Chapter Text
The evening is serene. A gentle, summer breeze brushes through Macaque's fur, rustling the leaves above him as the sun trickles out of view in the distance. For once, it's almost quiet - except for the soft murmurs of conversation nearby. If he strains his ears to listen, he can make out tired goodbyes: First, Sandy, with Mo curled up in his arms, purring louder than the man's voice, then Mei. She grumbles something about dinner with her parents, kicking her feet as she leaves. Macaque can hear the scraping of her sword as she passes by. After that, it's silent for a while. The remaining four seem to sit in silence together as the sun sinks below the horizon. Only when the stars start to peak out of the clouds does Tang speak.
"We'd better be off," Macaque can hear his voice, hushed simply by the air between them. "The shop opens bright and early tomorrow. Isn't that right, Pigsy?" The demon mentioned seems to stir from an unplanned slumber, sniffing slightly as he sits up.
"Yeah, something like that," He replies, pushing himself to his feet. He turns to where Macaque assumes MK is, probably leaning on Wukong if he had to guess, and clears his throat slightly. "We're headin' out, kid. You wanna stay the night?"
MK stretches— Macaque can hear the kids bones pop— and shakes his head. "Nah, I'm coming, just…" He yawns, "Gimme a minute. Besides, I'm sure Monkey King has his hands full with Mystic Monkey Business."
"You know it," Wukong replies, and it's so painfully obvious by the slight lilt in his voice that he is not, in fact, busy. Macaque can hear every lie woven into his words - It's like he's not even trying to hide it. "Go home and get some rest, bud. I'll see you tomorrow."
With that, Macaque can hear three pairs of feet drag themselves down the mountain— or, part way down, before the familiar but distant buzz of Tang's magic rings out— to leave Wukong seemingly alone for the night.
Alone as he can be, that is, with Macaque living on the very same mountain as him. It's a fact Macaque is sure Wukong knows, as he can hear the other shuffling around, at ease; The kind of ease that Wukong can only get when he's not alone, left to his own thoughts. He doesn't ever seek Macaque out, because why would he? It's not like the great Monkey King needs anything other than the idea of company to keep himself occupied.
Wukong shuffles himself off to his house, bidding goodnight to any of the troop members he passes on his way. It's a routine he developed in Macaque's absence, of that the six-eared monkey is sure. (And if Macaque were to listen to all those mumbled 'goodnight' wishes, he'd find a familiar voice bid him goodnight as well - even though he was never listening for it.)
At last, the night is silent. The soft breeze settles as the moon emerges in the sky. Distantly, somewhere in the city, Macaque can hear Cooking with Chang'e! playing in a few, familiar houses. He finds himself tuning in to the sound, with the Moon Goddess' smooth voice allowing his thoughts to drift aimlessly before he eventually falls asleep.
His mind wonders, almost absently, through the events of the day. His slow, late morning; having only been awoken by MK smacking into the tree he'd settled into, something he's sure Wukong did on purpose. The conversation that followed, the bickering between them and the ridiculous accusation that Macaque had returned only to steal the troop from Wukong. How self-centered - He hadn't come back just to Flower Fruit Mountain just to whisk away the little monkeys, what kind of reasoning was that? He'd returned because this was his home, too, and he was sick of feeling, well… homesick. It had nothing to do with Wukong— He just happened to live here, too!— in the slightest, and the insinuation that it did was insulting.
Macaque lets out a breath, closing his eyes and settling against the tree. There's no point dwelling over bickering or accusations; He has more important things to do, like sleep. So, settling down, he tunes back into Chang'e's show, and continues to let himself drift off, paying no mind to his half formed thoughts as they pass through his head, one after the other.
That is until one manages to form itself, giving itself purpose and intent, and presenting itself in the front of his mind in such a way that he cannot shake it: 'Why did I return?'
The thought lingers, unwelcome, even as Macaque tries to pour his focus into Chang'e's mooncake recipe. She's saying something about the lotus seeds for the paste, something that Macaque is trying desperately to focus on— Yet the only thing ringing in his mind is why?
Why me? Why then, of all times? Why let me die in the first place, if I was just going to crawl back out? Why? Why? Why?
He sits up sharply, startling the white-haired monkey that had curled up beside him. It skitters off, climbing up the tree, and Macaque offers a small apology to the creature before he, too, leaves.
It's clear he's not ready to sleep yet. He wanders aimlessly around the mountain, eyes focused on the ground and ears listening to his surroundings as he walks himself in circles. Why? He doesn't know why, there's no way he can find out 'why'— Why does his brain keep asking him things he doesn't know? He can feel his ears flapping slightly, his brows furrowing together as he claws at his own mind, trying desperately to dig into the fuzziness of the past.
His attempts only lead to dead ends— to more frustration. He's so caught up in it all he almost walks face first into a tree, only to conjure a portal last minute to keep his momentum. His feet land on slanted thatching. He doesn't think anything of it, far too occupied by his own conundrum to consider asking where he was pacing, until a rather disgruntled ginger monkey barrels through a front door.
At first, Macaque ignores the ruckus; It's not unusual for Wukong to spend his night up and about, doing one thing or another. He's learned to tune it out quite well, which is why he doesn't notice Wukong until he's yelling at him.
"Hey, BUD!" The sarcastic nickname is enough to pull Macaque back down to earth, if only to send a glare in the other's vague direction. He glances to where he could've sworn he heard Wukong yelling, only to find an empty space around him. It's not until Wukong comes into view, furiously walking backwards and and peering up at him that he realises where exactly he is.
He's on top of a house.
And the only resident is currently yelling up at him.
"Some of us are trying to sleep here!" Wukong calls, hand cupped around his mouth to amplify his voice— as if Macaque couldn't hear him from miles away. "Do you mind getting off. My. ROOF?"
Despite himself, he winces at the loud noise emanating from the other's mouth. Whether it goes unnoticed or just ignored isn't clear, as Wukong simply continues yelling at him. It sounds mostly nonsensical, so he doesn't bother replying to anything specific. "Oh, so now we care about respecting each others sleep?"
In truth, he probably should have just left when Wukong started shouting at him instead of instigating an argument, but he was still a little bitter about his own rude awakening, of which he got no apologies or remorse… from Wukong, that is. MK, being the good kid he is, was very sorry for waking Macaque up— If only his mentor would learn from him.
"What's that supposed to mean?!"
"You know what it means, you literally threw MK into the tree I was sleeping in this morning!"
"That was an accident," Wukong groans, pressing his palms into his face, "And it was the afternoon, you're usually up by then!"
Macaque scoffs. "Yeah, well, I wasn't."
"And how was I supposed to know that? I don't keep tabs on you with my fancy six-ears!" Wukong gestures wildly to his distinctly singular pair of ears, leering backwards with his tail to keep him from falling.
"I don't keep 'tabs' on you."
"Oh yeah? Then why are you still here, bud?"
Macaque's ears flicked in annoyance. "I live here, buddy. Same as you!"
"Nuh-uh, you left."
"Only because you— Ugh!" He can't help the sliver of bitterness that slips into his voice, only able to worm its way through thanks to the storm brewing within his mind. He almost says it, spits out the accusation that they both know is true, but he doesn't. Instead, he pivots. "You practically evicted me!"
Wukong seems to hesitate, eyes flicking across Macaque's face in the darkness. There was such a strange look on his face, like he didn't know whether to be offended by the cut off sentence, or glad that it wasn't said at all.
Macaque doesn't let him be conflicted for long. Or, rather, he doesn't let Wukong dwell on his own thoughts for too long - if he's not allowed to brood, no one is. "You could at least apologise," He mumbles, his own gaze averting itself from Wukong's disgustingly transparent facial expressions, "Or is the Great sage, equal to heaven, too good for that?"
He expected— hoped, even— that Wukong would bite back, say something that would justify the frustration he was feeling. The king of the monkeys would let him down, once again, as he simply shook his head. "…There's— so much to apologise for," Wukong says instead, and it's so quiet anyone other that Macaque would've missed it.
A wave of nausea washed over him. He could feel his stomach lurch as Wukong waited, staring at him for his reaction. Oh god, was there more? He didn't know if he could handle anything else coming out of Wukong's mouth right now. The sound of his voice might be enough to make him puke.
He didn't want to risk it. Should he run? Should he say something? Attack him? Kill him? Threaten MK? …No, he'd lose the other eye if he did that. He had to do something, otherwise Wukong would take his silence as acceptance, and open his forsaken mouth again. The thought left a bitter taste in Macaque's mouth. This is not what he needed to happen.
But what does he need? Is there anything that could calm the flurry of thoughts in his head, or even just dampen them enough so he could actually think? There has to be something. Someone? Maybe someone who could tell him what's going on. Someone who could tell him how to remember how to swallow. How to breathe. When was the last time he breathed? Does he even need to breathe anymore? It's not like his heart will stop without it, it'll just keep going, and going, at that slow, thudding pace—
"Macaque!"
Wukong's voice cuts through his thoughts. He's closer, he sounds closer, but Macaque can't see him, can't make him out in the moonlight. He's usually so bright, why can't Macaque see him? Is he standing to the right? He should know better than to approach from that side. Why won't his brain just shut up?
"What is going on with you, man?" A hand falls on his shoulder, the grip firm. Warm. A hold that would be comforting if the hand belonged to anyone else. Instead, all he can think about is how Wukong is close, far too close, on his right side, and all of a sudden his own hand is moving to smack the other's away.
Wukong stares at him.
The silence is almost worse than hearing his voice.
"Nothing," He says it far too quickly, and Wukong just knows— of course he does, of course he can tell— as he narrows his eyes ever so slightly. Macaque almost falters under the stare. "Unlike you, I don't get wrapped up in 'mystic monkey business' every five minutes."
Too many emotions flick through Wukong's expression, almost imperceptibly, before he settles on something close to indignation. "Were you listening to me earlier?"
"Right, because everything's always about you, isn't it?" He manages to choke out a laugh, and he can only pray it sounds harsh enough to hide the panic beneath it. "It's always about the Monkey King, the hero."
Wukong breathes out a laugh, so softly and sickeningly warm, Macaque wants to strangle him so he never makes that sound again. Theres the slightest air of bafflement to it, of confusion— but no mockery, or anger, or anything of the sort. He desperately wishes there was.
"You've gotta calm down, bud," Wukong almost reaches for him again, but he lets his hand fall. "You're acting like— well, you, but… you know what I mean, right? It's like you're trying to fight me, to— to rile me up."
Macaque's ears flick once again, and he can see the way Wukong's eyes follow the movement. They know one another far too well to hide from each other like they do from everyone else. Every unconscious movement makes a silent signal only the other can decipher, even after all this time. It's suffocating. Violating. But oh so familiar. Even as he manages to meet Wukong's eyes, its as if he can see right into his mind, into his soul, and the unrest that lays there.
The unrest that continues to swell the longer Wukong stares back at him.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" He asks, and Macaque has to stop himself physically pulling back. Everything about the tone in Wukong's voice is wrong. It's too quiet, too soft, too… familiar. It sounds too much like he used to, all those years ago, tucked away under their favourite tree. The reminder stings.
"Like what?" He manages to spit out.
He knows exactly how he's looking at Wukong. It's that same damned expression, with wide eyes focused entirely on the great sage as he charged towards him, clouds parting in the distance, staff in hand, the sun leaving him nothing more than a gorgeous silhoutte.
"Like I'm going to—" Wukong finally replies, pausing to find the right words. His eyes search Macaque's expression, picking it apart so easily. His face crumples when he finds the explanation he's looking for. "…hurt you."
There's so much he could say on the tip of his tongue, but he keeps his mouth shut. It wouldn't get him anywhere— wouldn't give him the reaction he wants. Wukong clearly isn't going to get mad, not about Macaque and his jeers. He doesn't care enough, not about him, and he never has. So, he'll go after something— someone— he cares about more than anything.
"That's all you do, isn't it?" He snaps, and even if they both know he doesn't mean it, it still pierces through any pity Wukong had left for him. "Hurt people. Hurt MK. It's like you don't know how to do anything— be anything— else."
Now it's Wukong's turn to stare at him, to look at him like he's unrecognisable. In a way, he is. He's nothing like Wukong imagines him to be, not anymore. That version of him died at Wukong's hands, and what crawled out wasn't the same person. It wasn't able to be.
His eyes flick over Wukong's face, searching for the anger he so desperately craves— but what he finds surprises him. Small, crystalline droplets spill down the other's face, escaping his wide eyes and falling freely between the two of them. It's been too long since he's seen Wukong like this, so… vulnerable.
It's the first time he's ever been the cause of his tears.
His mouth falls open. No words come out. His first, deepest instinct is to reach out and wipe away those tears, but he can't. Not when it's his fault. Not when he did this. It's almost infectious— he can feel sting in his own eyes, too, just by looking at the other's expression. The furrow of his brow, the small trembling of his lips — It destroys him.
He takes a step back, body forcing him to get as far away from Wukong as he can. He can't look away. Not even as Wukong stares back at him, as he reaches a hand out for him, with a look in his eyes that begs for him to stay.
Darkness consumes him almost instantly. The familiar sensation of falling through a void consumes him. He lets himself stay there for a while, screwing his eyes shut in an attempt to get the image of Wukong's face out of his mind.
It doesn't work.
When the shadows eventually spit him out, it's far further than he expected to be. He's in the outskirts of the city, within the desert, and the only building in sight is, well…
The home of none other than the Demon Bull family.