Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time Wukong comes to him, there’s a fire in his eyes that Macaque can’t look away from.

His dojo in the city’s been out of commission for a while now — which is to say, Macaque doesn’t want to live there anymore. It served its purpose for as long as it needed to, but Macaque holds no reservations about leaving it behind. He’s always been rather nomadic that way, never finding qualms with leaving a place behind once it became obsolete. It’s a nasty habit, this act of abandonment he partakes in, but it’s one he doesn’t mind, so long as it benefits him.

With his dojo no longer an option, Macaque now resides, hesitantly, back on Flower Fruit Mountain. It’s a tentative arrangement between him and Wukong, an unofficial agreement to exist in the same vicinity but stay out of each other’s way. An agreement to neither’s benefit or detriment.

So when Wukong purposefully seeks him out, naturally, his hackles rise.

The fire in his eyes makes it all the worse, a fire that Macaque has seen very few times, but has never led to anything good. Wukong’s not smiling, his face set in stony determination.

“What do you want?” Macaque spits before Wukong has the chance to get in the first word. His ears flutter and twitch defensively.

Then, Wukong says something that makes Macaque’s head spin.

“Let’s spar.”

A deep frown sets on the monkey’s face, one of inherent distrust. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” Wukong is serious, not an ounce of mirth in his voice. It’s unusual and off putting.

“Why?”

Wukong’s tail flicks, an anxious habit, but he doesn’t look anxious. “I need to let some energy out.”

That is odd. Wukong’s one of the laziest pieces of shit that Macaque knows. The only time he seems to put effort into anything is when he’s training the kid — that, or when there’s some world-ending threat that affects himself.

Oh, if it affects him, he’ll jump to the plate. Anybody else? Good luck getting him to attempt to care.

Macaque’s mouth twists into an ugly snarl. He doesn’t trust this, not at all. The opportunity to fight Wukong is, admittedly, appealing, but warnings of danger ring in his head that he can’t chase away. “How do I know you won’t go too far again?”

It’s subtle, but Wukong’s face pinches slightly around the eyes, lips pressed thin. Macaque notices, and feels somewhat invigorated.

“I won’t.”

“I don’t trust you,” he responds bluntly. “Go spar with MK if you’re so pent up.”

Wukong’s head begins to shake before Macaque even gets the words out. “No. He wouldn’t get it.”

I don’t get it either, Macaque wants to say, but Wukong continues before he can, “Please, Macaque. We can even do it on your terms, I just need this.”

Macaque’s suspicion partly gives way to confusion because — is Wukong begging right now? Macaque can’t remember the last time Wukong said please, especially to him. Why is Wukong putting his oh-so-precious pride on the line for a sparring session?

Why does he need this so bad? Is he luring Macaque into a false sense of security by making himself vulnerable? Would he really go through all of this just to kill him again? Macaque can’t put it past him.

“As if you’d ever respect my terms,” Macaque scoffs lightly.

Finally, the Wukong that Macaque knows seems to slip through, throwing his arms up in frustration as he groans. “Then cast a spell or something! Make me respect it! I just want to do a little sparring, for fuck’s sake!”

Macaque’s eyebrow quirks at the outburst, enjoying the humiliated blush that forms on Wukong’s cheeks.

His frayed instincts still try to urge him to run, warn him this is a trap. Wukong has not changed, that in itself is painfully clear. 

But there’s a needling want in Macaque’s mind, like a salivating craving. To see how it would end if he said yes. If he gave in, how much damage could he really do?

A lot, he hoped.

Despite his wariness, he finally allows the ghost of a smile to creep onto his face, giving Wukong a pointed look.

“One condition.”

Wukong’s eyes brighten slightly. “Yes?”

Macaque hums.

“We do this on my terms.”

———

Turns out, Macaque’s terms are a lot more complicated than they seem.

They move to a shadowy cave tucked into a corner. Shadows are Macaque’s specialty, so being surrounded with as many as possible already puts him at a clear advantage.

Wukong’s wrists are tied behind his back, a notion he scoffs at but doesn’t object to otherwise. It’s already dark enough in the cave, but Macaque has Wukong put on a blindfold anyway. Wukong could use his gold vision, but that’s yet another one of Macaque’s terms.

Wukong can’t use his powers.

Whether he sticks to that particular rule remains to be seen, but he begrudgingly accepts it after some of Macaque’s goading ( “I thought you said we could do this on my terms, Peaches,” he provokes in a sickly sweet tone), and Macaque supposes he needs to put some level of trust into Wukong for this to work.

It’s only then that Macaque feels satisfied enough with Wukong’s proverbial declawing to begin the fight. He backs up, a shark-like smirk stretched across his face as he launches himself at Wukong without warning.

The fight lasts hours, dragging from the day into the night. Despite his restrictions, Wukong puts up a good fight, even Macaque can admit that. He’s not hailed as equal to Heaven for no reason, after all. 

Fortunately, it’s just not quite enough. Macaque easily overpowers him from the start, and only keeps up the momentum from there. It’s exhilarating and pleasurable, tearing the king down piece by piece until all that’s left are pathetic shreds. Every blow that lands on the monkey’s body is another tally on the jail cell wall, another step towards freedom. Every time Macaque delivers a hit that he knows would be fatal in any other circumstance, he feels like he’s being pieced back together.

By the time Macaque calls it quits, Wukong is nothing left but a myriad of injuries. Bruises, welts, scratches and broken bones — it’s difficult to tell where the blood ends and the fur begins. The sick, sweet satisfaction inside of Macaque is only somewhat dampened by the realization that he’ll be spotless again by the morning.

He cuts the ropes around his wrists and pulls off the blindfold carelessly. Wukong hisses slightly as his head jostles, a clear indication of a concussion if Macaque’s ever seen one.

“Hope that was worth it, Peaches,” Macaque taunts dryly, still fundamentally confused by Wukong’s request. It clearly wasn’t a ploy to kill him, nor was it a chance to flaunt his skills — Macaque steamrolled him. He tries not to dwell on it too much, instead riding his high off the adrenaline and thrill of cold-served revenge.

Wukong spits out a glob of blood, stumbling to his feet. “Yeah,” he mutters, pain-drunk and unsteady. “Was.”

Macaque finds that response grating and annoying, so he pointedly ignores it. How, even after being beaten within an inch of his life, can he still manage to piss Macaque off so succinctly?

“Mac,” Wukong calls weakly as Macaque walks to the mouth of the cave. 

Macaque’s face scrunches as he looks over his shoulder. “ What, Wukong?”

Wukong sways a bit, looking green around the gills. “Can we—” he licks his lips, takes a few grounding breaths. “Can we do this again tomorrow?”

Macaque nearly chokes.

What the hell? Did Macaque punch his brain through his ears ? Why would he want to experience something like this again? There’s no way in hell he was thinking right.

“Are you serious?” Macaque asks, bewildered.

“Deadly.”

Macaque feels something uneasy in his stomach, like a stone is sinking through the acid.

Still. The idea of doing this again — it excites him. To feel the exhilaration of beating Sun Wukong into the ground again — with Wukong’s full permission?

He’ll be healed by dawn anyway. It’s not like Macaque is doing anything permanent.

Besides, Wukong wants to do it. He’s the one asking. Who is Macaque to turn him down?

He can’t help the damn near giddy smile that spreads across his face.

“Tomorrow. Same place, same time,” he hums. “See you then, Peaches.”

Macaque leaves, finds a tree to perch on, and sleeps better than he has in years.

———

Wukong is, indeed, completely healed by the time the two meet up again. Not so much as a scar left on his skin, which does bother Macaque, a little.

“Ready to get your ass beat again?” Macaque smirks as he ties Wukong’s wrists behind his back.

Wukong hums noncommittally. “I won’t make it so easy for you this time, Mac.”

Macaque scoffs at the sheer audacity. “Don’t even act like you weren’t trying yesterday. I pummeled you fair and square.”

It does… relieve him, somewhat, that Wukong is back to being his snarky self. Macaque hadn’t been worried — far from it. Confused was a better word for it. Now that everything seemed to be working as normal again, he could enjoy this bashing just as much as yesterday’s.

“Fair and square? I couldn’t use my powers, arms, or eyes. ” Wukong scoffs.

He’s not quite wrong, but it pisses Macaque off all the same. “I don’t know why you’re suddenly so interested in getting your ass handed to you, but trust me, I’m not complaining.”

Wukong doesn’t respond to that, and Macaque smiles. It’s rare to leave Sun Wukong speechless — fucker doesn’t have a silent bone in his body.

———

The fight is significantly shorter this time. If Wukong wasn’t trying yesterday, he’s barely lifting a finger to defend himself today. Macaque is almost insulted, but far more importantly, with each crunch and crack of Wukong’s body, he’s completely thrilled.

It’s a healing process, in a way. Macaque has never been able to channel his anger into the vessel that caused it all. He’s never been able to show Wukong how much it all fucking hurt. Never able to make Wukong hurt the way Wukong made him.

This is his chance, a chance Wukong gave him, and though he doesn’t fully understand, he’s not going to let it slip away.

He was never going to reconcile. What Wukong did isn’t forgivable . Nothing was going to come out of trying to be friends — so why even try?

This is so much more satisfying, anyway.

Wukong is in a similar state when Macaque leaves, and this time, Wukong doesn’t say anything, but he knows they’re going to meet again at the same time, in the same place, and they’re going to do it all over again.

Macaque can’t wait.

Chapter Text

The “sparring” continues for weeks. At some point, Wukong stops asking, and it becomes an unspoken routine. They meet in the cave, they fight, Wukong stumbles back to his hut while licking his wounds. Macaque figured it would become boring, beating Wukong down day after day, but it doesn’t.

It’s an odd type of adrenaline, something even he can’t resist. Macaque is surrounded by violence — most days, he is the violence. So why not lean into it? Why not feed the beast, if that’s what Wukong is asking for?

At some point in this routine, Macaque enters the cave, where Wukong is already waiting, and he smiles when an idea forms.

“Don’t hold back today.”

When Wukong raises an eyebrow in silent question, Macaque elaborates: “No blindfolds, no ties. No holding back.”

A grin tugs at Wukong’s lips, not quite a smirk. “Someone’s getting cocky. You sure?”

Macaque chuckles. “Oh, I’m sure. I want you to know that I can still beat you, even at full power.”

Wukong’s eyes flick and his lashes flutter in a half eye roll, but he lifts his arms in a what the hell type of gesture.

“It’s your funeral,” he says carelessly, then falters somewhat.

Macaque squints, and he can pinpoint the moment Wukong recognizes his mistake. It’s almost funny, the grimace that flashes on his face for just a second. Macaque contemplates pressing him, poking at the already grotesque wound. He ignores it instead — it’ll make kicking his ass that much sweeter.

Wukong opens his mouth to speak again, an apology, maybe, but Macaque beats him to the punch — literally. His fist collides with Wukong’s jaw, and the fight begins.

———

Macaque wins.

Macaque fights Wukong at full power and wins.

It’s a tougher fight than he’s used to, and he’s a bit worn out by the end of it, but it’s overshadowed by the adrenaline rushing through him as he processes the knowledge that he just fought Wukong at full power and won.

Wukong breathes heavily as he stands, spitting a chunk of blood and saliva at his own feet. He sways, then falls, landing roughly on his side.

Macaque is smiling, as shit-eating as it is real, as he turns and limps off. “See you tomorrow, Peaches,” he slurs over his shoulder as he lets the breeze run through his fur. The cave is far too stuffy — maybe he should switch up the location soon.

Wukong grunts in response, and Macaque can already tell it’s one of affirmation.

If Macaque is a sick bastard for agreeing to Wukong’s requests, what does that make Wukong?

———

Macaque sits on the beach, the gentle waves creeping along the sand and just barely touching his toes. It’s refreshing, the view of the horizon from the mountain. The city is — well, it’s a city. Not to say Macaque hates modern cities, but he does, by and large, overwhelmingly prefer the scattered countryside.

He’s glad he moved here, he realizes. It isn’t at all what he expected — but maybe that’s for the best.

This was his home. This is his home.

I never should’ve had to leave, he thinks bitterly, fingers squeezing around a clump of wet sand. He winces as a searing pain shoots through his knuckles, quickly lifting his hands.

There are bruises on his knuckles. He blinks, pulling them close to his face so he can inspect them. The skin is cracked and irritated and purplish. It throbs with each little twitch.

Macaque blinks, open-mouthed. His accelerated healing factor isn’t as strong as Wukong’s, but it’s there. He can’t remember the last time a bruise has lasted overnight. 

Maybe he needs to let up a little.

He licks his lips and gently blows cool air onto the wounds. He’ll have to find some gauze, clean himself up a bit. He flexes his fingers slowly to test the water, grunting when the same pain shoots up his arms.

A rustling noise distracts him, and he turns toward the mouth of the forest, his guard rising. But it’s only Wukong who walks out, his expression unreadable as his eyes land on Macaque.

“What do you want?” Macaque asks, cutting through any of the bullshit Wukong may have wanted to stall with.

Wukong’s lips part at the hostility, and Macaque doesn’t understand why it still surprises him.

When he doesn’t answer in a sufficient amount of time, Macaque grunts and turns away. “Fuck off, Peaches. You’re ruining my sunset.”

Wukong huffs lightly, and Macaque can only imagine his face. “Just as amiable as ever, Mac. Really feeling the warm welcome.”

Macaque rolls his eyes. “Why are you here?”

“I just wanted to ask if you’ve seen my wind chime.”

He can’t help but snort. “Why would I want your wind chime? One of the monkeys probably ran off with it.”

Wukong is quiet for a moment. “Yeah. That’s what I figured,” he says nonchalantly. “Are your hands alright?”

Macaque blinks, looking down at them from where they’re tucked in his lap. How the hell did Wukong see that?

“Hurts a little,” he mutters, not seeing a reason to lie. He glances back at Wukong curiously.

Wukong tilts his head in consideration. 

“I have a first aid kit in my hut. I can clean it up for you.”

Macaque stares at him. Processes those words. Then, he starts laughing.

“You can— huh?” It’s so absurd, he can barely repeat it without bursting into another laughing fit. “I’m sorry, the great and mighty Sun Wukong, the Monkey King, Great Sage Equal to Heaven, wants to tend to my wounds?” What the hell has gotten into him lately?

Wukong grits his teeth, and Macaque savors that look of embarrassment in his eyes. “Well, if you’re gonna be an asshole about it—”

“No, no!” Macaque can’t help the laughter bubbling out of him. “I’m not being an asshole! I just think it’s— it’s strange! You know? You’re not exactly known for your helping hand, Peaches.”

Wukong’s mouth twists, because he knows he can’t argue with that. “Do you want my help or not?”

Macaque looks at him, the laughter slowly petering off. “No tricks?”

“No tricks. Swear on my immortality.”

Macaque can’t help his eye-roll at that. Still, he sighs, raising his hands up in surrender. “Fine.”

Wukong’s eyes light up happily, and Macaque is already starting to regret accepting the offer.

———

Wukong’s hut is a goddamn mess.

Macaque is surprised that anybody can stand to be in a place so disgusting. Wukong is just full of surprises, isn’t he?

He sits on the stiff wooden bench that Wukong sadly touts as a couch and waits for him to return from the bathroom with his medical supplies. He looks down at his still-throbbing knuckles, hissing through his teeth at the pain.

He hears the rummaging from Wukong’s bathroom, the monkey muttering angrily to himself as he searches for where he last placed the kit. Two habits that Macaque always found so endearing — Wukong’s incessant need to fill a silent void with his own voice, and his tendency to misplace everything — now just leave a bittersweet taste in his mouth.

Macaque can hear the moment Wukong finds it, a relieved breath and an excited little “aha!” He pads back into the living room, now holding a red and white box in his hands and a triumphant look on his face. There’s something written on the side of the box, but Wukong’s handwriting is so atrocious that he can’t make out the characters.

Wukong sits next to him, keeping a safe distance between them. He pulls out the gauze and some ointment. He looks at Macaque, a questioning look on his face. Asking permission, Macaque realizes.

As much as Macaque would enjoy throwing out a quip at Wukong’s expense right about now, there’s a lump caught in his throat. Wukong actually taking the time and courtesy to give Macaque a choice is… unexpected. Macaque wouldn’t have been mad if Wukong had started dressing him without a warning, but the fact that Wukong had the wherewithal to hesitate makes something inside him ache. Like a lost little kid hearing an I’m sorry for the very first time. There’s a sense of validation in that hesitation.

He nods almost imperceptibly, unable to do much else when he’s caught in Wukong’s eyes like a flytrap.

Wukong moves forward and begins dressing his wounds, a not-so-uncomfortable silence falling over the two. Macaque is somewhat surprised Wukong’s not trying to fill it with meaningless chatter.

He’s even more surprised by the fact that he’s the one to eventually break the silence, not Wukong.

“Your fur’s getting matted,” he observes neutrally. It’s not exactly worrying. Wukong often has bouts where he forgets to take care of himself. In a past life, Macaque would dutifully groom him, playfully getting on his case about self-care. And Wukong would laugh and hold his hand and promise that this time, he’s really going to take care of himself properly. And Macaque just laughs, for he knows it’s a lie but doesn’t mind it as long as he’s allowed to keep his fingers tangled in his King’s sun-warm fur.

Wukong blinks. “Oh,” he says, stupidly. He goes back to dressing Macaque’s knuckles. “Guess I’ll have to trim it soon.”

Macaque raises an eyebrow. He has a sudden urge to offer to do it for him. Something about for old time’s sake. He even opens his mouth to make the offer—

“Do you still want to spar tonight?”

And promptly snaps it shut.

He thinks about it, looking down at his trembling hands. He should probably decline. He needs time to heal, after all. 

But sparring with Wukong has quickly become his favorite pastime. It fills him with an indescribable rush. He doesn’t want to stop, even if just for a day.

“Yes,” he mutters, clenching his fists experimentally. The pain is still there, still sharp, but dulled ever so slightly from when he’d been on the beach. He can power through.

Wukong pulls away, stretching his arms over his head. “Great. See you tonight.”

Macaque furrows his brows. Wukong seems… detached. Not just from him, but from reality as a whole. Like he’s just… coasting. He doesn’t know why. 

It’s probably nothing. Knowing him, he probably just realized he ran all out of peach chips, or something equally childish.

He sits there for a moment, debating whether or not to bring it up. But when Wukong sends him a semi-annoyed glance, likely wondering why Macaque hasn’t taken off yet, Macaque frowns.

He stands up, walking out of his hut with a sigh. The air around Wukong’s hut always seems so clean. It’s clean all over the mountain, of course, but around Wukong’s hut, every breath seems to leave him feeling a little lighter. 

He’s so distracted by the air, he almost misses the gentle melody of the wind chime hung just outside of Wukong’s hut entirely. But when it filters through his six ears, he stops. Didn’t Wukong say he couldn’t find it?

He frowns in confusion, glancing back inside the hut. From the window, he can see Wukong turning on the TV and curling up on his depressing bench-couch.

Okay, odd. There’s no way Wukong wouldn’t be able to hear the wind chimes. His hearing isn’t nearly as good as Macaque’s — but it’s not that bad. Wukong should be able to hear the chimes, even locked inside his hut.

Why did he think he lost it?

Macaque stands there long enough for it to become weird. Wukong doesn’t seem to notice his eyes on him. Another odd thing.

Finally, he pries himself away from the hut and sinks into the shadows.

Belatedly, he realizes that he never actually thanked Wukong for dressing his wounds. Guilt pangs at him, but he tampers it down. Wukong will know he’s grateful anyway.

———

Macaque can hear MK and Wukong arguing even when he’s not trying. His ears flutter and brows pinch in annoyance as the muffled shouting disturbs a much-needed nap.

Out of curiosity, he sits up. It’s not often MK and Wukong argue, much less yell at each other. MK’s hero worship for the guy is nauseating, it’s hard to imagine the kid putting his foot down to Wukong for any reason. 

Good for him, Macaque thinks.

But minutes pass, and the yelling doesn’t stop. It gets worse.

Loud enough that Macaque can hear them clearly, if he tries. Not that he will — this isn’t his business. And, frankly, Wukong probably deserves a good chewing out from that kid. Macaque closes his eyes, and—

Unbidden, MK’s words filter through the air into his ears, some of the only ones he can hear clearly.

“—Need to find who did this to you—!”

Macaque’s brows furrow, interest suddenly piqued. Who did what? Wukong is fine. No one’s been on this island besides them and their army of monkeys — Macaque’s made sure.

It confuses Macaque so much that he tries to listen a little further, just to get more context.

“Bud, no one did anything to me.”

“When did it show up? Today, yesterday?”

“Probably just hit something in my sleep.”

“Bullshit! Why isn’t it going away?!”

Macaque blinks. MK’s voice is beginning to border on hysterical, and Wukong just sounds tired.

He has no idea what they’re talking about still, but the guilt begins to churn for the kid. He should know best that Wukong is as stubborn as anything, and leaving the kid on his own to deal with that probably isn’t the best idea.

He considers his options, but really, there’s only one. He doesn’t understand this stupid soft spot he has for that brat or why he hasn’t just squashed it yet like the rest of his emotions. He thinks maybe the kid has some kind of magic hold on him, a spell that makes him weak.

He huffs his frustration with the situation, as if telling the world this isn’t what he wants to do with his day, then slowly sinks into his shadows, only to pop back up right behind Wukong.

MK jumps visibly, squeaks, and Wukong bristles without turning around. Macaque crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow at the duo.

“What the hell is going on? Your screaming scared half the monkeys into the ocean,” he grunts, brushing past Wukong to look right at MK.

MK recovers from his shock as he frowns, and it’s seething, something Macaque doesn’t see too often on him. “Monkey King won’t tell me what happened to him.”

“Because nothing happened,” Wukong spits between gritted teeth. Only, now, Macaque can hear the anxiety clinging to his words.

Macaque eyes MK in confusion. The kid must be out of his mind. “Hate to agree with Wukong, but he’s right. Nothing—” he tosses his head back to look at Wukong, and chokes on air.

On Wukong’s left eye — a large, swollen black and purple circle surrounding the area. A black eye?

Macaque recognizes it.

It’s the one he gave him.

His blood runs cold. That was yesterday, for fuck’s sake — it should’ve healed by now. Hell, it should’ve healed hours after it appeared on his face. 

Wukong looks into his eyes, and Macaque can see it — the shame on his face.

MK must notice his hesitation. “Do you know what happened, Macaque?”

Somehow, not for the first time in his conversation, Macaque is speechless. What can he say? He gave that to Wukong. The kid wouldn’t get it. Macaque—

Macaque doesn’t get it.

Something vile turns in his stomach and he nearly wretches. He’d been leaving these marks all over Wukong, and worse. Wukong had been in pain, undoubtedly. He didn’t care because — because what? He couldn’t see it?

Why is it so much different when it’s written on Wukong’s face?

Something rotten curls in his chest. “No,” he says, lies. Can’t tell if MK can feel it. “I don’t know where that came from.”

MK groans. “Please, Monkey King, just tell us! I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal!”

Wukong frowns. “It’s not a big deal, bud. So let. It. Go.”

Reaching beyond the guilt, Wukong’s tone fills Macaque with unease. Involuntarily, he flinches.

MK, demonstrably, doesn’t feel the same way. “No! Monkey King, please, you’re hurt—”

Wukong curses under his breath, and Macaque can’t take any more. There’s so much about this that’s just inexplicably fucked up — and Macaque has lodged himself right in the fucking middle of it.

He whisks himself away with his shadows, leaving the mentor and mentee to fight on their own.

Fuck.

Fuck.