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Today is a good day.
There seem to be many of those on Flower Fruit Mountain, Wukong thinks, but he supposes it'd be difficult to witness the antithesis when he lives on paradise itself.
Warm weather. Trees with a supply of fruit that never seems to end. Wildflowers, whose scent is always an accent on the wind. Endless shade.
He couldn't have asked for a better kingdom to call his.
A black tail sweeps over the grass and Wukong turns, nose wrinkled over the wet smack of lips that greets him unabashed.
Macaque, smug in nature, lays with his back pressed against the grass. His legs remain bent at the knee, a choice that any onlooker would presume to be designed from comfort, but one that Wukong knows is just an attempt to block the sun from his eyes. A half-bitten orange lingers in his right hand.
“Y’know, Wukong-” curiously, Macaque doesn’t hover the fruit above his hanfu as Wukong does with his peaches. Instead it’s held far from Macaque’s chest as though perturbed by the idea of juice dripping onto his clothes. Or worse- his fur.
One of our many differences, Wukong grins. He listens nonetheless.
"I'm startin' to suspect that you can't live without me."
"Pfft, as if!"
Wukong leaps over Macaque's knees, careful to avoid the mess of orange peels that still lay restful in the clearing's grass. The skin has yet to succumb to its fate beneath the Earth, confined in an odd state of limbo between protecting the orange’s heart and decomposition. Eventually flies will have their fill and ants will carry the gutted remains home, a process that won’t be immediate by any means. But Wukong doesn’t mind. In the eyes of an immortal, two days will pass like seconds.
His claws drip. They haven't yet dried from peeling the orange in the first place.
Wukong’s vision tips as he falls into the soft embrace of the grass clearing, turning onto his side to tap a claw against Macaque’s arm. He smiles at the way it triggers the growl of “-my fur- ” to worm its way from Macaque’s throat. “I think you got it backwards, bud. Last time I checked, I wasn’t the one asking for help with peeling an orange.”
Macaque blinks.
There’s that familiar spark of mischief.
“Actually, bud,” it almost feels like sin the way Macaque draws the word out. “You’re not the only one on this mountain capable of peeling oranges.”
“Ha! As if you of all people would replace me.”
“Could, would- already have.”
“Already?” Wukong asks, incredulously.
“Mhm.”
“Macaque!”
Wukong doesn’t need to look to know a satisfied smirk graces Macaque’s face. How unfair.
“Bet I could replace you,” he says and his eyes turn toward the sky. A cloud’s making its way through, small whisps of itself not far behind.
“Bet all you want,” Macaque shrugs. He sounds smug. “But you could never do it.”
Wukong’s gaze snaps back into focus at an instant, teeth bared in his preparation to defend the fact he totally could.
Macaque isn’t special. Nor is he unique in any way, shape, or form. In fact, Macaque looks-
Wukong hesitates.
Macaque looks...at peace. His eyes are closed, deceptive in a way Wukong finds no danger within. He knows it’d only take a poke to those eyelids to reveal Macaque’s eyes, bright and playful to accompany his complaint of Wukong’s impatience. That damned orange still waits in the palm of his hand- a silent offer that sings to the tune of his heart. If Wukong wanted to, he was welcome to take the remaining piece.
This is a ritualistic vacation away from their usual push and pull against one another.
Sometimes they fight. Sometimes they don’t.
Sometimes they just sit in a field of grass, laughing while Wukong peels oranges for Macaque.
It’s the little things like this that make the day good. His jaw closes with a defined click.
Wukong couldn’t replace Macaque if he’d tried.
“You’re lonely,” Macaque says, not unkind. A bird squawks from the sky above. “And you know me too well.”
“Lonely?” he echoes, if only to taste the word on his tongue.
Wukong isn’t “lonely”. He’s just...a creature of company. And who wouldn’t be with millions of unique souls inhabiting the mortal plane? He isn’t lonely. The word just happens to coincide with his other cacophony of adjectives like “ambitious” and “genuine”.
“Just don’t wanna take the time to get to know someone else like this.”
The sentence feels cool on his tongue. He doesn’t want to talk about this anymore.
He tugs at Macaque’s arm and beckons the other to scoot closer to him.
There’s a knowing look that aims itself at Wukong’s silent demand that Wukong can’t find himself to care for; he wouldn’t have initiated their close proximity if he didn’t already have an excuse on his lips.
“’m cold,” Wukong says.
“I think you’re just clingy.”
Macaque’s shoulders bump against his all the same.
Wukong hums, forcing himself to still as Macaque’s fingers begin to pluck gently at the fur on Wukong’s arm. It’s nice; a feeling that warms his heart despite how many times they’ve done this before. Grooming isn't something new, after all.
Even still, it’ll never cease to amaze him how Macaque could be so willing to give affection in his own little ways- a kindness that Wukong prays will never end.
His eyes slip closed, content to rest there beneath the gentle hiss of wind and Macaque’s efforts to groom his thoroughly tangled fur. For all his denial of the claim “lonely”, his chest feels warmer than usual in the company of Macaque.
The world is quiet today.
Wukong’s eyes crack open. “Mihou?”
“Yeah?”
“Promise you’ll never leave?”
Macaque pulls hard enough on his fur for Wukong to cringe, the king’s mouth ajar if only to complain about the maltreatment he’s been forced to endure.
But the words never reach his throat, dead upon arrival as if speaking would impair his ability to comprehend the sight before him.
A genuine smile rests on the face of Liu’er Mihou, a rare and gentle thing. Wukong had grown so used to Macaque’s teasing grins and mocking smirks that the odd change of pace is a surprise; a delightful one at that. It looks good on you, Wukong thinks. He hopes this won’t be the last time he sees it.
“I’ll stay for as long as you let me. ‘sides, the little ones don't peel them like you do.”
“They don’t,” Wukong agrees and feels giddy. He’s seen plenty of little ones peel oranges just like him; after all he’d taught a handful of them how to do it in the first place. It doesn’t matter.
Macaque choses him.
His eyes slip closed once more, a breathless “thank you” on his lips for this moment of peace.
In three months the memory of today will be but a gentle sorrow, a thought that occurs as Wukong sits, isolated within a furnace that cares not for the lone tear it turns into steam. He’s learned that such unconditional kindness in the world is a gift he’s uncertain will ever cross his path again; a gift he hopes his hands won’t destroy.
In seven-thousand months Wukong’s concerns will be confirmed and for once his shadow will be forcefully removed from his side and condemned to Hell. For weeks he stands in silence with tears he doesn’t deserve to shed softening the dirt below him; his brothers tenderly wipe the blood from Wukong’s staff if only because grief is an odd thing, an invisible enemy that manifests itself in the words that lay ill-claim to Liu’er Mihou’s subject of character.
And long after Wukong resides as the last living soul to witness his “Journey to the West”, he’ll find himself perched quietly before the tallest peak of Flower Fruit Mountain- a tradition he uptakes to soothe his successor's claims that “retirement doesn’t mean you have a right to be all cooped up and boring-!”. Wukong chirps his usual bout of banter, acting disgruntled despite the solace he finds in escaping the lonely cave he’d tended to for centuries in order to meditate outside. It’s in these early hours of peace and darkness a small lemon Wukong had plucked from the market the day before will witness his attempts to meditate, silent and judgmental of the way Wukong can never find his focus for too long. He’s too merciful with the glances he casts toward the rising sun, a game and endless quest to compare the star’s rising figure to how brightly Macaque’s eyes had shone every time Wukong peeled an orange for him.
It’ll always be odd how Wukong can never find himself warm enough beneath the sun’s rays; guilt and loneliness are cold companions- cruel in their reminders of what Wukong had been so careless to destroy. He’ll take a bite from the lemon once the sun finally rises above the volcanic moat surrounding Flower Fruit Mountain and recite a mantra that he’s grown to cling to like a lifeline.
“Today is a good day,” he’ll say and tell himself that it’s the lemon that feels so sour atop his tongue.
But first there's this moment, this fleeting tick of peace: Wukong lays flush against a sea of grass beside Macaque, whose own eyes have begun to droop, and he braids the grass that rests at his fingertips. Macaque, who cares not for the tongue that pokes from his lip in his attempts to focus, continues to comb through patches of familiar, scarred fur. It isn’t long before he too finds himself lost to the temptation of sleep.
Not far from them, a butterfly perches atop a flower. The world sits quiet.
They won't wake for another hour.
Wukong prays they never do.