Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Red Son remembered the day he lost his mother. When she became a whispered ghost hovering through grand, echoing halls, perhaps under the same roof, but always on another planet. A living statue that weeped behind closed doors and pretended to be the woman Red Son could only recall not through definitive memories—he was too young to know it was best to grasp whatever he could of past touches of affection, moments of care—but as a comfort; an anchoring feeling. 

A small Red Son knew her grief like the back of his hand. Because if he dissected its ins and outs, he would then become a welcome visitor to her planet. Any means that would benefit her plans to retrieve her husband meant closing the distance between them: his knack for technology was helpful. Training to control his fire more effectively meant he could fight alongside her. Studying every book his stubby arms could reach in their library gave them a common ground of knowledge. It would bring his father back, which meant his anchor, too, and then he would no longer be lost at sea.

As it turned out, regaining his family did not mend much of anything. 

The affection his mother poured to his father upon his rescue was foreign as he watched from the side; love that was given a chance to plant its roots in their soil, to blossom into something that permeated time. Red Son did not realise she could do that. Of planets and moons, he was hardly in their orbit.

Getting them back a second time didn’t change much either, except leaving him in a debt of his own volition. A debt that had him standing around like an idiot against an arcade machine that screeched in bold, eye-straining red, MONKEY KING FIGHTER 2. Out of anything they could have used a favour from Red Son for, they chose this. Everything in this place was horrifically bright and uncomfortably cramped; there was popcorn and lint stuck to Red Son’s shoes since the moment he stepped in. This was a fitting establishment for peasants.

“Oh, hey, you actually came!” MK called out cheerfully, practically barging through the doors. Mei was alongside him, a string of tickets in one hand, the other holding a popcorn bag. Actually seeing them arrive was a blunt reminder that he could have claimed this hardly counted as a favour and never bothered with them again.

“Just so you’re made aware, I am not playing this game,” he scoffed. “It would be a disgrace to my father, whom your mentor trapped under a—”

They eventually got him to play MONKEY KING FIGHTER 2. Somehow they knew if it was saved for last, he would be too deliriously exhausted to deny. But it wasn’t all that bad—after MK giggled like a maniac while telling him which buttons to smack, eventually giving up and guiding Red Son’s hand with his own, he was rewarded with beating up a virtual Monkey King. He whooped loudly at the winning screen, and the warmth from MK’s hand lingered the rest of the night.

Admittedly, his cheeks hurt from smiling. He couldn’t recall the last time he got this lightheaded from laughing. The arcade crowd was fizzling out, but the machines kept the room just as noisy, and the other two were loud enough to make up for the lack of people.

Just as he was pulling his coat on, MK tapped his shoulder. Red Son whirled around and stepped back out of instinct, but realised who it was and relaxed.

“Before you go, are you free next Tuesday?” he asked. “Nothing exciting, but Mei and I are gonna try a new restaurant that just opened. You should totally come.”

Perhaps it was the tiredness that seeped into his bones from hours of mind-numbing games that drained his wallet and left him open to just about any suggestion, because in any other circumstance, Red Son would be saying no and their numbers would be blocked on his cruddy old phone. Or maybe, being the target of MK’s overwhelming beams of altruistic sunlight left him afraid of them fading away, regardless of how the Noodle Boy would say the same for just about any demon that gave him the time of day.

“I suppose I could,” he said. 

Then MK’s eyes lit up, neon lights dancing back and forth in their reflections, a grin splitting on his face, and for a brief moment, Red Son could only take in the view. Fleeting; all encompassing. A warmth his inner flame would never quite match. They said their goodbyes and Red Son smothered the butterflies that fluttered all the way up his throat.

‘Hanging’, as one might put it, became a bad habit after that. 

Usually their more exciting plans would be cancelled because MK had the lowest income of everyone and profusely denied when they offered to pay for him—honestly, Red Son found it ridiculous, given he and Mei were using their parents’ money, they had quite a bit to spare—so their time together was almost always spent lounging in MK’s apartment or in Pigsy’s restaurant below. Hanging out with them was easy, natural, even if he masqueraded as incredibly reluctant.

Each time Red Son returned home, week after week, the giddy warmth would quickly wear off as he closed his bedroom door and flopped onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. Vehemently reminding himself that this was to repay a debt. An endless thank-you for saving his collection of family statues and nothing more, because the moment Red Son admitted it was because he was having fun with the enemy’s successor and his friends, guilt would sink its talons into his gut.

Stupidly enough, it wasn’t the part of befriending their enemy that chipped away at his subconscious while he absentmindedly flicked through books and scribbled down notes. His parents didn’t pay enough mind for Red Son to ever risk being caught. No; instead, being around MK and Mei was a reprieve from the blanket of tension that always hovered above home. The one that trailed Red Son wherever he went, so long as he was inside. 

He would never consider them friends, of course. Sure, Mei would call him bestie more than she did his actual name (or, more accurately, ‘Red Boy’), and Red Son’s knowledge of technology often aided in improving her vehicle’s user interface as did her ideas on how to make his bots more efficient, leading to hours long debates that devolved far past their original topics. Maybe, he enjoyed listening to MK offload about annoying customers or ramble about the most minute things with such passion that Red Son couldn’t help getting invested—honestly, he could listen to him talk about anything—sure, he started keeping track of what drinks MK ordered most, and—

Compared to how loose his grasp was on his parents’ worlds, Red Son knew he belonged to the same planet as MK and Mei the moment they loaded a coin into the first arcade machine. 

☄. *. ⋆

After the first few instances of appearing at MK’s window without prior notice, it was left open to the breezy, warm air of late spring for whenever Red Son felt like clambering in. 

The apartment was quieter than he first expected, given MK’s usual never-ending eccentricity. Removed from the chattery customers of Pigsly’s restaurant, and usually locked from visitors save for the occasional Mei, the most noise that roused was MK mumbling to himself, playing games and the like, usually just accompanied by the ambience of the streets below. 

It replaced Red Son’s work station as his favourite place soon after discovering it.

He would bring projects to work on, enough that it served the same function as his station at home, but this place had the added benefit of non-robotic company. The first time he came with a stack of books and parchment paper to research flowers for useful properties, MK jumped from his chair in sheer excitement.

“Flowers are like, the best thing ever,” he had declared, plopping down next to Red Son on the carpet and leaning over to look at the illustrations in the book. He bristled when MK’s arm rested on his leg for support. “My favourite are daisies.”

“Ah. Simple, like you,” Red Son mused. Like most things he learned of MK, he catalogued this fact in the back of his mind.

“I’m taking that as a compliment.” MK then shifted lean against his shoulder, arm still laying comfortably on Red Son’s leg, eyes following along the dense text that complimented the pretty paintings of flowers and other assorted plants. 

“What about you?”

Red Son didn’t acknowledge the question. Flames crept from his hair, despite his flustered attempts to suppress them. His hands were frozen above the sheet of paper laid before them. 

“Red Son?” 

“Oh.” He paused; searched for some sort of flimsy answer, mostly as a distraction from the warmth pressed against his body, and it occurred to him that he had never put much thought into menial things like a favourite flower. When he was a child, they would only burn in his hands, and he decided afterwards that there wasn’t much use in that sort of silly thought. “I don’t have one.”

MK hummed in response and grinned. “Let’s pick one right now, then.”

Laying about in the Noodle Boy’s apartment doing anything and nothing became a bad habit, after that. 

Majority of his spare time ended up spent there. Being with the others was enjoyable, but he still wasn’t entirely used to everyone’s high energy levels clashing all at once, compared to the brisk and utilitarian way of his parents’ speech he was accustomed to. Sure, MK talked a lot, maybe too much sometimes—his endless barrage of Monkey King facts usually went on the longest, much to Red Son’s dismay—but he found himself missing MK’s voice when huddled up at home for too long. 

If his parents ever noticed his frequent trips, how they grew longer with each exit, they hadn’t bothered to comment.

It was dark out. A dim, incandescent lamp light poured from MK’s window, still open which mildly concerned Red Son because up until that point, he thought it was only kept ajar during the day—but it was enough reason for him to climb in without feeling guilty about it. Well, too guilty about it, the moon was already dipping towards the horizon and MK likely fell asleep hours before, but he just needed to know what paints to get, and MK was the only artist he knew.

Tip-toeing along to his desk, he began carefully tugging drawers open and pushing them back, cringing slightly at the absolute mess each of them were, before he heard sheets ruffling, and froze.

“It’s—” a voice mumbled, and Red Son saw his eyes glint as they glanced at a bedside clock, “Red, it’s four in the morning.”

Also concerning that MK didn’t seem to particularly care about the chances of there being a burglar instead of an everyday Red Son.

“Go back to sleep,” he tried. Explaining that he was looking for paint to make a stand for the summer festival, just because there was the slightest chance his father could be interested in selling food together like the last time—which of course, was literally destroyed—it would feel embarrassing. Not because Red Son didn’t trust MK, but that it twisted at a bud of shame he associated with his difficulty connecting with his father. It would expose something he wished to never see the light of day.

“Your hair’s down,” was what MK commented on instead.

Red Son stared. 

He felt self-conscious, vaguely aware of MK’s eyes fixated on that fact, perhaps fatigued in his half-awake state. But then he withdrew, curling into his blanket, not bothering with questions or curiosity, only having fixated on the apparently bewildering idea of Red Son having his hair untied.

“Mm, take whatever you need,” he then mumbled, “then come sleep.”

Eventually, after carefully looking through MK’s terribly disarrayed shelves and baskets, he found a set of paints that were full and buried far enough back that Red Son was pretty certain MK didn’t find much use with them. It was also a quick and easy distraction to his invitation, which Red Son really had no idea how to interpret and felt queasy whichever way he attempted—did Noodle Boy want him to sleep in his bed? That was jumping to conclusions. Stupid. But, well, honestly, he wasn’t sure which other way it could be misconstrued, though he still desperately searched. 

He settled on curling up on the carpeted floor, facing away from MK, not sure what would possess him to do such a thing beyond the idiotic part of him that bloomed at the part where MK wanted him to sleep in his apartment. The trip back home would be exhausting at this hour, he reasoned. This was acceptable.

Chapter Text

Leaves and brush sprouted from branches along MK’s street, a humming green that glowed as it basked beneath the morning sun; lava bubbled and clawed at the edges of the castle’s bridge, threatening to sweep away what grim lamps and architectural decor lay ahead. Red Son felt a lunging sickness coil around his neck. Steam from the boiling heat of his home suffocated rather than soothed. His vision swam not with delirium but utter, culpable awareness.

Because Red Son knew. He knew too well that if he stayed any longer, sprawled on a cheap bed he was most definitely lifted into, something its absent owner had likely done before heading to work—he never would have left. That if he stared for too long at the plastic bag MK tied the paints in, with a little sticky note on it that read Good morning, have fun painting :) and beneath sat a groggy Red Son doodle, his hair poking out everywhere like a lion’s mane, well. Red Son’s entire soul would have squeezed its way out of his body.

He put the sticky note inside the bag, on his way out. Afraid that if he held it in his own hands, its stem would catch aflame, and petals would char, wither. 

The bag’s contents shuffling had echoed down the castle’s corridors, through the living room, where Red Son could faintly make out some overly cheerful TV humdrum from that moronic baking show, and not once did anyone beyond the observing eyes of servants gleen his presence. Not when he fumbled with the door handle louder than usual, or made sure it slammed instead of shut. 

Where he stood, frozen, no matter how Red Son willed his limbs so, only a low hum from the air conditioner broke the silence. MK had carried him from the floor to his bed; his parents possibly weren’t even aware he was gone overnight. And it was then, standing, staring at the dusty research papers atop his desk, that a sickle slowly dug its way through his skin, from heart to brain. 

He was expecting at least a scolding.

The door creaked ajar behind Red Son. Acidic hope gurgled in the pits of his stomach.

“Oh, there you are,” and he turned around to see his mother, a hand lingering on the door knob clearly ready to leave as soon as she entered, “your robot things aren’t responding to my command. Fix them soon, if you may.” 

Her voice was clipped; his eyes searched for anything beyond indifference. Despite its phrasing, he knew all too well that was not a suggestion, only a reminder that falling behind on his work was a detriment to just about everyone but himself. It was stupid. How little they spoke. How MK could fill a room with just the melody of his words.

“Have you ever been to the summer festival?” Red Son blurted. 

Often, when Red Son was young and babbled not of requests nor curiosity, instead spewing inquiries that pertained only to his most recent technological endeavours, his mother would be unable to respond. If whatever book he was reading did not have an answer, he believed she would: to a child, a parent is a Celestial being of knowledge regardless of actual Celestial status.

Of course, she didn’t have the answer to everything—but she also refused to admit as such, and would compensate with purchasing sequels, revised editions, old scrolls. Maybe it was for that reason a little Red Son kept asking about the things mother didn’t care for. 

There were very few times when he would ask questions she would reasonably know. Not out of fear; but that every time he reached a hand out into a world that was long gone to her, prodding about what kinds of things her and father did together, her gaze would become distant, as she did then, staring at Red Son from the door, and she withdrew into a wistful bit of pondering.

Younger, a feeling of remorse would swirl within upon seeing that look. Now, he crackled with frustration. There was no reason to reminisce. Father was here.

Her eyes fell to her hands, one holding the other. 

“Yes. It was always our favourite.”

That was that, then. 

While they bid farewell because down the hall in this castle meant a ten minute walk, and he lingered, listening to her heels clack down the halls before finally shutting the door, Red Son firmly concluded: their stand could be nothing short of perfect. ‘Our favourite’ would then be of three people.

This meant no distractions. June was approaching, and the festival was a week away—a minute wasted on texting or calling could potentially draw his attention away whilst painting, or assembling pieces, and one mistake could cost hours worth of work. Sleep was sacrificed in favour of extra time. Recipes, decorating where it would stand out just the right amount, leaving a hefty deposit ahead of time for a spot typically customer heavy. Red Son had a reputation to uphold, particularly with things made for his parents. He would make sure every detail was exactly as it should be.

Doing it at MK’s would probably be distracting for reasons he hardly wanted to get into, reasons that ached every bit of his being. Especially after, well, the oddities of the previous night.

So despite the triggerhappy strings of texts Red Son studied diligently during spare moments, he would only respond to signify he was busy, and then place the phone aside. Mei’s texts were always in uppercase and less ramblish, but demanding to know where he was—which was silly, because Red Son stated enough times to her that he was occupied, too. A part of him wished to linger and converse, and he probably would have, but the exhaustion of working so late made talking sound like just another chore on a much longer list.

The sticky note resided on the wall above his desk, though. Something to fill the absence of noise he’d grown so familiar with. It was a little humiliating to his character, how in moments of complete enervation, deprived of his proper senses when working late into the night, the little sketch would wash the stress headaches from his temples, if only until he tugged away.

Overall, the stand was coming along nicely. The week had flown by, it already being a Friday evening, and all that was left to do was paint—the one part Red Son actually procrastinated on. To say he was artistic would be to call the Monkey King diligent. Red Son could comprehend the heaviest of texts, craft the finest of circuit boards and advanced artificial intelligence, but painting, art? Always put aside haughtily with the label of a useless distraction.

Useless distraction. His eyes hovered over the sticky note once more. It would be ungracious to call MK’s artwork useless.

☄. *. ⋆

An odd sensation danced along Red Son’s gut when he reached the top of the fire escape and saw the window was closed. He frowned. That was weird. Beforehand, regardless of him being home or not, the window would remain open—Red Son expressed his issue with this multiple times to no avail—but perhaps it was just a cautionary measure as heavy clouds rolled towards them in the distance. 

There was a brief moment where, peering in, Red Son could observe MK without his presence being known. A little fiery red bird perched outside, eyes following black hair as it shifted every so often, MK’s hands busy with a game controller, TV screen flashing with oversaturated graphics. He was sunken into a beanbag chair, perfectly contented. Alive in such an effortless way that mesmerised Red Son to no end. It was hard to grasp sometimes, that their lives coexisted no matter how far apart they were. That Red Son was somehow a part of his.

Barely a week of his absence. No need to make a big deal of things. When he escaped this ridiculous trance and tried the window to check if the lock was set, it flung open with the slightest force, and MK’s head would’ve snapped from how quickly he turned to look.

“Noodle Boy,” Red Son greeted, climbing through before closing the window behind him. As per typical fashion, he found it best to get straight to the point of things, “I need your assistance in painting.”

For whatever strange reason, MK did absolutely nothing but stare doe-eyed at Red Son for a long moment. And also the set of wooden planks held in one arm. That part made sense, at least. But then his eyes returned to Red Son, raking all over him, like he was making sure this wasn’t a demon that just looked a bit similar. MK would definitely only survive a break-in by sheer luck.

He suddenly felt self-conscious again. Exposed. Did he misinterpret this all? The window was closed. MK had just been busy with a game that now displayed a TRY AGAIN? screen. A week of absence probably should have prompted some notice from Red Son beforehand.

Clearing his throat, he dragged his eyes aside. “You must be busy, though, I apologise for—“

And then Red Son saw them, perched by the window sill. Camellias. Blooming, a lovely, bright crimson, shyly poking out from buds of leaves. The ones he decided on after mindless research alongside MK. 

Roused from his distraction, Red Son glimpsed MK making his way over to him, and only then did he notice the sleepiness that tinged his eyes—his hair was a bit of a mess, too, with the headband missing. Dare he say, it was almost adorable. Not that he would, well, dare. That would be odd to say. Did people often call their friends adorable?

Then, MK’s head fell against his chest. Flames sung high and low through Red Son’s hair. His arms went limp at his side, unsure what to do, wooden planks feeling a tad out of place in that moment.  

“I thought you were ghosting us,” MK groaned to the floor, lightly kicking at Red Son’s boot. 

He blinked. 

What would give that impression? Sure, he had been busy, and beforehand they saw each other frequently, but there were off days that Red Son stayed home, even if he still responded to— 

Oh. 

He felt stupid, suddenly.

“I didn’t know.”

MK halfheartedly kicked his shoe again.

So long spent trying to find his way into the pull of his parent’s gravity. Years. Perhaps his whole life. Their worlds that entailed days of quiet existence, side by side and within the same orbit, but never in particular favour of acknowledging that. Where Red Son came to understand it was not a place meant for everyday chatter, and he was fine with just that. A meteor that haphazardly crashed into their place; was that not what he was, after all? 

And here, in MK’s tiny apartment, the kitchen was close enough to the bedroom that its smell of dish water permeated every corner of its space, just as the plethora of trinkets, photos and useless little things from other people did. Disorganised, displayed with pride.

It occurred to Red Son, then, how MK texted him endlessly like it were any other day of lounging together. When he did come over, MK’s trains of vocalised thought became a source of fascination, something Red Son had no trouble indulging in with questions and blunt commentary. So only giving several lacklustre reminders that he was nothing but busy made MK’s current state of disrepair, unravelled against Red Son, how might he put it—the pieces clicked.

Placing the wood aside, as well as the bag of untouched paints, he briefly pulled away from MK. His head had risen by the time Red Son looked back.

“Well,” he sighed. He owed this much. “If anyone claims you told them about this, I will skewer you, but I think I actually want to watch you play that Monkey King game.”

Rain began to drum against the window, a hushed shower behind him, grey and dulled against the warm light of a few scattered lamps. MK stared at him like he was the one who brought the rain down, clouds upon them, so there was no other choice but to say yes—and then he grinned.

“You’re such an idiot,” MK snorted.

Then he plopped back down in his bean bag, picked up the controller, and just like that, he was already absorbed into the ridiculously eccentric music and over-the-top graphics of his game. Red Son’s lip twitched into a scowl at the cutesy illustration of the Monkey King. But he had signed up for this, and he would rather spend his spare time curled up next to MK than expend the last of his energy trying to paint immediately after finishing everything else.

“This is ridiculous; it looks absolutely nothing like that monkey.”

“Uh, duh,” MK rolled his eyes, and Red Son sunk further down, head resting in his lap, perhaps finding it easier to look at the Noodle Boy than his TV screen, “it’s a video game. I bet your dad’s in this one, actually.”

Silence fell back over them, after that; not uncomfortable, but Red Son couldn’t scour a response from his head other than what does it matter, he would be nothing more than a disgraceful caricature. Perhaps MK realised that soon after speaking, too, and eventually he went returned to mumbling to himself every so often. 

They settled into this for a while.

Until he stopped.

Red Son looked up at him, an eyebrow arched. “What?” The game was paused as well.

“I think I’ve decided,” announced MK. 

He lowered his face so they were eye to eye, and put aside the controller. Red Son’s eyes widened.

“I like your hair down more.”

Before Red Son could even think to react, face fizzling with warmth for an inexplicable reason, MK trailed a hand along his cheek, lightly cupping it, dancing around strands of coarse, cherry-red hair. Sparks would have sprung at the touch if Red Son did not suppress them. Even the gentlest whisper of MK’s fingers made his heart hiccup, petrified, buzzing, wondering what exactly it was all for, wondering when the last time it was that he was so comfortably drawn to another person’s soul and held with the easiest of amiable care, wondering if this was how far the bounds of friendship could reach.

His hair was down, yes. It was painful to lay his head down against a ponytail.

Or maybe he remembered the faintest glint of MK’s eyes looking upon him, the hum of night absorbing the two into one plane of existence, where somebody noticed a change of his appearance as something to appreciate, to remark on, to not be ignored.

“It gets in the way of my work easily,” was all he managed in response. And MK smiled again, ear-to-ear, a bright glow blending with Red Son’s faint flame. 

“Do you mind?”

Maybe Red Son’s continued staring was enough of an affirmative, because then, effortlessly, MK’s fingers were threading through his hair, and the intimacy of it all faded into the backdrop with many of Red Son’s other concerns, hummed away alongside the battering rain when they returned to his head, massaging, carefully untangling knots along as he went. His eyes closed. 

And he feared that if he opened them again, the moment would fade into another fleeting memory, an anchor that once was.

“If you were to help me paint later, I think daisies would compliment the red theme quite nicely,” he thought aloud.

The hands stopped. Red Son opened an eye immediately, glaring, then quickly pacified his look because that was, well, embarrassing, but MK just giggled before continuing. The world spun at the sound of his laugh.

“You haven’t even told me what you’re painting.”

Red Son nearly squeaked when nails lightly grazed his scalp. “A stand, for the summer festival.”

Both his eyes were open, now, and MK’s mindless playing of his hair didn’t stop, his eyes glowing like the first time Red Son arrived with his books, and their proximity was hard to ignore. MK was grinning even more. “I’ll be your first customer, then.”

“Probably not a good idea. My parents will—” he corrected himself, because there were hardly any wills with them, only hypotheticals, “it’s a surprise for my parents. They’d recognise you from a mile away.”

“Aww, Red! That’s so cute. And also, not even true, because—little fact about me—I’m great at disguises.”

Red Son cracked a smile at this. “I’m inclined to warn you again, but I would honestly love to see how badly that would go.” MK tugged at his hair. “Ow!”

And then he knew. As a blanket of silence rested atop them, warm and fuzzy and filled with an apprehension for separation of their souls, an event that would never come, at least not then. That MK was not an asteroid that washed up on Red Son’s shore, he was not another planet in the solar system, he was not even the stars.

MK was the sun, peaking above the horizon, warming the Earth, staying right where he was, an unavoidable being; a welcome one. Red Son was the moon, the night where the sun could not touch, and their intertwined presence a rhythm that kept the world spinning ‘round.

He wasn’t quite thinking, in a haze, when he reached a hand to run along chin to jaw, inviting MK closer.

Sparks flew.