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“That’s not a pancake.”
“It totally is.”
“It’s not . It’s a flat peach.”
“Just because you aren’t open to the possibility of the different forms of pancakes doesn’t mean they don’t exist as pancakes.”
“I’m sure there’s a lesson hidden in that statement somewhere…”
MK picked at a peach chip, peeking at the expiration date and spotting an alarming ‘EXP JUNE 25 1939’ .
“Wise words,” MK added to his previous statement after a moment, handing the chip bag to the group of begging monkeys. They chittered with glee and scrambled off to protect their newfound goodies.
Monkey King, Great Sage Equal to Heaven, stood in the small, old kitchenette making pancakes. The stone and metal was cracked with age and MK couldn’t help but feel uncertain at the idea of turning the stove on. But there the brave little stove was, sputtering fire like nobody’s business, like a grandfather that could kick your ass.
“Wise words for a wise mentor?” Monkey King suggested with a grin. He looked over at MK, realized the chip bag was missing, and pulled another one out of a cabinet that was literally on its last hinge.
MK sniffled and took the chips. They expired in 1985, but it would give him a better chance at survival compared to something from 1939 .
“Yeah,” agreed MK, smiling back.
There was a clink of dishes. In the next moment, MK found himself face-to-face with a brown-tan-pink disc of a monstrosity.
“Peach pancakes!” announced Monkey King.
“I don’t know about mystic monkeys, but mortal pancakes are usually made out of flour, milk, and eggs ,” said MK, but picked up his fork and tore off a piece anyway. “Y’know. Because they’re cakes made in a pan .”
“It’s my own recipe. A personal touch from the Great Sage himself.”
“It’s just a peach– wait, is this a peach of immortality ?”
“ No ,” said Monkey King with a frown, as if he had just been accused of something treacherous. “Just a regular ol’ stone fruit, kid. Mystic-monkey free. Now eat. It’s been a long day.”
So MK put on a brave face (he was the Monkie Kid for crying out loud ), and bit into the pan-fried peach.
“Mm— mm! Ss..sooooo good.”
“I know,” gloated Monkey King, back turned to MK, unaware of his successor spitting it all out into a napkin. When he returned to MK, the kid was already sitting up as if things were perfectly normal.
Monkey King took his own plate and settled next to MK.
“You know,” Monkey King said, and MK could feel his eyes boring into his temple, “I did say we would have a few words later.”
“Oh… yeah?”
“Yeah. And it feels like it’s ‘later’, now.”
“Oh.”
MK stabbed his peach’s pieces into smaller pieces and then to even smaller pieces. He opened his mouth, choked on the aching knot in the dip just over his collarbones, and closed his mouth again. The peach cried out silently for mercy.
“Not a fan of stone fruit?”
“I love stone fruit,” said MK, but it sounded like a flute that had decided to squeak and strain in the middle of its tune. His face was beginning to burn. “ Ahem . Um. Big fan.”
MK took a deep breath, risking a side-glance. His luck met a stalemate. MK made eye contact with his guilt and winced.
Monkey King looked away first, staring down at his own empty ( what even – had he chewed!? ) plate.
“It’s all right, kid. It really is. Well, not all of it– what you did was very dangerous and you should have told me about it sooner .”
MK tried to swallow down that aching knot and failed.
“ I know . I’m sorry . I just…”
None of the ways that MK could end that sentence seemed good enough . The reasons puttered in his skull, words reaching his head but never making it to his tongue: like the smell of peaches, but the taste of air.
MK put down his fork and crossed his arms on top of the counter. He sniffled again.
“I don’t know,” he said, eventually.
“I’m not… mad .”
MK looked up at him akin to how a kicked dog would look at a person.
“Okay. Okay, maybe I’m a little mad. But it’s not because– okay , guh– I’m not mad in the way you think I’m mad,” said Monkey King, settling a hand on MK’s shoulder. “You could have gotten hurt– more hurt– than you already are.”
“You’re mad at me because I got hurt?” tried MK.
Monkey King gave him a dry look. MK recoiled.
His mentor grimaced, taking MK’s fork and flipping out a knife out of nowhere (that was so cool. MK wanted to do that).
“I’m mad at a few different things,” Monkey King said as he cut MK’s not-pancake into pieces. “Um, my old… friend , for one.”
“Macaque?”
“Ye–ahh. We didn't exactly part on good terms.”
MK swallowed, watching his peach gradually part into neat little pieces. “I can tell.”
“Yeah. So. Mad at him for getting you involved in our business. Ugh, that guy gets on my nerves. Uh, anyway– I guess you could say that I’m mad that you ended up in danger,” said Monkey King, “in the first place.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, stop that,” begged Monkey King. He cut the last piece of the peach pancake and slid it back to his student.
Growing up, Pigsy was never really one with words or physical comfort– which was all okay. Tang loved his words, Mei loved her touches, and MK came to appreciate the ways that Pigsy showed his own sort of love to MK.
Love came in the form of a warm bowl of noodles on a cold day. Love came in the form of fresh cut fruit after a long day of delivering orders. Love was making MK’s food a little spicier because he knew he liked it that way, and cooking the hell out of tomatoes because that was the only way MK would eat them.
MK stared down at the carefully-cut pancake and then looked up at the Monkey King.
“It’s not your fault. Not really,” said Monkey King, glaring at his balled-up fists on the counter. “I’m supposed to be looking out for you. Under my care, I misled you and let you wander off into– into–.”
Monkey King sighed again, turning away slightly. MK followed his movements.
“ I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry ?” said MK.
“Ahah! Are you surprised?” Monkey King smiled at him, and MK found himself smiling back– if only to ease his mentor’s nerves.
“Um. A little.”
Monkey King looked at MK with something so easy that the knot in MK’s throat began to unfurl. Then, he gestured to Mk’s plate with a jerk of his head.
“Eat?”
MK sniffled. He wiped not-so-sneakily at his eyes and sniffled again.
“Maybe,” said MK, picking at his cuticles. “I did something… bad. Are you not going to… you know… ground me?”
Monkey King raised a brow at him.
“I should . That’ll teach you not to run around with other mentors.”
“Not the mentoring ,” said MK, wanting to be annoyed but laughing a little anyway– thankfully, that seemed to be what Monkey King wanted, “I meant the ‘not listening to you’, keeping secrets,” a half-hearted shrug, “ worrying you.”
“Do you regret what you did?” asked Monkey King carefully.
“ Yes ,” said MK.
“ Well . Then there you go. Don’t do it again! Or else– or else you’ll feel all guilty and sad like you do now.”
They sat at the counter of the kitchenette, a fuzzy tail curled up around the waist of the student– a warning of the action to come.
Monkey King tugged him into a hug. It wasn’t the nerve-wracking half-hug they had shared at the mountain range that had been in the aftershocks of adrenaline. This was in the cool, calm, quiet (there were monkeys munching on expired peach chips in the background but whatever) peace of Monkey King’s home, in the run-down little kitchenette, shared over some sort of not-pancake– but made with love.
“That’s a powerful motivator,” mumbled MK into Monkey King’s shoulder, meaning it.
“I’ve slacked on your training,” murmured back Monkey King. “You were frustrated with me. I didn’t take it seriously. I’m sorry. But it’s not your fault– never was, bud.”
MK hiccupped. That was mortifyingly embarrassing , so he tried moving away, but it looked like this hug was there to stay for a while.
“I’m okay,” said MK, instead.
Monkey King took a deep breath. It bumped against MK’s chest like the gentle rocking of a boat. MK’s breathing eased to match it.
They calmed together. Eventually, the monkeys in the far corner of the room finished their snack and scuttled over to steal MK’s other untouched bag.
MK blinked sluggishly as Monkey King’s next words entered one ear and went out the other.
“What?” said MK.
“Eat your lunch.”
“I,” slurred MK, “ never miss a meal.”
“You’re about to. So chop-chop.”
Monkey King gave MK one last squeeze before releasing him.
So MK reentered the world and turned sleepily to the thing on his plate.
There were still plenty of things unsaid; things that probably should be said; but things left for another day. When you soothe a wound, the ointment used is reapplied daily, and it is regularly cleaned, looked after, and handled with care. Only when it’s left unchecked does it spiral.
MK inhaled and exhaled slowly. Monkey King watched him carefully as he took his fork and chewed on his second piece of this peach pancake– and it wasn’t perfect. Not by a long shot. In fact, the sugar couldn’t decide if it was sugar or salt, and there was this strange tangy flavor that MK hoped was vinegar (because the concept of it being anything else was dreadful ).
But love took all sorts of forms, and it seemed like this sort of love took the form of ‘trying’.
Yes, Monkey King was trying.
(The peach pancake was a culinary insult, by the way. But MK ate all of it.)