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I.
Wukong was beginning to understand weakness.
He couldn’t believe he was admitting something so embarrassing – after all, he was the immortal Monkey King, and power surged through him, flowing from his veins like ichor. He didn’t remember what feeling faint was like, much less feeling on the verge of death’s grasp. He could only watch his subjects get sick and recover, or get sick and wither away like husks, their fragile mortal bodies unable to hold their souls eternally. Even then, they bled and burnt and caught pox, capable of constantly being attacked by a world so beautiful and curious, and by their own physique.
Wukong didn’t understand it much at first. To him, weakness was foreign. He hadn’t felt weak or weary in years, filled with constant energy even during his quest for immortality. His body was lithe and strong, the hairs preened to a constant wheat-colored shine. When he fought others - which was often – he didn’t have to think of how his limbs might betray him with each cut to his skin. He laughed as he bled, smiled through pain that was so faint it may as well not be there. Weakness was so far away from him; how could he possibly ever fall victim to it?
Unfortunately, he wasn’t prepared when the most dangerous of them all hit him.
“Let’s spar,” he’d told his friend abruptly, the two of them spread across the wooden limbs of the tree bent over his hut. Macaque rose a single eyebrow in response.
“It’s midnight, Wukong.”
“You say that like you sleep.”
Macaque didn’t respond to that, smirking as he fell into the shadows and reappeared at the cave’s exit. They trailed away from the waterfall, choosing a field a few miles away. The constellations spectated, twinkling with awe, as the two fought each other in near silence, their kicks creating waves of wind that rolled over the swaying grass, a chorus of thick, silky whispers filling the air. Wukong didn’t think as he moved, allowing his instincts to take the reins. It was a dance they’d done so many times before, he didn’t hesitate when Macaque pounced on him, their arms locking as they tried to outdo one another in strength, his glowing amethyst eyes alit with playful malice.
It was then that he felt it – something akin to panic that speared through their fingers when they touched, like a flame was crackling between them. He was suddenly on fire, the center of a pyre. The sensation traveled down his arm and to his heart – such a small, sapped thing – and squeezed, deliriousness filling his head like a smoke cloud. He became hypersensitive to the strangest, most useless details, like how Macaque’s wretched smile made him scowl and tore at his inhibitions, or how warm the monkey’s raven-furred hands were, his nails digging into Wukong’s knuckles in the struggle to keep him contained to the ground.
Worst of all – beyond the fiery haze or the malfunctioning heart – were the desires. They came armed like assassins, flaying Wukong apart so that the flames could spread, tinging his cheeks a humiliating red. Lying under Macaque, he was presented with a new thought: I want to stay under him.
Just as soon as that thought came, his conscious chased it out. What did that even mean? He wanted to call out, to pause the spar so he could take a moment and breathe, but all the breath had been stolen from him. Right there, in the same spot he had vehemently sparred with his friend under multiple circumstances, Wukong was struck with the yearning to release his hold and just let Macaque fall on top of him. If that was losing, was it so bad?
Gods, what are you saying, you moron? He clenched his teeth, determined to fight off the infection gnawing away at his mind, and pushed up. Macaque flew off, still grinning, unaware that he’d melted his companion’s insides with a single merciless touch. He laughed, and it sounded twisted but beautiful, taunting in a way that said catch me if you can.
He raced after him, and the dance continued until dawn, Macaque never noticing the momentary stumble in their steps, or the fact that Wukong chose to take a nap for the rest of the day afterwards, clutching his chest like he was afraid something valuable would shatter through.
II.
One morning, Wukong awoke to beauty.
The sun perked through the haze of white clouds, its dappled light spilling into the cracks of the caves ceiling and washing over his skin like liquid gold. The peach tree hanging overhead glistened, dew sliding down phthalo hued leaves, the foliage so perfectly shaped that it appeared carved from emerald, each leaf stone-still in the languid, nectar-sweet breeze.
He didn’t notice any of this, though, for his attention had landed directly on the monkey in lying in the grass in front of him. Macaque had dozed off last night a few feet away, turned on his back, eyes trained at the moon. Now his limbs had somehow entangled with Wukong’s, head nearly buried in his chest, eyelids fluttered shut. The flames erupted within, charring his heart, but he’d long since learned to quell them, and watched the other with silent awe.
The sunlight bathed Macaque’s dark skin with soft yellow light, the color of blooming autumn chrysanthemums. His onyx hair was glossy, mussed from the wind’s caress, a few errant strands flitting over his forehead, and his lashes brushed at his cheeks, long and lustrous. His mouth, usually brimming full of things to say, was closed. He looked so serene, scarlet cape draped over him like blanket, his six colorful ears hidden behind disheveled tufts Wukong wanted so desperately to tuck away, light exhales tickling his neck. It was strange, how he could capture his attention with such rapture even in his sleep, how him being there made the rest of the cave’s dazzle dull in comparison. Resting like this, tussled locks framing his face, clothes bunched up endearingly, his tail curled around Wukong’s, a new thought appeared, slow and final. In battle, bloody and wrecked, Macaque was beautiful. In relaxation, lounging in the trees, he was beautiful.
And in his sleep, curled up in front of him, Macaque was beautiful.
In all their years of friendship, Wukong had tacked a dozen words on him, but never that one, and he was unsure how to feel about it. His heart sang true – with each skipped, frantic beat, it carried a tune that said it was certain this candid observation was just only a simple fact and not an epiphany.
It was then that those eyes opened, irises like polished amber, lashes framing them like strokes of ink. Macaque blinked the sleep from his eyes, yawned, and peeled himself away from Wukong. Cold seeped into his skin from the sudden absence, and the sunlight he basked in felt chilly in comparison to the ethereal embrace of those arms.
“Morning,” the other monkey yawned, smoothing back the locks of hair Wukong studied earlier. “Uh, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he mumbled, pretending to stretch. “Why?”
“Your face is red. You look like you picked a fight with a beehive and lost.”
“Uh, excuse me?” He snapped, crossing his arms. “I wouldn’t lose a fight with a beehive, obviously. And secondly, I think I’m just sick.”
Macaque rose an eyebrow. “Sick? You? Since when?”
“Since now. I was looking at you, and suddenly felt weird.”
His best friend stared at him before laughing boisterously. He bent over, tears pearling at his eyes, a grin stretching across his cheeks. “ Gods , that’s such a roundabout way to say I look ugly.”
“Huh?”
“Looking at me makes you sick, huh?” He chuckled, swinging his staff around. “I’ll get out of your sight, then. I need to find something for breakfast, anyways. You make tea, I’ll find some fruit.”
It was their usual routine. Wukong nodded dumbly and watched as his best friend – still beautiful as ever – left the cavern, whistling as he dropped into the shadows and disappeared, taking the room’s beauty with him.
III.
“Lady Iron Fan? Again ?”
Macaque nodded, tightening his scarf. Wukong floated across from him on the woolen surface of a cloud, trying to appear careless and flippant to ignore how his heart was wilting. “Yes? It’s been a while.”
He chewed the inside of his cheek. “Two weeks.”
“A while,” he repeated, rolling his eyes. “What’s wrong? She’s not going to cook and eat me, if that’s what you’re so worried about.”
“Who’s to say she won’t? She’s a demon, y’know,” he protested weakly.
“Oh no,” Macaque deadpanned. “Well, I’ll be sure to call for my knight in shining armor in case I end up on her dinner table.”
“Why don’t you just bring your knight in shining armor with you, just in case?” He batted his eyelashes innocently.
“So you can annoy the hell out of the Demon Bull King and get us kicked out? I don’t think so.” Macaque fastened a bamboo woven basket to his back, filled with fresh fruit pickings from his ‘secret magical orchards’ that Wukong had never been to or tasted fruit from (“They’re for special occasions, Peaches” he’d said – so was visiting Lady Iron Fan a special occasion?). “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“Are you sure I can’t come with you? It gets so boring without someone to poke fun at.” Please say yes. Or, better yet, just stay here.
“I’ll guess you’ll just have to make do with your reflection,” Macaque muttered. “Why do you even want to come, anyways? It’s not like you’ll be very bored.” He snorted. “You know how to create your own problems.”
Wukong huffed. “Maybe I just don’t trust Lady Iron Fan.”
“What did she ever do to you?”
“Exist.”
“I’ll be sure to let her know.”
He sulked, nudging the cloud into his friend’s cheek, but the other monkey was set on his decision and playfully shoved him away. He knew that being melodramatic wasn’t going to stop Macaque from visiting someone he considered to be a very close friend, whatever that entailed. Still, his stomach roiled every time the name Lady Iron Fan was uttered with fondness, like the words were coated in too-sweet grains of sugar. The thought of them strolling through her elaborate palace, chatting over delicate tea-filled china cups, or doing anything with smiles on their faces made him want to hit something.
It wasn’t that Wukong thought Macaque shouldn’t have other friends, but Lady Iron Fan was sophisticated, and elegant, and everything Wukong wasn’t. They might’ve both been royalty, but she was a real queen, unlike him – with a responsible, no-nonsense attitude, a magnificent manor that dwarfed the likes of his meager cave, and riches beyond a man’s wildest dreams. She was serious when it came to her domain, her home, her family - and maybe that was what drew Macaque in. Perhaps he preferred her maturity over Wukong’s constant tomfoolery. She was just the type of person who could ground him. They balanced each other out, while Wukong only got his companion more enemies, delivering them at his doorstep like gifts wrapped in rotting tulle and ribbon.
He shut his eyes, trying to dispel the thought. Looking down at himself, he noticed the sticky fruit stains on his sleeves, the splotches of dirt from afternoon tussles, the tears in his cape. The sudden self-consciousness angered him even more – he was leagues away from Lady Iron Fan, and that was completely fine. He didn’t have prestige – he had immortality, the greatest kingdom a monkey could ever want, and Macaque. He tried to convince himself that this wasn’t worth getting aggravated over, but he could feel the hot, malevolent coals raked underneath his heart, making him nauseous and irritated all at once.
Wukong choked out a frustrated sigh and let the cloud dissolve. By then, Macaque had left, probably prancing the grounds of Her Illustrious Fan-Waving Majesty’s gardens. Which was fine. Let him stop and sniff her roses, her fruit trees. Let him recline on her divans, eat her food prepared by her servants, and let them be entertained by each other, because he did not care in the slightest .
His organs twisted again, and he swallowed tightly, heading into his hut for tea. He fumbled with the cups – there were always two out – and poured boiling water into the first, then, after a moment, the second. He let the tea leaves soak in both cups and brought one to his lips, gulping down the scalding hot liquid until it seared his throat. He didn’t acknowledge any pain, hoping that the tea would wash away the poison spreading within him like a plague.
His eyes glimpsed the second cup resting across from him. It was made of plain grey porcelain, with little purple spots painted on the rim – a minimalist indulgence that Macaque had purchased while they were disguised as mortals at the marketplace, meandering the grounds for any objects of interest. He could imagine his friend sitting there, sipping ever so often as they laughed about the stupid little happenings in their stupid little world, eyes dim as the sun dipped and cast their cups in sterling light. In the hut, with their tea, it had always felt like they were the only two people alive, and that nobody could take them away from each other except themselves.
A world with just the two of them, and Macaque had traveled out of it. He was drinking from someone else’s cups, laughing to someone else’s jokes, living in someone else’s world. A world Wukong was not a part of.
There was a sharp crash. He jolted sluggishly, wondering where the sound had come from.
A dark splotch of liquid dribbled down the wall, where Wukong’s cup had crashed and shattered. The pieces bobbed back and forth on the ground, like gondolas on a spilt tea stream. He sighed shakily, hands trembling with something, something irrational and resentful. A drink hadn’t fixed the tangled ball of twine that had settled in his stomach – he had no name for it yet and didn’t wish to give it any more power through acknowledgement. He was good at ignoring problems, and he could ignore the thing seething inside like a serpent, slithering around his heart and squeezing, squeezing, suffocating.
He picked up the shards of cracked porcelain, expression indifferent. They pricked his palm, blood oozing upwards and staining the pottery. He could fix it somehow. This, he could put back together.
Wukong wondered if hearts too could be repaired in the same way, or if they just stayed broken.
IIII.
One evening, during their nighttime musings, Macaque asked sleepily, “How did you even become king of this place to begin with?”
The nostalgia hit him like a wave of salty sea spray, memories showering him in small droplets. “Oh yeah, you weren’t there for that.” Macaque fit so seamlessly into his life that he often forgot he wasn’t there for the entirety of it. “Well, you know the waterfall outside the cave, right? One of the monkeys set up a challenge of sorts: whoever could jump through to the other side would be crowned the monkey king.”
His friend laughed, but his exhaustion made the peals sound softer. “Your idiocy actually granted you something worthwhile for once, huh?”
“I guess – idiocy ?” He squawked.
“Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about,” Macaque snickered, yawning. “Nobody else but you would do that.”
“Would you do it?”
“Depends. What would I get for it?”
“Now, now, Mac, you won’t get anywhere with that kind of mentality,” he cooed, tauntingly nudging him with his tail.
“My mentality being intelligence?”
“Uh, you mean greed .”
Macaque scoffed. “Hypocrite. I just don’t want to do anything potentially risky without earning something for it. There’s no point otherwise.”
“What if I asked you to do it?” Wukong grinned. “Do it for me.”
Macaque knit his eyebrows. “You’d willingly put me in a situation like that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like...” he glanced up at the stars, searching for an answer there. “I’d do a lot of stupid, risky things for you, if you really needed me to do them. If it was that urgent. I have a hard time...saying no to you.”
“You say no to me all the time,” Wukong pointed out.
He snorted. “Okay, yeah, but that’s to stop you from having to do those stupid, risky things. It’s why I fight by your side – not just because you’re my friend and because I enjoy it, but because I get to share part of that burden. I fight in stupid, risky battles with you, and I do it for you.”
Silence was shoved into the empty space, the sky itself squeezing into the crevice between their nearly-touching arms, when Wukong gushed, “Aww, Mac, you’re so adorable!”
He buried his face into his scarf. “Shut up, Wukong.”
“Never,” he said triumphantly. “But you’re right – I’ve never thought of it like that.”
“Do you think at all?”
“Shush,” he batted Macaque’s head with a peach pit, and they both laughed, the sound like bells chiming in the quiet night sky. “I would, though.”
“You would what?”
“Do something really stupid and risky if you asked me to.” He turned on his side, and their noses brushed against one another. “Not just because I’m extremely impulsive.”
“Well, that’s reassuring,” Macaque’s smug voice had dropped to a whisper. “If I asked you to consider conspiring against the Jade Emperor with me, would you?”
“Of course,” he said immediately, and the vigor in which he responded surprised him. His heart leapt to unreachable heights, soaring until it fell back into place. He might have stayed up too long. Sleep would quell its strange, out of tune beats, but Wukong almost didn’t want the sensation to cease. There was thrill to it, the sparks in his veins like fire shavings, the odd nervousness he felt around someone he’d known for ages, the way his fingers itched to wrap around Macaque’s hand, so close by but miles apart.
“Peaches,” his friend – if that was the right word anymore – smiled cynically, “you’ve just committed treason.”
He winked. “For you.”
“The most admirable reason, really,” Macaque murmured, smirking.
It was a smile like any other, crooked and cruel in how it dug into Wukong’s mind and never left him alone. Even as their voices - exaggerated plans of treachery and ruling over the Heavens just to throw it into chaos - lulled each other to sleep, it glowed within the recesses of his conscious, eerie yet compelling. He wanted to see it over and over again, wanted to be the cause of it, and he didn’t know why. He didn’t know why he felt like this when he hadn’t before, like a bud in his chest had just blossomed, stealing away room for any other thoughts that didn’t revolve around him .
He needed sleep.
Before drowsiness could sew his eyes shut, a burst of confidence surged through him. He leant his hand forward and laced his fingers in Macaque’s, their heartbeats linked through touch. Warmth spread throughout his limbs, loosening them up as though he’d drunk wine and was drifting aimlessly.
Just as sleep claimed him, he felt it – faint, and at the edge of his memory – a quick, tight squeeze.
His heart stuttered, and he squeezed back.
+1.
Macaque stood atop a beacon, shining like the sun.
He wasn’t one to shine – he lurked in the shadows, melted into darkness and became one with it. He did not make himself the center of attention like this, nor did he glitter like a gem cut from stone, but there he was, his silhouette outlined in wispy indigo, eyes glowing like berries hanging heavy from the bush, ripe with anticipation.
Wukong felt the sensation again, lightning trapped under his skin, and ran. The evergreen field between them parted seamlessly, as though it were waiting for him to arrive. His legs ached the further he went. He did not think to summon a cloud, or to fly, his mind to consumed by the pillar and the one standing above it, waiting for him. The grass whispered in a million lithe voices, petals fluttered through the air – carmine roses and pale violets and white dandelion fluff that flew down like fresh snow – their fragrance strong and sweet. His heart tripped again, and so did he, tumbling onto the soft plains, lurching up again to chase the unmoving Macaque.
“Mac!” he shouted. His voice sounded so far away. He leapt into the air, passing through clouds that formed soft ivory whorls in the sky, and Wukong found himself directly in front of him – up close, his being shimmered like an ethereal purple spirit, his pearlescent aura wavering diaphanously; a silk handkerchief gone awry. Raven colored hair sparkled, like a myriad of stardust had fallen into its strands. His eyes, lashes low, faded from purple to amber, wide with recognition.
“Wukong,” he breathed, grabbing both of the monkey’s hands. “Wukong, you’re back.”
Wukong wasn’t sure what he was back from, but he nodded eagerly, clutching Macaque’s hands tightly. “I’m back,” he said. “I’m back.”
“You were gone for so long-” he continued, “I was beginning to worry you would never return. I thought you had left us behind.”
“I - no. I would never do that,” Wukong reassured. “I have everything I need right here.”
“Are you sure?” Macaque asked, eyes glinting with unfamiliar emotions. He couldn’t pinpoint any of them; his own were bleeding through invisible wounds, leaving him raw and vulnerable. Everything he’d ever felt was free to see, right through his eyes. The ugly and the beautiful, both having crippled him so much he’d thought he was sick. Past him was used to glossing over things he didn’t understand, even if they hurt. He could ignore pain, but this wasn’t just a cut left to scar.
He supposed he’d been right in some ways – he was sick. Lovesick.
“I’m sure,” Wukong said defiantly, one hand coming up to caress Macaque’s cheek. Gods, he was a fool for not doing this earlier, but now he had, and they would have forever.
“Good,” Macaque leaned in, those exquisite eyes boring into him. He opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off by an abrupt kiss. Their lips met tentatively, Wukong’s hand trailing down to Macaque’s shoulder, their tails twisted together. He didn’t give himself time to breathe, didn’t need time to breath, not when he’d waited so long. He drew back only to kiss him again, sighing wistfully, Macaque’s hands resting against his chest, right above where his heart would’ve been had it not evaporated into a fine mist by then.
His hands brought Macaque closer as he deepened the kiss, tilting his head to the side to capture his lips better, and from there he poured every bit of lovesickness he had felt in the past decades, because words would fail him if he tried. He pressed a kiss against his mouth for every conversation they had shared, planted one on his jaw for each reckless battle, marked territory with each bite he left on his neck. Hums of content rang in his ears, then faded, until Macaque was silent.
Wukong pulled away. The other monkey shimmered – this time, he realized it was more like a mirage than spirit – eyes sunken. “Good,” he repeated, lips swollen. “But too late.”
And from his hands, Macaque’s body disintegrated into ribbons of purple smoke, his smile being the first thing that disappeared.
Wukong jolted upwards, wincing at the pain in his side.
The room was overcast in grey, accompanied by the calming rhythm of falling rain droplets pattering against the earth outside. A blanket sparsely covered his body, his fur rust-colored, permanently tainted with the blood of hundreds of battles. Bandages lay nearby, linen half cut with a blade.
His hands reached up towards his forehead, quivering. Please .
He was met with the hard surface of polished gold.
Curses tumbled from his mouth in a stream of tar. He threw off the blanket, welcoming the cold, and opened the sliding door to his room. Memories presented themselves in his mind as he walked down the corridor, the house silent and dark, lit alive by lightning. Bitterness swelled, and he took a chair from a dining room table he had passed, the wood crunching in his fist.
The porch was just as devastatingly dull as the rest of the house, its paint chipped and dry, drops of crystalline water dripping through holes in the pergola, which leaned wearily on its side. A torrent of rain fell down from the Heavens, a barrage of bullets just waiting to tear themselves into his flesh. He stepped out of the cover and let it soak him, pound against his back. His bare feet sank into the wet earth, and he wished it would swallow him whole.
The wooden chair was crushed in his tight grasp, and he hurled it at a nearby tree, watching the leaves dance towards the ground. And then he stood still, his tail not twitching, hair not being yanked by the tumultuous wind spirits. His eyes were almost closed, water sliding down the slope of his nose and tapering down his cheeks like tears. He had none to cry; the journey had exhausted him so much that he simply couldn’t. The fatigue weighed down on his shoulders, threatening to crush him. Maybe it would, and it was just waiting for the right time.
When? He thought listlessly.
His head throbbed. He’d felt like his head was waging a war against him that entire afternoon, the Monk having inflicted the spell on him after he’d murdered innocents. He couldn’t bring himself to care, but the pain worsened until they had found a place to stay the night, where it quieted until he was left with snippets of a life he had long forgotten.
Part of him wanted to forget. He was forging a new self now, past be damned, and it hurt to think about what his life had once been.
But the rest of him didn’t seem to agree, or else it wouldn’t have kept replaying that same dream, over and over. And he wouldn’t have kept falling for it, even when he knew it wasn’t real and would never be real. He could never hold him or kiss him or wake up beside him.
The dream knew that – it was why he never got to tell Macaque “I love you” before it ended and he woke up.
The rain slowed to a stop. Blood swirled in pools beneath his feet, the bandages he had applied earlier damp and slipping off his abdomen, revealing a raw pink scar, a gash to go with the million others that painted his chest. His fur was wet, beads of water hanging by the tips like chipped ice. He smelt of salt and thick petrichor, and decided he should return before anyone awoke.
Wukong retreated into the house, steps slow and limp. He bumped into Sandy on his way there, who asked if he was alright, noticing the opened wound.
He smiled, bright and endless, like the seven sons that had once burned in the sky. “It’s nothing, Sandy.” One hand hovered over his chest, and it almost looked like he was trying to touch the blemish forming across his torso. “I’m just feeling a little sick.”
“Oh,” said the river spirit, his voice timid. “I hope you feel better, then!”
Wukong grinned, not bothering to respond.
He knew better.