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It's not something Macaque realizes immediately.
It clicks when he looks at Wukong, watching him spin in the air with MK as they spar. Macaque sits under the shade of the tree.
There's a slight breeze that flutters through his hair, the sunny weather lighting up ever nook and cranny of Flower Fruit Mountain. Nearby, bugs buzz around, one particular insect, a butterfly, is pinned by a bird. The bird is chased away by a sudden commotion coming it's way, mentor and mentee practically soaring into it. The butterfly falls to the ground, one of its wings ripped.
He'd rather be anywhere else, doing anything else, but the kid's got some good puppy eyes on him and when the young man had asked him to join their sparring session, it— he couldnt just decline.
This makes him remember the times, way back then, when he'd supervise Monkey King training the monkey troops. It's a memory he holds close to his heart, even if he can only see it with glasses tainted with bitterness, which, unsurprisingly, is a recurring theme with anything that has that wretched flea bag of a monkey included.
Wukong would be so gentle back then, it almost drives him crazy. He's gente now too, he can tell, pulling punches before they can actually hit MK's skin, letting the kid get the upper hand. He's even smiling at him, with such fondness that it makes Macaque sick to his stomach.
The shadow looks away, hunching his shoulders a bit.
There was a time where that look was reserved for him. Only him.
Silence settles on his mind as one of his brows furrow a little bit, eyes focusing on the ground. The little butterfly hurt by the bird is struggling to move its wings.
He tries not to think about it too often, the wounds still feel open, even after hundreds of years, he still hurts. For himself, for that once naïve little monkey that believed an arrogant king would ever love him.
He sighs, bringing a hand up to his hair to run through his hair but pauses midway, freezing as his little internal monologue sinks in.
He hurts, yes, but for the first time in forever his internal monologue doesn't yearn for Wukong. It's weird to think about that. It's unfamiliar.
The shadow's gaze flicks up to the king, his hand gripping his hair, watching Wukong land on the ground gracefully, the kid lands less elegantly, nearly face planting on the ground. MK beams at his mentor when a steady hand lands on his shoulder, patting him a couple times.
Macaque doesn't feel weird anymore, when he looks at Wukong. Weird is what he chose to categorize that feeling, not daring to actually give it a better name. Why should he have? It hurts to see Wukong. That feeling doesn't deserve to be named in any discussion involving Wukong.
Maybe it's a welcome unfamiliar.
I don't miss you, Macaque realizes, his hand clutches his hair a bit harder.
The shadow blinks, inhaling deeply, still frozen solid as he looks at Wukong and MK.
I don't love you anymore, and it reverberates in his skull full of spiderwebs and old resentments and bloody grudges and pathetic dreams, I don't love you anymore.
Inhaling becomes incomprehensible to him, suddenly nauseous. A giggle bubbles out of his throat.
Soon enough, he's cackling maniacally, like a looney hyena, clutching his scalp so hard he's sure his fingernails will be coated with blood when he stops spiraling.
He's staring straight at Wukong. The guy looks back at him, eyes flickering over to a very concerned looking MK and Macaque, like he's deciding whether he should tell MK to back up, like MK is the one who just went through an insane revelation, like Macaque would even consider hurting MK, when all he wants is to do is sink his claws so deep into Wukong's skull he could feel gray matter slip into his fingers.
He's running out of breath and, honestly, making a scene but he can't bring himself to care.
He musters up the energy and summons his magic, dissolving into the shadows, leaving a pair of confused and slightly concerned faces behind, along with a butterfly that climbed up a twig and took off into the sky, slightly broken wings carrying it away.
Macaque stumbles into a void of shadows, hands and knees colliding roughly against something that isn't floor, but can't be described as something else.
How foolish. Love. His cackles pause for a millisecond to sneer at the feeling.
How could he possibly love a monster? One so self centered, too? The delirium feels entoxicating, he throws himself back, gasping for breath when his vulnerable back thumps against the floor, his shaking, bloodied fingers clutch his chest.
This is the exact position Macaque was in when the Great Sun Wukong decided he stopped loving Macaque, when Wukong turned against the only person who would ever love him completely.
That was centuries ago, is he really that pathetic it took him this long to shake off those repulsive feelings?
Gasping cackles echo into the void.
I don't love you anymore.
Why does it feel like a betrayal? He doesn't wipe away his tears.