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There is a moment, MK remembers, where he felt like he’d done good. Made someone proud of him, made someone believe in him. He’d worked hard, done right, and succeeded at every turn.
And Macaque had given him the praise his craved, set up on silver platter, and MK devoured it all and was never full, always chasing more. Wukong, Monkey King, he gave praise, sure, but most often their conversations consisted of annoyed groans and the repeated phrase of the same lesson, as if MK hadn’t heard it the first time. Frustration, disappointment, that is what MK had inspired in Monkey King, and he knew it. Failure is his legacy, and MK feels nothing but shame on Flower Fruit Mountain.
And that is what made it so easy, to listen to Macaque. To follow those instructions, and forget the old ones. These ones were easier. More painful, but easier. And he did them right, he didn’t mess up immediately, didn’t feel that frustration, that confusion.
And Macaque would ruffle his hair, pat him on the back, in a way Monkey King never did. Oh, Monkey King would grab him from time to time, but those were always practical. Never just for physical affection. The occasional word of praise, but, typically, little of anything besides teaching.
He was starving, there, but Macaque made him feel loved, and happy, even as the creeping feeling that something was wrong grew.
And then Macaque betrayed him.
It was more confusing than anything, at first. When he felt the punch, and then the aching pit of nothingness where warmth and energy used to be, he’d only been able to stare, say nothing. It left him hollow, and broken, and dazed. He dropped and the only thing he could hear besides the ringing in his ears were Macaque’s honey sweet poison words.
Ruffle his hair, call him a good kid.
Slam him into stone. Trap him with his own staff.
“Guess there’s really nothing special about you,” He’d said, and MK knew it was true. Because he was never special, never enough, but he always tried. And it was pathetic to try, but he always did it anyway, chasing for those scraps.
When Monkey King shows up, and the battle begins, MK doesn’t see it. He hears the impacts, sees the lightshow, but he doesn’t get the details. He can’t focus on them, not with this aching feeling in his chest, that crawls up his throat and makes his eyes burn.
He thought he was good enough for someone. If Macaque could tolerate him, praise him even, MK could work up to Monkey King, maybe. He’d hoped.
But it was all a lie, wasn’t it? The cruelest of tricks, played on the world’s dumbest fool.
He doesn’t even have time to register anything other than fear when Macaque goes to kill him. Doesn’t understand why Macaque bothers, honestly. Isn’t MK useless now? Why kill what’s already broken?
He screams, and Monkey King saves him. MK knows why-he’s Monkey King’s successor, whether Monkey King likes it or not (and Monkey King does not, MK knows, Monkey King must hate him now), and Monkey King doesn’t want to leave retirement. That’s it.
And that pit of nothing sparks with something, something like electricity and sunlight, fire and warmth, as he drags the staff up with trembling arms-he is so tired, he is so empty, but Monkey King needs him and all he does is try-and swings it, tears blurring his vision.
The staff hits its mark. Comes back and he catches it, and then the explosion knocks him off of his feet.
Monkey King’s body is warm and comfortable as he hugs MK close, protecting him, and MK leans into it because even if it’s only for practical reasons, even if it’s not because Monkey King actually wants to hug him, he feels safe and loved.
Facsimile is still close enough.
And the dust settles, and they are sitting atop the mountain. He gets praise, but it feels like nothing, like a drop of white paint in the void, vanishing into the dark.
The apology drops out of his mouth, and he waits. Waits for Monkey King to take the staff away, to find a new successor. It’s what MK deserves. He’s failed, in every sense of the word, ruined the one good thing he ever had, and he deserves to have it taken away.
Monkey King scolds, and MK’s shoulders hike up, and the excuse forces its way past his lips.
“I just wanted to be good enough. Like you.”
He doesn’t see Monkey King’s face as he says it. His mentor probably thinks him pathetic.
But then Monkey King sits down next to him, sighs. Compliments him, even, and MK lets himself hope.
“So...you’ll keep training me?” he asks, shy, and there is nothing more sweet than the relief when Monkey King says yes. Of course. As if there was to be no worry. But MK always worries.
He’s pulled into a sideways hug, Monkey King’s arm wrapped around his shoulders, and MK leans his head on his mentor’s shoulder.
A facsimile, he knows. Monkey King is just giving MK what he needs, he knows MK is weak for this sort of thing, desperate for it. He gives MK scraps to keep him alive, and that’s fine.
Because facsimile is close enough, and MK still feels just a little bit more warm, and he smiles.