Archive of Our Own

It was cold.

It had always been cold, but at that moment it was as if the temperature had dropped to freeze hell over. The gales of wind, kicked up from the crumbling ivory body, coursed around his form like it had somewhere to go; goosebumps pricked up; the chill bit at the exposed fringes of skin, losing the feeling in his fingers until they were like icicles dangling off his palms; his tail came up to curl protectively around his own leg, squeezing past the film of ice. 

A shuddering sigh came from frozen lips, his eyes were obstructed with mist, making it hard to grapple with his bearings. They were on the ground, all of them, standing atop cracked dirt dappled with jagged peaks of bone, a massive crater carved into the middle of it all. The broken mech wheezed and huffed, fumes poured haphazardly from its engines, dug halfway into its own grave. The sounds of its dying breaths managed to drown out the worried chirps of the others around him. 

All he could smell was the thick stench of smoke, it made breathing difficult and laboured. He fumbled with the dimmed red of his scarf, holding it over his mouth and nose until he was inhaling scents more familiar, but no less suffocating. He tried to step back and away, away from the crowd of people all bent over each other like wilted flowers, but the ground was cracked and uneven. Each listless step was like walking submerged in water or running in a nightmare.

He didn’t get much farther than a few meagre millimetres away. Pain curdled in his side, bubbling, and hissing for attention. He cupped his side with a hand, feeling sticky, rust-smelling liquid coat his trembling digits. The pain didn’t yield to pressure, spreading out further inside like roots digging into his bloodstream, a strangler fig of anguish trying to take everything he has and more, to leave him hollow and nothing. 

“Macaque,” A voice called, soft and soothing like fallen angels’ calls, as beautiful as bloomed oleanders in a wildfire of a summer's day. He turned to face whoever beckoned his name but couldn’t make out more than a bleary imitation of vision. Macaque wiped his eyes using his free hand, the dewdrops that clung to his eyelashes splattered against his rough skin. A few harsh blinks were enough to bring him back to the present. The lights had been blinding, leaving flickers of white like snow dancing in his vision, he shut his eyelids again until it all fizzled out and the picture was clearer. 

The group of them painted a pathetic image. Weary eyed and smeared with dirt, deep eye bags worn into their sunken faces. Macaque was sure he wasn’t in a prettier state than the lot of them, with the fat dollops of sweat racing down his clammy skin; the lumps of matted fur obvious in the sun’s revealing light; and not to mention the tousled state he himself donned, with torn and singed clothing growing slowly red at his midriff. His eyelids fluttered, weighed down and begging him to rest. Macaque’s knees buckled in agreement, both forces tried to drag him down, to slam him against the pebbly dirt floor. 

Macaque clutched his side tighter, sending spasms of electric pain through his body. He hissed through clenched teeth, jaw straining and head pounding with the sheer force of it. The eyes of the others, swollen with unshed tears, were painful to even look at. Macaque pulled his lips back in a sneer, but was sure they saw it as a corned, pitiful animal's last hurrah rather than a threat. The tail wrapped close around his own limb unwound, flicking behind him like a compass, pointing away from the danger other people held by nature alone. 

The strain took root in his body, Macaque was fortunate to have good reins on his form, to hold it together even as it crumbled between the gaps of his fingers. He shook like a leaf in the wind, sucking in short puffs of breath through his bared teeth. A sinkhole of inky void stretched open behind him; his tail dipped in to test the waters. He stepped back, dodging the pointed jags of the rocky terrain, and dropped his vile body into the abyss.

Shadows were all Macaque had. 

The pocket of shadow he possessed was cool like a winter breeze, and as comforting as being wrapped in thick, dense blankets. Despite the heavy comfort, floating inside the black expanse had been airy and freeing, his body drifted along like he was submerged under the blue sea. Macaque let his leaden eyelids close, hugged close by familiarity. The tension bled from his body, leaked free like the open, gaping wound he sported. 

A sigh escaped, something dragged down with exhaustion with growing restlessness seeped in. He turned to his side, snaking both hands around his torso to hold the blood still, feeling the sticky liquid drip through. It splattered against the void floor; it trickled like a leaky tap. Drip, drip, drip.  

Macaque summoned strings of shadow to his hands, he threaded together bandages doused in sable. He lifted his top up to wind it around the throbbing laceration, wrapped it around and made sure it was tight, wringing himself of oxygen. The second the shadows made contact the wound pulsed again, it screamed its ire at being prodded, at being suffocated. Macaque barely suppressed a wince, swallowing it back down until it was naught but bile bubbling at the back of his throat.

The past events, now subservient to the winds as they were carried off to history, existed as a cataclysmic whirlwind in his mind. It tore up the fleshy, soft bits of him indiscriminately. By the next sharp intake of breath, Macaque was swathed in memory after memory. 

Standing amidst the ruined theatre, shards of lantern fitted together precisely until the cracks were only visible in a glint of light. The shining, blindingly white smile of the suited mayor. How his hand curled around Macaque’s throat, lifting his body with ease, fingers pressing marks to his flesh. He squeezed hard, trying to crush his larynx, all the while smirking during the whole ordeal, as if this was just another day for him. 

The Lady Bone Demon, the cold, unrelenting stare she gazed upon him with, as though he were a pest, a burden, a thing to be disposed of. The bitter frigidity of the chains, they wrapped so tight it cut into his skin. The mottled bruises took days to recover from, Macaque had almost been grateful for the outfit change to cover up the purple hues. He remembered those frightening few moments with extreme clarity, how she had dragged him down. The mayor had him by the back of his head. Greasy, neglected fur was wrangled in that bastard’s grip, forcing his chin down against the cold metal of the mech. 

The whipping winds of the desert, how the sand cut against his skin like tiny, precise knives. The kid, the other kid, and the other rather irrelevant fiends and their faces of fear. Fear of him. It was glorious.

His face screwed up as another memory staked claim. The wound thudded again, crawling under his skin, and sinking its fangs into his arteries. Macaque seized, wistful mind caught up in the whims of memory, all the while his body cramped and shivered. 

Macaque was in the middle of the ritual site, the world was coated in hues of red. It was blood, no, wait, it was the flickering, hungry flames. He did this, eyes trained on the shaking ball of fire, he did this. His stomach dropped, dreadfully empty as he gazed upon the ruin, made by his own hand, yet his throat still burned to make it emptier. There were only a few, fleeting moments of joy to be had, flexing his freed limbs once the samadhi fire had burned his debt to ashes. 

Wukong’s entrance was as he always had been, loud, obnoxious, and demanding attention from every entity in proximity. Even the fire had roamed in interest towards him, the sun’s encompassing gravitational pull dragging all eyes to his heavenly essence. Macaque backed away, but no amount of hiding could sway the lock Wukong had on him, face twisted into a rage he’d seen once before. Wukong’s companions, scattered against the field, hurt. The result of Macaque’s transgressions manifested as a blaringly obvious display between the two of them. Red; it was fire, it was blood.  

His portals, his shadows, they were safe. Dipping into the endless expanse of void had been safe, as far away from the havoc he made. His two second illusion of security was shattered when Wukong slammed his hand inside, Macaque barely had a chance to breathe before he was being ripped out by the throat. One single hand encircled him, his grip shook with unbridled fear, his throat cinched under Wukong’s grasp. He had to shamefully admit his body erupted in trembles, the past hitting in that moment until the world blacked out.

In that moment, he couldn’t feel the licks of heat simmering against layers of skin and fur, nor hear the clamour around him. Macaque was there again, stuck motionless against the ground, mind feeling like a heavy, useless weight in his skull. Everything had been fuzzy, enveloped in static, save for Wukong’s sharp, cutting eyes, and his dappled red knuckles. The scowl on his face embedded forever into the soft foundation of his memory, every wrinkle and pinch carved into the curves of his brain. Wukong was mad, Sun Wukong was Mad at Him.  

He flinched.

Macaque wheezed, ripped back to the present, body snared in a fit of anguish. His limbs twitched and digits curled inwards. He bit so hard down he wasn’t sure whether his fangs or tongue would be broken first, either way he’d be pierced into a bloody, suffocating mess. His lungs heaved, organs tight and unmoving. For just a moment, everything was still, and his body unfurled.

Jaded, he laid spread out on his back. The cold of the non-existent floor seeped through his clothes and tickled through his fur. His throat was closed, no air flowed through this realm anyway. Macaque twisted to lay on his side, curling a hand around the bandaged laceration. He grimaced at the pain, set alight by a mere touch. Macaque coiled up, honing in to focus only on the sharp tears of breath.

Time dragged on; seconds could be years for all he cared. Macaque laid on the floor, curled into a tight, protective ball, trying to remain shut off. His eyes were closed, though opening them wouldn’t lead to a different sight, nothing but the inky black to greet him. Times like these made Macaque yearn for all he couldn’t have, soft, golden arms wrapping around his torso; adept hands carding through the thick parts of his fur; and the soothing croons as his wounds are mended. The sheer memory of those times only made Macaque groan, the grip on his side strained, digging into the open, oozing injury. 

He opened his eyes, fluttering to adjust to the abject nothingness of the pocket realm. It was dark as far as the eye could see, a solid floor but no obvious walls to cage him in. Infinite, like the universe itself, but still so solid. He could press his open palm to the ‘ground’ and feel something beneath it, feel the frigid emptiness under his splayed palm. Macaque was the centre of it all, a sun unwilling, it was not his place; He did not light the area up effortlessly as others no doubt could. Macaque was one with the darkness, he conceded, he was the darkness.

Despite the comfort the void gave him, swaddling him an endless nothing, but the comfort lasted only so long before the void consumed him too. Macaque sucked a short inhale through his nose and stretched open a hole in the void with his pointer finger. The tear wavered in the fabric of shadow, painting a portrait of golden soils and patchy, dying grass, and trees permanently tilted to the side due to heavy winds. He wanted to stay in the endless expanse of his own void, but the emptiness was suffocating after too long. He was already losing breath.

His legs bent and wobbled beneath him, struggling to let him up and through the hissing portal. When he finally managed, Macaque landed unevenly, catching himself on the wavy, thin branches of the trees around him. He cursed inwardly, out of all the places he could have been torn towards… Nevermind, the least to be done was to take advantage of his dealt cards. 

Macaque clambered up to a high perch on a choice tree. He parted the sparse leaves and leered down. The stench of tree sap mingled in with crackling fumes of the campfire and the oily smell of fresh noodles. He scrunched up his nose, overlooking the scene ahead. The group of them, pathetic, measly ants, all bundled together. The younger ones leaned their whole weights on their shoulders like they could hold up the world, and strands of each other's hair stuck to their sweaty faces. The young, dragon girl had an arm slung over the bull child. The bull sharply flicked his eyes from each party member, slowly calming until they closed, melting into her side like a popsicle left out in the sun too long. She pets his head in a way that made Macaque’s ribs tighten for an indecisive reason. 

MK, the kid, was seated alone on the edge of a cliff. His hands shifted up and down the steaming bowl of noodles, moving one up to fiddle with the chopsticks stabbed inside, scraps of wood flaking off with each movement. His eyes carried a cloudy look of cheer, mouth twitching at the ends. MK insisted on glancing over his shoulder to stare at his friends, as if trying to reassure himself they were still there and (mostly) unharmed.

The kid, and that was all he was to Macaque, was a foolish little child. He tried to guide him to a better path, away from Wukong’s nonsensical teachings, but it did little to sway him in the end. The two of them were like butter and bread, inseparable once slathered together. With a pang of unrecognisable emotion stirring in his chest, Macaque was resigned to the fact that they left no room for him. Not as though he wished for space to fit into, not as though he missed those casual, kind glances, nor the simple and nonchalant touches; A hand on the shoulder, a sweeping hug, jumping to sit atop another's shoulders like a throne… His heart screamed; Macaque wished the most to smother the damn thing. Spew your indulgent fantasies somewhere else, I have no need for this.

The steam emanating from MK’s bowl of noodles slowly petered out, it remained untouched as MK rapped his fingers against the ground, head craning back and forth to catch every minute change. No-one was looking his way, bar Mei, who had been flicking him various hand gestures every time their eyes locked. This time around, it had been a peace sign.

The leaves rustled as the shadow rippled like a rock in water. He slipped through the shade towards the bigger group, snatching an unattended pair of chopsticks with only his arm snaking through. It was a perfect heist; no-one even looked his way. 

He made sure to run his hands across the open maw of pooling blood and makeshift bandage, stitching it closed with visual illusion. No-one needed to see how hard he hit the ground, how skin had been recklessly torn open by the stray zaps of pale blue. Wukong’s dead, blank eyes replayed in his mind, as he delivered blow after blow, for once Macaque was thankful he was somehow still holding back. Wukong’s true power, adulterated with the Ivory Lady’s, would have crumbled the terrain around them to dust, but it didn’t and what else could explain that other than he was still holding back. 

He clambered through the streams of shadow. The sun hung beside them, lazily dipping down the horizon, shade stretched across MK’s back, bathing him in darkness. The shadow draped over him only widened, allowing a gateway for Macaque to ease himself through. MK’s head whirled around immediately, at least his reflexes were sharp if nothing else. 

Macaque didn’t even manage a bite. The noodles, though he would rather die than admit it, looked heavenly. At least in comparison to the junk he had scraped for it, this was a blessing on a silver platter. Wukong had swooped in faster than a vulture, snatching away the meal before Macaque could commit the smells and visuals to memory. Wukong scarfed it down, Macaque was almost sure he would choke to death and die by cold noodle, prayed for it, even. Because life hated him, Wukong did not pass away, instead, he continued yapping on in that annoying voice. 

Macaque accepted the fact he wasn’t getting away with leeching off anyone else's food, the others, much farther away, were too wide-eyed and skittish for him to get away with it. Two chopsticks were a lot different to a whole bowl right under their noses. The pig demon was still handling leftover servings, but he’d be damned a thousand times over before he bends down and asks. How humiliating that would be… He sneered at Wukong’s face, claws just itching to tear the stupid, perfect thing to ribbons. He would, had it not been for the sharp twist of pain gutting him. Macaque stifled back a cry; agony exploded like fireworks inside his ribcage. He’s always hated fireworks. Pressing a hand against his wailing heart, Macaque continued to stab at Wukong verbally, playing off the spindly vines of hurt with practised ease. 

The ache eventually faded, leaving nothing but a dull pang in its place. Macaque lowered his hand, brushing it off on his leg. Without the stabbing sensation pummelling his body, Macaque was able to get a good look at Wukong. His eyes, a warm, welcoming honey gold, no longer the false and dangerous hue of blue. That colour didn’t suit him, nor did the armour. He was quite pleased, from a purely aesthetic point of view, to see that said armour had been tossed aside to decompose somewhere. Because of this he was stripped down to the essential garments, soft threaded clothes draped over his form. It also, to his racing heart’s utter delight, showed off his arms. That auburn fur that shone like threaded gold under the sun’s glare, faint traces of muscle rippling through the arms clutching his successors' stolen bowl of food. Macaque dragged his gaze away, don’t look, don’t swoon like some stricken teenager, you absolute fool! He’s just admiring the power he held, nothing more, of course.

Wukong yelled at him a while more, Macaque was blessedly drowning it out, nothing he could say right now would hold any value anyway. He was forced back to the present when Wukong nudged his forehead into his own, bursting his bubble of personal space with one shove. Macaque leaned his weight against him, pushing in tandem with his pull. His prose clicked into place, snappy, burning, whatever makes Wukong’s eyebrows pinch together, and his eyes shine alight with muted fire. Whatever smarmy words made his fur pick up, his hands clench at his side, and fangs bared in a pitiful display of superiority. It’s riveting, for one carved from stone his skin was always surprisingly easy to dig under.

He would have loved to stay honestly, to test how far he can prick Wukong’s skin until it breaks. His facade, his display, the composed Monkey King who knows everything. Macaque wanted to watch it shatter, that air of glory diminishing into ash as he rears to beat Macaque back to the crumbling soil. It was that reaction, like gasoline poured on fire, that he craved. Macaque would bathe in any warmth he could muster after all.

But some things came at a priority. Especially that griping, needle-like pain spreading across his side and chest. It nestled in his lungs, making the altitude feel too thin and too thick at the same time. Macaque was sure it wasn’t just the injury tearing him apart like that, it couldn’t be, he’d once shattered the bones in his legs and still walked it off like nothing happened, this was a mere scrape in comparison. As much as he kneaded his hands into his sides, placating the screeches of agony with rough ministrations, they didn’t yield. If he stuck around like a plague much longer, they might notice his mask slip, notice him stumble a bit over his words, wince at a particularly sharp jab, and Macaque would rather death claim him right here than let that happen.

He made a swift escape, feeling a sick mirth watching Wukong flail with no-one to lean on. Macaque caught the tail end of another insult weaved from Wukong’s spittle as he slipped through a portal. Macaque’s shadow led him from the endless expanse of the plains to the confines of his own home. 

The four, dark walls that trapped him, each stained with dried water leaks. Macaque stumbled to the couch, slumping over onto the clumps and rusty springs that dug in his back. Macaque’s teeth clenched, sweat pearled at his hairline and dripped down like raindrops across a windowpane, his lungs stuttered and cinched. His arms snaked around his waist again, trying to hold everything together so he wouldn’t deteriorate into nothing but splinters of shadow on sullied floors.

With a pained howl, Macaque dug into his chest. Hands danced around the teeth of his ribs, flitting about the thumping skin of organs, and finally grasping tight the tangled sphere of life inside him. The walls in his home were as thin as paper, they lurched at even a gust of wind, and anyone around would be able to listen to his cries of anguish. They’ve cavilled before, saying his training was ‘disruptive’ and ‘leaving holes in the floor’ which was honestly a load of rubbish. He couldn’t wait to hear the complaints this time around. 

The orb rumbled in his grip, Macaque clenched his teeth and scrunched his eyes closed, it hadn’t been this painful last time. Then again, last time had been a heat of the moment decision. He had made painful eye contact with Wukong, eyes burning as he stared straight into the sun himself. So many words were exchanged silently, a small nod the only indicator that their mute communication was as unbreakable as it had always been. Macaque hadn’t really cared for nor contemplated it, just clasped his hand around the bountiful sphere of magic, adding it to the fucked-up cocktail of power siphoned from across their blue globe. At that moment, Macaque had been running off of nothing but pure adrenaline. Probably how he didn’t even notice the gaping wound in his side in the first place.

Now though, with sweat slicking down unruly fur, and limbs seizing like they were being jerked by chains, Macaque had nothing but his own pain to fall back on. The orb of magic shook, tendrils of shadow tethering it to the carved-out space in his ribcage. He tugged on it until the strings snapped, flailing back inside of his body. He cracked a single eye open to observe it, face blanching three shades at the sight.

Shadow magic, the thing he operated under, the strings to his wooden body, existed as a small, dark sphere trapped inside his form. It had been bright, flickering like a lit fire, swirling with ill-disposed purple. It had been the size of his hand upon former revival, and the height of his torso under Lady Bone Demon’s jurisdiction. Right now, it was a waning, pale flame. It was the pitiful size of an unripe apple, the lilac licks of shadow clawed at the air in an effort to keep itself afloat. 

This magic wasn’t just a fuel for his shadows, for his illusions, for the construction of the imposing smoke beast… Macaque’s hand trembled as he shoved the orb back inside his torso, pulling his legs to his chest and burying his face in his knees. His body was wracked with shivers, breath coming out in pathetic hiccups, ears laid flat against his skull. This magic was his life fuel.

He grappled for the thin, ratty blankets bundled at the foot of his couch. His fingers were naught but disconnected from the rest of his body, it was a fight to grasp the fabric tightly with how cold and tingly his hands were. Macaque cursed various gods under his breath, finally managing to pull it over his convulsing form. Saliva pooled in his mouth and all he could do was clasp hands over his face and swallow the burning feeling back. 

This was going to be one hell of a shitshow. 

Macaque grumbled, mind a foggy thing from the dregs of sleep. Light snuck through the gaps in his moth-eaten curtains, painting the floor and over Macaque’s current pasty complexion. He rubbed his eyes clear with the back of his hand, every limb trembled with exertion. The blankets were sun-warmed, he nestled deeper until the torn ends covered his crusted eyes. The lumpy cushions of the couch a temptation to his cumbersome body. He sunk back down to rest, the only movement involuntary twitches. 

Birds’ sung outside, various chirps of different, lonely critters perched on power lines or sturdy tree branches. Macaque groaned, opening his eyes once more, his eyelids were more leaden weights rather than thin, protective skin. He couldn’t just lay in his bed and sleep all his problems away. A stirring, sick feeling curdled in his stomach, telling him that the flame fuelling him was to extinguish the second he slipped off again. He shuddered, shoving the blankets back. He was half tempted to dig the shadow out again, stretch it, maybe blow on it like a dying fire, but quickly decided against that. 

Pain flowed and ebbed from his ribs and side, making the arid errands of breathing and shifting bodily an excruciating process. Macaque’s legs almost gave out after two steps away from his makeshift rest. 

“Gods,” He gritted out, hissing through his teeth, “What is wrong with you?” Macaque poked himself in the side, only to be rewarded with a wave of tangling heat shooting through his bloodstream. His legs seemed determined to be as uncooperative as possible, bending and stumbling, veering him right into the spiked, brutal weapons lined across the walls.

“This is stupid.” He threw the curtains open, almost sending them flying off their individual links. The windows to his house had a film of mist overtop, neglect seeped into the panes. He pawed them open, stuck his head out and gazed across the street. People were scarce, the shadows were thin, and the light spewed over the pavement. Some shops had employees emerging from within, flicking the sign from closed to open and retreating back inside. Cars zipped by, some far too fast for the speed limit, but the road wasn’t crowded like it was during the rush hours. A faint breeze rattled anything it could snatch, the chill of it bit at Macaque’s nose, but was outweighed by the warmth hanging in the atmosphere. 

For just a moment, a snapshot of time, the peace was enough to drown out the torment steeped in his bones. It won’t last, of course, soon the streets would be bustling with life, people swarming the sidewalks like the cockroaches living in Macaque’s kitchen. Soon, he would be slamming the windows shut with an indignant yell, wondering why he even bothered trying to cope with the noise in the first place. Right now though, he sunk into the casual sounds of life. 

Macaque traversed the even, unobstructed floor as if it were a treacherous mountain landscape. Each step had him clambering for the wall, steadying himself and panting loudly against the wooden planks. He eventually fell to his knees, breathing ragged and torn from his throat, circling a finger against the dusty floors to open a shadow portal. 

The stretch of shade dropped him unceremoniously onto cold tile, landing on his arm in a way that twisted it painfully. The odd and off kilter squares pressed into his skin, frost permeating through the layers of clothing he swaddled himself in. The window in the bathroom was shut tight, locked tight with no gaps for bugs to squeeze through. The whites and blues of the floor smeared with a mould that he didn’t remember being there. The products, few and far in-between, laid across the counter were oozing with crusted liquid, more solid than liquid now. 

He scrambled across the ground, throwing the cabinet doors open and near knocking them off their rusted hinges. Inside, pushing aside the empty boxes and half-full bottles of medications, was a yellowed white box with a coat of flaking paint. Macaque tried to blow away the dust, but his lungs heaved and left him barely any oxygen to stay alive on, so he brushed it away with the back of his hand instead. 

It was a struggle to flick the damned thing open, fingers trembling and stiff, not to mention how uncooperative the clips were being. Macaque slammed his head against the closed lid a couple times before hitting it against the floor, breaking it open. A sharp sense of relief flooded him, spying the thick rolls of bandages stuffed inside. 

Unwound with shaking hands, the bandages sprawled out across the floor like ribbons. He gingerly picked it up by the end, unravelling the shadow binding him to one piece. The discarded shade flopped to the floor, sizzling into the air like fumes of gas. The blood that soaked his side came out in thick chunks, stubbornly pouring out. Macaque wrangled with the bandages to tie around his midriff.

Macaque was rather tempted to bash his head against the box a bit more, or perhaps the counter. He curled up his quavering hands and beat them against his cranium, his lip wobbled dangerously, and his eyes fogged up. The growing pit in his stomach strung forth sorrow, but at the exact time, a fire bubbled. Because he’d been through wars; he’d had his life stolen from him; had his life played in the palm of another, his life the whims of a power-deluded skeleton; he’d had his eye scraped from its place in his skull; been beaten, thrown, electrocuted, chained, had his lives flash in those few moments where he wondered if clawing back to the living realm had even been worth it…  

But here he was now, splayed out across the grime-slathered floor, nothing more than a waste of space who can barely bandage himself up. The magic deep in his chest flickered and wailed, it screamed for his attention, for nurture. It would get none of those. Macaque sucked in through his teeth and forced his uncooperative arms to wrap the thin, white bindings around.

He tightened the final stretches of bandage, breaking it off between his fangs. It was done, the ribbons had been secured around his middle. Splotches of blood soaked through already, but the layers were too thick for it to slip from the confines. Macaque let his body go limp, flop against the hard ground. With how feebly he existed inside his own form, Macaque allowed himself a few moments of respite to simply breathe and blink. 

“Okay.” His words came strangled out of him, “Alright. I can deal with this.” Macaque didn’t even attempt to push himself up onto his elbows, knowing it wouldn’t lead him far. He sighed through his nose, running his hands through the tangled expanse of hair. His chest stuttered, ribs caved in, and magic thrummed helplessly against bone. 

His magic, a fickle, picky thing, had been stoked by Lady Bone Demon’s deft hands. She breathed life into him, made his fragmented self whole using shards of broken bone. Now, all that remained of her was that thin scrap of white fabric, caught against a peak of rock beside her shattered mech. The lady’s destiny had been delusion, it had been crafted from someone who’s seen the worst the world had to offer, overseen how famine wiped out people grown dear to her, watched as disease laid millions to rest forever more. Maybe that was why, chained up and pained in more ways than physical, her plans had seemed altruistic. 

Macaque’s been witness to those ugly sides too. But at some point, he had a light to guide him, a hand to keep him floating amidst the turbulent waters, but it had been snuffed out. The scarf hung heavy across his shoulders, a reminder of the warmth given to him, and all that had been taken back. 

They weren’t so different in the end, not really. A hatred of heroes and all they represented, or more so what they wished they could represent. It was all an act, no-one was that benevolent, no-one would unconditionally care for the lives of others and protect them against the incoming darkness. The heroes aren’t, though they’d like you to believe otherwise. They string you into their games, play you like a pawn, then leave you in the outskirts of a storm and tell you it’s what’s best for humanity. They don’t stop to question whether the ‘good of humanity’ is worth it over the plea of your heart. They don’t care.  

Well… Macaque ran his hands through his fur, catching on all the little tangles. He could believe and say whatever he wished, could continue living on the pulse of anger. But it wasn’t all true, in the end the faces of these heroes blurred together until it was one conglomerate of self-righteousness. But then had been the kid, naive and all too trusting, a shining reflection of the sun’s gaze, a stack of Monkey King legends in a trench coat pretending to be a person. At first, Macaque would pick out the similarities between them until their faces held no difference. It was hidden in their smiles, the lines that creased across their face as it lit up like a noisy festival, the insecurities wrapped up in a loud voice and frivolous actions. 

But a distinct variation arose. Something that set them apart as separate, not whole. Two beings, not two suns. Wukong was the sun, the light everyone revolved around whether they wanted to or not, he nurtured life and burned it to ash simultaneously. MK was the Earth itself, he was the bodies of water, the plush grass, the golden sand, the trees, the wind, the clouds. MK walked through literal bouts of fire to comfort his friend, he’d watched from afar as the flames stilled to let him wrap his arms around her, squeeze tight and reassure her. His clothes were singed, smoke fumes poured from the tips of his hair. MK was a hero; he was the selfless being that everyone wished they could be. 

He held his hand out to Macaque, even after everything, he knows what he’s done, he’s had first-hand experience with how much of a monster Macaque is. Yet MK could still observe past the layers of cruelty he’s built up, could still see past the darkness that’s consumed him. Why, how, why–? 

Macaque buried his face in his hands, MK was too good. He was kind, munificent, yet held his own without much hesitance. It would be so easy to corrupt that again for his own good, to sink his claws in and consume the magic that lived inside him. That golden egg, swirls of white curling through it, exuded magical properties. How much of it could keep him going for another week… 

It would be horrible of him to do so, and Wukong would put him in the grave faster than his extinguishing magic if he caught wind of it. Still though, Macaque wasn’t one to lay down and die in the corner. If he was going to go out again, which he wasn’t, it wouldn’t be quietly.

Which came the first, and by far hardest, most gruelling step … Getting the fuck off the dirty bathroom floor.  

As it turned out, getting close to MK wasn’t as hard as expected. 

Macaque had spent the prior day pulling himself together, shoving pain medication down his throat, and cleaning the rust stains from sullied clothes. The last thing he remembered was how his eyelids tugged while brushing aside cobwebs in the empty cabinets. Macaque’s mind had been a whirlwind of thought, the need to clean everything staking claim at the forefront, to leave it all spotless. It would be bad otherwise; his mind was too foggy to understand why.

Glare enveloped his face as Macaque slowly awoke. An ache pounded in his head, arms, and legs; static enveloped the entirety of his right arm. The window, he never closed the window, was letting in a stream of rowdy noise from the city below. Cars’ honking; a muddled sound of different people talking, gossiping, laughing; the humming sound of electricity from neon lights, and a stronger sound from his own fridge. He normally never heard that sound from the fridge, it was far away and– Macaque fell asleep in the kitchen. 

Manoeuvring to sit up, gain his bearings, Macaque absently wiped the sleep off his face, tongue heavy and dry in its cave. His arms shook when he sat up, the one full of pins and needles was slammed against the ground until the feeling petered out. Everything was too hot and too cold, sweat streaked across his face and got caught on long eyelashes, making his skin feel wet and sticky all over. Red lines creased where the floor dug in, patterns in the ground imprinted on him. A faint buzz settled in his left ear, and Macaque really just wanted to go back to sleep. 

Knock, knock, knock.

Three knocks, the first came slow and echoed through the hollow walls, the last two hurried and desperate. Who could be… Never mind. Macaque forced himself to his feet, the sunlight that poured over his body was cold, and his body was all too willing to collapse. He fidgeted with the cuffs of his freshly cleaned top and ran hands through his fur to smoothen the lopsided tufts out. All that was left was to pray he was presentable enough to be observed under another's scrutiny.

He stepped across the border of his kitchen to the halls, leaning his whole weight against the wall. Oxygen grew thin again, chest tightening with each step. The door wasn’t that far but moving towards it was as exerting as running a marathon. Once at the entrance, he was forced to rest. His forehead pressed against the wooden structure, focusing on breathing before he inevitably collapsed into a puddle. Macaque’s head was filled to the brim with air, squeezing out the thoughts with fluttering wings as though it might just fly away from him. He brushed a hand down his body to reinforce the glamours tucked around it, which turned out to be a wrong move.

The moment the glamours were forced back to place a punch twisted through his stomach. His throat burned, choking, and yet heaving nothing up. Hands scrambled to keep grip on the door, claws sunk in and carved lines into the wood. His mind was aflutter, everything was wobbly and floating; incomprehensible, muddy colours swirled around like a hurricane. The floor was spinning beneath him. He gulped, swallowing gritty soil. 

Macaque straightened his knees, leaning his weight back against the wall, heart thumping loudly in the confines of his chest. The doorknob rattled, sound bouncing through the near-deserted, dark home. He clenched his hands tighter around the golden-flaked knob, willing hands to still, door to twist. The entrance creaked open, allowing slips of golden light to pour through, claiming everything it could see. 

Two bright, chestnut eyes, and a smile that could light up a city in a blackout, greeted him. 

“Macaque!” The kid cheered, throwing his arms out. He wasn’t sure whether MK was inviting him into a hug, a fist-bump, or an impromptu fight, so he backed away regardless. 

“Ugh,” Macaque massaged the space between his eyes, “Isn’t it too early for kids your age to be so chipper?”

MK frowned, “It’s five in the afternoon.”

“My point stands.” In his decrepit opinion, if all kids were strictly silent, or perhaps nocturnal, the world would be a happier place for about 12 hours.

MK rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, strands of his rumpled hair bouncing with each movement.

“So, I was just wondering… You can say no if you want to, I won’t be offended. It’s honestly such a dumb idea, you’re probably really busy–” Macaque raised a hand, effectively silencing the boy. His other hand came up to wipe at the beading sweat on his face. Under normal circumstances, the door would have been slammed in the kid's face, like, the second he opened his mouth, and that would be the end of it… But these weren’t normal circumstances.

“Alright,” He sighed, like listening to MK speak was the most exertional activity known to mankind.

They squealed, loudly, Macaque groaned as the sound bounced around his skull, “Ok, ok! So, now that– now that… She is gone. I wanted to hang out with everyone as a celebration! Like, totally chill and stuff. No– no, uh, murder. Or anything.” Their eyes darted back and forth, twisting between Macaque’s blank expression and the streetlamp to their right.

‘No, I don’t want to go. Especially if that dumbass Wukong is there!’... Was what he wanted to say.

Instead, it came out as, “Oh, yeah sure. Why not?” He couldn’t quite understand why the kid was trying to involve him in this, his usefulness to them started and ended in that fight. This was redundant. However, after saying that it seemed if MK’s eyes were to get any brighter, he would turn into a celestial lightbulb. 

“Really? I mean– I’m so glad!” He jumped up and down, bandana slipping halfway off his face with the force of it, “Ok, ok. Cool! Well, uh, you know the noodle shop, right? It’s uh, where I work. And live. I can show you if you don’t?”

Macaque scoffed, “I know where your little restaurant is, the pig runs it, right?”

“Oh yeah! That’s Pigsy, he’s a bit grumpy but I made him pinkie promise that as long as you don’t do anything like… Evil. He won’t say anything rude!” MK waved his arms around, almost smacking Macaque square in the face.

“How… Thoughtful.” Macaque hummed, shifting his tail in place to prepare slamming the door on MK, his smile too sunny for weary eyes.

“It’s on this weekend.” He added on, “Well, I gotta head back on my deliveries now, or Pigsy will literally kill me and keep my head as a trophy, aha… Ahaha!” MK took a few curt steps back, before his eyebrows lifted, “Actually, you hungry?”

Macaque almost flinched, the words scathed his pride, like an accusation. Though the logical side of his brain corrected him, they were neutral, a question, “Oh, uh. I guess.” Which was an understatement and a half. His stomach tore him apart daily, hourly, minutely for scraps of food. The empty, acid-filled organ flexed in rage. Macaque almost collapsed under the sudden, overbearing pain of it. He gritted his teeth into a grimace when MK’s smile waned.

The kid ran back to his little car, the smell of ammonia and meat wafted from where it was parked. He fumbled with the overburdened stacks of noodles, grabbing onto one by the knot and running back with twice the vigour. MK slammed the clothed box into his hand, some sauce spilt out the sides. 

“Wait a minute… Isn’t this someone’s order?” He tilted it to the side, reading the long, flowing receipt stapled to it. MK snatched the list faster than a crow stole shiny jewels.

“They ordered a lot of stuff, I’m sure they won’t miss it!” MK turned, running back to his run-down car, all the while laughing maniacally. Maybe there were more similarities between the Kid and the Sun than he thought. A soft smile grew, though Macaque hadn’t the slightest idea why.

MK left in a blaze of dust and screech of tires; an air of agitated anxiety covered him as he zoomed off in the little car. He should really get a new one, Macaque mused to himself, the paint was peeling off. The little gift of noodles was placed delicately on an uneven table, one of the legs had grown wobbly and unstable, Macaque’s tried to find the root of the issue, but it remained a mystery. 

The knot of the fabric was so tight and intricate that Macaque could seriously not undo it. Fingers grew stiff at the middle joint, hands shaking at the labouring activity of undoing a clump of thin cloth. A sigh came torn from his throat; Macaque ripped the white packaging apart until the box was freed. Inside were the golden, shiny noodles curled up like the woven threads of a basket. Small bits and motes of vegetable and meat were sprinkled about. The scent was soothing to his mind and sparked a coil of pain to his body. 

Macaque reached for the chopsticks he stole earlier, sitting loyally in his back pocket, clacking them, and brushing away the flaky bits of wood. He curled his hands around them, smack… The chopsticks slipped from his grasp and clattered against the table. Eyes narrowed, he turned from the fallen utensils to his hands. Tremors rushed through him; each finger shook with effort. To curl them proved fruitless, hand reduced to a wooden, immobile thing. Groaning, Macaque picked them up with his non-dominant hand. He struggled to snip and grab at the slippery noodles, splatters of oil and sauce dripping across the table, shaken free from where they clung to the food. He moved to clamp his hand around the quaking arm, dominant fingers unmoving to his command, oh yeah…

Fuck this.

The weekend came blessedly fast, yet dreadfully slow. 

The week marched onwards, dragging Macaque along, who was laid face-down on the floor, unmoving. Days spent cracking the rigid joints of his fingers, hitting them against hard, sturdy counters until the material crumbled apart. Not only that, but his eyelids also began feeling like they were glued together, crusting over at the smallest of blinks, holding Macaque down like a plea for sleep. Though, it wasn’t sleep they were after, that much was clear. 

Macaque leaned in front of the cracked mirror, eyes lingering on the stubborn smudges that no amount of cleaning product could seem to banish. After a long history of sessions staring himself in the mirror, Macaque learned quickly that gazing into those reflections was a sure-fire way of ending up in the pits of a rather unpleasant breakdown. So, Macaque dragged his eyes from his hands, rigid and pale, twisted around the counter to keep himself upright; to the fringe of his face. 

Two days after MK left, Macaque started feeling his jaw tighten, lock up and refuse to open. Those days, when the stiffness seeped in, Macaque would resign to not eating. Not like there was anything resembling anything edible in this dump anyhow, but it was still quite annoying to have to force his own jaw apart. Another agitating addition was when the same numbness spread to the base of his ears. Ears had always been Macaque’s most mobile feature, flickering and batting like butterfly wings at every sound, now they stuck in one place as if they had frosted over.

Despite this, all of this, MK’s little hang out was today and he couldn’t be showing up looking half-dead… Or more so, flaunting to them all just how half-dead he actually was. Such came the process of bending and cracking every part of his body, shaking off the crust growing over like moss, and finally presenting like a functioning being. The firmness centred in his hands and face, so it was somewhat manageable right now.

Macaque wasn’t an idiot, debatable subjectively, but overall, he wasn’t particularly dumb in most instances. But standing here, hunched over the mirror, and curling each individual finger, feeling the rolls of pain clotting through his essence, Macaque knew.  

He’s dying all over again. 

It’s not turning out to be a particularly ravishing process either. It’s starting off slow at least, playing through the stages he was thankfully too dead to experience beforehand, but not so lucky this time around. First, it’s rigor mortis. His face will stiffen, lay his eyelids to repose, set his features into place to portray a sick mimicry of tranquillity. Next, the rest of his joints lock into place, stone creeping through skin and settling down. The process was tethered to his hands right now, crawling through his fingers until the appendages are as redundant as bricks.

After rigor mortis comes the decay, Macaque can only pray that he’s dead before that sets in.

The dying flames of shadow can’t stave this off for long and Macaque knew it. Knew it every time his heart raced, then slowed marginally until the blood stopped just a moment. Knew it when his hands locked up, left stranded and clawing at the walls, the floor, anything please just anything I’m begging you. Knew it in the chill of his skin, the unyielding goosebumps and how they pricked up even when basking under the sun. 

Macaque was dying, making a slow and painful descent back to the grave carved out for him a millennium ago, and today was his one chance to postpone the inevitable. That meant the fading glamours had to be tended to, a brush here, a flick there. The blotchy, greying skin needed to be painted over, messy fur had to be put together… The worst offenders, the six ears under the glamour, the curves in between that started to become nigh transparent, more lines than the usual ear would have broken through, the wan slivers of callused skin carving through his face, the milky film fogging up the right eye… 

It was very, very tempting to just bash his head into the glass and die right now. Would save him a lot of unnecessary trouble. But a sound derailed that train of thought abruptly, leaving him flicking his head wildly, where was that noise– fuck, where was it? The sound was shrill, like a bird's call but ten times more annoying. 

The glamours were rather hastily cast, flung with little care on presentation nor accuracy. The second Macaque took a step forward, the world flashed black, then there was nothing. His head hit the floor distantly, like feeling it happen from beside himself. That couldn’t be right, the pain existed as a dull ache in the air, this wasn’t his hurt. Macaque groaned, feeling his fingers curl up involuntarily like the legs of a dying spider. 

For just a few moments, everything existed in a vacuum. There wasn’t any pain anymore, it was good, it was peaceful even. Maybe he should just stay here, it’s good here. In this black void, not unlike the shadow realm he shrouds himself in, there's no worries. No worries about the inevitable death, no worries about Wukong and that jumble of confusing, incomprehensible feelings. No worries about glamour, keeping up appearances, constantly fussing over getting each tone, word, syllable out of his mouth right. No more worry about sound and how it strangled him, or the daily drone of existence…

The darkness crept in from the edges, particles of white trickled in like snow. His heart, once thumping rabbit-quick, finally calmed to a snail pace. He could barely feel anything, bathed in sunlight and a fuzzy feeling. Warmth washed over him like a wave, Macaque should just lay here for a while longer… Stay wrapped in this coddling isolation until the pain was a faint memory, beyond that even. 

He didn’t want to remember the past anymore. Even though at this point, it was really all Macaque had left. It carved its mark, and he'd romanticise the past like it's a fairytale, and not a defining fragmentation of his life. Replayed it over in rose filters because it was just so beautiful really, how red painted the scene as two friends fought. It was the perfect tragedy, the most prone story to exploit. It was simply bewitching to indulge in it over and over. The best part was how it ended, a neat little bow to the story, when his brains were splattered against jagged rocks like turbulent waves against the shore outcroppings.

But the story was born of hues of grey, no red to be seen in the air, only sprayed against the ground. There were only so many ways to twist it until he found himself in an incoherent mess of tangles and pointing fingers, pointing blame. A whimper of pain was heard from far away, across the world, oceans apart. Macaque was splintered, he’s the Frankenstein's monster of a past self and the abomination stitched up by ivory hands. A freak such as him should return to what he’s best at, where Macaque was destined to be… 

Just as it had moments prior, the tinny, keening noise shattered his thoughts as soon as they cropped up. 

Macaque was suddenly all too aware of his position, sprawled on the floor, face dug into scratchy carpet and legs splayed over the cold tile.
“Oh, fuck no,” He muttered to himself, picking up the pieces of his numb body, “I’m not dying today, it’s a Saturday.” Standing up had been growing increasingly difficult to accomplish, the rigor mortis sinking its claws into his kneecaps now. 

“Great, just fucking fantastic. Not only am I gonna die, I’m gonna look so stupid when they find my dead body… If anyone actually checks in my house, that is.” Macaque summoned strings of shadow from the ceiling, hoisting himself up like a puppet pulling its own strings. A wave of helium rushed through his skull, leaving his ears ringing and mouth dry.

“Okay,” He gagged, swallowing back grit, “Alright, this is manageable. I’ve gone through worse anyway.”

The beeping sound fired off another round and Macaque grumbled under his wheezing breath, cursing whoever was annoying him like this to an eternity of paper cuts. Well, they weren’t all bad. They saved him from laying down and dying like twice now, but they’re totally about to get their ass kicked the second Macaque made it to the god forsaken door.

The rusted hinges of said door shrieked like a banshee when Macaque opened it, the light outside flooded in with blinding force. He shrunk back, flinging the arm not clutching the doorknob over his eyes.

“Who the fuck is it?” His words came with less conviction than he was betting on, a hoarse whisper in the end. 

“Macaque!” An all too familiar voice called out, “What took you so long? I’ve been out here beeping my car for like twenty minutes! We’re going to be so late!”

MK was lucky as hell that Macaque needed to be in their good graces right now, otherwise he would have kicked that brat so far, an MK-shaped hole would have been left in the sun. 

“Kid? What are ya doing here?” His eyes blearily scattered to and fro, focusing on MK’s confused yet cheerful expression; to the parked car, engines still rumbling; to the shadows splashed against the sidewalk.

“Oh, I came to pick you up! I wasn’t sure if you knew your way to the noodle shop–”

“I told you I know where it is!” Macaque snapped; MK stared at him with wide eyes. 

The look soon melted away, their mouth pulled into a wiry and sheepish smile, “Oh, I know… But I assumed you were bluffing. Also, I was a little afraid that you, erm, wouldn’t show up.” He laughed, wrapping his finger around a strand of loose hair, “I know, paranoid much? I don’t know why I thought you would ghost me but… I just want to be your friend.” MK turned away, whispering the last part.

“Oh,” Now it was Macaque’s turn to look chagrined, “Well, that makes sense… Uh, thank you. MK.” And the kid grinned brighter than the dapples of sunlight the two of them bathed in.

Getting in the delivery car was a tight squeeze, Macaque competed for room up against about a dozen noodle boxes. The smell that drifted through the car was delectable, his hands inched forward to snatch one… But MK would surely notice. He occupied himself with humming, rocking back and forth, eyes trained to the window as the world zipped past. It was almost solemn, peaceful even, in the car. It reminded him of the days he and Wukong would ride the cloud together. He leaned against the window, body jostling with each uneven bump MK rode over. 

He inhaled and exhaled deeply through his nose, the only sound his laboured breathing and the quiet pop music playing from the car stereo. Macaque’s eyelids slid closed, a final heavy exhale leaving his dry lips, a puff of white air escaped. MK watched the drafts of icy air through the rear-view mirror, watched intently as Macaque shivered. A frown creased his mouth, slipping one hand off the steering wheel and turning off the A/C, dialling up the heating instead. Weird for someone to be so cold in the middle of summer…

The car lurched forward, Macaque’s head bounced off the fogged-up window and slammed against the head of MK’s seat.

“Woah, sorry about that, Macaque!” The door was already clicking open, footsteps followed. Macaque kept his head in place, warmth flooded the vehicle, trickling in through the floor and swathing up to his ankles. He went on with the gruelling process of cracking each digit and limb back into place, starting with his jaw, down to his knuckles, and the final descent at his knees. 

The door swung open; Macaque’s neck couldn’t move fast enough to meet MK’s concerned face.

“You good?” His voice was soft, softer than it ever should be when directed at Macaque. 

He pushed MK’s head away, swinging his legs over the seat and clambering out, proud he only faltered a little bit, “Yeah, I’m fine. Go be a worrywart for someone who needs it.” Macaque waved him away when that expression didn’t slip.

“Well… I know a lot of us are still recovering from Lady Bo– I mean, you know who. If you’re not feeling alright, you’ll tell me, right?” His eyes are round and lustrous, absolutely impeccable puppy dog eyes, “I’ll try to help however I can!”

“That’s sweet of you, but I promise I’m fine. Takes more than a little fight to put me down!” What he leaves out is that it only takes a little, itsy bitsy lack of magic to put him down…. The kid doesn’t need to know that though. 

A tug on the cuff of his top, five fingers curled around his sleeve and pulled him along. Macaque instinctively flinched, but if MK noticed, he said nothing about it. The pavement under them was rocky, tripping hazards everywhere. He tried to raise his legs higher to dodge them, but the locks sewn into his knees didn’t give way for that much movement. The muscles in his jaw clenched, teeth ground into each other as pain rocketed through every orifice. Days of sitting, laying, sleeping around the house had done little to prepare him for all the movement of today. 

The door to the noodle shop rattled when pushed open, the little golden bell jingling to announce entry. The shop was bustling with life; customers swarmed little, oily tables, noodle bowls and steamer baskets chock full of baozi between them; The pig demon, Pigsy, shooting back and forth inside the kitchen, sweat poured off him and stoked the smell of pork to waft through the store. Though, that might just be the noodles he’s preparing, who’s to say; The interior decorating was drab at best, an abundance of pinned up posters, ragged at the edges and half falling down, little framed photos lined across the wall, and sticky notes placed haphazardly across the white fridge. 

The worst thing was the noise. Everyone was talking, their lips moving as more sound was added to the inescapable haze. Their eyes skimmed the walls, their drinks, their half-touched food, and sometimes they would linger on Macaque’s frame. It sent shudders up his spine each time their pinprick pupils focused on him, their mouths pulling back into a frown at the mere sight. Trying to pick out any words was like searching for a needle in a haystack, or more so a specific strand of hay in a haystack. Everything blurred together, they might be talking about him, about the odd way he stands, or his rough appearance, or… 

MK still had their hand gripping his sleeve, giving a light pull, trying to get the both of them to move along. Across the small, claustrophobic room, a table was situated. A long, greasy cloth flung over it and way too many bowls piled atop the surface. Chairs crowded around, everyone squeezed next to each other, shoulder to shoulder. 

By ‘everyone’ he meant MK’s gang of friends. Tang, at the head of the table, seven empty bowls stacked next to him. He added an eighth to the pile, asking the others how long they thought it would take until it was as tall as him. Mei, phone face-down on the table, blasting some sort of loud metal music that faded under the sound of their combined voices. Sandy, squished into one of the little, wooden stools, Mo cooped up in his strong arms, who the fuck let a cat into a restaurant. Red Son, sat between Mei and an empty chair, absently shaking chilli powder into his bowl. The little girl sat next to Sandy, her chin barely making it over the table, she clutched a ragged cat plush close to her chest. 

MK left Macaque stranded, abandoning their grip to run towards the group. He collapsed into the seat beside Red Son, flopping halfway over the table to add to the unintelligible sound. Macaque stood unmoving, hand outstretched and almost frozen from MK’s lack of touch. The sounds of people talking, laughing, the music from Mei’s phone, it lowered to a buzz, the ringing in his ears took forefront. The only sound to be heard from the frozen Macaque were the erratic intakes of breath. He shouldn’t have come, but stiff legs can’t be convinced to move. Shadow flickered and waned, trying to escape from the outline of his body, trying to be somewhere else, anywhere else. 

Macaque needed to be here, he needed to leech off their magic and postpone his own demise. But he hadn’t accounted for the fact that he wasn’t well versed in social areas, not ones that are calm, relaxed, not a goal to be had (for them, at least.) It wasn’t just the noise, though that was a massive, hulking chunk of it, making his ears ring and he was sure they would bleed. Macaque hadn’t exactly been around people for… Centuries. Wukong had been his friend, but of course that had ended abruptly and spitefully. Add the Lady into the mix, and that was his fair share of close connection. 

That thread of closeness only led to one end, pain. Unnecessary pain. So, Macaque shrouded himself in shadow, in fragments of himself, in anything but the light. People fearing him were much more beneficial than those caring about him, the latter could be held over your head, could be used to walk over you like dirt. But here he stood now, and he was hit with a vague sense of Deja Vu, that he was walking a path already trodden down. There wasn’t much else to do, leaving now would seal his fate. 

MK was too preoccupied sharing fanciful stories with his friends to notice Macaque’s turmoil, kicking his legs under the table and scraping the ground with the bottom of his sneakers. Macaque tried to breathe, tried to shake feeling back through to his hands. The overburden of noise swept up the sound of someone approaching, the shadow of another melding into Macaque’s own. 

A pressure weighed down on his shoulder, he barely swallowed back a squeal, but didn’t manage to smother out the flinch. Legs buckling, Macaque twisted his body to meet round, black eyes with his wild ones.

“So, the kid wasn’t lying.” The gruff voice of the pig muttered, “You really showed up.” Macaque waited for it to come crashing, all the nasty, deserved words that could come flowing like a river to sweep him away and out the store. He’s really, really questioning why he thought it was a good idea to come in the first place…

Macaque nodded weakly. The pig looked him over, his rough eyes scanned Macaque from top to bottom. The creases and crows’ feet dappled across his pocked pink skin seemed to soften, the ragged exterior of the chef melted at recognising something in those feral eyes. 

“Alright, as long as you’re not up to any trouble, you can stay here. I got my eye on you though.” Pigsy winked and Macaque doesn’t really know why, “There’s a spare seat over there for ya, the one next ta’ Tang is mine, don’t go stealin’ it.” Macaque stayed trained on the pig, observing each movement as he turned to retreat back to the kitchen. 

Once Pigsy had fully disappeared behind the counter, Macaque could tell it was time to get moving. His breaths came out evenly, only interrupted by hiccups of strangled air. Back at the table, it was hard to pick through the packed crowd to make out the empty chair. It sat at the end, boxed in by the wall.

He shuffled toward it, footsteps making a small padding sound, barely audible over the chatter hung in the air. The stool left out for Macaque was crooked, chips carved into the legs. Placing a palm to the flat of the chair, it barely rocked under his weight. Macaque moved to sit down when a blur of gold caught his eye.

To the right of the unoccupied chair sat Sun Wukong, one arm propped up on the table, holding his chin up, and the other arm rested over his thigh. Wukong didn’t look at him, gaze wandering around the throng and pointedly ignoring Macaque’s presence. That was fine with him, it wasn’t as though Macaque had been seeking Wukong out himself anyway… That would be ridiculous, to still seek the validation and approval a single glance gave. He doesn’t do that.

Macaque settled on the seat, hands bunched together, and tail curled around his legs. If he breathed deep through his nose, the panic wouldn’t settle again, Macaque could stave it off, starve it of fuel to the fire burning incessantly. A shade draped over the room, veiling Macaque from the rest of the store. One with the shadow, the darkness, if he closed his bright, yellow eyes, they couldn’t see him at all…

In, out, in, out. The words started to trickle in.

“Oh yeah, my favourite part was when we all got around MK’s staff!” The chipper young voice of a best friend.

In, out, in, out.

“I don’t think there is a favourite part to be had… Though, I’m glad you’re okay, dragon horse girl–” A cut off speech, broken by a squeal of joy.

In, out, in, out. You can cope with this.

“I knew it! You care, ooh, yes you do!” A chant as two friends shook their third. The temperature rose. 

In, out, in, out, in, out, in, in, in– just breathe. Everything was pitch black, the sound a droning hum and the stool the only anchor tethering him to reality. The tight binds of glamour loosened up, they longed to sink back to the ground, coupled with the rest of the shadows. It wouldn’t be so bad, the protective armour of illusion was rather redundant, they can’t see him anyway. Why would they want to look at him, look destruction in the face. His pathetic little face. They’ll see someone who never learned to deal with his cards, burned them instead, ate the ash and called it good. The one hunkered over a grave, digging through the soil until his nails were blackened and skin smirched. The one laid in the bed he made, trying to fall asleep amongst rusted springs and the pea under the mattress, demanding more and more even as his heart stilled. 

Something clattered on the table in front of him, Macaque startled from his haze harshly, body jerking. His leg hit against the underside of the table. Boiling liquid splashed over onto his hand, searing at the skin. Macaque’s eyes widened, neck as rigid as a board, unable to really gain a sense of his surroundings. Absently, he wiped the hot liquid off.

To the left, Pigsy stood at the edge of the table, apron catching on the sharp corner.

“You good there?” The concern in his voice is palpable, Macaque could gag, “Looked a bit lost in your head. Patron thought you was scowling at ‘em.” Pigsy laughed, Macaque’s throat was too dry to laugh back. He directed his gaze to what landed on the table, a steaming heap of noodles, bathed in sauce. Drool almost slipped from the perch of his bottom lip but was quickly wiped away. 

“Oh, um.” Macaque smacked his hands around his pockets, feeling only the trusty chopsticks, a crumpled-up note, and… Well, they were dreadfully empty to say the least. He turned up to Pigsy, smiling sheepishly, as much as his face would twist to allow a smile. The pig’s eye twitched, but apart from that, simply shrugged Macaque off. Said something about it being a special occasion, or whatever. He wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth anyhow.

His fingers curled around the sticks; they clattered together in his grip. The rest of the table was enveloped in slurping and gossip, much too occupied with each other to watch the thousand-year-old demon fumble with the noodles. 

When the chopsticks slipped through inept fingers, Macaque cursed. He doesn’t notice when gilded eyes dragged on him, watching Macaque as he flexed and cracked his hands.

“Getting old?” Wukong chided, Macaque almost fell off his fucking chair. 

He shot Wukong a glare, he didn’t look nearly as smug as expected, almost bored, “Mind your business.”

Sun Wukong shrugged, “I wasn’t really expecting you to show up. What’s the ulterior motive here?”

Macaque flexed his knuckles again, they cracked like rust falling off metal, “Why do you assume I’m always scheming. Maybe I’m just trying to enjoy my nice bowl of…” He flicked towards the untouched serving, “...Noodles.”

“Suit yourself,” Wukong shifted his attention, back facing Macaque, and slurped away at his own bowl. He played with a round bun of baozi with his free hand, all the while Macaque silently seethed in jealousy. Dumb Wukong, being able to eat so easily…

Macaque tried to grab onto his utensils again, but his dominant hand was as useful as a slab of wood. The entire appendage, up to the wrist, was frozen solid with not a twitch to be felt. Macaque sighed, using his other hand to try and crack it back to mobility.

Try 1, not much difference. 

Try 2, a horrifically loud crack made the others jump and look at him funny, so something must be going right.

Try 5, any moment now.

Try 16, ok… This isn’t working. 

If Macaque still had feeling in his hand, it would no doubt be erupted in molten lava. Pinpricks of pain scattered about the forearm; warmth pulsed through his blood. The redundant arm flopped uselessly to his side, numbly scraping against the stool. Macaque picked up the discarded chopsticks with his other arm, stabbing at the noodles. It took a lot of tremors and spilt sauce, but he finally got a bite. They had cooled off significantly, couldn’t even taste the steam on his tongue, but it made him near weep regardless. 

The noodles, all the food around them, had sprinkles of magic weaved between them. It was something natural in the work of a demon, Pigsy probably wasn’t even aware that he had been shedding it like seasoning. Tiny pricks of magic were endowed into the food, it wasn’t enough to fuel him unless he ate them out of stock… Gazing around there didn’t seem to be much infused with demon magic, he’d have to find something bigger.

He didn’t notice Wukong stare at him oddly, compare his own hands, pointer and thumbs creating an L, then glance back at Macaque’s arm, eyebrows furrowed. Instead of focusing on Wukong, or the rest of the group, Macaque stuffed as many noodles as he could manage into his gaping mouth. Nothing else mattered, he was eating. It warmed his stomach, a different warmth than the overbearing ache gnawing away at him. The pain stuck to his side, in his limbs, in his head. All too much, but right now all he could feel were the soft noodles and the dulling ache of his stomach. 

The conversation around the table buzzed on, slipping past Macaque’s twitching ears. He’s not bothered by it, not his business so not his problem. Unfortunately, all the stars aligned just to take glee in his suffering, again.

“So, Macaque.” It’s the kid speaking, he knew it without even having to see, “What do you think about it?” Everyone looked at him, stared like they just now realised he’s there. Macaque swallowed back the food in his mouth, he went to purse his lips, tilt his head to the side and say ‘what were we talking about? I zoned out, you’re a boring bunch, I assumed you’d be more interesting given all the trouble you attract.’

That doesn’t happen however. Macaque's lips couldn't even quirk into a smirk, his jaw was heavy, and mouth was flattened to a straight, immoveable line. The stool clattered to the ground with the force he stood up with. Macaque breathed heavily through his nose, trying to stop a fit of hyperventilation from cropping up. MK’s lax expression melted away, face screwed up in misplaced concern. Something burned, Wukong had his head canted to meet his face, eyebrow quirked. All those eyes, other customers glanced over too, scrutinising him. 

It was too hot, chills ran through his body, yet the heat was blistering, like having your face inches away from a roaring bonfire. Sweat trickled over goosebumps. 

“Macaque?” MK’s voice was soft, like confronting a cornered, skittish animal. Which he was not. He couldn’t even contort a smile, couldn’t brush this one away with a few well-placed remarks. 

A blessing poured in from the heavens above. Pigsy shuffled about in his seat, gesturing to the side,

“The restrooms down the hall, if you need it.” His voice was soft, too soft for someone with such a rugged tone, too soft to be directed at Macaque. He took it gratefully, sapping up the dishonest words of faux concern. Macaque nodded vehemently, twisting from one foot to the other. He must have appeared wild, large eyes sporting a feverish demeanour, face pulled taut and blank. 

Without much thought to imminent consequences, Macaque dropped through a pool of shadow. The portal swept him up, swept him away, coddled him from the scrutiny and the embarrassment stinking up the place. Macaque had to claw his way from the portal, going from a sea of ink black to the sterile white of the restaurant bathroom. 

It was a single stall, one corner for going about one’s business, and a sink opposite it. Macaque tried to stand, tried to twist his body to reach for the mirror above the sink. Only one arm cooperated in scrabbling for the thing, the other still feeble and motionless at his side. Knees wobbling at any meagre attempts to stand left Macaque crawling, one hand pressed to the searing cold tile, both legs shuffling listlessly. 

He doesn’t make it to the mirror. 

The air was filled with fumes, the lingering smell of cleaning products swarmed his mind and cleared all rational thought out. The magic in his chest flickered; white, frosted air emerged from his nose, like the cold air on winter mornings, instead of his mouth which was a little too stuck to evacuate out of. The wound in his side, uncared for, neglected in the grand scheme of things, pulsed. 

Everything was too much whilst his brain held onto too little input. The floor under Macaque’s hands spun, toppling over itself as his vision went woozy and dreamlike. A choking feeling arose from his throat, pressing in at all sides, Macaque gagged. 

He had only a few moments to hurriedly crawl to the toilet before the saliva pooling over his tongue could completely spill over and clatter against his closed teeth. Macaque towered over the porcelain seat, nothing but the sanitary smell to accompany him, to soothe his frazzled nerves, it did neither. Macaque dug five fingers into his cheek, scrambled for the bones making up his jaw and ripped. The muscles, tight and stuck in place, spasmed as Macaque forced them open. It was like breaking apart tree bark between his hand. A faint buzzing feeling swept through each atom of Macaque’s body, he had to pull this puppet’s strings, open the maw of the beast, all before the feeling got much further. 

His jaw was torn open with a sickening crunch, blood rolled down the corner of his lip, dripping down his chin and staining the pristine white floors. A scream died on his tongue. Macaque clutched the seat one-handedly, knuckles locking up from the force of it. He leaned down, hair brushing the sides, and heaved his stomach up.

It was only noodles, the few minuscule bites he could manage, all down the toilet. Blood, and tears mingled with each other, racing down his greying skin. Macaque’s eyelids were shot open, his hand letting go of the toilet even as more sick rolled from his open lips, and Macaque wriggled his toes to test if he could still even feel that far down anymore. 

Drool slipped past his swollen lips, plopping against the bowl with a sound that rang with finality. Burning streaks zipped down his pasty face, pearling on the waterline and catching against his eyelashes. Macaque’s body was deathly still, hovering over the toilet, uncaring of the salty dewdrops of weakness blurring his vision and marking its claim over his skin. 

The noodles he fumbled with, chopsticks shaking in a stiff hand, only a few molecular bites made it down his throat. Now it’s gone, he has to do it all over again. His mind grew fuzzy and wobbly, no thoughts could form solidly, all that existed was the disgusting smell, that thankfully overpowered the sterile stench, and the ringing in his ears. 

Macaque’s session of sitting and panting was rudely interrupted by knocking on the bathroom door. He snapped his jaw open, grinding teeth together until it came fully loose.

“Occupied.” He snapped, voice scratchy and raw from throwing his guts up only moments prior. 

“I know,” It’s Tang this time, Macaque wordlessly sneered at the locked door, “Pigsy thought he heard vomiting, did the food make you sick?” Tang’s words were like a fuzzy blanket gracing his sore ears.

“Y–yeah. Just a little.” Was what he lied, because he couldn’t say the nausea was a built-up thing resting as a lump in his throat, choking him until the dirt and worms reclaimed this wretched body.

Tang shuffled outside the door, a muffled sigh, “MK, he uh… Said you haven’t been looking so swell, is everything alright?” Macaque said nothing, stubbornly keeping his eyes on that stupid, white door, “I know you’re like, our enemy, or something. I assumed that was all laid to rest after helping us… I mean, well, I don’t know. I figured since you showed up, you wanted to be our friend… Maybe. Ah, I probably sound crazy. Uh, I might have some medicine if you need it, wait right here–” And Tang scurried off before Macaque could even wedge a word into his monologue, real nice, he sees where MK gets it.

Macaque resigned himself to the gruelling process of peeling himself away from the bathroom, clammy skin suctioned to an inanimate chill. His ears tried to flicker, to find each noise and compartmentalise them all, sort by important and useless drawling words. His ears strained, solid and flush against his skull. Stuck, they’re stuck. He ignored the heavy weight to his eyelids, how they tried to flutter closed, to shut forever more.

He’s not dying, not in a restaurant bathroom, not with Sun Wukong laughing and eating in the hallway over. Not while everything continues on sunshine and rainbows, leaving Macaque to succumb to a fate he denies. 

His knees buckled under him, soon standing will be a distant memory, as distant as seeing out two eyes, Macaque appreciated it while he still could. Each individual bone popped rapid fire at the shift of joints, finally on two, rather shaky, legs. 

There was no time to let Tang shovel medication down his clogged throat, no time to struggle like a child over chopsticks, flaunting a humiliating display to anyone who dared face what lurked in the dark. There was no time.  

Shadow whipped at his feet, enveloping his frame in the shade he was born from. It carried him towards magic, towards his one chance at staying alive for any longer. Up the stairs; past the pinned-up hand-drawn pictures; through the unlocked, open door; eyes sharpening upon seeing it.

Macaque’s ticket to life.

MK and Wukong stood in his living room. 

Neither of them had weapons drawn, for obvious reasons. MK’s eyes were half-lidded, lips quirked into a small frown, Wukong, on the other hand, was fuming with righteous fury. 

“You– I knew you were up to something!” He blabbed off, waving his arms around wildly, “That’s why you came? You’re so impossible, you know that? How did you even-” Wukong sounded more like a scathed parent than an archrival. 

“Monkey King, calm down.” The kid placed a placating hand on his shoulders, forcing Wukong to slump back.

Macaque continued to sit, back pressed against the wall, surrounded by the darkness he craved. He honestly wished for the two of them to leave, but by their stern faces and firm stance, that wasn’t about to happen.

They stormed to his house at around five thirty in the morning, the sun hadn’t even yet breached the horizon. The door rattled with furious knocks before the sound of wood shattering to bits echoed throughout the silent house. Macaque straightened his back, curled his one hand tighter, and filled his skull with a blank nothingness that rivalled his shadow realm.

He couldn’t make out much of their appearance, whether they were dishevelled in their rush, or if they preened themselves to look presentable on the way, barring off opportunities for Macaque deflections and insults. 

“Macaque.” The kid ducked down to try and catch his eyes, “Dude, not cool. What are you even doing with that?” Macaque would respond with something snappy, something to make MK shudder and back away, looking to Wukong for guidance. He’d always looked to him because Wukong had always been a guiding beacon. There was a time he was also a beacon to him, but no longer was he anything to Macaque.

His mouth was stitched closed. Crust and dryness glued his lips together, muscles pulled rigid. Macaque would shrug if that was still an option. He unwound his hand and gave a vague, noncommittal wave.

“Damn it, say something!” Wukong reared forward, a pitiful attempt to assert himself as the powerful one in this exchange. His golden hands clutched Macaque’s shoulders, shaking him so hard the back of his head bounced off the wall. The rustling sound with each push pounded in Macaque’s ears.

Wukong relented, the warmth like two pools of fire stayed on his shoulders, burning him from the inside out. 

“You look utterly stupid.” Wukong hissed, “What is your deal?” No response could be pulled from the tense, still body. Each individual digit of Macaque’s hand coiled back around the mostly smooth item, twisting to feel the grooves running up and down the chipped surface. It served as enough of a distraction to forget about Wukong eclipsing him.

A thump to his side, Macaque could hear the kid breathing near his right.

“Look, Macaque, are you sick or something? Tang said the food made you unwell–”

Wukong cut them off, “He used the ‘sickness’ as an excuse.” MK sighed. 

“Can you at least take the bag off?” His voice wasn’t demanding, not like the weights sizzling at his stiffened shoulders, it was tired.

The ripped ends of the brown paper bag skimmed against his neck; two little holes poked through to allow the tiniest bit of sight. It had been early, two hours prior, Macaque had been staring at the mirror. He stared as if the imposter on the other side would disappear if he blinked. Watched as the scar stretched back over his skin, a peal dusting shone through his marred eye, ears twisted apart, fur tangling… He ripped the magic from between organs and bone, holding the tiny, golf ball sized orb up to the dingy orange light. 

His magic was dying. There’s no fuel, no more kindling, it was over. Macaque’s body grew more sluggish the longer he stood there, staring at the withering flames. Through the black of night, Wukong and MK’s words had been like firecrackers at a funeral, too loud for the growing pit in his stomach, the detachment forming in the seams of his brain. The paper bag was the only way to deter them, his face was too vulnerable, especially for how spiteful they would be.

It wasn’t as if Macaque didn’t know why, the staff clutched between one, shaking hand was all the evidence needed. The bright red and gold, shining symbol of the Monkey King. And it had just been laying there, propped up against the frame of MK’s bed. A source of unknown power, magic exuded through the room, gathering at the clutter, and spewing out in fumes. The magic stowed in his chest thumped at the sight, the smell, the glitters of mystic energy making his heart race.

The only logical step was, of course, stealing MK’s staff. 

Tucking it under his arm was futile, the shadows he summoned lapped at the sides but refused to take. Golden light like the sun’s glare scared them off, so Macaque just had to muster more shade, more darkness until pitch black enveloped the room, sinking the staff and Macaque into the murk. Once landed back in his house, Macaque dry heaved again, his stomach was well and truly empty, and his magic was no stronger.

He slumped against the wall, running his hand over it like the next time would stoke a change, committing each chip and each scratch to memory. Every burn, every mar, every defect, it all carved into the metallic material, stories of battles all under his fingertips. It was power, it was the lighthouse in the middle of the stormy, turbulent waves drowning him. Water filled his lungs, claiming him part of the coral, the seaweed, the salt. But there, body turning to stone, a final last imitation of all Wukong is and will be, the light went out… And once again, Macaque was left stranded in the dark. 

The ball of magic, the one thing powering his body like a battery, stayed still in his chest. There was no flutter as the flames raised to tickle the bottom of his throat, there was no squeeze as life slipped from his palm. There was simply nothing. 

The staff in his slipping grip was naught but a stabiliser. It held together the shrivelling orb and immortalised it, all of its feeble glory stuck together with fragile, unstickable glue. Fire grew at the corner of his eye, slipping down his cheek and leaving a blazing trail in its wake. He left the space carved out for him only to hide away his face, obscure imperfection under crumbled paper. Then he returned to where his shadow remained, adopting the same position. A statue holding a staff that didn’t belong to him, too dense to fit comfortably against his palm. 

And here Wukong and MK hovered over him, prodding and snapping until they could string a reaction out of Macaque, anything other than the impassable silence. It’s defiance, Wukong squawked, it’s him trying to get them to back off, fold to his will. If Macaque wanted to do that, he would, and he would have done it already and it would have worked. He’s utterly useless here. A scream boiled at the back of his throat, lamenting the fact Wukong stood over him and Macaque was forced to sit, head bowed, and accept the fact he was drowned in his shadow once more. Soon he’ll fade away, and Wukong will wipe the sweat from his brow and chuckle to the heavens, whisper ‘good riddance!’ to the winds and continue on as if nothing had changed.

Macaque’s hand tensed, imagined swinging the staff until it went careening into Wukong’s skull, how it might shatter and leave him stumbling for the few seconds it takes to recover. Damaging Wukong was never easy, you could beat him with sticks and stones until your hands bled and he would simply laugh, tell you better luck next time in that condescending tone that made your mind torn between tearing his fur out or your own. Words though, sharp, painful words that twist through the soft, pulsing organ between his ribs, that could work… That had worked, the one of the only ways to drive him towards the script, to make him act as he should be acting. Macaque grumbled at the recent memories, he’d gone off script, he’d sweat, and he’d cried out for the kid, coddled his friends like they were weak. Wukong wasn’t like that, he never cared… Never cared about his friends. 

The staff clattered to the floor, it rolled across the carpet and tore out plumes of dust in its wake. Macaque’s hand shook, nothing could still it, not even the glares he shot it deterred the trembles. The tides turned in his favour for a few moments, allowing him to breach his head from the waters and breathe, the kid and Wukong both fumbled for the staff. They didn’t look at the one wreathed in darkness, nor how he shook. Just the staff, at least that held some importance.

MK grasped the staff, storing away into his ear with a zap of white light.

“I don’t get it,” He muttered, eyes searching everywhere on Macaque, seeing too much, “This is like, the second time you’ve tried to steal my power. I’d assume you’d, y’know, do something? Put up a fight?” The weight of his gaze shifted to Wukong, “Monkey King, I think something is wrong. Macaque is acting… Different.” He hummed, said nothing, didn’t acknowledge Macaque’s ill acting. 

Wukong knew how he acted, he knew better than Macaque knew himself, he’s seen each side of him indiscriminately. The highest peaks, standing alongside him, shadowed staff in hand and searching eyes. An ebbing smile plastered on Macaque’s face as he tried to fit into the shade Wukong carved out. The deepest pits, tear-stained face, hands scrabbling at the ground for purchase. Feeling nothing but rocks and dirt under the pads of his fingers. Wukong, watching onward with no trace of feeling in those blank, bloodshot eyes. He stared down as Macaque scrambled for the warmth his skin left, even as blood seeped from the open battle wounds. Even as Macaque’s voice crumbled, he begged for Wukong to come back into his vision one last time before it all burned away.

Wukong knows. 

The red of an unattended gash made itself well known. Red, like an endless sea. Red, like the fire swelled by everyone’s hyperventilating oxygen. Red, like those eyes. Red, like the blood that trickled from abraded bandages onto the dusty floors. 

It was the red that caught MK’s attention, the open-mouthed gaping, the hurried flicks of his pupils from the growing puddle to his mentor’s cold face. 

“You’re injured,” He informed uselessly, still grappling silently with words to speak, like saying the right thing could make it all go away, “How?” Was all they settled with, eyebrows creasing the skin in between.

Macaque’s jaw cracked like bone when opened.

“The fight, days back… Don’t worry ‘bout it, kid.” His words were raspy, deep, and muddled with a gruffness normally only found in the few moments after waking up. 

“Days back?” They grasp Wukong’s flowing, red ribbon-like scarf, tugging on it like they can force him to move, to fix everything, “You guys heal like, abnormally fast! This shouldn’t be happening.” Wukong bit his bottom lip, worrying the flesh under his teeth. He doesn’t look at Macaque, doesn’t look at the red, eyes trained to the ground.

“I told you not to worry,” Macaque spat his words, “Don’t you listen?”

MK stamped; mouth torn open, ready to disprove everything he said in a disquisition that would forever change the mould of Macaque’s mind. On the first intake of breath, Wukong halted MK.

“Don’t bother with him,” Wukong spoke with a lack of conviction, tired in ways that weren’t obvious in grey bags hanging under his eyes, or the limp movements of his tail. A different kind of exhaustion, “We got your staff, we should go now.” MK doesn’t argue, he bowed his head and followed behind Wukong as they evacuated. 

One of them glanced back, eyes swimming with an emotion Macaque could not and would not name. It wasn’t MK.

The stabiliser was gone.

MK’s staff hadn’t much magic to its name. It was a channel, the catalyst, the magical properties funnelled through it and streamed out the other side. Once a metal bar sitting lonesome in the dragon treasury, now a staple to the Monkey King brand. His shadow staff wasn’t much the same, it was the magic, it was the manifestation of his darkness. MK’s staff, Wukong’s staff, was unnatural in his grip. It wasn’t his, he wasn’t even supposed to wield it. Wukong let him hold it once when they were young, Macaque wobbled with the weight of it, face lit up in the reflection of the sun. 

Tantalising sprinkles of magic coated the staff, enough to inhale and choke on, but not enough to shirk off the death slinking in. 

Macaque ran a finger over his useless hand, traced over the calluses and nicks, felt the pinpricks of magic clinging to his skin. Residues of mystic energy stuck to his clothes, the floor where the staff rolled, MK’s energy rubbing off on him, only enough to allow him breath.

Failure was not something Macaque was unacquainted with. It was what loomed at the end of the road, the pit that ended the path he walked. It was the twisting, soul-sucking feeling curdling deep in his stomach, it was the flashes of light moments after you exert your best options. It’s the proud clamouring of your assailants as they tell each other how good they are, that this is heroic. And you know as clear as daylight, as consistently as air, that you are not good. This failure is justified because your success opens gates for far worse bloodshed. It doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Then comes the sick sense of disappointment, that heavy, gripping feeling of eyes that no longer look at you. Even though the sun is always watching, even in the dead of night, he watches you. Though, it’s more of a prayer, a hope, that he’s staring intently as you do. Because deep, deep, deep down in that pit where nothing good emerges, you can’t think of a reason why he’d even want to look at you anymore. You’re awful, aren’t you? A sullied, disgusting thing that took someone else’s place. A creature that excavated the dead, took his skin, stole his voice, a monster by all but name. But taking what doesn’t belong to you is all you have left. If you can’t be him, and if you can’t be the dead thing, then what do you even have left? What can you even do except grapple towards the one thing, the one being who makes the blood in your body move, your heart thump, your lungs expand. The only one reminding you that you’re still alive.

What do you even do when he wishes you were still dead?

Well, Wukong wouldn’t have to wait long. Soon, the moss, the creeping vines, will have claimed him. Macaque would be curled up like roadkill, back to the ground where he belonged. But, but, but there was no way in cold, flaming hell that would be the end of it. Macaque would bite until his teeth went blunt, would claw until his hands finally failed him, kick until they took a knife to his legs, scream until his vocal cords became a distant memory - Macaque would not die silently, they would not remember him quietly. 

Against the wall, Macaque closed his eyes. The darkness, the scattered remains of light trapped under his eyelids, it all fizzled out. Death wasn’t near, he remembered the feeling of it well enough that he could tell. Death was a cold blanket; it was a shudder through his body. His mind would numb like a lightbulb flicking off. He would be free of feeling, but it wouldn’t be so bad. Being free of feeling meant that he was free of the ones that burned, and the ones that soothed were lost to the tides by the point anyway. His memory would slip away, seep out, tethered to his leaking blood. Macaque would just be Macaque, and then he would be nothing. 

But that feeling evaded him, so instead of letting the hands of anxiety drag him, instead his head lolled down. Sleep claimed him gently, took him into her hands and stroked down his spine. 

Sleep was a comforting sister to Death’s embrace.

Light.

Light flooded from the holes in the curtains, how they swayed in the wayward gales. Light streaked against the floor, dappling across the smears, the burns, the prickles of dust. Light seared at Macaque’s eyelids until he was forced to open them, giving in to the cascades of luminescence. 

The darkened walls were flush with the sun’s glare. Birds chirped with the morning's raise, each one screaming with the start of the day. They were mating calls, calls for companionship. There was no specific sound for Macaque to use, all the feasible ones required too many words, vulnerable and open words that would seal a fate worse than this impending death. That companionship just wasn’t for him. 

It was a retroactive realisation that he survived the night, sleep's hug relented to let him listen to the dawn chorus for one last time. Everyday Macaque would curse the birds, the sounds that insisted their existence be heard. Tomorrow, or perhaps a few hours later, it wouldn't be a problem. Nothing would be a problem. The only existence an inescapable void, a black room with no thoughts, barely the acknowledgement of being, for there wasn't one to be had. 

Macaque's body was so stiff he might as well have been a statue., frozen in time with his legs crossed and head flopped between his shoulders. Moving again was like moving a door with rusted hinges, like moving a wooden toy not broken in by children’s hands for decades, like having to manually relearn how to move. Macaque flailed like a helpless infant, feeling so small and miniscule in the neverending dusk permeating his home.

His mind frazzled, strings of incoherent thought stitching together something resembling a brain. The orb rotted in his chest, the shadow subsided, opening the lock to something darker than the shadow realm, back to the underworld itself. With each seam of glamour over his mangled face, with each twitch of darkness to aid him in standing, moving, breathing, each ribbon of shade holding his bones together. With every strain on his magic, Macaque’s breathing grew a little wearier, his skin mottled a little greyer. 

Despite the feeling of his skin stretching, loose around his skeletal frame like it will shed off at a moment’s notice, Macaque trudged onwards. Only the drowning light could guide him, only the unmoving signals of his ears served as a pointer. Only the thundering heartbeat of the sun himself to serve as a compass.

Macaque stumbled out the door and through the city like a zombie, which wasn’t far from the truth anyhow. The eyes, the eyes, of the strangers only pushed him on. People, mortals, humans in their little groups; how their faces dropped and paled, how they shuffled away, parting like the sea for him. They must notice him, they see Macaque, they see him for what he is and not for what he wanted them to see. A dead thing. Dead was what he’d always been, he shouldn’t have staved this destiny off for so long, a lot more good, heroic things could have bloomed had Macaque stayed good and dead. The soil and the worms were his closest friends, they wheedled into his heart and consumed the little that remained. He couldn’t wait to get back to them, pick off where they left off. 

He passed a building, bright pink neon sign near blinding him, and an aggravatingly stubborn stench of noodles followed. The sun’s thumping heart didn’t linger here, on staggering legs Macaque continued on. 

The people weren’t simply scared of him. Macaque watched with hazy, lidded eyes as they screwed their nose up before he even came to view. They looked to their companions, all of them searched around for the horrific stench, then Macaque stumbled past, and they launched away as if burned by his presence. It was better that they leered, jumped away, it was the best outcome. No-one had to be stabbed with the pointed jags of his staff, and Macaque didn’t need to summon it yet.

The people weren’t just scared of him, they were outright disgusted. 

The heartbeat of the sun, of Wukong, echoed in his ears. It was strong, sure, it beat with security. The loud, constant thumps of an organ pumping blood through a stone, it drowned out the sound of his dimmed, muted beats. If he can make it; if his glamours and bandages of shadow, wrapped around his form, can last; if he can put one foot in front of the other; Macaque can find Wukong’s heart, wrap his hands around it, and find salvation in a new beat. Wukong is the solution and the problem, if he can just get there, become part of him too, maybe he will be immortalised in the sun’s glow. At least it would be warm, his first death had been dreadfully frigid. Though, it wasn’t cold in a way he could grasp, it was simply the absence of heat. Nothing but bones and scraps of fur left of him, laid in a shallow grave. His spirit, his soul, it stayed tucked away in the chains, in the shadow.

That’s all he’d ever be, just a shadow. Macaque will return to his post soon, fade into the darkness to never be seen again. He will be good, he is bad when alive, he will be good.

Wukong was alone, he stood there, arms crossed, and one leg propped up against a wall, and he was utterly alone. The crowds deterred their path around him, a bubble of unseen protection seemed to shine. Wukong had a casual yellow hoodie on, its strings uneven and bitten, head down to distract from the glints of gold in his eyes. Wukong’s tail had slithered around his own leg, squeezing tight and reassuringly.

Wukong never liked being around people either, though he used to bathe in it. Macaque remembered, while his recollection melted into puddles and slipped through the drain, Macaque remembered. He would shine in the spotlight, ginger strands reflecting in the gleams. But the people would clamour for more. Praise, cry, sacrifice for him.  

Soon, Wukong would find his legs locking before entering the stage, his fur puffing and sweat pooling. He continued on the charade he started, for there was no evidence to prove he was anything else but this caricature. But a performance is hard to hold up, it’s even harder when no-one knows you’re an actor. When the spotlight never left, even when the stage faded into the distance. When everyone’s eyes are on you, waiting for another act. When the crown you built of sticks and thorn dug into your skin, when the mask against your face solidified, when everyone laid their life at your feet. Macaque supposed that a performance like that would lead to a detrimental fate when the true shining spotlight makes your skin crawl and heart shudder for fear of what could happen when the act finally cracks.  

Macaque craved the stage Wukong rejected. He wanted the eyes, the light, the cheer. But once he stepped off, he was the darkness again. The second he returned to being Macaque, the eyes faded. It was far more interesting to listen to tales from distant lands, from mountains far away from their waterlocked abode. Tales of warriors, of maidens, of the enigmatic lives of those stowed away in the clouds far above. They didn’t look at him otherwise, but their eyes fed a deep, starved part of himself. If to get what he craved meant abandoning himself, then by all means, it wouldn’t be the first time.

But now the eyes were on him, and Macaque could almost, for just a moment, walk the same path Wukong had. Stumble to the stage, feeling everyone’s gaze, their expectation hung heavy, how everyone stared. All types of observation fed the beast, but these were poisonous, sickening stares. It made Macaque feel like an out of place decoration more than a star, something off kilter to leer at. It was manageable when the world had been in his palm, grip tight. When he could spin the stage, the atmosphere could shift at his will. With his body deteriorating like an expired pastry, the strings of the world fell ineptly out his hands.

There was a side Macaque wished no-one to see, the being he was when not performing like a circus animal. The six ears people’s hands roamed towards, to snatch, to pinch, to scream in until they bled. His eye, how people's gaze locked onto it, seeing his point of weakness like a visible X marks the spot. These strangling imperfections, these cracks in the mirror, it was the ugly, vile thing Macaque really was. And eventually, his ability to play the audience like puppets, to make them see only what he wanted them to see, would fall. As he stumbled through the city, it was falling. 

Everything was deteriorating, spinning, toppling over. And Macaque was in the centre of it all, useless, and swept up in the world's whims. Everything he built up cracked apart, other people tried to break apart the layers of protection he made for himself. How they tore down walls and armour, performances he’d spent centuries perfecting so no-one would see. And destiny suffocated him again, helpless…

Macaque would be seen one last time, the eyes would be on him and he would feel it. They would look, and it wouldn’t be with disdain, like a roach who sullied the clean floors. It would be fear, it would be awe, it would be his final act.

“Wukong.” His voice was strained, like he smoked twenty cigarettes before showing up. Macaque’s legs gave out, his kneecaps locked up and bent towards each other. Yet he stumbled forward, shuffling over the rugged pavement. Wukong’s tail merely twitched, then his nose.

Macaque repeated, “Wukong,” His word a mere whisper, yet a scream in all but tone. The shadow staff was torn from the darkness, his fingers curled around the handle, the numbness that emerged fastened it in place. The final fight, his final breaths. “Fight me.”

Wukong merely sighed, throwing his head back and lashing his tail, “Oh gods, not this again.” 

Macaque’s grip on the staff couldn’t tighten, but his shoulders raised. 

“You have to, or else…” Macaque tried to twist his neck, but found it immobile, he flickered around his darkening vision, “Or else I’ll– I’ll hurt someone. One of these bystanders, they’ll die because of you.”

Wukong still won’t look at him, Macaque was too disgusting to observe, but he has to see. Everyone else is easily fooled by amateur performances, but Wukong was different. He’d observed Macaque’s death once already, there was nothing more fitting than him… But he was different, not the same Wukong he’d known on that mountain. Maybe he would just finish him off, that would be good too.

“Really now? What happened, your threats used to be so much better. This is pathetic.” Macaque’s waning heart fluttered at the implication that something he did had ever been good, but it was stamped out by the growing flames consuming him whole.

“You… You will fight me, and I’m going to fucking kill you.” Macaque’s shoulder cracked as he swung the staff outward, pointing it right at Wukong’s neck, “You’re going down–” With me.  

“Yeah, we’ll see about that.” And Wukong finally tore his gaze away from the faraway place he delved into, finally breathed air back into Macaque’s lungs with the smallest of glances. Wukong’s face ebbed. First, his face was pulled into a line, boredom palpable in the frown of his lips and the distant look of his eyes. Then, his eyebrows creased, staring Macaque right in the face in a way that burned. Next, his face dropped, turning sheets of chalk white, mouth hung open with a sharp intake of breath. Wukong stepped back curtly, tail thrashing and ears flickering madly.

“Macaque?” Wukong gasped, words croaked in a way that made him sound close to tears, but that couldn’t be right. There was nothing to cry over, nothing to mourn, “Gods, what happened to you? They said you were sick but I– What is that smell?” Macaque forced the staff to shift forward, the blunt end of it pushing against Wukong’s chest, 

“We’re going to fight, right here.” 

Wukong looked at him like he was delusional, “You can’t be serious, I’m not fighting you like this!”

“Why not? ‘Cause I’m too weak? Even like this, I can beat you.” The lies seeped through clenched teeth, ground down to dust that carried on the wind.

Wukong’s eyes looked him up and down, sapping up each detail. Every loosening glamour, how his ears poked through and disappeared again. Patches of grey skin emerged to the surface; blue shades flourished like bruises against his sagging flesh. Everything around them stunk of rotting meat, it permeated from Macaque himself. 

Macaque’s eyelids drooped, exhaustion gripped him from the bones, his body faltered with every second standing. Wukong was finally looking at him, the civilians around the display all stopped to watch as well, with bated breath, they clapped for the ending to this thousand-year vaudeville. Wukong backed away, and Macaque pushed forward to close the gap. He needed to press further, to feel the heat trapped in his chest, just behind his ribcage. Wukong put his arms on Macaque’s shoulders, halting him and finally managing to create distance between them. He felt Macaque’s decaying skin through thin cloth, his taut muscles. Disgust poured off him, yet his hands only clutched on tighter. 

“You’re just sick, you’re okay.” Wukong huffed, looking away, staring at the storm drain in the gutter, “Uh, oh gods, you smell like– like the time we left our fruits out for too long and they rotted. I’m gonna puke, ugh.” He lifted one hand to pinch his nose, the emptiness it left in its place almost crumbled Macaque’s body there and then. 

He wasn’t looking, his eyes were far off, flickering shades of gild as he tried to contact someone through a thin, unstable connection. He wasn’t looking, avoiding seeing the degraded state of his shadow. Wukong’s last hand retreated, mouth moving quickly as he desperately called out to someone Macaque couldn’t make out, a blur of gold tethered to the gritty road.

Macaque screeched; a sound torn from the hell he’d temporarily escaped. The crowds around them shifted, pressing against the walls of the buildings, creating a protective moat. Wukong stared at him, eyes wide as he stared at Macaque’s failing jaw. His face wasn’t contorted in fear, not the emotion Macaque wanted to expose, it was something softer. Something close to concern, an expression not reserved for him.

“Why aren’t you fighting me?” More screaming, hoarse and strained, barely a scream at all. 

“What is your thing about fighting right now? I get that you’re evil or whatever and you hate me but you’re sick! This is irrational, just sit here, help is gonna come soon–” Wukong turned away, the tip of his tail, curled into a spiral, the only thing Macaque could see with his bleary vision.

He took a step forward, his knees buckled, unresponsive. Macaque collapsed to the ground, he couldn’t feel the cold pavement through his knees, pressed against the floor. Wukong’s legs were all he could see.

The staff was still clutched tight in his grasp, Macaque dispersed it, leaving the shreds of shadow to diverge into the wind. His arm placed itself firmly against the ground in front of him, fingers curled around a staff that no longer existed. 

“Gods damned you, Wukong. You never make anything easy,” He spat, hypocritically, “Look at me–” Macaque’s hand tried to move, to grip the back of Wukong’s pants and drag him down to face the truth, but his fingers refused to cooperate. He sat there, on his knees, hand uselessly thumping against Wukong’s legs, a silent plead.

“You’re just sick.” Wukong didn’t turn for his cries, his voice was utterly devoid of emotion, “...You’re sick.” Macaque grumbled, choking on the growing wetness in his throat. Rust filled his mouth, creating a trail of warmth down his lips. His hands failed him, both of them useless, limp things. The darkness around them grew, with each shred of Macaque’s turmoil diminished, the shade only mutated further, agitated. 

Strings of shadow shot from the dusk, wrapping spindly limbs around Wukong’s body, thin and tapering. Wukong whirled around, caught up in the wiles of waning tenebrosity. And finally, Wukong was face to face with Macaque, he was finally distorted in the throes of fear. He tore his eyes away, and Macaque knew that fear wasn’t at him.

With spittle and ichor flying in flecks from his mouth, Macaque continued his list of demands.

“Look at me!” His body rattled from the inside, begging to finally rest, to give out on the cold concrete. Wukong screwed his eyes up, panting heavily, “Fuck you, look at me!”  

“You’re sick.” He whispered, shaking his head like he can banish the entire situation, “You caught something, maybe from the food. You’re sick, that’s all. Just…” 

The shadows tangible with Wukong fade, leaving only light behind. Wukong looked down on him, peeking open to stare, eyes glinting with something unshed. Macaque’s eyes exploded in a display of different, changing colours. An unbidden cry was ripped from his cracked throat.

His second arm gave out. 

Macaque crumpled to the floor like discarded paper, arm slipping from under him and chin hitting the ground. Wukong startled back, hands darting around wildly yet never committing to touch.

“You need to fight me,” Macaque’s voice was nothing more than a buzz at the back of his flooded throat, “Or just look at me, acknowledge me, anything.”

Wukong curled his hands up to his chest, “...You’re sick.”

“Can you stop fucking saying that.” Macaque snapped, sounding much too close to the brink of tears than he was comfortable with, “I’m not sick, I’m going to die! Shit, I am dying.”

Once the words were spoken, the situation became real. It was solidified in rasping enunciations, death was imminent. Macaque’s mind was abuzz with white noise, memories he held so close to his fading heart petered out into nothing. He was accepted back to the unloving, unhating void he once came from.

Two strong, unrelenting arms crushed him. A hand pulled at his eyelids, forcing him to face the blinding light. Macaque spluttered on the blockage in his throat, dribbling out more hot, metal-tasting liquid. He was cushioned on something soft, laid on the ground and staring up into dual suns.

“You’re not dying.” A familiar voice hissed, he couldn't place exactly how it was familiar, but it was, “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but you’re not dying.”

It was Wukong. Macaque was sprawled on the floor, head elevated onto Wukong’s lap. He couldn’t recognise the watery appearance of his eyes, the scrunched-up points of his face, how his bottom lip shook, imprints of fangs pressed into the flesh.

“I am dying.” Macaque promised himself his death would not be silent, that he wouldn’t fade into the dark like last time. But his vocal cords were stretched thin and wiry, leaving only a quiet speech Wukong strained to hear. He couldn’t even remember why he needed a fight so badly, maybe it was so he would be recalled in a blaze of glory and not like this. But his indulgent heart just wished to be embraced, to have his hurt acknowledged in any way possible. It seemed it would be like this, quiet, fading. Macaque cursed his heart for winning again, and himself for losing. 

“No, no–” He was becoming weary of this denial tirade. It made him exhausted; it made him want to sleep. Macaque dug a hand into his chest, limb barely pliant as he scoured around for the orb. Before his arm could be subjected to its fate of pins and needles, Macaque relinquished the shadow from his chest. It hung up in his clawed grip, no longer a fire, but one single, fickle flame.

Wukong cupped the flame between two hands, “Your magic, it’s–”

“Dying.” Macaque rasped, “Just a bit more now, then poof.” Macaque afforded a slight snicker but couldn’t grasp why Wukong didn't split into a grin, and couldn’t understand why his face fell even further.

Wukong growled, shoving the single flicker of magic back into Macaque’s chest.

“Put your glamour down.” He demanded, “Now.” Wukong’s hands come up to tap his cheek, setting alight whirlwinds of pure fire against his skin.

“I can’t.” Macaque’s voice was barely a scratch, barely anything at all. He wanted to be loud, to be impossible to ignore, and now he’s shrinking away, hoping Wukong’s hands burn him down to ash, “Everyone will see.” 

His glamours were already fading away, clinging to the last reserves of life Macaque had left. Wukong’s gaze darted from Macaque’s disintegrating form to the ebbing crowd around them, as if just realising their existence.

“Fuck off!” He screamed to the high heavens, it made Macaque’s ears pine to furl inwards, “What are you all staring at?” Wukong bared his teeth and snarled, a performance of the great Monkey King, who devastated the lands and crushed the bones of celestials. The one who killed him, but the ire wasn’t at him. Maybe it was the fact he was dying, but he couldn’t make heads or tails out of this whole thing. 

Macaque was gathered up like a wooden doll in Wukong’s unrelenting arms, one hand tucked under his knees and the other pressing his head against Wukong’s chest. The hand up against the back of his head threaded through coarse, matted fur, pinching the roots whenever his breathing tried to even out or eyelids fluttered closed. Up this close, Macaque can hear his fast, heavy panting, the quick pulse of his heart. How odd. Was Wukong scared? He had no reason to be scared.

Wukong wasn’t gentle when he ran away, only gritting his teeth and trying his utmost best to not jostle Macaque too harshly. He’s placed upright against a wall, tail dipping into a shallow puddle to their left. The world was drenched in darkness.

“It’s okay now,” Wukong whispered, at least, Macaque assumed it was still Wukong. He wasn’t normally this soft, this delicate. He spoke hushed, brushing away the sticky, sweat-doused strands of fur that fell in his face, “You need to put your glamour down.”

His mind is utter mush, nothing but dregs remained in his broken skull. Unthinkingly, Macaque obliged. The strands of shadow holding his appearance together wept when they sunk back to the ground, unwound from his unforgiving, ugly body and back to the dirt deep, deep below. It’s barely a whole thought that Macaque must look disgusting now, flaws on display for the world– for Wukong, to see. 

The lowering of his glamours doesn’t garner much attention, just Wukong patting desperately around his torso.

“Fuck, fuck, your magic. It isn’t—” The realisation that a simple relinquish of glamour wasn’t enough bled into Wukong’s facial features. Macaque wished, in that moment when dread settled like an overbearing weight, to feel panic. He wished desperately for the pounding of his heart, dryness of his mouth, the shake of his hands, and the sweat trickling down his skin… He wished to feel something, anything. It would be better than the empty nothingness gaping inside.

Wukong took him by the chin, flinching at first, as if just now registering how cold Macaque was to the touch. His skin, loose fitting around his skeleton like it no longer fit, felt like frostbite under his fingers.

“You’re gonna totally hate me for this, but…” Wukong eased his mouth open, wincing at the resounding crack that earned him, and used a second hand to pinch his nose shut. He screwed his eyes closed, breathing deep and hard, “I need to do this.”

Those are the last words Macaque registered before Wukong put his lips to his. Air bloomed down his throat, past the sludges of blood. He lifted from Macaque’s face, audibly sucking in another breath before returning.

It was more than air, a sweet scent travelled down with it. It was golden, it was fury, it was the passion of the sun itself. Wukong was breathing magic into him. Coils of gilded light were lapped up hungrily by the last flicker of shadow. They combined, danced together. Macaque reeled, gasping through the gaps in between, body shaking all over, rattling through the stiff, melded muscles. His hands, his legs, they feel as brittle as before. But, the cold, unfeeling abyssal opening yielded.

Wukong lended more magic through their open mouths, Macaque could feel something warm drip onto his face at each touch, his eyes were too misty to really tell, and his skin was too numb to understand. When one of the droplets rolled into his open maw, Macaque tasted salt on his tongue.

His magic wasn’t a golden egg like MK’s, it was the hatched, flaming bird. Wukong’s magic was larger than himself, it was fed and fuelled with peaches, wines, pills, it was schooled with teachings long buried. This magic, this all-encompassing thing rivalling the sun’s flare, stretched its wings within Wukong’s frame. Here he was now, plucking its feathers off and dropping them down Macaque’s throat. For the longest time, his power was all Macaque wanted. It shone above all others; it was what made someone matter. He thought fleetingly, if he could hold it, he might matter. He might matter to Wukong. Now he had what he wanted, and he’d never felt so weak.

The next time Wukong pulled away, instead of loudly inhaling more air, he turned and dry heaved to their left.

“Oh my gods,” He whispered, almost inaudible over the blood rushing through Macaque’s ears. Wukong’s nose scrunched up, he choked on his next breath, then returned to work.

Macaque’s mind was a circle of fuzzy nothingness. It wasn’t rough to touch, to linger on, it just was. He could embrace it, fall into it, feel it swathe him. His arms jerked; muscles screamed in protest at every minute adjustment. The feeling spread like pinpricks of fire across his entire body, consuming him whole alongside Wukong’s fumes of overwhelming godly magic. 

The process of rigor mortis was, unsurprisingly, painful. On the other hand, the process of reversing it… It was a pain worse than death. Everything his body numbed, everything it made him ignorant of as he slowly descended back down, he felt it all.

The pain was nothing short of indescribable. It’s hard to articulate the process of your body, your muscles stiffening to rocks, your skin decaying, undoing itself. At first, it was an ache present just under the surface. Once it dug to the flesh, it all came to unadulterated light, sparks of agony bit through. Closing his eyes to shut out the feeling did nothing to help, his eyelids flashed white with each internal poke. 

His muscles loosening was worse than growing pains, it was like his entire body was smashed with hammers, like he was being shot on all sides simultaneously. Macaque had to stifle a scream, surviving came with the recognition of himself, his surroundings. He’s leaning against a greasy wall, tail doused in liquid, and Wukong’s lips crash against his own, fervently breathing life back into him. He was sitting down, and Wukong had his hands over his face, and his mouth pressed against his. They shared oxygen, Wukong cut off the burdensome leftovers of his magic and fed the waning sparks of shadow. So he couldn’t scream, couldn’t make himself out to be more of a pathetic, useless vermin than he already had. 

But his body had other ideas, arms wracked with unbearable anguish reached out for Wukong, his hands wrapped around the soft sides of his hoodie one finger at a time. There was some relief in how he didn’t pause to rip Macaque away, just continued to lend him magic with the fervour of someone who cared. Which was impossible, because Wukong couldn’t…

Just for this moment, he’d curl into Wukong’s hoodie as indulgently as he’d like, pretend that Wukong was doing this because some deep, buried part of him still… Despite the awareness seeping back in, Macaque can’t find the words to place.

The magic slid down Macaque’s throat like honey, and in those moments when their mouths connected, they felt like one.

The call of birds was what awoke him.

Macaque didn’t even remember falling asleep to begin with, his mind a fuzzy, tangled thing. But here he lay, surrounded by warmth that could melt his skin, as he listened to the dawn’s chorus play like an angel's song. 

This might have been heaven had Macaque known there was nothing so comforting for him after death. Life lingered stubbornly in his hands, cupped by golden flickers that warmed him from the inside. He tried to grapple with his own weight, the cloud he floated upon, and the beddings of fluff graced upon him. 

He didn’t want to open his eyes, ruin the illusion of peace carved out for him, didn’t want to crack his weary sight free. The rest of Macaque’s body ached with something demanding and unyielding, it crept through his entire form like fire on dry kindling.

There was a click somewhere distantly, something was approaching. They weren’t drawing in quickly, the only sound making their presence known was the soft shuffling of socks against wood.

It can’t be an angel coming to visit him, tucked away in this soft abode he does not deserve. It will be one of the many spiteful foes he’s collected, hopefully when they finish him off it will be quick. 

A doorknob rattled, the sound of it bounced around the walls encaging him. Macaque made the minimal effort of tearing his eyelids apart, to see the room around him for what it really was. The walls, the first thing he saw, were drab. Looking down further, rumpled blankets pooled around his firm body. A small stuffed animal sat on his stomach, exuding a sort of dying warmth and lavender fragrance. There’s a window to his right, frail paper-like curtains veil the morning light. 

Macaque’s hands clenched, unclenched, and finally relaxed against the mattress beneath his catatonic body. His throat was dry on swallow, eyes gazed mistily at the ceiling and the fine cracks that spread throughout it. Everything felt mellow, like slipping into a dream whilst awake, time was frozen into a nothingness here. It mattered not how long Macaque tarried, how long he laid listlessly and uselessly, bathed in the soft comforts swathing him. It was unnatural, causing beads of distrust to race down his skin. At the same time, the smell of lavender and freshly grown fruit soothed frayed nerves.

He breathed slowly through his nose, not tempted to test the limits of his jaw. Macaque didn’t want to know if opening it would leave a resounding crack, like a firework exploding against the quiet sky. Even less inclined to trial how far his body would bend after that before snapping apart, disconnecting his mandible from his head, blood and bone sullying the beddings.

Exhaustion seemed to seep deeper once the door opened. His mind, a muddied thing, melted into the pillows beneath him. Macaque wished his soul to become intangible with his body, the best option would be death, anything else was too vulnerable. Too… He closed his eyes and prayed for the kill to be swift, merciful in a way he hadn’t earned, and without fake courtesies or lies masquerading as comfort. May they bury his remains somewhere deep in a grove so his decomposing form can feed the dirt once more. May they throw his scarf across a powerline to be desecrated by bird droppings and to be seen by all that passes, even if it's less than a mere second. 

The presence inside the room didn’t feel as daunting as anticipated. It almost faded into the backdrop of mindless succour. Had the stare of the stranger not held the weight of the world in their pupils alone, Macaque would have dozed off and ignored them entirely.

He wanted to die in a scream, a starburst, an explosion no-one could tear their sight from. Here he lay now, atop a dream and swaddled in quiet comforts, and from his muscles to his bones Macaque couldn’t muster up even a whisper. Silence held him, and for once Macaque couldn’t find a scrap of fight left in him. In that moment, he felt more like sludge against the sidewalk than a real living being.

Someone was in the room, dauntingly waiting for any kind of movement out of Macaque’s lax form. Everything was too turbid to make sense of anything, which was up, and which was down, where does he start and where does he finish? The figure was recognisable only by primal senses, they smelled sweet like nectar, saccharine, and suffocating. Their heartbeat thudded like they had just ran a marathon, like it was trying to burst its way out their chest. The pulse of their heart gave away the tension hidden under their still and unmoving presence. 

Macaque’s nose twitched and it was like a switch was flipped. The footsteps grew loud and thunderous as the stranger ran and leaned over him; a single digit traced Macaque’s face with barely constrained awe. The heartbeat only sped up, the touch exploring from the crinkle of his nose to the space under his lips, trailing down to his chin then back to his cheeks. When their finger dashed under the rough, jagged scar of his eye, Macaque flinched. There wasn’t much room nor mobility to recoil away, in the end he just shoved his head further into the pile of pillows.

The touch stilled, Macaque wanted to have grasped the hand and pressed it against his face, to drink up all the touch that didn’t hurt, yet burned his skin and made him scream to run away. But the touch was delectable and fed the starving, bare-bones beast inside him. This sort of affection wasn’t reserved for him. He knew that, so Macaque let it retreat. That failed to scare off the fantasies of soft and gentle tactile. 

Macaque’s eyes dart open unbidden. The tension between him and the stranger was so high-strung he felt almost obligated to lift the burden of it by at the very least revealing his wake. He was met with hues of gold and peach, a face worn down with purple rings like bruises under the eyes, fur dishevelled like they had just rolled out of bed. Macaque’s vision faded in, and soon wished he never opened his eyes in the first place.  

“Wukong.” His voice came out hoarse and harrowing, it sent aches down his throat. Wukong jumped at the call of his name, eyes flitting about like he could find a solution in this pale room. Macaque’s eyebrows pinched together, pieces starting to fit in his mind at an alarming pace, he couldn’t process the amount of information knitting together a rather gruelling image.

“If I died, I certainly didn’t go to heaven.” He sneered, shuffling about in the blankets, still finding his limbs heavy and useless at his sides. 

Wukong scoffed, “Is this the thanks I get?” The bed shook when he removed his weight, finding a rhythm in pacing around. His shuffling paces stopped after a good minute, “You’re not dead.” Macaque didn’t know how to respond to that, so he said nothing.

The silence was deafening, yet so loud. Macaque’s ears rang, an electrical whine bounced through each ear. He sighed petulantly, shifting back under the sheets until his chin was tucked under.

“Where the hell am I?” The question only served a way to snap the taut string of unease between them. 

Wukong made a startled, strangled noise before responding, “My uhm– my temple. The kid brought the blankets and the toy thing.” He coughed into his clenched fist, speaking clunkily like a malfunctioning robot, “It warms up and helps with sleep, or something. He thought it would help…” Macaque toyed with the floppy bits of the plush, feeling the beaded weight sit comfortably on his gut.

“Thoughtful.”

Despite the conversation seeming fulfilled, over, complete, Wukong stayed. His presence, a weight heavier than his staff, still in the room. He stared at the wall, arms crossed and lost to the world.

“So, um. Why am I still here exactly?” Macaque asked, “No, better yet, why did you even bring me here?”

Wukong stared at him, just under the surface of honeycomb sclera a fire burned, and it spat its flames right at Macaque.

“Are you serious?” Wukong laughed, it sounded dreadfully fake, “You came to me, you came crawling to me, and you’re acting like it was irrational to drag you to my temple?” 

Macaque grumbled, “Well yeah, couldn’t have just dropped me back at my home and be done with it?”

The sound of Wukong’s footsteps are like avalanches, loud signals of impending danger. It only makes Macaque smirk, muscles pulling oddly at the quirk of his lips. Wukong doesn’t grab him by the scarf, but the way his hands twitch gave away his want.

“You are such an asshole. I didn’t ask you to come ruin my day like that. I was– I was relaxing. I didn’t ask to watch you almost fucking die in front of me! I didn’t ask for those memories to come back, I–”

Macaque’s eyes widened, “Oh, oh. I’m sorry my death was so hard on you, I’m sorry, I’ll reschedule next time. I’ll just fade away into the backdrop, just like you want, right?” Wukong glared at him, if looks could kill, “Right?”

Wukong’s fire simmered, it danced and jumped and skimmed the ceiling, and then it died down to coal. Rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat, it was hard to grasp just how much skin he agitated. 

“You–” He poked a finger to Macaque’s chest, it burned, “Are the most selfish person I know.”

“Look in a mirror.” Macaque retorted on reflex if nothing else. 

“The others have been worried sick about you, ever since that bitch got murdered you’ve just been rotting away, and they noticed. You were always a good actor, Macaque. But you were awful now, everyone could tell. But you just passed it off as sickness, oh, you’re fine. Then when shit finally hits the fan you come to me. They wanted to help you! This shouldn’t have happened.”

Wow, who was this and what did he do with Wukong? The Monkey King who always had to shoulder every problem himself or everything would fall apart? It made a sick feeling of spiteful glee curdle within. He tempted this sharp change out, how delightful. 

Macaque blew a very classy raspberry at him, making the perilous task of rolling over so his back faced Wukong.

“Oh shut up, I’m still sore. You have no sympathy, I almost died yesterday, and you don’t even care.”

“Yesterday…?” Wukong seethed, “You’ve been out for five days.”

“Hm,” Macaque doesn’t move, “Cool.”

The air is still, a lingering scent of regret stuck like a pest. Macaque can feel the sweat that coated him, the stiffness in his joints and muscle. He would portal away, but his stomach turned at the mere thought. So he’s stuck here with Wukong’s ire. He couldn’t exactly articulate why Wukong was so mad, maybe he’s upset he tried to die loudly, maybe he’s mad Macaque dirtied his day clothes, maybe he’s just frustrated Macaque had been taking up space for five days with no reprieve.

“Why did you come to me?” Wukong asked in the smallest voice he’d ever heard. Macaque almost believed another person had stepped in, but it was just the two of them and the silent, stale atmosphere. 

The residues of fight slipped from his fingertips, maybe that was why the reply that choked out was painfully honest, “I wanted you to see me.”

He almost expected a snarky remark, to return to their previous back and forth of scathing words, a race to see who breaks first, and how far they can kick the shattered remains. Instead, he received a very solemn, “I’ve always seen you.”

Wukong had been the only one to see Macaque. The only one to see him past the performances, past the acts he cast to try and cover up the vulnerable, grotesque sides of him. He took Macaque broken and whole. Others only saw what Macaque wished them to. The kid, his friends, they were supposed to see him as the villain, why they tried to look past that was beyond him, but whatever the case they dug their hands in until they found weakness. Yet nothing had hurt, Macaque still hated it beyond what words could express. 

In those last, ephemeral moments, Macaque just wanted to be seen. Despite the vile state he was in, despite the death obvious from all five senses… Despite it, Macaque wanted his ugliness seen by the only to have embraced it. Whether that led to his death or this, it didn’t matter then.

“You tried to fight me.” Wukong laughed, it sounded hysterical, “And this whole time I couldn’t understand why. Was it some bucket list of revenge? I don’t– I don’t get it. I don’t get you.”

Macaque’s tongue felt soft and disconnected in his mouth, the way the rest of his body seemed to float, “How else was I supposed to get your attention?”

For once, Wukong was quiet. Macaque twisted his neck painfully to capture the lost, confused expression painted across him. Macaque snorted.

“What? Why do you look like that? Is this somehow confusing, that fighting is the only way to get your attention? Did you think I was just going to ask for it nicely? Would you have even looked my way?”

“Yes.” Wukong lied.

Macaque turned back over, “Such bullshit. Don’t lie to me, I at least deserve the truth.” He doesn’t, but he wanted to.

“I saved you from dying and this is how you act. Why did I ever think you would change?” Wukong grit out. A weight lifted from his shoulders; he had looked away.

“I didn’t ask you to save me.”

“Then why did you–” His jaw snapped shut with an audible click, everything seemed to fit together neatly in his brain, Macaque could hear the cogs whirring, “Oh.”

“You came to me to die.” Wukong stumbled back over to the bed, not touching Macaque again but towering over nonetheless, “You… You came to me so I could watch you die again. What the fuck is your issue?”

“I wasn’t about to die in a corner all miserable and forgotten about. If I was going out, it was going to be loud.” Macaque flicked his tail in annoyance, “What do you even care?”

Wukong’s next words were an almost inaudible, “Did you not even stop to think about me? Of course you didn’t. You didn’t have to die, if you told MK he would have bent over backwards getting you magic… He’s too nice for his own good. Too nice for you.”

“I know that.” Macaque grunted, voice muffled by the pillow, “Why do you think I took the staff? And again, I ask, what do you even care?”

Wukong lowered until he was knelt beside the bed, “I’ve always seen you. But you stopped seeing me. For the longest time, you were the only person to see me as more than the moniker of the Monkey King…” Macaque’s blood felt cold, “I know why you’d think of me as evil, why you twist me like that. Hell, sometimes I feel as shit as you paint me to be. So maybe you’re right, just a bit. But I miss when you saw me.” A sharp inhale he pretended he didn’t hear. He knew what Wukong was prodding at, it ran deeper than the shallow surface, it was carved as deep as old, dead blood. Before Macaque was a body-stealing monster. There’s something there he refused to see. Something in his eyes that looked just like when Macaque first got injured in combat, and Wukong tended to him through tears.

“Well, I needed to measure up to the ‘Great Monkey King,’ be a perfect warrior, be like you. So excuse me if my vision tunnelled.” He bit his tongue, That’s too honest. How pathetic of you.

Instead of berating Macaque, all that he got was, “I never needed you to be me, I never needed you to be the best warrior… I just needed you.” Wukong stood up, dusting off non-existent debris so casually as if he didn’t destroy Macaque’s world in twenty words. 

A string tethered them, a weathered and thinning string, but one that held true nonetheless. Two beings thrust into a world with powers larger than they can hold. Everyone around them judged books by their covers, taking each performance at its most shallow value. They saw a light and the shadow it left behind.

Wukong had a role to uphold. Macaque had a reputation tarnished. They found solace in each other, a solar eclipse of two born from the stars. But when plunged deeper and deeper still into the dark, into the light’s shadow, Macaque wondered how it would feel to be Wukong. To have his power, to have the admiration for himself. Macaque was Wukong’s shadow, and it was the closest he got to having them both tangible. The expectations of greatness found home in Macaque, and Wukong was without reprieve. 

It punched Macaque, he could almost feel his organs wriggling and curling up within him. 

“You left me because I wasn’t powerful enough, I can’t believe you.”

“That was never the reason, but I don’t think you want to hear that.” Wukong’s voice was toneless, monotone in a way that hurt. 

Macaque can’t help the anger that shunned the guilt, because what was all of this for if he was wrong in his conviction, “Oh shut up! Stop acting like you care! You don’t, you don’t.”

“When are you going to get it through your thick skull that maybe people care about you,” Wukong snapped with a wobble in his tone Macaque just couldn’t place, “And trust me, I don’t know why we even bother. You’re such a jerk, only caring ‘bout yourself.” We.

Macaque’s hand tightened, twisting into the sheets below, “Exactly. I’m awful, no-one should care. I don’t want them to care.”

“I see more than that.” 

Macaque was breathless. These lies, these sweet-soaked words of deceit, it was all too much. Like a hurricane had torn up every part of him, Macaque was parted in two. One half reared away, closed its eyes, and banished the very thought. The other half begged it to be true, for this to not be an elaborate scheme.

“You’re lying.” He rolled to his back, eyes glazed over and focusing only on the cracks in the ceiling, the spindly, hair-thin cracks, “Leave me alone. Stop lying to me.”

Wukong scoffed, “What do I even get out of a lie like that?”

The ceiling was cracked. It spread out like a snowflake against the white paint. The stuffed animal laid on his stomach was suddenly a rock of molten lava; it melted him away. Everything was soupy and hot, too soft to really grasp in a way that mattered. Maybe that was why he flipped again to his side, trailed a single finger against the sheets and said,

“Getting my hopes up.”

When he looked up, eyes half-lidded with something deeper than exhaustion, he was faced with Sun Wukong. Every single jagged, broken, sharp face of him was compiled into one being. Looking at him top to bottom, he looked a wreck. His fur was mussed up, face hollow like he hadn’t seen a wink of sleep in days, five days even. The sharp performance of the Monkey King was weathered down, he was soft from every angle. Macaque’s mind dragged on the reminiscence of his touch, the feeling of his hands, callused from the staff, against his face. How his lips were softer than he ever thought they would be… Not that he frequently thinks about that.

“I know I’m selfish,” He continued on, because of course he was. If he wasn’t, he would have teleported out of the bed and scrambled back to his isolation the second his eyes opened. It was a survival mechanism, because under the layers of self-centeredness was preservation. There never was that same air of preservation under Wukong though, it was always pure, unfiltered selfish indulgence, “I don’t know why you people would want to care about me despite that… I don’t know why you would give a shit. I’m nothing to you, not important.” The sentence doesn’t end before he divulged into a fit of pained giggles.

Wukong held his gaze artificially, like he looked right through him, “When I saw you, I was scared.” The words come out so strained, so unsure in a way that wasn’t the Great Sage, the Monkey King, but Wukong. He stumbled over the words like they were blockages in his throat, and he was choking them out, “You were– I knew something was wrong. But you came to me, asking for a fight and looking like that and I just… All I could think about was what I did.”

He made a guttural sound that had Macaque’s heart speeding up, 

“Wukong–”

“I couldn’t just let you die again.” He turned on his heel, bringing one arm up to his face. Macaque stared at his back, at the flicking, violent twists of his tail. He felt an apology melt on his tongue, turn to nothing but saliva, swallowed back down.

“I didn’t think…” He didn’t think a lot of things, especially not at that moment. But with Wukong a few steps away from him, snivelling like a child, Macaque’s stomach was weighed down with something that wasn’t the plush, “I didn’t think it would matter to you.” Wukong doesn’t budge, “I thought you would be happy.”

Unsurprisingly, Wukong said nothing to that. He simply stood there; arm pressed around his head in utter silence. Macaque swallowed thickly, feeling the sorrow swept through the room, bouncing off the walls like acoustics. His heart thrummed and his body felt unnaturally alive. Gold pulsed within him; he wondered briefly how long this loaned magic would last.

He sat up, bones aching and cracking with each minute adjustment. Macaque was sure Wukong could hear it, but his ears only fluttered and nothing more. He snaked his hands around the sheets before stretching. His limbs were still stiff, sore like he’d exerted himself far too much the day prior. Macaque hissed through his teeth, feeling like a doll with rusted joints, trying to kick the feeling free from his legs. 

During the stretches, his hand brushed against his side. It felt scratchy yet soft, he pulled his top up to investigate. Fluffy white bandages securely wrapped around his side, Macaque gingerly poked at it, feeling the wound pulse timidly underneath. Someone had meticulously cared for his injury, not that it was needed, the magic fed into his healing pretty fast… His eyes darted to Wukong for half a second. Not fast enough though.

There’s a lot of things he wanted. Macaque wanted Wukong’s eyes, wanted his hands, his tongue and all the words it spoke. Anything but the jaded stance he took, anything but the defeated slump of his shoulders. He cleared his throat, only earning a slight twitch of the tail for acknowledgement.

Macaque was selfish, is and always will be. His heart yearns, it wants what it wants. His heart wants foolish things, it dreams of happy endings, of solar eclipses, of living up to an expectation never enforced, of wanting to shine like the sun does. It’s stupid and ugly and Macaque wanted to banish it. 

Yet he still found himself opening his mouth, speaking with his heart clogging his throat and on his sleeve. He found himself staying in Wukong’s presence, even though he knew this would end eventually and he would leave. They shall never speak again, and this facade of caring will be dashed to the fire… But Macaque will always be selfish. 

And so the words spoken next were doused in it, as he asked,

“Can I be selfish with you one last time?”

That got Wukong to turn around, his face blotched with red that stood out starkly against his pale skin, “As long as it’s the last.”

Macaque rolled his shoulders into the closest imitation of a shrug he could manage, “Hm, maybe two or five more times at least... Old habits are hard to break, after all.” 

“...” Wukong’s face was enigmatic, nothing but a blank stare as the redness of his face faded away.

“It was so easy being selfish with you, Wukong. You were just a part of my broken self anyways, what's yours was mine.” Macaque traced a hand around the sheets like he could stir memory from it, “You can kick me out whenever, it’s fine. But, uh. The whole dying thing sort of fucked up my body, like everything is stiff and just…” He faltered, looking up from the sheets to Wukong’s face to gauge the reaction, “My… My fur is really messy, and I can’t do anything about it.”

Granted, there were more demanding things he could have asked about. But a hint of shame heated up his face anyway, dropping down to stare at his immobile hands against the bedding. The door clicked open, and a weight was raised off the room. Macaque laid there; mind aflutter with different trains of thought derailing each other. Where does he go from here? Why was Wukong more sad than anything? He was supposed to die, why isn’t he dead? 

There came the deafening silence, and Macaque found he couldn’t answer any question he had. He felt around for his scarf, still tight and comforting around his neck, and bit down on it. There was an overabundance of emotion in the air, sparking like a live wire, and it felt like the calm before the storm. Or maybe it was the calm after the storm, after seven consecutive storms, now he’s just awaiting the next to hit. 

Wukong returned a minute later, a hairbrush clutched in hand and droplets of water running down his face which were quickly wiped away. No words are exchanged, and the silence for once doesn’t feel awkward like it’s waiting to be broken. Wukong climbed over the bed to sit next to him, Macaque was too swept up in all of it to really fight back, not against Wukong’s hands as he tugged his head to position. 

Macaque ended up sprawled across the bed, head hung in Wukong’s lap. He sat cross-legged on the mattress, using one hand to run up and down Macaque’s face, easing him until he relaxed and melted into the new position. The brush started at his hairline and trailed down and up, reaching every tangled, matted strand of hair splayed across the bed. The bristles were pointed, basically raking across Macaque’s skull.

He winced, “You could stand to be gentler.” 

“You could stand to be quiet.” Wukong muttered in return. The brush lifted, the tug and pull of the knots felt less like his fur was being torn out. Each stroke of the brush felt scrupulously tender. Macaque’s eyelids slowly closed, a deep exhale blossomed out his chest and into the air.

In the spaces the brush couldn’t rip apart, Wukong would put it aside to dig in with his fingers. The mix between grooming and brushing had Macaque fading in and out of consciousness. Wukong scoffed above him.

“You’ve been asleep for five days and you’ve barely been awake an hour, how are you still tired?”

Macaque snarled at him, as threateningly as one can when the person you’re attempting to intimidate is combing through your hair, “It’s called, uh, recovering from almost dying, you ass.”

“Nah, I think you’re just lazy.” Macaque raised his better arm to smack Wukong’s own, earning a knee shoving against his head in return.

The brush ran through, broke the tangles apart, returned his fur to its former glory, the bristles ran over the itches on his skull. Every so often Macaque would hear Wukong chew and shuddered at the thought of bugs crawling through his expanse of hair. The matting was harder to deal with and Macaque could hear Wukong audibly struggling with breaking it apart.

“This is nice,” Macaque admitted in a hazed moment of bliss, “Remind me once my body decides to fuckin’ work again to return the favour.”

“I don’t know how much I trust someone who can’t even take care of their own fur to do mine,” Wukong snarked, Macaque hissed at him, “But, I appreciate the offer… As for your body, the process of reversing all of that might take a while, you might be stuck with some stiffness for a long time.” He tsked, like a parent scolding a child over their preventable mistake. 

Macaque hummed, “What about my magic?” The hands and brush stilled.

“What about it?”

“Well, you know. It’s not gonna last forever, is it?”

Wukong sighed, “You shouldn’t have used up so much magic when you were… When you were dying, you’re such a self-destructive idiot sometimes.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Wukong continued working through tangles, “My magic should be able to stabilise it for a while. But it’s a temporary solution.”

“Uh, oh. Doc, what’s the verdict? Am I destined to die anyways?” 

Wukong made a noise through his teeth, “I mean, if you run out of magic again yeah. But there’s other ways around it. We need a constant feed of magic for stability, but that’s gonna be tough to work out.”

We.

“Hmph,” Macaque stretched, cracked his joints, “Oh no, guess you’re just gonna have to keep giving me magic. What a shame.” He smirked at Wukong’s frustrated face.

“Guess I will,” He replied mildly, making a final sweep across the fur on his head, “Alright, that’s good enough. Off, off.” Macaque shuffled his head away until it thumped against the downy pillows, not nearly as comfortable as Wukong’s thighs were.

Wukong leapt off the bed, stretching his arms and legs out. He tossed the hairbrush up in the air and caught it again. 

“One more thing,” Macaque piped up before he could get any bright ideas about stranding him here, “This animal isn’t warm anymore.” He held it up, shaking it to make a point.

“And?”

Macaque threw his head back and groaned, “The heat helps my shitty muscles.”

The doll was lifted from his hands, “Fine.” Wukong turned to the door, holding his hand up to the knob.

“Oh also,” The hand on the door tightened, “I’m really hungry. Last time I ate was at the pig’s store and I puked it all up. I’m starving.”  

Wukong rolled his eyes, “Yes, your majesty.” Not before tacking on a “I thought I was the king?” Before slamming the door. His footsteps faded away, replaced by an electronic beep and whirring.

“And no peaches either,” Macaque yelled from his bed, “And no hair!” He nestled back under the blankets, keeping it up to his nose. His tail thumped against the beddings and his hands moved to pick at the strings of his scarf. Each second that passed by was like another year. Each year he had to himself; it gave him more time to think.

The last time he saw Wukong so distressed was a time so distant it was transcribed in an ancient tongue. Macaque assumed his death had just been another bump in Wukong’s path, that he was reduced to yet another adversary to put back in the earth. But there he stood, an arm to hastily cover the bursting seam of emotion. It was all so surreal, like an illusion shattered in front of him and revealed the sky was green. 

With his sharp hearing, Macaque could hear the beeping as the stuffed toy heated up and could hear Wukong grumble under his breath alongside the sharp succession of a knife. There was a third whirring sound he couldn’t place.

An unbidden thought wormed through. Wukong cared. Like, really cared.

And Macaque wished to tear the statement apart with his teeth, to stamp on it and spit. But the outburst felt too real for someone who’s acts have been weathered down. The fact that the others, the people who he’s shown nothing but the worst and most vile sides, may actually, genuinely care… Maybe it’s not just Wukong, maybe his own act had been sanded down too.

Despite the layers of sharp, thorned protection he’s donned, they saw him. The tiny, flickering remains of magic deep inside, it was seen. There was no way for his overactive mind to spin the events, Wukong breathed life back inside him, stored him away in his temple and let him drift away for five days. Wukong had full rights to leave him to die, to watch him decay and smile about it. For all he’s done, Wukong could have thrown him away like trash for not the first time… And yet, and yet.

Wukong saw him.

He turned his eyes to the door, watching intently as it creaked open. Wukong’s eyebags hung deep, baggage from centuries past inside. In one hand he held the stuffed animal, in the other a bowl, and his tail wrapped around a glass. The plush was unceremoniously dumped on his stomach, the other two were gently placed on the side table.

“I had to find all my not-peach fruit, damn, that was hard.” Wukong whined. Macaque picked the bowl up, taking careful consideration not to drop it with his shaking and brittle hands. The fruits inside were chopped up into little pieces. Wukong nodded towards the glass, “I also made a smoothie, in case the fruit, uh. Doesn’t work… Or whatever.” 

The stuffed animal sat as a warm weight; it was comforting how its heat soothed the rigid muscles of his body. Macaque’s hands curled enough to grab the bits and slices of fruit with more ease than he had grown used to. The magic hummed inside him like a second heart, he couldn’t remember a time he felt more alive. 

Macaque ravenously stuffed the fruit down his throat, barely even chewing and more focused on swallowing. Wukong adopted a stance like he was preparing to take on the Heimlich manoeuvre. Everything was cut down enough that it didn’t turn out to be necessary, and the second the bowl was clean Macaque was chugging the thick smoothie until all that was left was residue of fruit chunks against the glass.

He slumped back against the headboard.

“That’s the good shit.” He murmured. Wukong chuckled and Macaque glared half-heartedly at him. The face he saw was soft at the edges, Wukong smiled no teeth bared. It felt raw, too open to look upon. Macaque drank in every detail of his face, even the wrinkles and signs of sleepless nights that adorned him were like the comfort under his fingertips. The floaty feeling, so hard to hold yet still undoubtedly there.

Macaque couldn’t find the words to tell Wukong he saw him too. That after these years, these centuries, this lifetime of fixating on one side of the glass, it was all coming undone. The fight of revenge, of getting what he deserved all seemed to melt away. The block of ice encasing his heart dripped and thawed slowly. The Monkey King was there, the one who took his life like it was the easiest decision in the world, and the Monkey King who was his friend that Macaque desperately tried to tempt back out. The false belief that was all Wukong was, but here he laid now. All the different beautiful, deplorable parts of him fit together.

In this room, the masks were cast aside, their scars freed and exposed under the layers of clothing. 

Wukong meandered around the room, through the misted haze he lived in, Macaque can’t really tell if he’s actually doing something or trying to appear busy. Every so often Wukong stopped, turned around to face him, then went back to moving around. Eventually, he spoke up,

“You should keep your glamours down.” He tried to sound nonchalant through the lilt of anxiety.

He reached a hand up to fiddle with the tips of his ears, then to feel the rough skin of his wide scar.

“Like, right now? Sure. My magic is still getting used to yours, I think.” It had been a lengthy process with the Lady Bone Demon too, mixing them together until Macaque’s magic stopped fighting and submitted to the frigid blue like chains around his ribs. 

Wukong paused, he could hear his tongue clicking, “I meant… Forever?” He shot Macaque with a sheepish, unsure smile. 

Macaque’s mouth creased to a frown, “What, why?”

He huffed, made some vague gesture with his arms before crossing them and averting his gaze, “They’re unnecessary, I don’t know.”

“I don’t think so,” Macaque scoffed, “If I keep my glamours down, everyone will see…” See the disgusting sides of him he’s been shielding away, to bare himself full and fleshed to those who, in his mind at least, could turn against him at the drop of a hat, “See things they wouldn’t want to.”

Wukong tilted his head, “Like what, some extra ears?”

Macaque clenched the sheets of the bed, 

“Something ugly.” He ground his jaw, “I’m not exactly the prettiest sight without my glamours on…” He unwound one hand to move his scarf to cover half his face.

“You’re not the prettiest sight even with them.” Wukong laughed; Macaque rolled his eyes, “I just mean, they’re not gonna care.” 

They stared at each other, flickers of electricity flaring between them.

Macaque nodded, “Alright. Take yours down.”

Wukong stiffened, “No…” He looked away, to the ceiling, to the window, to the door, for escape, “I’m just– just not ready. I don’t want them, especially not the kid to see how–”

“See how damaged you really are,” Macaque broke in, “That you’re not as undefeatable or strong as you play at being.” 

A dry swallow, “Yeah… That.”

“Well,” Macaque removed the scarf, rolled it between his fingers, “I’m not ready either.”

“Okay.” Wukong whispered so quietly it almost sounded like defeat. 

A few silent shuffles echoed through the room; Macaque’s eyelids fluttered. He was exhausted, his heart was exhausted. This was more genuine talking than he’s done in the last seven centuries. Wukong, actually talking, maybe he did die. Still, every word out of him seemed punched free, like it tore up his throat with each syllable. Macaque couldn’t help but feel quite the same.

The bed dipped again; Macaque opened one eye to watch Wukong sit on the edge. His tail flickered in disquiet. Ever so slowly, Wukong turned to the side, eyes clouded with shame. 

His glamours were down. Macaque’s stomach turned; feelings scattered around like butterflies. He coughed into his fist, “You can’t exactly, do your glamours and stuff right now. So I just thought…” Wukong trailed off, patting his hands against his knees, “I look real stupid, huh?” 

Wukong had eyes like rubies, like gems placed into his skull because anything less would be sacrilege to his image. They were so easy to get lost in, like pools of blood but not born from death, blood like the life that runs through everyone who breathes, blood like kinship. Scars and nicks covered him, placed scarcely like words of battle against his skin. Macaque had scars like his. He wondered for a moment if he put their arms together, their bodies together, the blemishes would line up and tell a longer story. His fur wasn’t as perfect as glamour would like you to believe, it was split at the ends. Macaque wanted nothing more than to groom through it until it was perfect, better than anything glamour could fabricate.

“Yeah.” He swallowed dryly, feeling uncomfortably hot and airy, “Real fuckin’ dumb.”

Wukong rubbed his arms, a smile emerged nonetheless, much surer, and more real than befores meek grin, “We both look like wrecks, huh?”

“We’re both fucked.” Macaque found himself admitting, “Both ruined, horrible beasts. So selfish… So cruel…” And selfish and cruel still, he reached a hand out to Wukong’s side. Without a hint of hesitation nor regret, a warm, leathery hand enveloped him. Fingers threaded together like they were made to fit, to stay together, to be one and separate all at once. 

“It’s in our nature.” Wukong rubbed his thumb against the back of his hand, “We take, and take, and everyone will see us as we are… Every bit of it is true.”

Macaque hummed, sinking into the monotonous contact, it’s not for him, he hadn’t yet earned this privilege, and yet that didn’t stop him, selfish, “I see more than that.” He smirked, keeping his lidded gaze on Wukong to gauge his reaction. Instead of flustering, he returned that same smirk.

“We do, don’t we?” 

In the room, atop the bed that felt more like a dream than anything grounded upon reality, nothing else existed. Outside, the birds chirping were fake. Inside, the other rooms faded away to obscurity. It was just them, the unbreakable contact, the unshed, unsaid words that boiled just in the background, yet they couldn’t be any more obvious if they had smeared it across the walls.

The moment was broken by Macaque’s loud yawn and the trills making way through the back of his throat. Wukong laughed, brushing his hand under Macaque’s failing eyes.

“I guess I’ve kept you up long enough…” He smiled, but a melancholy tone steeped its way in. Macaque searched his face, flitting to commit each detail before his eyelids collapsed and sleep dragged him under. He held onto Wukong’s hand tighter, receiving a squeeze in return. 

He stood to leave, and Macaque held tighter still, Wukong’s bones creaked through his palm.

“I…” Wukong looked from the door to Macaque, his sight burned, and he was addicted to the feeling, stop looking for the exit, look at me instead, “It’s always easy being selfish with you, Macaque. Can I be, for one last time?” He threw his words back at him. 

Macaque smiled easily and echoed back, “Do you promise it’s the last?” 

“You know I don’t.” And he stopped searching for a way free, linking a second hand until they were a circuit of electricity, alight.

“Alright, what is it?”

The simple grin faltered, “Can I stay here with you?” Wukong bowed his head, “My room feels… Lonely.” Wukong was a social creature, and deep down, hidden under layers of forced isolation, Macaque was too. 

“I’m in your house, in your spare room. I don’t see why not.” 

He shrugged, “What’s mine is yours, right, Macaque?” 

Another yawn tore free, “Ah, shut up will ya’? I’m going to sleep now.” He buried his head into the pillows, allowing Wukong to adjust to his will. It ended up with him above the sheets, like dipping under the join him is some forbidden step. He was almost grateful, that taut tension still lingered stubbornly in his mind, no matter how much he tried to banish it… That fear that Wukong’s claws will dig, will tear, will turn, and rip him back to shreds again. Macaque is sure Wukong felt the same about him. Destruction had never been the best way of dealing with things, but it was the only language they could speak fluently, to make their hurt known.

Wukong tentatively pulled him close, this was all uncharted territory in the confines of his own temple. One hand stayed twisted up in Macaque’s, the other rested against his chest. The beat of Macaque’s heart thundered under his fingertips; magic whined next to it. Relief sagged through him at the feeling of it, strong and stable.

Before the allure of rest could fully pull him under, Macaque clutched Wukong’s hand tighter and leaned his head closer. They were sharing breath again, and they were in an alleyway with life slipping through their fingertips.

“This isn’t fixed.” Every word came out scratchy, “If you push me– If you think this solved everything and you push me, I will gut you.”

“I know.” Wukong didn’t even flinch, his heart only jumped momentarily.

“I don’t– I don’t even know if we can fix what we had.” He confessed in a tired haze.

Wukong’s face fell, “Yeah… That’s uh, a bit broken, huh? I did bad shit… You did bad shit, we’re just horrible.” Macaque focused on his eyes, the last lighthouse out in the deep, dark sea, “We don’t have to fix it, we can leave it broken and ugly and make something new entirely. It doesn’t have to be the same, we’re not the same as we were before– before everything happened.”

“Yeah…” Macaque’s body powered down, it was daylight, and everything was blanketed in shade, “I missed you… I– I used to care about you, I want to be able to again.” People caring, people extending parts of them out to him, that was an experience long lost on him. But it started feeling less of an elaborate lie, a plot, something he was used to. MK, his friends, and everyone beyond that who extended their hands without a key and a destiny cupped inside. It had been a while since that centred desire for contact, for that icky feeling of love, had been able to see the sun. Here it was now, unburied. 

Tomorrow, or whenever his body was freed from death’s leftovers, Macaque would visit them again. He’d make it up to them, he would find a way. Maybe in return, after he tells them the truth, they would help him in finding a way to get magic. Help him stay here and alive. And in return, Macaque would be their warrior. 

Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes. Not sadness, something closer to relief. Finally. Finally. Finally.  

“I’m here,” Their foreheads touched, Wukong’s heart was pounding with wake, his presence guarded Macaque’s sleep-ridden form, “We’re alive, you’re okay,” Light and darkness mingled, “I see you.”