That is what their lives will forever be. Wukong hopes to change that. Macaque knows nothing will ever change. They won’t be whole ever again.