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You hadn’t shown up to the mountain for a few days, (or left your apartment at all, really), and eventually Wukong came looking.
(Macaque, stalking zombie creep that he was— you called him that to his face and he only grumbled, chewing on your ear— showed up, leaving random snacks behind, checking in every couple hours but leaving you be).
Wukong settled on the edge of the bed, hand reaching out to push back a few blankets until one purple eye was looking up at him. He runs his fingers through the bit of your hair that's free from the blankets. "Hey, bud."
You don't say anything, body trying to sink deeper into the mattress. Unfortunately, Wukong has been working on expressing his emotions more, and he's been trying to get those close to him to do the same… to varying degrees of success.
"What's wrong?" he asks, finger tracing just under your eye. It's meant to be soothing. All you can think is that if he pushed just a little bit, he could pop out your eye. Strong hands playing at being gentle. Part of you wants to grip his hand and push down, almost doing it yourself, using him as a weapon for hurt.
But too many people have already done that.
"...nothing," you say after a few seconds of quiet. Nothing's wrong. There is a nothingness that fills your usually racing mind, it weighs down on you like fog rolling over a moor. You don't want to do anything. You don't want to move. Or think. Or be. Everything is too heavy.
There is no spark of joy, no stimulus, when you stare at things you love, there is just an emptiness in your chest that leaves you wondering if you were ever capable of love to begin with.
Wukong lets out a quiet hum, gaze flicking towards the lamp readily set near your bed, its warm light pooling over you. It was left there by Macaque the day before, something about how you were withering like a plant, something about chemicals in your mind making a mess of things. Again.
If it weren't for the fog, you would have been more willing to listen to him.
You don't have the urge to say anything. No urge to seek comfort or hurt. No urge to move or do anything. No urge to scream. No urge to cry.
No urge to live, really.
Wukong crawls under the blankets with you, arms wrapping around you and pulling you closer until you're laying on his chest. His hands run through your hair then, slowly untangling the red locks. It was getting long again. You didn't have the urge to cut it.
Maybe some other day in the future you'd take scissors to it, but right now it was just long and tangled and grimy from too many days in bed.
Wukong runs his hands through it with quiet patience. There's no disgust to his movements even though you know you're kind of gross at this point. (Then again, Wukong is used to picking maggots out of Macaque’s fur and rebandaging old wounds, so he's bound to be used to expecting disgusting things from both his partners—)
"Neither of you are disgusting," Wukong tells you, moving to trace soft circles along your face. "Don't call yourself that, bud."
You said that out loud. You don't even care enough to feel chastised over it.
"I am though," you mutter into his hands. He's moved them to gently cup both your cheeks, face held between his palms. He holds you like you're something precious. Something fragile.
All you feel is jagged and tainted.
"You're not," he tells you. "Why do you think that?"
Because it was true. You were a terribly disgusting thing, both in body and mind and you couldn't even do anything about it with the rolling fog bearing down on your brain. You tell him that.
Fingers still on your face for a moment, "what would you do about it if you could?"
The answer was obvious. You just raise an eyebrow at him.
His fingers tighten around your face for a moment before he leans in, forehead pressed to yours. "No, bud. No."
Wukong sounds hurt, but it's not a new ache, just an old injury that keeps being dug into over and over again every few months, not allowed to heal. Unlike with Macaque, he can't just wrap this injury in fresh bandages after picking out the maggots.
It's not like you had the energy for anything. He knows that. Macaque hadn’t even bothered getting rid of any weapons when he visited, just hid them in new spots knowing you wouldn't have the energy to go digging.
It's not a solution, but all things pass.
A shaky breath against you. You catch the smell of peaches and were you in a better mood, you'd close the scant inch between you and kiss him.
Not even that brings joy right now though.
You're just tired.
"...it'll pass eventually," you tell him, because it always does. Somehow, it always does.
Wukong’s arms just move down to pull you even closer, tightening around you. He rests his chin on top of your head. "Then I'll stay until it passes."
"...it's boring though," you tell him, but he doesn't say anything besides pressing a kiss to the top of your head. It's clear he has no intention of moving, planning to weather out both your mood and brain fog until your mind can once more grasp at something past that nothingness.
"...it'll just make you sad," you tell him after a few minutes of quiet. It's true. Since he saw you, his mood had visibly dipped.
"The thought of you going through this by yourself makes me sadder," Wukong tells you, words quiet against your hair. "I'm staying. Don't try to get rid of me, bud."
You breathe out a sigh, limbs sagging against him. There's no point to arguing, no energy for it either— though past the fog, a part of you notes that when Macaque passes by for his regular checkin, he's going to get dragged into this cuddlepile too.
It's inevitable, unfortunately.
Even if you can't feel anything past the nothingness, love remains.
And it waits for when you're feeling better, ever patient.