Chapter Text
It’s dawn after a resounding victory.
A little van is parked atop of a cliff. A campfire is lit; logs are moved around it to form seats. Wounds are dressed and bruises are tended to. A pot of food bubbles over the fire, expelling enticing smells that would awaken the taste buds of even the most reserved of souls.
Friends and tentative allies are gathered around the campfire, sharing food and stories, soothing memories of ice and wounds that still ache with a feast and each other’s company. Golden eyes watch as a dark-haired boy eagerly accepts his second serving from a doting cook.
“MK, careful it’s-”
“Hot, hot-!”
A yelp, followed by a row of laughter.
The sun is shining above their heads.
The air is filled with merry voices.
The snow is melting.
And Macaque has no fucking clue what to do with himself.
He watches the group huddle from the shade of a tree, finding himself unwilling to join in. A blind man would know he is unwanted. Mk likely doesn’t notice, but Macaque certainly does denote the glances others give him. The red-haired demon child of the Demon Bull King sneaks a look every now and then. The Lotus Prince never has his back on Macaque, and he doesn’t even bother hiding his looks when he checks in to make sure Macaque hasn’t moved from his spot under the tree.
Not like Macaque wants to move.
He’s quite content to nurse his wounds quietly in the shadow of this tree, with nothing but bugs and the occasional bird to keep him company. At his side rests an empty bowl of noodles, the peace offering the pig’s reincarnation gave him under the begging gaze of MK.
A pity gift, if he’s ever seen one.
Macaque recognized the look the pig demon gave him. That yaoguai does not trust him, not at all. Only MK’s presence and exhaustion from the battle has kept the pig -and most of the boy’s entourage, really- from shooing him off like an unwanted porch cat once the battle was over and they settled for the rest of the night.
Which, speaking of…
His eyes stray to the right, towards the edge of the cliff.
It’s interesting how despite the group huddling around the campfire, laughing and eating together, there’s one more person left out -and it's the most surprising of all.
Macaque scans the back of a golden-ginger head, observing the way the other celestial primate holds himself so calmly. Sun Wukong, the bane of Macaque’s existence, seems at utter peace as he looks out the cliffside to the land below. At least, he looks so for the untrained eye -for Macaque notes just how still his tail is, how he’s poised so casually it's almost sickening.
Wukong has always been good at putting up a front.
And Macaque has always been good at noticing them.
He could leave.
Right now.
A single step back would be all it takes. Vanish into the shadows, disappear forever -at least, until he finally gets the opening he’s dreamed of. That single, golden opportunity that had been the reason Macaque ever accepted that debt from the witch -at least, besides for the chance to be able to walk among the living once more.
Yet, despite this…
Macaque’s eyes glance MK’s way. He’s sitting at the feet of the dragon girl, leaning against her legs and looking up at her as he chats merrily and she smiles back, running her fingers through his messy, sweaty hair dirtied by weeks of traveling and a hard won battle. Brother Ox’s boy is right next to her, chomping down on his third bowl of noodles. Macaque doesn’t need to try and pierce through the glamors over the boy to know he’s wagging his tail eagerly.
Macaque was almost in the same debacle when he ate his only portion. The pig might be a menace, but he cooks well.
The thought strays his gaze back to the empty bowl at his side, abandoned under the shade of the tree. Macaque stares at the discarded bowl in silence. He’s not sure what he is thinking, for some reason. His thoughts feel muddled and tired inside his head.
…and his gaze, inexplicably, returns to that one lone figure resting on the cliff’s edge.
Macaque’s tail twitches beside him.
Crickets chirp in the distance.
The crackle-pop of the campfire fails to drown out how the grass crunches under his feet as he stands up. Immediately, Macaque knows Nezha is looking his way, the Third Lotus Prince dutiful in keeping an eye on him; no doubt the prince feels like he’s only contributed little to this final fight, and keeping an eye on the supposedly dead shadow demon while everyone else is resting is his way of making up for it.
An action that would once bring amusement to Macaque -and yet now?
It feels…
…unappealing.
Cheekily pointing out that he knows they’re watching, making some chaos, commenting on it… those thoughts cross his mind, yet never quite settle long enough before fading away before the heavy fog of exhaustion that clings to his bones.
There’s been enough fighting for the day,
Macaque’s all out of fighting for today, tomorrow, maybe next week, maybe more.
It disturbs him, a distant realization within his mind.
He ignores Nezha, ignores the group, and locks his gaze on that golden figure on the cliffside. Wukong is bathed in the sunlight, the warm rays turning the pale clothing he wears a bright, yellow shade. It reminds Macaque of the peculiar shade of white-orange Flower Fruit Mountain would become during the early morning, when the sun peeked over the volcanic ridge and Macaque was unlucky enough that the daily chatter and chaos of the eternal summer mountain woke him early.
His heart tugs at the memory.
And his feet move forward, past the campfire, past the van. Carrying him forward and Macaque can only watch, the spectator, as that figure on the cliff grows bigger and bigger as he draws closer -and maybe he should pull away, maybe he should snap out of it, maybe he should wake up and flee and fall back so he can plan their next encounter-
…but instead he reaches to a stop to the Sage’s left, and feeling as much as seeing from the corner of his eyes the other turn his head at his presence, Macaque slowly slides down to sit cross legged right next to his most hated enemy.
The string snaps, throwing him back into his own body.
Into the situation he’s decided to put himself in, in a fit of complete and utter madness.
...and as he sits here, silent, Macaque feels any strategy welling up within him, crumble like a house of cards.
Idiot, a part of him crackles, one that tastes of winter and forced debts.
Macaque agrees. He’s being an idiot, alright. He' walked up and sat down next to his greatest enemy like a dumbass, without an ounce of a resolute, coherent plan as to what to say.
Great.
Macaque blames the concussion the other left him with from his battle against the possessed Sage.
It’s the only explanation for this level of stupidity.
Talking to Wukong always felt like a battle. Macaque always needed to plan out everything, to know and calculate when his words become too vicious for the Sage to ignore, to know the exact moment barbed insults turn into swinging fists. Macaque is an expert at this, an expert with toying a wrathful god few would dare challenge, a master at this song and dance after hundreds of years of clashing.
Since his misbegotten rebirth, the image of Sun Wukong looming over him, golden staff gleaming in the setting sun as he raises it high and noble haunts him. The memory is burned into his retina, the final image of his life as Sun Wukong’s vengeful former friend forever engraved into the twisting abyss of his mind and soul. A curse, in many ways.
Macaque often wonders if the witch brought him back wrong, if this single minded desire to get even without any true plan or end goal in sight is the end result of madness. If it was the Diyu that warped him or it was the resurrection -or maybe Macaque has always been broken on the inside. A shadow without a light to be cast from -a mangled, cruel little beast that had only been tethered to reason by kind words, summer sunshine and peaches.
But that had been a time long behind him -behind the two of them. The memories remain like distant ghosts but the world keeps turning, pushing those memories further and further away into a bitter past that warps and twists every time Macaque dares to glance behind him, to take a moment and stop and think back of a time he’d…
He stops, stomach lurching as he stares at the melting spires of ice below, far beneath the cliff they’re camping at. The sun is almost at its apex in the sky, its absolute brilliance slowly eating away at the remnants of the Lady Bone Demon’s mech. Ice crumbles bit by bit, sending piles of warped metal tumbling below, the leftovers of the witch’s machine left victim to the elements. Macaque regards that skeletal metal corpse in silence, contemplating what lies ahead for it
The earth will eventually swallow those ruins, leaving the flora to grow over it. A forest would grow, making itself at home in the many dips and caves those crumpled up pieces of metal would form. Life would return to this land -scarred, shattered, yet someday it will become something kinder than its creator wished for it.
Or, scavengers would come. Human or demons, seeking knowledge or simply material. They would take the metal away, take it to sell or use it for themselves -and the mech’s remnant would become something new. Something better. Others would find use in the ruins, find a place in this world.
At this, his throat grows tight. Staying here, sitting next to him, makes his stomach churn. He wants to get up and move away, away from the person who has simultaneously his tether and the one to let him fall… yet Macaque finds himself stuck where he is, rooted to the ground, unwilling to get up from the ledge or simply sink away in the shadows.
He holds no doubt that the older demon at his side is wondering why, exactly, Macaque isn’t leaving. Why he’s letting his presence fester, why he’s sullying the king’s good mood with it. His insides squirm with the knowledge Wukong is likely waiting, expecting, for him to leave -he can feel the other’s gaze on the side of his head. Baffled enough not to resort to violence to get Macaque away from him, or maybe just too tired to bother with a simple shadow for now.
Macaque feels the latter. His ribs hurt -there’s an uncomfortable pull inside his chest every time he takes a breath, a sharp pain that only years spent in the underworld stops him from keening at the slightest intake of air. His hands hurt, knuckles aching from having to deal blow after blow against the unbreakable wall that was the possessed Sage -and his forearms burn with a dull flame from the many, many blows he’d had to block.
No doubt come morning, he will have rings of purple and black curling around his forearms and torso. His fingers will shake and burn and he will struggle for days to hold anything -the adrenaline from the fight long gone, replaced by a cruel reminder of the ruthlessness of the Great Sage Equal to Heaven. But… that also leaves Macaque to wonder.
Where will he be, come morning?
His gaze shifts down to his lap, staring at his open hands in silence. That is a good question, part of him wonders, the part of him that is coherent under the layers of exhaustion. He needs to figure it out, now, before the others grow tired of his presence. Already he can hear the mutters behind him from the camp, can feel the glances MK and his lot throw his way, no doubt just as baffled as Macaque feels for daring to sit down next to his rival.
Yes.
He needs not think of the person sitting next to him, unusually quiet for such a boisterous, loud Sage. Needs not to think of the eyes drilling into the side of his head -for that is a ticking clock and Macaque is lost, and he cannot ever go into a situation where Wukong is involved without thinking things through first.
Macaque has always been a creature of habit. He’s always planned ahead, always calculated the risks, always thought of every possible sliver of risk before jumping into something. When he does something he always wants to do it perfectly, and given the life he’s led up until now, being careful and meticulous is a requirement. Look out for number one, because he has no one to watch his back.
Well.
He did.
Once.
A long time ago, he thinks with no small ounce of sadness. Despite the betrayal, despite the hundreds of years of torture in the underworld, despite his own death -nothing Macaque does can ever stop that heaving sense of void that rips him apart every time he thinks of the deluded fool he used to be long ago.
The Six Eared Macaque of Flower Fruit Mountain had been a blind little fool. Eager to please, eager to help, eager to simply follow after another and silently beg for the faintest scrap of attention. Happy to exist surrounded by monkeys and fruits of all shapes and sizes, of spending days feasting and making flower crowns. Of skipping rocks on crystal clear rivers and racing through groves so full of flowers and fruit, one could taste their sweetness with each breath.
What a simple past, for a simple being.
For a fool who had everything and lost it all.
Macaque bites down a sigh at that remark, not wanting anything to show outwardly to the being sitting next to him, the being whose space he invaded, the person who gave him those memories of sunshine and fruits and easily took them away all in one breath.
The shade slowly closes his eyes, well aware of the weight of another’s eyes on him.
The witch is gone, he acknowledges.
MK is safe.
The world is saved.
I don’t need to be the warrior MK asked for, anymore, part of him denotes with some odd sense of detachment, like an audience member watching in, one who knows the cruel jokes the universe is making fly over Macaque’s head. It’s all over.
There’s nothing left for me to do.
It leaves him to a single conclusion.
One that scares him.
One that makes him curl up on the inside, wrapping himself up into a ball and shudder, because the longer he thinks about it, the longer it rings true. And he hates it. Hates it, hates himself, hates the power it holds over him. Hates how the realization, the answer to his musing settles like a heavy cloak over him. Not a chain around his neck, choking him out -no, this is more gentle, more absolute, heavier. Crushing him down all at once instead of stripping him of his ability to breathe.
It lets him breathe, because he needs to speak.
He needs to say it.
And Macaque’s tiny little black heart shudders in terror. It cries and screams as he feels himself open his eyes, feels the weight of a familiar pair of eyes laser focusing on him as he takes a breath, stills, the air lodged in his lungs burning-
…before he lets it all out, in a single murmur.
“I'm tired,” he utters, truly speaking it out loud and there is something monumental about those two words, something far too vast and vague and heavy for him to comprehend. Two words, spoken just loud enough for the other to hear, and it feels like a weight is lifted off his shoulders at the same time a mountain is dropped into his back.
Two words, and it's deliverance and torture all at once, a broken contradiction to reflect what once was between himself and Wukong. Macaque swallows and all he can taste is bitterness and blood.
Two words.
A white flag.
Defeat.
Hundreds of years of fighting, reduced to this.
I'm tired, his mind repeats inside his head, and every fiber of his being agrees.
Fighting the Monkey King did not bring him any sense of joy that lasts longer than the cuts, burns and bruises that are left after those battles. It gave him nothing. Nothing but more scars, nothing but more bitter memories to hold close during freezing nights as he huddles in front of a campfire.
Nothing.
Sun Wukong had been toying with him, all this time. The fight against the Lady Bone Demon proved it. The Sage had always been holding back, not bothering to waste his powers on something as insignificant as the Six Eared Macaque. No amount of scheming and tricks will bring Macaque victory -not when the Sage can flick a finger and banish him back to the afterlife.
He'd never get his revenge.
He'll never get even.
And maybe-
...maybe that's not the end of the world.
Maybe the end of the world Macaque has known for so long, but this might not be as final as he'd thought it would be. It still scares him, however. It terrifies him to think he's tethering at the edge of this precipice, looking down at a dark, unseeing void and knowing full well that eventually the cliff side he stands on will crumble, and he will fall into that uncertain future.
Beneath layers upon layers of glamors, six ears twitch as they pick up the familiar beat of a powerful heart speed up. His chest grows tight when he notices with a faint sense of delirious detachment how the other has gone still at his side, the Sage’s mind no doubt taken for a spin at the absurdity of what Macaque just said and what the implications of such a declaration bring.
Because it changes everything. It tosses to the ground hundreds of years of fighting, of pain and blood and wounds that never scar right. It breaks the cycle they had grown used to, the only thing really tethering them together and Macaque needs that tether, he needs something in this vast world that has no place for him anymore.
So Macaque waits in nervous, nauseating silence.
Waits for the snort, the laugh, the crackle dripping with smugness.
The mocking.
The jeers.
Took you long enough, he imagines the other saying, those golden eyes that are but glamors to hide the ruby red lurking underneath sparkling as the Sage says this. The god amused at Macaque’s defeat, or maybe finally relieved to hear it, if it means the Sage will finally not have to deal with his miserable presence. A broken toy that has long overstayed its use.
Looking back, knowing just how strong Wukong is now, Macaque realizes with no small ounce of shocked numbness that the other only humored him. Maybe that’s what Macaque has been this entire time. Entertainment, to break the lull of the Sage’s retirement upon the mountain home that once was home to the both of them.
And now…
He fights off tears at the thought, hating the sting that comes to his eyes at this thought. Of the idea that he’d clawed his way back to the world of the living with ice in his veins and hatred in his heart, and all Wukong did at the sight of his quest for vengeance is find it entertaining.
Maybe it’s what I deserve.
It hurts.
But it makes sense-
Gold enters his vision from his left.
His thoughts stop, buckle and crash off that familiar beaten path of bitterness, falling silent as he watches a familiar hand rest on Macaque’s knee, palm up, long, worn fingers towards the sky. Open, relaxed.
Inviting.
An offering and a source of fear all at once. Macaque stares at this open hand, poised for him to hold. Stares at it like it would reach up and rip his throat out, strip him of this second life he's not meant to have. His heart stutters in his chest, almost matching the racing heartbeat he hears from the owner of the hand.
Too terrified, he doesn’t dare look Wukong’s way. Doesn’t dare look at his golden eyes, at the face of the one he’d spent so long chasing after. To see what he’s thinking, because no matter how many years have passed it's easy for Macaque to know what the other is thinking with just a look. Only he really had that ability over the king, and once upon a time it's been something he took pride in.
But now?
There’s not much to be proud of.
Wukong shifts at his side, a sudden minute movement that makes Macaque freeze even more solid. He hears the thump of a tail against dirt, a low, calm breath. Feels the gaze of his once friend looking down at him, minutely scanning what parts of Macaque’s face the king can see. For the first time Macaque is glad that he is shorter than the king, glad that it's easy for him to be small next to the god, if not only for the fact he can hide away from him like this.
A small, pitiful victory.
“Macaque,” the name is spoken quietly, yet it feels like rumbling thunder to his ears. Never before in a hundred years did he hear his name be uttered so calmly from Wukong before. Or anyone. Macaque’s never been one to make allies easily, much less friends, so he’s never had anyone in the past hundreds of years since his resurrection not spit out his name in disgust or displeased surprise.
This-
This is different.
Different and terrifying. This isn’t the acceptance and dismissal Macaque had been expecting at all. Once again, Wukong is destroying his plans without even putting much effort into it -tearing down the walls he’s spent so much time painstakingly building around himself and walking right in, just to make himself at home.
Home.
Macaque’s heart skips a beat at the thought. Almost against his will, he forces his lips open. It takes all his strength to push through the knot of tension in his throat;
“...yes?” He manages to voice out, so airy it almost fails to be coherent.
Such a tiny, simple question, wavering in the air between them. A meek, dying little thing, eager to retreat back into the confines of Macaque’s heart where it has laid for thousands of years, growing smaller and weaker every day, withering away like a flower without sunlight. But it makes it through, makes it out, growing brighter when Macaque feels as much as watches that hand twitch on his knee, as if debating pulling away and if it did, he’s not sure what he will do, how he will survive it.
Wukong takes a deep breath. Macaque waits, unable to turn away, to hide. Like a prisoner waiting for the executioner’s blade to come down, his ears catch every sliver of Wukong’s slow intake of air, of the rustle of the other’s clothing as the god shifts in place and Macaque braces for the rejection, the laughter, the mockery-
“We'll figure it out,” Wukong says with quiet confidence, voice so soft, so light, alien to the boisterous king of his past life. A pause. Not quite hesitation, but rather, a careful consideration, as if the Sage is choosing his words carefully. “....I promise.”
And yet, despite his soft tone so unlike the loud, absolute certainty Macaque remembers following blindly in his past life, it's just as powerful.
It makes him reel on the inside.
In all the time he spent stalking and scheming, waiting for an opening, waiting for a moment of vulnerability from the Sage that would allow Macaque to exact his vengeful fury, to rip him apart and leave him as broken as Wukong made him… he'd forgotten to look at Wukong. Really look. Step back and see the person he is now, and not the ghost that haunts him every waking hour, the one that spurns him forward, the one that hovers over him when he as much as dares close his eyes and rest for a moment.
Taking a breath that shudders far too visibly as it makes its way past his lips, Macaque dares to look up. Open skies, golden sun above, melting ice below with dots of greenery showing through. He takes it in for a moment, too aware of the eyes on him, of the hand still on his knee waiting for an answer.
Then-
He dares.
He meekly slides his shaking hand into the open one, fingers threading together as he clasps Wukong’s hand in his own. Immediately, Wukong’s fingers curl over his own, palm sliding against palm, claws sliding against tan skin and for once not aiming to tear, the solid warm making Macaque’s mind spin. If the sensation of another’s hand in his for the first time that isn’t during a fight takes him for a spin, then the soft, calming chirp his namesakes catch have him shuddering.
His grip on Wukong’s hand tightens.
Quietly, Wukong squeezes back.
Calm and steady, with confidence the shadow monkey does not have an ounce of. The knot in Macaque’s throat loosens. Silently, terrified that he can blink and this will be all gone, he leans to the left -slightly, just enough for his shoulder to brush against another’s -and he jolts and hears Wukong answer this with a soft, steadying rumble when the Sage leans right back, making the point of contact all the more greater.
Macaque closes his eyes. He feels the sun shining down from the heavens, warming him up gently. His ears twitch as he hears MK and his friends settle around the campfire. His heart steadies as he hears Wukong’s own do the same, only skipping a few beats when he feels the Sage’s tail press against his back, a line of solid warmth as the limb coils around Macaque in a possessive circle.
The shadow’s heart races for a moment, then…then he takes a breath and leans harder against Wukong, ears dropping beneath the glamors, tension snapping like the string of a bow and it takes everything for him not to cry when he dares drop his head on Wukong’s shoulder and his best friend immediately leans to rest his head over his in turn.
His tail twitches from nerves, flicking side to side until he feels a golden one wrap around him and keep it steady and protected.
Macaque sniffles, and he hears an answering chirp from above. The hand in his tightens, an anchor through the storm.
Wukong is right, he decides.
They’ll figure it out.