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Old habits die hard.
To some, their habits come crashing down onto them in the most unfortunate, ridiculous times.
For Sun Wukong and The Six-Eared Macaque, their old habits have never left their rotten, old, and worn out bodies. Even past through long overdue apologies and regrets voiced out through a session forced to happen by their friends, they sometimes cannot help but dig down the barrel and bring back some left out, toxic waste they’d forgotten to get rid of. The venom spills out unintentionally, and their foundation breaks once again.
The bridge burns, and stands at either end of it are Wukong and Macaque.
Macaque doesn’t know how it even started, who started the fight, who instigated it, who fanned and fueled the flames higher until it burned the two of them. All that was left was to respond to Wukong’s usual sharp tongue and cruel words with the same medicine.
Wukong stands across their shared kitchen with a cross of his arms and a disappointed huff, he does not dare look at Macaque or answer him while looking at his eyes. “You keep bringing that up! I don’t understand why you can’t just let it go, bud .”
His body shivers at the sound of that three-lettered word, one that he’s grown to hate the more hours he lives in this stolen life he got out from that witch.
If he was a little younger, albeit more naive and stupid and an absolute moron to Wukong’s heavenly promises and nothings, perhaps his heart would have done a quick pitter-patter and jumped at the mention of the word. Nowadays, they’re old, tired, restless, and sick– probably of each other, but what can they do? They only have each other left, even as the tide turns and as the world washes out and drowns away, Macaque and Wukong would stand looking below the ending world and would still be at each other’s necks.
The word nicks an uncomfortable fur in Macaque’s entire body, and he fights back the urge to throw Wukong against ten mountains and scream with hatred and fuel of anger dripping from his mouth while Wukong mocks him for acting the same person and never changing. Hypocrite .
The black-furred monkey keeps his silence. He has the right to not answer any screams and cries of a King he once served, the whines and complaints that bug the little, obedient warrior of him to fight back, give him what he wants, until their house is built through forgiveness and careful atonement burns down to the ground with one simple argument.
“Wukong,” He answers with annoyance, and Wukong answers with a hiss, “What.”
“Shut the fuck up. For the love of– Gods, just shut up.”
“Where did all your wordy rant from earlier go, Macaque? Swallowed it down the drain?” Wukong mocks, and yet he doesn’t taunt, strangely enough. There’s a space between them and Macaque does not dare cross over that messy kitchen floor spilled with milk and flour and eggshells.
Wukong stays in the same spot, not daring to cross over a cliff just to knock some sense into Macaque. “Cause you know what I heard from over here, bud ?” Again with that word– Macaque’s chest burns and his stomach drops and everything feels horridly, disgustingly uncomfortable in his skin.
“You accusing my brothers of something they didn’t do, and calling them names for it.”
Macaque then answers, “I was right, Wukong. You know that.”
“You don’t know anything!” Wukong throws his hands, “You’ve never met them properly! You don’t know them like I do.”
“Oh, I’m sorry your highness,” Macaque takes a step forward, but he refuses to take one further more. “Do I have to know them just so I can know they’re hurting you?”
“You only knew them for a few weeks Macaque! I’ve known them for years! They were not hurting me–”
“Yeah, Wukong, all those years, and yet you couldn’t find the time to come visit me–”
“Again, this again! Aren’t you sick of having the same argument–”
“Same argument? We only talked about this once, Wukong. Fucking one time, and that was because MK had to force you to vomit it out because you outright refused to talk about it.”
“What was there to talk about? How much you hurt me? How much you hurt my brothers and almost killed my master?”
Macaque explodes, barrel tipping and venom spilling over and once again, he fails to catch each and every last drop, as he watches with horror while it burns through the foundation they’ve built once again. “I wanted to know why you didn’t come back for me.”
“I-” Wukong sighs, defeated and sick of the same thing. He stretches his back and lets it rest behind cold counters as he looks over the fallen expression of his friend, demanding an explanation. “I told you, I couldn’t. I was on a journey, I had to guard my Master until he delivered those scrolls. You’ve heard this before, all of it, Macaque. I’m not hiding anything.”
“You-” His voice quivers, and Macaque swallows everything back down before his eyes water down pathetically. Stupid– fucking stupid, he is. “Did you ever think of visiting at least once?
“I couldn’t. I was on the Journey–”
“Did you try asking?”
Why would I? Wukong does not say, but his silence suffices as an answer for Macaque.
“What do you want me to say, Mac?” Wukong dangerously walks over towards Macaque, crossing over that rigid bridge, torn and falling and dangerous. “To apologize? Kneel and beg for forgiveness? What? ”
Macaque looks at him. This is the first time they’ve looked at each other in the eye throughout their whole exchanged. Wukong doesn’t mean any of it, but it still hurts. Wukong would say, ‘words hurt, Mac.’ and Macaque would call him a hypocrite for saying so. He’s taunting him now, poking over and Macaque wants to push him over the cliff and watch him fall alongside that burning bridge of theirs.
So he spits, lets venom flow and flood their home, until it is no longer called a home.
“Go to hell, Wukong.”
Wukong snarls, and the title of a King fits snugly with him as he fights back against the wicked warrior.
“If I’m going to hell, then go rot in the ground where you belong.”
Their bridge shatters, each step falling off and burnt to ashes towards the cliff below.
Macaque scoffs. “Dirt is dirty, Wukong. If I’m going down there, you’re going down with me. Fitting that you’d end up half way shoved in it.”
“I need you and your entire bloodline to shut the fuck up right now.”
“I literally have no family and neither do you , you prick!”
Wukong’s face lights up, crazy and uncalled for as the next words spill careless from his mouth. “Oh? Family? Jokes on you, Macaque– I had family. I have a family.”
“My master and the pilgrims were my family, Macaque– whether you like it or not they were my brothers and they were with me .”
The warrior retreats, cowardly and scared, and yet the King continues on his tangent of hatred and venom and burn.
Wukong crosses over now, and Macaque heeds a warning for him to not cross over this careful bridge. He glares with his eyes, but he knows it looks more like a desperate plea for them to salvage what was left of their relationship and stand up anew and be better people than they are now.
Yet, the words get buried deep as Wukong digs his shovel deep and hits his knife right where it hurts the most.
“Don’t talk about family to me, Macaque– not when you’ve never had- nor experienced one in both of your lives.”
For a moment, he could see their young silhouettes running rampant toward the forest and talking deep in the woods until the stars grew tired of their conversation and left. He could hear whispers of the past as they prick through the ends of his eyes as painful nostalgia creeps its way behind his back to remind him of what he’d lost and what he’ll never have once again. Macaque was born alone, born strange and weirder than every other monkey that nobody dared to call him theirs or take him in for the horrendous sight of his ears. He’d spent half of his first life being alone until Sun Wukong, as bright and blinding as he is, took him and showed him what a world would look like if he was loved and cared for.
Then this Sun Wukong, worn out by battle and sore, spilling over what he really feels– shatters that humiliating illusion of a fond memory Macaque terribly replays every night to calm him down.
And Macaque was never given a chance to live a family, not when he was reborn once again, his existence was primarily based on serving a witch in her destiny of a clean, fit world. His eyes covered, fueled with red and it only fanned the flames even more when he’d found out Wukong had a successor— of course he had to get back at the guy for taking his eye and killing him, so he went after the kid. Wukong kicked him out, and yet Macaque demanded more, he kept going after the kid, in hopes of punching out a reaction— anything out of Sun Wukong— however what was only left of that dead friend of his was that small glimpse of regret during the Samadhi Fire.
Everything else was a blur, and now everything was pristinely crystal clear to Macaque.
He was never truly a family to Wukong, not even before, not even now.
How pathetic is he? To be born unloveable in both of his lives.
Wukong’s pupils shrink, he reaches out to Macaque’s face and watches him shiver slightly with a tremble and a hitch in his breath, shaky and terrible. He means to swallow it back up, sweep up toxic waste on their floor, and to apologize and say he doesn’t mean it. Yet that would be a lie— some of it he half heartedly meant, and some were him bluffing and lying just so he could push Macaque away further from the disgusting creature he is.
Compliant as the warrior is, he does push away from Wukong, and Wukong flinches back— never truly meaning to push Macaque away for him to actually let go. He wants to reach out, beg him to stay, yet the words stay frozen in his throat and only his hand moves to reach out towards Macaque’s shoulder or his cheeks or that nearly tearing up eye to comfort him. So Macaque does the only thing he knows how to do— run away. He morphs into the shadows and portals away from Wukong, leaving him in the mess of their kitchen.
Wukong stares emptily with a heavy weight on his stomach over their messed up kitchen floor, what were lighthearted bickers with thrown flours were now replaced with spoiled milk and rotten eggs. His nose scrunches from the putrid stench, and he clutches the counter with silent anger.
Their home falls apart, yet again.
Their oven smells of ash and smoke. They’ve burnt the cake.
He slides himself against the counter, burying his head onto crossed legs. He rips out hair from his head— doesn’t matter how many, and sends off his clones to get rid of the burnt cake before it sets his house on fire. Yet not even a hundred clones could fix a broken bridge, burned by the ones who had rebuilt it once again.
The bridge burns fully, and Wukong is standing at the end of it while Macaque leaves him to watch what they’ve built vanish.
—
Macaque settles over the edge of a familiar cliff he forlornly remembers when they’d defeated that witch. Memories of voices of everyone echoes in the silent area, yet his mind cannot bring itself to think of a pondering thought other than the complete ignorance of earlier.
He wonders if this would be where he and Wukong would fail and break again for a few centuries, unable to heal and let go of their past mistakes and continuously bitter over each other. Another endless cycle of fighting he’d gone tired of- perhaps when Wukong would kick him out, Macaque would find a job in a different country and be a popular figure there. Perhaps he should find a deserted island and live there— his portals can take him anywhere, and yet he chose to stay right here.
In the same mountain.
Wukong was right. He really should get over it.
Where else would Macaque go? This was all he’s ever known and lived for in his first life. This was where he’d first felt belonged even if currently, he does not feel as if he belonged. It’s all he’d ever known, and he didn’t dare carry a debt towards MK by asking the kid if he could live on his rooftop. He’d done enough trouble to him—
— he’d done enough trouble to everyone else.
He’s blurred out noises from the outside world and closes his eyes, until footsteps echo from behind him as his ears flutter. He doesn’t need to look behind him to know who it is.
Macaque doesn’t speak, quiet and bitter as he is. Neither of them make the first move to apologize— they both did their part in harming each other. They both burned down their bridge, ruined their home, and left the other for good— and wouldn’t that be the exact opposite of what their younger selves would have wanted?
Yet, it was only a matter of time before one of them broke.
“The cake?” Macaque says instead of an apology, and Wukong does not fight him for it.
He’s already tired as it is.
Aren’t they both tired? Isn’t that why they live together?
“I burnt it.”
Why do we keep fighting all the time?
“You’re not going to send them a burnt one, are you, Wukong?” There’s no tone in it, not a lighthearted one, or a mock— just empty, and Wukong despises it.
It’s all we’ve ever known to do around each other.
“I wish. No, I sent them a new one.”
Macaque is silent, as if he expects something, and Wukong admits with a sigh of defeat. “I sent them cake from my hair.”
“Wukong,” He hits him at the elbow, and Wukong laughs, he knows it doesn’t hurt, and Macaque doesn’t mean for it to hurt. ‘That’s rude.”
The king sits next to him, an aching distance short of a finger lingers between them, and he responds with a shaky laugh, “Well, that’s one more thing I share with you.”
Macaque laughs then, and maybe the fire has long died out from their fight a few hours ago. No words need to be spoken across them, just pitiful silence of two immortals mulling over their terrible decision of living with somebody they hate at the very bottom of their hearts. Macaque hears a plate clink beside him and sees the quick swipe of an auburn tail before it disappears and runs back towards its owner.
He looks at Sun Wukong, and only sees the snicker of somebody who had been caught but is still trying to hide it. The monkey of culprit refuses to look at Macaque and is concentrated over the sunset beyond them.
He looks back towards the plate again, and the pastry in the very centre of it. One half burnt pancake and words splayed out messily on top with white chocolate they had melted earlier.
I’m sorry.
Perhaps that was enough.
They watch the sunset with silence and calm, a different kind of slow neither of them are familiar with. Different from the fast paced adrenaline they ran on their argument earlier, was now tranquil and soft— one that they should be constantly on instead of fighting every other day. Their tails sing a different language, intertwined together even if their owners are not- at least, not yet in harmony with each other. Perhaps they will in the future, when they try hard enough to see each other at a reasonable extent.
For now, Sun Wukong and Macaque will remain sinners, meant to exist to create mistakes and learn from them, only to create more.
Wukong stands as crickets begin their song of chirps, and his tail fails to let go of Macaque’s. He brushes over any dirt on his clothing before he looks over towards his old friend and roommate. “Let’s get back inside our home, the mosquitoes are coming out.”
Our.
Our home.
Home.
Macaque responds with a snicker. He pushes himself up and stretches those tired muscles from doing nothing but sit stiffly next to his friend. Instead of portalling away like he usually does, he takes the slow walk with Wukong back inside their house , tails still arrogantly intertwined and holding onto each other.
Neither of them talks about it nor mentions it.
Wukong looks over his back, towards that plate he oh-so-subtly placed next to Macaque, and a smile creeps up his face before he knew it.
Ants litter the pancake, taking a bite for their hibernation and yet the wording stays clear onto the pastry, only with one added word:
I’m sorry too.
He deems that more than enough, and treks on with his friend back into their shared home.
Once they had gotten back, the door of their house closes as they go back to their usual routine. They clean their kitchen of any mess they’d created in their tantrum earlier, while Macaque whips up a quick dinner for the both of them to eat. A clone spawned by Macaque from his flickering shadows is sent to help set up the table. The two of them sit down in their seats across from each other, with Wukong inhaling through the thick savoury aroma of the so-called quick dinner his friend made. Their shared home echoes Wukong's munching and the sounds of chopsticks hitting ceramic. Once again, no leftovers have survived Wukong’s onslaught as Macaque cleans the dirty plates out.
Just like clockwork, as every night is the same, everything ends with the two of them going back to their shared bed and sleeping right next to each other. No more words are shared or spoken out loud, just quiet actions that are readable enough for monkeys of habit who have known each other for centuries. As Macaque clicks the lights off and darkness swallows them, Wukong breaks the thickening silence between the two of them.
“Hey, Mac?”
In the darkness, he still answers, “Yes?”
“..Welcome back home.”
Macaque freezes, yet warmth bubbles annoyingly in his chest as he responds, “Thanks for having me.”
Macaque does not know it, nor does he ever need to- but in the darkness, Sun Wukong’s chest lights up and a smile blooms from his face. “You’re always welcome here, bud.”
He doesn’t respond for long— and Wukong assumes he was asleep already.
Instead, the warrior clutches his eyes to sleep and holds his heavy heart with a sigh and a beg, and a plea. Stay still, my traitorous heart.
If only Sun Wukong had six ears, perhaps he’d have heard the loud chattering of Macaque’s heartbeat that night.
Old habits die hard and yet—
Their bridge rebuilds slowly, just like clockwork.