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MELANCHOLY: Mizi Xia shared a peach with his lord. The tale is written from the Zhou dynasty, old and tattered and often woven into different tellings, each one going back to the same meaning: sharing a peach was a sign of love between men, the same allusions to those of cutting one’s sleeve for someone else. But the story means less and less when you realize you’re not doing this for the same reason that man did it—sharing this fruit is an act of friendship and you keep it as such despite the bright-eyed stare you get in return, the taste and feel of a ripe peach melancholic on your tongue after so many years have passed. And that feeling of melancholy repeats and repeats, you feel saddened by the taste of the fruit despite it surrounding you everywhere in the celestial gardens and in your own home after planting one, raising it from a sapling to a tall tree. He shared a peach with his lord. You shared a peach with your friend. He died alone. You killed him in the end.
SENTENCE USE: He became quiet and melancholy as the hours slowly passed, the fruit rotting in his hand, his eyes cast downward to avoid meeting the moon’s gaze. Go away, he’d say and find himself alone again.
“I love you.”
They were reserved for what he viewed as important: the monkeys who piled up on him, the trees who bore fruit during the longest summer days, the river that washed away the mud and murk from his rough housing, and the sun itself for providing warmth and comfort. He never said those words to anyone else, leaning away from the idea and sticking his tongue out in disgust, because why would he say something so meaningful to everyone? ‘I love you’ was not something he could repeat to another yaoguai without turning his head away and crossing his arms with defiance. He couldn’t be forced to say those things (one of the monkeys cooed at him while patting his shoulder and he took it as a sign of ‘You don’t have to do what you don’t want to do’); and Wukong never said them to anyone else.
He planted jasmine for the burnt down trees, anemone for the lost souls of the mountain, asphodel for the brothers he lost when he left against his will, magnolias to keep the memory of the forest and its trees and crushed mulberry between his palms when he trekked the road for fourteen years of travel, bleeding from his crown and mumbling the old folk songs of sages and mages and spirits and fools. Never once did he say he loved his master nor did he ever dream of doing so regardless of meaning, his pleas akin to that of a starving mutt whining not to be struck for misbehavior. It pained him, back then, to say ‘I do all of these things for you, and still you hurt me’ while wide eyes stared at him from above and every side of him. Because no one could ever understand that, not even when his brothers patted his back in sympathy, asking if he’s alright before quickly following the steps of his master.
The winter berries he buried years ago are still there in memory of them.
He’s had people confess to him before. The gods never did show anything more than annoyance towards his person and then the lesser ones would only spare three seconds of their time to listen to him and promptly tell him to fuck off right after. He remembers the Ivory Lady clearly that one time—she was lecturing him about what was right to do and what was wrong, his eyes drooping from how tired he was of listening to the same words over and over in different tone and speech patterns. She spoke calmly, her voice even and clear, and then she stopped when she saw someone approach. He can’t even remember their name, just that they reminded him of one of the maidens, and he grimaces still when the low echo of ‘Can I court you? ’ rings through his head. He yanked his hands away at the time, startled, thinking it was akin to a fight proposal. His disappointment only grew when the Ivory Lady explained courting to him, a tentative hand coming to rest on top of his head. He gagged and that same hand tapped him harshly on the head and he squeaked from the sudden pain.
“What, I’m only expressing how I feel!” There was a snort of disbelief and then the sound of fabric rustling. Sun Wukong paused, tilting his head. The Ivory Lady reached out and fixed his hair, her eyes sharp when he started to fuss about it. “I don’t think it’s important. All that gushy stuff. Eugh, why can’t people focus on the actual important things? I’m smart! I can do all these cool transformations—and Yang Jian complimented me once! He said I was ‘acceptable’ for a yaoguai. I take that as a win. Seriously. Why can’t they just focus on that instead of trying to, ugh, court me?”
“People fall in love,” the Ivory Lady clicked her tongue. She added, “It’s a normal thing for everyone.”
“Not for me.” Sun Wukong had frowned, staring down at the floor while she fixed his uniform. “I don’t think I’ll ever fall in love.”
She didn’t speak much after that, simply tucked the messy tufts from his hair back into place and placed a hand on his shoulder to guide him back to the peach gardens. When they got there the blossoms turned into fruit, pink and red and fading to yellow, and Wukong’s smile returned to its rightful place. He felt whole in the garden. There wasn’t anyone else but him and his workers taking care of the peaches, sneaking in bites when they were alone and no one would care if a few fruits were gone. Sanctum was knowing no one else would try to approach him with other intentions, that their praise were genuine in some parts, that they saw him as someone who they could be relaxed around—even if they framed him, called him a thief, ruined his name and shattered his reputation in the Heavenly Realm, it was better than facing someone who looked at him as if he could reciprocate feelings he didn’t care for.
But the praise changed, overtime. It wasn’t worship; the chant of his name rang in his ears the moment he became known to the public eye, a person people could latch on to for the sake of needing a valiant hero to save them, protect them—they mocked him for thinking it was worship. They said: “No one says your name as if you were their god! Do they think of you as someone who has accomplished great things, eh? No. No, you’re their little boy savior and you’ll never grow past it. See your superiors, they’re gods, they’ve done greater things that your actions could never add up to. Are you a true Sage? No, you’re just a pretty face on a poster for made up stories and tales about heroes who have no right to be associated with celestials.” And Wukong had stood in front of the shop once, eyes golden despite the glamour, hoodie hiding his face and hair in a casted shadow. He watched people walk in and out with items that were branded with his name, his face, his smile, his eyes—they talked about him with a glow in their eyes and he smiled.
Even if it wasn’t real, he liked it. He liked knowing he was adored in a way, enough that it didn’t feel as though he were alone in the world (again). Whispers of ‘favorite hero’ echo in his cave, through the waterfall, and he lets it simmer there for a few days— weeks , before finally moving on to the next batch of ‘have you heard this about the Great Sage?’. Their questions were always simple (could he lift this? Yes he could; could he defeat this demon? Yes, most likely—); but there were times where he had to sit down and think through his actual answers, fingers pressed against his lips while he contemplated the idea of possibly beating certain gods and creatures at impossible challenges. He decided he’d do them in his own time and know the answer as if it were a secret.
He loved those questions, the ones that made him think.
“Do you think Wukong ever settled down?” one of the customers had said. Wukong kept his eyes on the display window.
“Please! Someone like him must have found someone already!” His eye twitched.
“You think so?”
“I know so! Hell, if it were up to me I’d—”
They squeaked, startled, and he blamed the sudden burst of wind from the shift in weather, his nails sinking into his hands as he walked to the bus station, jaw tight. His eyes had stung and he couldn’t put a finger as to why.
It’s been a week.
Sun Wukong went through each day without thinking. His hands were often pressed over his eyes, palms digging in to prevent them from leaking tears, and his mouth was dry from all the mumbling he’s done. Cleaning and tidying and organizing could only get him so far. He’d scrubbed over the kitchen counter and washed dishes that were already clean and unused, his smile wavering whenever one of the monkeys would crawl in through the open window to keep him company. He’d grin at Xiaotian in greeting, his eyes crinkling at the edges when Xiaojiao came with him, and he went through tasks with them mechanically.
Xiaojiao would say something and he’d think of black flames and blue ice, the silhouette of Ao Lie creeping closer to him from the edge of his bed when he sat there wide awake, and he’d smile and agree with whatever she’d said. Something about which game was best or which console was easier to use. He’d gotten through those days without remembering anything and his hands have grown bruised from all the digging his nails had done into the palms. He thinks, for a moment, about visiting his bull brother and spending time with his supposed nephew before remembering he wasn’t ready to confront them again after last time.
You’ve been distant, brother. But we love you, remember that, we’ll keep our doors unlocked for you.
Wukong would rather rip off his own limb than submit to crying in front of someone dear to him. Niu Mowang was his brother, Tieshan Gonzhu is his sister, Hong Hai-er is his nephew. When preparing himself for the aftermath of the Samadhi Fire, his possession and the feeling of magic surging through his body, exiting in a blast of pure force to aid Xiaotian, Sun Wukong had pitted his own stubbornness and pride to the emotions of others, something he told himself he wouldn’t do again after finishing the journey, knowing he’d yield. Despite this, listening to Xiaotian’s retellings, Xiaojiao’s comments, the reincarnations’ questions, still burned like acid, pushing Sun Wukong further and further away from the group until he was in his temple once again, fixing things as much as possible, telling the guests and refugees that his disappearance was due to injury and needed bed rest for a while. The expressions on the people’s face when they realized Wukong was suffering, torn up and stressed, the way Sun Wukong had touched their hearts and caused them to say it’s alright, we love you, go rest, had stayed with Wukong far longer than any cut or wound or bruise from his childhood.
The sun tears through the curtains of the room when he blinks his eyes open, tears staining his skin, making his cheek fur sticky.
We love you.
I love you.
It all echoes back and forth and he’s sick of hearing the word even in his dreams.
The Sage sits up, the mattress dipping in with his weight, feeling warmth rush over his shoulder and the side of his face. The curtains were dancing from the small gust of wind coming in through the small crack of the window, making it hard to ignore the time of day. He’d been awake for hours until he couldn’t see his hand in front of him anymore, thinking about dragons and clouds and ice and broken pieces of himself, then he had closed his eyes and dove into a dreamless slumber. He gets out of bed, tail flicking behind him as he grabs his phone, unlocking it and scrolling through the list of messages.
Xiaotian said: Hey Monkey King! I’ll be out today, Pigsy wants me to keep going to my checkups just in case the whole monkey-power thing didn’t fully heal me, haha.. Uh, I’ll try to make it next week! Keep in touch. Please!
Wukong stares at it for a moment before replying with ‘you gave up your invincibility so.. You better keep your promise to the chef’ before quickly adding ‘stay safe’.
Xiaojiao sent him a word wall of text. He reads through it slowly, toothbrush in his mouth and he squints at the misspellings, eye twitching at certain jabs given at his person but he texts back ‘okay ’ and turns his phone off for the rest of the day. His hand’s shaking by the time he spits into the sink, wiping his mouth with a grunt.
Part of him wants to stay in his room and rot away for the remaining hours of daylight, muscles stiff and aching from pushing himself for the past few weeks mending the broken pillars of the world as much as possible, avoiding certain yaoguai and assisting Nezha with Heaven without setting foot in the Celestial Realm.
(Wukong remembers the Heavenly Guards and how shaken they were, eyes blown wide and pupils constricted, breathing heavily as if he were about to drive his fist into the center of the room and shatter it, send them falling to the crust of the Earth with a singular motion—he couldn’t remember the last time he had done something so violent to get his way, couldn’t remember seeing someone so fearful of him until he choked Macaque as the fire danced behind them. His eyes had been wide and violent and frantic, the very same he’s seen in cattle right before getting culled, and he had felt his fist shake to the point where he couldn’t feel it anymore, a numb sensation in his hand. There was screaming and shouting and her voice echoing in his head again and again and he doesn’t dream, he’s never had dreams after the crown sat idle on his head, and yet, and yet, he still—)
The living room door slams open.
Silence comes followed by sharp squeaks and coos, little pitter-patter of small feet hitting against the floor.
Wukong thinks he should’ve seen it coming. He stands in the hallway, watching as a bundle of little monkeys make their way inside as if they owned the small hut, chittering to each other and climbing on the furniture to find comfortable places to lay down. He wonders how he should tell them, gently, that they have to make their way to the temple for cleaning and rehousing, when he stills, muscles stiffening. The pros of being able to detect movement miles away, a tactic helpful in knowing whether yaoguai or hunters were approaching his master, his brothers, was being able to prepare for the incoming attack. The cons included the headache of knowing who was approaching at such an alarming rate, footsteps heavy and thundering on the Earth. He exhales, eyes glowing as he crosses his arms, flicking his fingers in a snapping motion to allow the waterfall to part, water opening in the same motion of his fingers before closing with a heavy splash.
As soon as they crossed the threshold, Wukong braced himself. His eyes close slowly, feigning calmness, and he hums when one of the monkeys tugs at his pants as it climbs up to perch on his shoulder. It rubs its cheek against his and he smiles and holds it when the door is broken down with a sharp slam, the remaining monkeys scattering to hide behind him from the attackers; they cackle wickedly, sharing shushed giggles before dramatically bowing at Wukong when their eyes meet. He raises a brow, watching as Yin and Jin snicker whilst approaching him with a subtle grin.
It reminds him of someone, all dramatic and theatrical.
He flicks them on the forehead each when they get close enough, grin turning mischievous when they whine, rubbing the spots and prompting to sit on top of the couch, frowns deepening with his sharp laugh.
“Why are you here so early?” he asks.
Yin leans against Jin, bringing one foot up to rest his arm on top of his knee. He stares at him for a solid second, pupils turning to slits before he lets out a silent ‘oh’, slumping against his brother fully. “Food,” he barks, nodding slowly as he speaks. “Kid’s deliverin’ but we don’t want any noodles today. Think you could whip up something for us to take?”
Jin prompts to speak, smiling sharp and displaying a full set of fangs. “Aye! We could use someth’n to help with the housekeepin’!”
“You’re adults,” Wukong muses, “You can cook for yourselves.”
At this, the twins pause. Yin sits up straight, shoulders slacking with a dumbfounded expression. Jin merely stares. The two demons weren’t the friendliest bunch—at least not in the beginning. The book states that the brothers were a pair of demon kings, serving under a Celestial that had left them to provide a challenge for the pilgrims to face on their journey. Wukong had tampered with their Calabash and slaughtered their supposed mother in attempts to trick them and he’d won, victorious and watched them revert back to their discipled selves shortly after. But their story was not written out that way in the modern retelling of the book. They left out the twins and several other demons, the Spider Clan and the Celestials that had tried to kill and skin him alive in their travels, the scars that linger under his clothes proof enough that they had happened but the victors don’t tell the stories. Historians do.
Fucking pricks.
He hadn’t meant to take in the twins under his wing (more or less) when he found out they had acquired the Calabash and trapped Xiaotian in there, a certain glitch forcing them to let him go and escape before bothering them again during the Great Race. Wukong felt like they were well adapted for mischief and he supposes that’s why he lets them barge into his home and temple without throwing them back out the same way, trickster god and all.
When he looks back Yin’s staring at him, brows knitted with worry, his lips tight.
Wukong blinks. The monkey sitting on his shoulder curls itself around his neck, letting out a low cooing noise before closing its eyes. There’s a silence that cuts through the air in a simple ‘ please ’ and he feels his chest hurt instantly. The Sage clicks his tongue, tipping his head to the side. He raises his hand and says, “Go get the eggs and butter out,” jerking his thumb in the direction of the kitchen.
Jin lets out a sharp ‘yes!’ as Yin shoves him to propel himself forward. The two surprisingly don’t make much of a mess, grabbing eggs and butter and turning around, holding up ingredients and gesturing them to Wukong for his approval. Everything he gave a nod to they placed on the kitchen counter excitedly and everything he frowned at was given a brief sermon, Jin mumbling, “Farewell, disgraceful thing,” as he put away mustard and onions. They stand on either side of him when he starts washing the lettuce and tomatoes, letting out low noises of awe when he cracks eggs over the hot pan and lets them cook, their commentary somehow not breaking his focus when he arranges their sandwiches in the right order, amusement in his voice when he tells them to listen closely when he drags the knife over the bread to show how toasted and golden it is.
They don’t devour their food, surprisingly. The twins sit down, clapping their hands together in quick ‘thanks!’ before picking them up, opening their mouths to take a bite but they stop, lowering them down and exchanging a confused look. Jin raises his hand, prompting to grab Wukong’s attention when he looks at him with a slight smile.
“Boss?” Jin says, unaware of Yin’s hand reaching out to keep his sandwich slice from falling apart.
Wukong’s finger twitches. “Yea?” he hums, adjusting the infant monkey’s position so he doesn’t fall off his shoulders.
“Where’s ya’ food?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t need to eat. God, immortal and all. Ah, well,” he settles for a wider smile, eyes crinkling at the edges despite the empty pit that lies in his stomach, “I could grab a peach on the way to the temple. Those keep me full for the day.”
“Does it really? Oi,” Jin smacks away Yin’s hand, taking a big bite out of the sandwich before speaking, “Ya hearin’ it? Single peach can cure hunger.”
“Nah, bruv,” Yin licks egg yolk off his thumb, taking a bite out of his own sandwich with a satisfied hum, closing his eyes with delight, “ this could cure hunger. Think the peach stuff’s more for the boss.”
“Is Xiēzi Jīng still in the city?” Wukong inquires with a sharp smile as he pushes himself off of the breakfast table and saunters over to the kitchen. He grabs a glass, pouring apple juice into it while Yin and Jin share a quick glance and head tilt, chewing quicker now. “Cause if she is I’m not dragging her out here at sunrise just to clean the temple grounds.” Jin gives him an openly exasperated look, red eyes narrowing as he finishes up his sandwich and Wukong almost feels bad for leaving the scorpion yaoguai out of cleaning duty. The trio’s adjustment to the city, moving on from wanting to kill or take over the city to simply creating the daily obstacle for Xiaotian to take care of.
Was it immoral to do that? Leave the boy with more on his plate to distract him?
Sun Wukong was not a person who doubted himself when it came to training the younger generation—the feeling that surged through him when the infants put helmets on and followed his every move, copying his stances and the strike of his staff with their spears and swords was irreplaceable. He remembers the laughter of his right hand, his eyes beaming with mirth when he saw the younglings chitter and scatter away, his voice just as light. He said: “Why, my king! I didn’t think you’d be this eager to create yourself an army. If you keep this up you’ll end up with your own stalwart generals, marshals and endless tricksters to help you steal from Heaven.”
It hadn’t meant anything.
He never planted any tulips for him.
He never got the chance to think about it.
But his words still ring in his mind every now and then. The small warning laced in between the sentences, the way his dark fur had bristled when he said that his plan was to create soldiers to defend themselves, the brightness in those eyes dying off just as quickly.
All thoughts abruptly drain from Wukong when Yin waves a hand up, gesturing to the empty table, crumbs left all over the floor. “We’re gon’a go now,” the silver yaoguai says softly, thumbing at the entrance of the hut. The door’s open, a few of the monkeys watching something walk in the distance. Yin takes a few steps out of the kitchen when he suddenly stops, placing his hands on his hips and turning his head to look at the Sage, a sheepish grin on his face. “The kid says he sent someone to stay with us while we clean up. Ah, that old bastard of yours.”
The little infant monkey yawns and stretches its arms out, lazily crawling from Wukong’s shoulders down to his hand, using it to land safely on top of the couch when he approaches it slowly. He blinks, the world turning into golden hues and bright white outlines, red eyes staring back at him with a dull overlay on top of them. He searches for traces of shadows and hands and claws and teeth and eyes that could mock him or rake him through the floor easily—but he finds only Yin turning to face him in full, almost scared when Wukong walks closer to him, eyes fixed on his own.
“Which bastard?” he asks.
“Purple one,” Yin says.
Wukong’s eyes go from a vivid shade of gold to a duller color. “Spider Princess is dead and Spindrax is more helpful than you guys are.”
“Oi, now that ain’t fair—”
“Which bastard?” he parrots, a hint of impatience in his voice.
Yin’s eyes widen at the words, and for the barest instant, they stare at each other. Wukong can see the wheels turning in the yaoguai’s head, the slightest crinkle in his eye when he licks his lips and mumbles, “Macaque.”
Wukong exhales, grinning widely. “Fuck.”
The “Shame Temple” is apparently a small location for smaller yaoguai to find homes and where country folk reside in, away from the city, safe and practically hidden in the mountain tops with little encounters with the greater yaoguais and kings and threats that tend to destroy the city buildings and villages and ruin small businesses. When people want to get away from it all, they send a letter in advance to the owner’s lawyer and let him know if you or someone else is in need of a home for the time being and they’ll contact you within the hour to let you know if there’s room available or not.
As it turns out, Macaque is homeless.
Homeless in the same sense as a cat would be, anyway, seeing as he houses himself inside the theater he managed to rent out months ago for the small purpose of creating enough profit to sustain himself with food, water and heating during the winter—but the latest casualty caused him to be unable to stay in the building’s attic for too long, the employees who worked with him told to take the month off until reparations were dealt with. He ushered them all out and grab hold of the kid’s arm when he delivered his latest order of noodles to him, asking if he could stay inside the closet of his room only to be shut down instantly, the boy shaking his head and directing him towards the mountains instead.
“Ask your old buddy, Wukong!” he’d chirped, jumping inside his car and driving off before Macaque could yank his tip back. He’d waved at him goodbye and didn’t bother to text back anything other than an address to the nearest temple.
It took less time to figure it was Wukong’s temple than it took for Macaque to stop killing every single blue iris he came across when he trudged through the mountain pass, gritting his teeth when they simply bloomed again, their petals stretching upwards to him. He’d never been the flower-y type. Never cared for the nature of it all the same way the other mountain monkeys had done so, celebrating the flower festivals were never his style only doing so for the promise of seeing the peach blossoms turn to fruit, his face warm and untouched by raking claws when it was held between two hands, sunlight basking them in that moment. He crushes the last petal of iris under his heel when he reaches the temple, deeming it too ugly for the warm sunset hues of the temple, his fingers rubbing together when he approaches the entrance.
There’s voices coming from the inside and he can make out the more unrefined accents, trying to scavenge through his memory to see if he can recognize them, cringing slightly at the sudden burst of laughter from one of the louder ones, his shoulders stiffening when he passes through the entrance slowly.
The houses are wellmade; Macaque expected to find the bare minimum, a part of himself attempting to mock the humble designs of some of the architecture, but he ends up standing in front of one of them, finding the detailed carvings of clouds, trees and even small monkeys in the wood of the walls, the stone that coated them, the small space seemingly large enough to house a proper family. He almost smiles at that, remembering how crowded the hut inside the waterfall cave looked from the outside only to find a mansion inside of it, large doors meant to house an entire kingdom within it, but he catches himself, pulling away from the house and walking towards the louder voices.
Macaque doesn’t typically busy himself in listening to others’ conversations. His theater is sometimes full of gossip, theories about plays and upcoming showings, the little exchanges between friends about training and not having enough time to spend it on everyday things like going to arcades and watching movies after dark (the similarities between that and his past self are annoyingly strong and he does not think about it even now, months later, when everyone’s moved on and no longer clinging to the past—); he blinks in mild confusion when Sun Wukong comes from the main entrance of the temple, armor and normal attire discarded for something more casual. His hair’s combed down and braided to keep it out of his face, sleeveless shirt exposing his arms and a small part of his neck. His pants are the same color, at least, but Macaque doesn’t look away from the way Wukong’s eyes are focused on the yaoguai walking next to him.
He can’t make himself to look away.
She’s taller than him, her fangs quietly clicking with every word she says that makes Macaque’s ears twitch, annoyed, and she lets out a laugh when Wukong says he’ll take the garden areas to clean up. His smile is forced and Macaque’s lips twitch upward, tail lashing as he steps back into the shadowy area of the nearest hut, watching them approach as if he weren’t there at all.
Wukong is nonchalant. “Seriously, I just need you to keep an eye on the twins,” he says, and proceeds to wax poetic about the temple grounds, its origins, and whatnot—most of it barely registering in Macaque’s head, eyes fixed on Wukong’s hands, always so expressive and full of gestures, the kind that grab people’s attention instantly, so careful with everything—but he blinks and suddenly the spider yaoguai is walking away from the monkey, waving a quick goodbye while Wukong makes his way around the temple, grabbing a basket full of tools as he walks past it. Macaque closes his mouth, mutely peeling himself off of the shadows and taking a long step into the sun, sinking down into the ground as a small shadowy circle to follow the king.
There’s no one else.
They pass several people, all of them greeting Wukong tiredly with a small wave and bow of their heads, the king smiling back but never stopping to make conversation. The grip on the basket tightens every time someone murmurs something about how good he looks—the small compliments and small bits of praise make the immortal stiffen before relaxing, his eyes unfocused when he turns a corner and makes his way to the temple gardens. It sparks something in Macaque, seeing him like that, the little voice in his head slowly turning its hums into snickers, planning words and sentences to throw at the sun.
So Macaque drags himself out of the shadows, crouched down on his knees with a grin on his face, purple eyes glowing dimly when Wukong lowers himself down in front of a bush, taking out clippers to trim the overgrown branches, and doesn’t try to be sneaky about his entrance anymore.
It’s curious. When he thinks about Wukong he thinks of thorns sinking into his skin and latching on hard enough that, upon contact, they don’t make him bleed but when trying to yank them off they take bits of skin with them and it makes him cry, angry and bitter because he purposefully picks the roses from the stem without taking precaution. As he leans over, wrapping his arm around Wukong’s neck and breathing in the scent of apricot and cedarwood, he opens his mouth, voice loud and clear as he snaps, “Did you kill them already?”
And Wukong doesn’t react.
Macaque’s curiosity grows, little by little, before morphing into thistles and they dig far into his skin. His smile spreads into a thinly veiled threat when he tightens his grip on Wukong’s neck. “What flowers are they, anyway? Daisies?”
Wukong hums. “Acacia,” he says, cutting one of the stems at the very bottom. “And you’re not choking me.”
“Huh.”
“What?” Wukong isn’t even looking at him.
Macaque reaches out, grabbing the flower with his bare hands. It’s a bundle of them, actually. Little white things sticking together in a singular stem and he brings it up to his eye, frowning slightly. “Little shits get more attention than I do.”
“Yep,” Wukong replies. “Because they can’t take care of themselves. And,” he rips Macaque’s arm off of him, swatting him away, “what are you doing here anyway, huh? Don’t you have some theater to run?”
It takes Macaque a moment to realize that Wukong had asked him a question, staring at where Wukong had touched his arm. His mouth felt dry. “What…” Macaque pauses. He looks back to the flowers. They’re white and yellow. He feels himself frown, inhaling through his nose harshly when he looks back at Wukong, gold eyes staring back at him widely. Judging. “Nope,” he says, clamping his mouth shut immediately after.
It’s funny sometimes, how Wukong looks at him. There’s gears turning in his head, Macaque can tell, and whatever final thought goes through his head is — it makes the king’s eyes narrow, lips pulled back into a frown. Wukong lowers himself down and Macaque takes a step back, frazzled at the way those gold eyes don’t tear away from him until Wukong’s knees touch the ground and he bites his tongue. “Well, whatever. Xiaotian isn’t here and Xiaojiao’s going to have my head on a platter if shit happens again,” he glances up at Macaque, tail lashing lightly against the ground, “so best behavior from you.”
Macaque’s lips twitch. “You telling me what to do, king?”
Wukong clicks his tongue. “Yea.”
Sun Wukong is centuries old yet looks and acts the same as he did when he was a teen. That’s what Macaque thought, everyday, since he dragged himself out of the graveyard and threw on a red scarf and tracked him down to antagonize him and his little ward. He doesn’t doubt Wukong has matured, the musings of Wukong’s name heard in passing on the streets everywhere he looked when finding a place to sleep in, that those little murmurs of praise had some meaning to them other than blind admiration for the old fool. But Macaque also knows that he can’t let Wukong know that, can’t quip about how much unfiltered comments are whispered when talking about him. He can already see Wukong’s ego growing with every murmur of praise.
“I love him,” one of the humans had commented once, loud enough that it caught his attention.
“Do you think he’d like me?” Macaque had stared at them, mouth agape as the conversation spiraled into more nonsense from there on.
I love him.
He doesn’t like the way his own voice echoes those words back to him.
Standing this close to him, Macaque’s eyes trace over the small little details no one else can see through posters and figurines. And he tells himself, it’s the same Wukong, the same carved stone that posed like a statue in front of the entire kingdom of monkeys and acted as a glorified tale of heroism and virtue—but it brings his mind to sharp gold eyes and a smug smirk and the subtle glint of fangs in every grin and laugh the Sage would let out, and when Macaque’s guard had been lowered down constantly around him, he had fallen so hard, so badly and hilariously that he deserved every mocking comment thrown his way for the heart on his sleeve. Because he let himself be swayed by smiles and laughs that tasted sweet on his tongue, counting down the seconds until sunrise when he could have them again, and those words, I love you, were spat back to him without care—
“Macaque.”
Macaque doesn’t look at him.
He doesn’t.
He drags his tongue over his teeth, letting out a sharp sigh. “What?”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing,” he lies. And then, “flowers.”
“Sunflowers?”
There’s a smugness to Wukong’s face now that wasn’t there before. Macaque realizes belatedly that it’s because his tail found its home around Wukong’s very own arm, and he yanks it away too quickly. “I know other flowers than just roses and dandelions,” he says, and he knows he sounds accusing.
Wukong shrugs. “Oh, sure. Big famous botanist, the Six-Eared Macaque.”
“Fuck off.”
Wukong laughs. It’s not forced or fake—but it’s tired. It’s low and gruff, the kind that makes him shake his head a little and Macaque grips his wrist so tightly he can feel the blood flow stop its circulation, eyes slowly widening when he realizes he’s taking in the little ways Wukong’s eyes crinkle at the edges and how his tail taps against the floor in attempts of keeping himself calm, how he holds the cutters away from the flowers because he doesn’t want to accidentally damage them.
Macaque’s breathing stills.
The warmth in Macaque’s chest feels tight—he drops down into a crouch, barely biting back a smile when he sees Wukong’s eyes snap towards him, startled, and he says, almost shyly, “Let me help.”
Wukong stares at him.
There’s this little pause that happens between them that allows for two things to occur: Macaque’s face reddens and Wukong’s face breaks into a shameless grin.
Sun Wukong wants to believe he’s good at reading social cues.
He was not blind to the sneers and laughter from Heaven when he took up his first job as a stable boy, tending for the horses and washing their manes and backs and legs and smiling all throughout, his pride slowly morphing into disgust at the fact they had tricked him, fooled him, could have given him the job without lying about the status. He’s aware of how people judge him for not taking action of things quickly, letting them simmer for a moment too long and suddenly the pot’s exploding with boiling water and he’s to blame for laughing nervously, trying to fix it as quickly as possible without caring if his hands get scorched.
Then again, he’s never known what the fuck everyone thought of him to think he’s probably settled down already with a gal in a barn.
Gal. Barn. Whatever the fucking saying was.
Two hours pass before Macaque manages to swallow up his pride and stubbornness, his black fur clinging to his skin from sweat, eyes deep with fading purple from frustration. “You shouldn’t be good at this,” he says, staring at Wukong’s hands and basket full of flowers. They’re crouched over the chrysanthemums, several petals near Macaque’s feet. “You can’t even take good care of your hair.”
Wukong hooks a claw to one of the stems, cutting it off with the clippers before placing the yellow chrysanthemum down. “Actually, my hair’s nice and fluffy. Could be played with for hours.”
Macaque glares at him. “No, it’s not.”
“You’d love it,” Wukong smiles, setting the clippers down. His eyes stay on the bush in front of him. Something brushes against his tail and he pipes up, “One of the perks of being the Handsome Monkey King of Flower Fruit Mountain is having the best features! Be it my fur, my eyes, my—”
“Smile.”
It makes him pause, hands buried inside the bouquet of green and white and yellow. Wukong grins at him, observing the shadow yaoguai from the corner of his eye and taking in the stare he gives in return, soft expanse of skin above the line of his collar. It wasn’t that hot out and yet he complained about it for the first half of the hour, discarding his scarf and first layer of his outfit. Wukong felt indifferent, even if his mouth felt dry after taking him in crudely.
“What’s that?” he says, his lips stretched into a thin smile.
“I love your smile.”
He felt his tail lash behind him. “Ah… yeah, don’t patronize me.”
“Sure,” Macaque replies dryly, tilting his head to the side. If he moved forward just a few inches then Wukong would have to catch him from falling over. He ignores the way his fingers twitch at the thought. “Acting like no one’s ever told you they love your smile, huh?”
“People have told me.”
“Then I don’t know what the fuck’s the problem.” There’s a pause and then, against the gods’ wishes, Macaque lowers his voice and Wukong can practically hear his grin, “You’ve got a lovely smile, Great Sage.”
Wukong sighs loudly. He throws the cutters back into the basket, placing his arms over his knees as he hangs his head in a deep bow. Frowning, he takes in the little laugh Macaque does, feeling that same object (thing? Was it?) brush against his foot, and he almost rocks back to shift his entire weight to keep it from moving towards him so much. His eyes sting when he says, “Yeah, I get it. I’m very lovable. But y’know what I love?”
If this were some downcast place, alleyway or rundown bar, he would’ve simply spat in Macaque’s face and left, walking far enough that it gave Macaque a moment to react to what’d happened before chasing him down, same antics and same causes and the very same insults thrown back and forth and back and forth and the very lack of care would’ve made it perfect. He doesn’t like thinking about it. I love your smile, it makes him want to curl up and go back to sleep for the rest of the day, the same tone that was giggled out when he’d stood in line for food and heard people gush about him behind his back.
Objectified, was it?
He doesn't like it.
That high pedestal of being presented to the world as a bachelor when all he wants is for people to acknowledge his skills, his smarts and cunning wit, his strength outside of the arena, his love for nature and—hah, did anyone know he wrote poetry? No, he doesn’t talk to people about it.
But no one asks, either.
He’s snapped out of his reverie when he feels a hand lay on his shoulder, forcing him to turn his head to the side and he almost growls when he does.
“What,” Macaque whispers in his ear, “do you love, Wukong?”
Wukong smacks the hand away as if it burned him. He keeps a smile on his face, eyes slowly growing wide with each passing second. “Privacy,” he hisses, displaying his fangs out in the open.
“I couldn’t have guessed!” Macaque cackles, rubbing a finger under his nose as he looks up at him, a smirk on his face. “You? The person who puts himself out there for everyone to see?”
“Oh, really? What, you think you know everything about me?”
“I do!” The yaoguai shifts his stance, fully facing Wukong as he lifts a fist, raising one finger up as he starts listing things: “I know you’re a heavy sleeper after long days, I know you love watching movies over and over again because they get stuck in your head before moving on to some other mush storytelling about friendship, I know you only like drinking with friends because drinking by yourself makes you feel alone, I know you don’t love anyone but yourself—”
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Wukong laughs in disbelief.
They’re not shouting, not really—their voices had been hushed whispers for the past two hours, only loud enough for the two of them to communicate without needing to bring attention to themselves—but it was loud enough that Wukong spared a quick glance around the garden in case anyone could hear them. (They couldn’t, of course, because he’d made sure no one would bother him when he came here.)
“Your old buddy Macaque!” Macaque says, spreading his arms out in a grand gesture, expression wild. “Remember? We used to go all over the mountain together? We spent days and nights alone and—”
“Oh, fuck off,” Wukong says softly. Macaque’s eyes widen and he keeps his arms up, flabbergasted.
He tilts his head, looking to the left then right and then he crosses his arms, leaning in to stare at Wukong’s face, his breath brushing against the monkey’s skin. “You’re the one who hurts people by pretending no one knows the real you,” he mutters, equally low. “I’m not the one who ran away from everyone else.”
“I didn’t run.”
“Then what’d you do? Huh? Because,” Macaque gives a short and bitter laugh, “last I checked I told you that I loved you and you left me to cry about it alone.”
Every single day is spent thinking about everything else. He doesn’t think about the stories with love being the main lesson, he doesn’t care for it until he realizes the couple are friends first. Xiaojiao tries to get him to read whatever thing she sends him and he sends back a lighthearted comment on how he didn’t think it’d be so focused on something he doesn’t want (doesn’t care enough to want) and she’d type back that it was probably just a personal taste. All of his days are about Xioatian anyways, wondering if he was doing alright or if he had been pushed too hard in his training, and never once does he think about the idea of finding someone who could love him.
No one loves him.
No one should love him.
He doesn’t even understand it.
Wukong’s hand comes up so he can rest his chin on top of it, feeling his smile drop for a moment before returning, taking in a deep breath. Macaque doesn’t move away, skepticism written all over his face, those last doses of confidence stripped away from him when Wukong says, “Because I don’t love you.”
A pause. And then, “I don’t think I can love you.”
Macaque doesn’t say anything. He only stares, emotions flooding from his eyes down his cheeks before they dry again, settling into a deadpan expression, rocking back on his heels as he moves away from Wukong. His voice is quiet when he says, “Whatever.”
They sit there, basket full of chrysanthemums and gardenias and heliotropes, dandelions peeking from the bottom of the basket, and Wukong’s the first to get up. He gathers his things and doesn’t acknowledge how his and Macaque’s tails brush against each other, curling before releasing, almost desperate, and makes it five steps away from the shadow yaoguai before stopping.
“Hey, Mac?” Wukong calls back.
Macaque’s head snaps back up.
Wukong meets his gaze. Something burns in his chest when he looks at him.
It’s been centuries.
“You can stay inside the waterfall curtain,” Wukong says. "I don't use my room anyways."
(When Macaque follows him home, Wukong doesn’t look at him when he says, “Leave the door closed,” and listens to the small click of the door closing when Macaque enters his room.)