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Chapter Text

Wukong used to talk. All the time in fact! He would joke and jabber and tease and taunt. He was known far and wide for his sharp tongue and quick wit.

That was before the Journey. Before his doomed rebellion against heaven, before the Trigun Furnace and its hellish inferno, before the Five-Fingered Mountain and its crushing solitude, before he'd met his Master and tasted the crushing bite of his accursed filet, before he'd met his companions, before he'd killed lost Macaque.

Yes, Wukong used to be quite the chatterbox, but now his tongue might as well be lead.

It had started with the Journey. Now, Sun Wukong was the first to admit that he’d been wild back then, impulsive, flighty, and with a temper that was not easily checked. Looking back, Wukong could understand why the monk, Tang Sanzang, would’ve needed something to keep him in line. He was a pacifist who abhorred killing, and Sun Wukong…well, the Monkey King bent his knee to no one, least of all some monk.

So, Tang Sanzang had tricked Sun Wukong into wearing that accursed circlet in an attempt to control him, to teach him self-control when Wukong had none. Except, as the Journey continued, and Sun Wukong tried again and again in vain to warn the monk against hidden demons and was punished each time by that loathsome circlet, he learned to bite back his warnings. They were never heeded, and he hated to feel the vice grip of the circlet as punishment for what Wukong knew was right. 

Worse, as the journey continued and their party grew more wary, Wukong found that his cheek was tolerated less and less. Overtime, it seemed easier to not say anything, to only speak when spoken to, and only the bare minimum to get his point across. 

It was difficult, learning to swallow his tongue, to get his point across with only a look or a gesture. At times it seemed as though everyone wanted to get themselves killed in some way or another. He still helped out of course. Let it never be said that Wukong would let anyone he was looking after suffer, but he stayed quiet, denying his compatriots his voice, his company. 

Perhaps it was unhealthy, bottling up all of his anger and frustration at his companion’s foolishness inside. To only intervene when things had escalated or someone was near death. To always stay at the fringes of the group, never willing to chime in, never willing to share. Always vigilant for the next threat.  

Yet, Sun Wukong was nothing if not determined. No matter what, Sun Wukong would finish this journey and get rid of his damnable curse. No matter what, Sun Wukong would do anything to survive. Without having that stupid spell activated again.  

Then, Macaque intervened. He’d been spying on the group, and he’d been infuriated at what he’d seen. He insisted that Wukong’s companions were killing him, crushing his spirit like a daisy slowly being starved of the sun, and Macaque had framed Wukong for several crimes, hoping to get him kicked out of the group, so that Wukong could be free. 

The worst part was that Macaque had won. Despite everything, despite how good Wukong had been, his companions had still believed the worst of him. They’d believed that he’d steal from them. That he’d hurt people. That he’d kill. All of his self-control, all of his efforts, had been for naught.

Sun Wukong had been infuriated. He’d been trying hard to lay low to stay out of the radar so his Master wouldn’t use his god-forsaken spell, and Macaque had been undoing all that work out of spite. His stupid interference had caused his Master to crush his skull in a vice grip again, and no matter what Macaque had thought, it hadn’t helped Wukong at all. 

The two had fought that night. Even worse than they had after Sun Wukong had been sealed under that stupid mountain. Sun Wukong had angrily demanded to know why Macaque didn’t trust him, why he couldn’t wait just a few short years until Wukong had finished his stupid journey and could return to him, without anything stopping him. He questioned why Macaque didn’t trust him to handle this. Why would Macaque undermine Wukong’s hard work and why Macaque wouldn’t just leave him be? If Macaque continued, and Wukong was kicked out of the group then he would never be free of his circlet and he would always be in fear of it being used against him. 

Macaque had been livid. He’d asked how Sun Wukong had just abandoned Flower Fruit Mountain, had just abandoned him, after he’d finally been released from his prison. He questioned why Wukong was willing to work for the Celestials, after everything that had happened? He demanded to know what was so important that Wukong just couldn’t come home after being away for centuries? What was more important than his home, than his people, than Macaque? What could stop the Great Sage Equal to Heaven from going wherever he wanted?

Wukong had screamed that he was finally learning when to back down. How he was learning how to avoid fights he couldn’t win, and that was when Macaque’s face had turned dark. If Wukong couldn’t win this fight, Macaque told him, then Macaque would win it for him. Then, he’d disappeared into the shadows. 

Instantly, Wukong knew what Macaque was going to do with perfect, horrific clarity. Kill his Master. Wukong somersaulted onto a cloud and zoomed as fast as he could towards Tang Sanzang. But he arrived too late. 

His Master was lying limp on the ground, his body cradled in Sha Wujing’s arms. Zhu Bajie and Ao Lie were glaring at Macaque, angry and defensive. Afraid. And Macaque looked just like him. He was wearing Sun Wukong’s face. They thought Sun Wukong did this. They thought he murdered their Master, their friend.

Wukong saw red. 

He doesn’t remember most of the fight, to be honest. He only remembers bits and pieces, lots of anger and screaming. Sometimes, he’d remember a particularly brutal hit, or a scrap of one of Macaque’s more annoying taunts, before he realized that Wukong was serious. He’d gone quiet when he realized that Wukong might kill him. Wukong remembered that. 

Wukong doesn’t remember killing Macaque per say, but he does remember the crunch his staff made. He doesn’t remember realizing that the fight was over, that Macaque was dead, but he does remember sitting by Macaque hours later, and Zhu Bajie sitting beside saying…something rude and annoying. Lots of things that were rude and annoying. Trying to get a rise out of him maybe. Or maybe trying to get his attention. He remembers sitting by Macaque one minute, and the next walking to continue his journey, his hand on Ao Lie, and trying to figure out how he’d gotten there.       

Sun Wukong thinks that his Master performed rites for Macaque. He thinks that Sha Wujing kept him in sight for a long time after that. He thinks he was there when Princess Iron Fan heard the news. He thinks she cried. He’s not sure though. He can’t tell if these things were memories or dreams or just something someone told him one day. 

Wukong’s pretty sure that the day he stopped speaking. The day all the words dried up and his tongue, once silver and sharp, turned nearly dead. He never spoke to his companions again. He never spoke to his sworn brothers again. He never spoke to villagers or gods or demons. 

Even Sun Wukong's beloved subjects, the monkeys of Flower Fruit Mountain, had to wait decades before Wukong would speak to them again. For years, they'd had to survive with his silence and the occasional grunt or sigh to communicate.

That wasn't to say that they hadn't tried to be there for Wukong. They had. Every day, they had called to him, begging him to play with them, to regale them with stories, to boast and chatter as he'd used to.

But the weight of Monkey King's depression proved too strong for a few mere monkeys to move, no matter how skilled or immortal they were.

It seemed an unwinnable battle at times. Sometimes, Wukong would lie in a patch of grass for months, maybe years at a time, absolutely motionless, letting the moss and the leaves try to reclaim him.

It was no wonder that one by one, each of the monkeys left. At first, it’d just been the more adventurous ones, the ones who wanted to explore the world. Especially the ones whose names he’d erased from the Diyu. Immortality was boring alone on a little island, and they wanted to explore. So they did. 

As time went on, those monkeys had sent back letters, describing all the new and wonderful things the outside world had and what had become of the other monkeys who had left during Erlang Shen’s waves of destruction. The human world was softening towards demons they’d reported back. There was so much to do and explore. Slowly but surely, each of the monkeys were swayed into leaving. Eventually only the youngest of monkeys, or the ones who’d never mastered speech, stayed. Even the generals, tired as they were of the Great Monkey King’s weakness and betrayed by his many mistakes, were forced to leave. To avoid the exhaustion that always seemed to trail behind Wukong. 

Sun Wukong never blamed them. He even tried to see them off, as best as he could, giving each of them a piece of hair they could use to call upon him for aid and permission to come back if they ever needed it. Not that they ever did. 

Only one monkey ever came back to Flower Fruit Island after they left. The one that Wukong would have never thought he’d see again. The Six-eared Macaque.

Chapter Text

The first time Macaque had come back to Flower Fruit Mountain, the Journey had been finished a century, or perhaps two, before. Most of the monkeys had left by then, realizing that their King was beyond their help, and tempted to explore the outside world. 

Wukong had been in one of his moods then, as he so often was during those days. So, Macaque had found him in one of his favorite springtime napping spots, in a small clearing in a bush, where the scent of peach blossoms and wildflowers would gently fill the air at all times of day. It was undoubtedly a nice place to rest. Unfortunately, Wukong had decided to rest there, unmoving for a few years at that point. 

He must’ve been a sorry sight for Macaque to find that day. The bush had started to engulf him, to swallow him whole, and the mosses and lichen of the area had stained his once golden fur into a stiff, sickly, mottled green. He’d long given up breathing by then, finding it a useless, tiresome habit, and his eyes had been caked shut with dirt and flora. 

Macaque had been gentle that day, although whether it was out of kindness or pity, Wukong never understood. He’d tried to urge Wukong to wake up, as so many monkeys before him had, before he’d sighed and hauled the Great Monkey King out of the bushes and into one of the many creeks that blossomed across their home. 

Wukong hadn’t resisted -hadn’t even reacted- until Macaque had dropped him into the ice cold water. Wukong screeched from the shock, memories of the icy fingers of death curling around him as he plunged into a dark river clogged with ash and soot to escape the burning that had followed him, even there streaked across his mind like a lightning bolt. 

But Macaque had been there, holding onto him with a steady grip, as Wukong had tried to thrash and rip himself free from that awful memory. He’d been ashamed, when he came back to his senses, and saw not the massive river, but a small, shallow stream. 

He’d stared at Macaque, waiting to see what his reaction would be. Would he scold him? Mock him? Remind him that the sting of cold water was nothing compared to the harsh cruelties of his own murder. 

Yet, Macaque hadn’t done any of that. He’d only laughed and joked that at least Wukong was still alive. It’d been a dark laugh, darker than Wukong had ever heard from Macaque before, outside the heat of battle or the throes of a clever plan anyways, but it’d made Wukong’s heart thump painfully inside his chest all the same. 

Macaque had been the one to help Wukong finally get clean again, or at least, as clean as he could get with only a few hours in a cold stream and the rough grit of stone. Wukong had helped as best he could, but it had been hard. His thoughts had kept slipping away from him. One minute he’d be with Macaque as he teased him about his stage fright, and the next, Macaque would be deep into one of his longer stories, a myth he’d found while looking for Wukong. 

Wukong longed to ask Macaque how he was here. Ask about how he’d come back. Ask why he’d been gone for so long, but still he couldn’t find the words. It made no sense. Wukong had stopped being able to talk when Macaque had gone, so now that he was back, why couldn’t he even muster a hello?

It was a question that troubled Wukong for a long time. Even as Wukong grew used to Macaque being by his side again, his once meek, quiet shadow, now becoming his voice, the question echoed in his mind. The two of them were happy together even if they had to keep busy so Wukong didn’t fall into one of his moods. 

Together, they carefully planned and constructed new wards, new protections on their home, just in case something were to happen to them. Just in case, Wukong couldn’t defend them again. Just in case Macaque died again . 

Then, when they couldn’t think of any more protections, they’d gone on adventures. They’d scoured the world for the rarest treasures and took them back to the island to show it off to the monkeys. Late at night, Macaque would tell stories about what they’d found with his lantern. He’d talk about their history, their powers, and how he and Wukong had managed to capture them for Flower Fruit Mountain. Macaque was mesmerizing on those nights, bathed in the lilac light of that lantern, as he flitted between from shadow to shadow, narrating every story with a sly grin and an irresistible voice. 

But as wonderful as Wukong’s time with Macaque had been, it hadn’t been perfect, and, as usual, Wukong had messed it all up. 

The problem was that Macaque liked to blame everything wrong with Wukong -his issues, his nightmares, his trouble talking- on the Journey, or to be more precise, on Wukong’s companions. 

It wasn’t like Wukong couldn’t understand it. Because he was different. He was damaged, broken in a way that no one could even begin to figure out how to fix, but a part of him burned in rage every time he heard Macaque make a comment about ‘that monk’ or how he would never hurt Wukong with a silent ‘unlike your former ‘companions’’ silently tacked on at the end. 

Wukong knew he should let that anger go. He hadn’t talked to any of his companions in ages. Most of them were either long dead or had forgotten him by now. Whatever Macaque said or thought about them probably didn’t matter one whit to any of them. 

Yet, Wukong had good times with them. 

He remembered Zhu Bajie and his terrible cooking. No matter how many times the rest of the companions had tried to stop him, he’d always managed to somehow worm his way into cooking and made truly atrocious -but still technically edible- meals for them. He’d gulp his down so fast, Wukong was still unsure if he could even taste it, and Tang Zangsang would eat his with such stoicism that Wukong was sure that he was using some kind of spell to protect his taste buds. Sha Wujing would pick at his, too polite to make a fuss. While Wukong and Ao Lie would go off to forage for raw food. Ao Lie pretending -as usual- that he was a normal horse and making do with grazing the grass, and Wukong gleefully chomping down whatever fruits and vegetables he’d find, usually in front of Piglet and with as much gusto as he could muster, 

He remembered Sha Wujing carving small trinkets for everyone out of the ugliest, most gnarled up roots he could find, turning them into small, warm reminders of home. Sometimes, on some of Wukong’s worst nights, he’d press a tiny wooden monkey or a small wooden peach into Wukong’s palm, and remind him that sometimes the most beautiful things come from the ugliest origins. 

He remembered Tang Sanzang and his sutras he recited every night, cracked and broken like a half remembered lullaby. Like Wukong, Tang had grown up without his parents, and he’d been raised instead by dozens of kindhearted strangers. His were monks, instead of monkeys, but nonetheless, his master had understood Wukong in a way that so few had before. 

But, none of those stories mattered to anyone before. No one would ever hear about them. No one would ever care about them. Especially not Macaque. Not since Wukong couldn’t share them. 

The anger and frustration had built up inside of Wukong had built up inside of him with each comment, surging underneath his skin. Until one day, Macaque had made some stupid comment about the filet that Wukong would only barely remember afterwards. 

Wukong had had it with Macaque, and his stupid comments about the Journey, and his stupid pity and his stupid kindness which Wukong didn’t even need. He was just fine on his own. 

Blinded by his fury, Wukong gave into his more animalistic instincts, shoving Macaque away from him with his teeth bared. He shrieked, all the repressed rage he’d stored deep in his heart coming out all at once. 

Macaque stumbled backwards, looking at Wukong with something akin to pure terror. His glamour flickered, revealing the scar that marred his eye. The scar that Wukong had given him. It didn’t take a genius to know what Macaque was thinking. Wukong had killed Macaque out of anger once. Was he going to do it again?

A chill ran down Wukong’s spine, shocking him out of his anger. Macaque was afraid of him. Afraid of Wukong killing him again. And he had every right to be. Because Wukong had done the unthinkable. He’d murdered his beloved Macaque. Now, he was getting angry with him again? Threatening him? What kind of person did that?

Wukong backed away. Macaque was saying something to him. Something that seemed like it might be important, but the sound of blood rushing through Wukong’s ears drowned him out. Macaque was reaching towards him, trying to grab him, but Wukong wasn’t having it. He took one step. Two. 

The ground disappeared from under Wukong’s foot. Dirt giving way to the stone monkey’s weight. He fell, only to catch himself in a cloud somersault. Wukong looked at Macaque. His face was twisted with hurt, anger, betrayal. Already, he knew what Wukong was going to do. It was what Wukong always did, when things got too tough. He fled.

As Wukong hurtled himself to another continent, looking for a nice quiet, secluded spot to cower in for the next few weeks, hot tears stung his eyes. Although why, Wukong didn’t understand. He’d been the one to start the fight. He’d been the one who’d hurt Macaque, and yet, here he was, running like the coward he was. If Zhu Bajie could see him now, the Great Monkey King in tears over a minor disagreement, he’d never hear the end of it. 

But he wasn’t here. None of his companions were, and they’d probably never be there for him again. He hadn’t seen them since the Journey. None of them had sent any letters. No messengers had arrived giving word about them. 

Tang Sanzang had probably died long ago. Ao Lie had probably burnt out the rest of his lifespan from the Samadhi Fire. Sha Wujing was probably off having the time of his life, and Zhu Bajie had probably forgotten all about old Monkey King, as happy as he could be to get rid of him. The only person Wukong really had was Macaque, but was that even real? Wukong had killed him. 

How did you get around that? How could you just ignore that? There had to be some angle, some strategy that Wukong wasn’t seeing, that Wukong was too stupid to see. Macaque was probably laughing it up every time Wukong turned his back, delighting in how the Great Sage Equal to Heaven had been reduced to a mere shell of himself. Or perhaps, it was pity that drove Macaque to treat him like this. So kindly and gently, like a porcelain cup that might break with too rough a treatment. 

And with that thought, Wukong found himself pondering which of those options were worse as he tried to drown out his thoughts with the echoes of an unfamiliar waterfall in a deep, moss covered ravine in a new hideout. Until he finally crawled back to Macaque a few months later, and gave him a plum as an apology. 

And thus, Wukong and Macaque began a new cycle in their increasingly tumulteous relationship. They'd get together, and things would be amazing. Macaque would be the loud one, the one in charge, and Wukong would become his shadow, until eventually, something would snap, and one or both of them would leave in a huff, until the pain of being lonely grew more lonely than the anger and frustration that always filled the space around them and they'd go crawling back to each other. A mascohistic tango born of loneliness and desperation. 

And that way it stayed, until Wukong met MK.