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It’s the unusual chill that wakes him. The weather’s typically moderate and mild throughout the year; it isn’t called Flower Fruit Mountain for nothing, after all. Wukong is used to balmy breezes carrying the sweet perfume of peach and plum blossoms up the mountain and through his open windows. But when he curls tight against the cold, the air is crisp and clean with frost. Reaching blindly for his blanket, he means to pull it up snug beneath his chin, but it’s nowhere to be found.
With a resigned sigh, he blinks his eyes open. Starlight streams in through the dark, cool silver-blue illuminating a familiar room. He glances down at the floor first and finds nothing, but one look at the foot of the couch lets him know just what happened to his blanket. A fuzzy pile of little white monkeys is huddled by his feet, all curled up in the blanket.
Wukong flicks his tail, just a little prickle of annoyance in his chest. “You little thieves,” he mumbles, but there’s no denying the fond smile that touches his lips.
Awake now, and too chilly to get back to sleep, he gives a good stretch and rubs the lingering haze of sleep from his eyes. There’s half a second where he considers just shoving his way into the monkey pile or stealing the blanket back, but for now, he lets the little monkeys enjoy it. They’re smaller than him and probably feel the cold more. He’s curious anyways.
Eventually, he gets up the courage to drag himself from the lingering warmth of the couch and pad out the door. As soon as he steps outside, a blast of frosty air is waiting for him. His breath clouds in the night, a white puff catching the threads of light from the moon and star. Beyond his little porch, snow drifts leisurely down from swathes of cloud cover. It’s just enough to dust the mountainside, clinging in the canopy and settling atop the grass. A lace of frost creeps up the stones and along the dusty path that leads back down the mountain.
Leaning on the railing, Wukong props his chin on a hand and takes in the scenery, biting breezes ruffling through his fur. Even with how long he’s lived in this very spot, snow is still a novel sight here, something he only gets the chance to enjoy once in a blue moon. The cold might be a bit toothy and unfriendly, but the landscape looks fresh and new with snowflakes drifting down across it. It’s worth soaking in, even if it makes him shiver.
For a while, he just watches snow fall across the mountain and gazes up at the stars that poke through the gaps in the clouds. It’s only when a particularly nasty wind races through that he thinks he ought to head back inside. The current of wind tugs at his clothes and blows snow in his eyes, howling something chilling and mournful as it goes. Once it settles, Wukong shakes the snowflakes from his fur, blinks them from his lashes, and huffs a foggy breath.
Before he can turn to head back to the beckoning warmth of the couch, though, something catches his eye. There’s a pocket of darkness out on the mountain, stark against the snow. He squints for a better look, tail flicking curiously from side to side.
Really, he should have guessed from the beginning. There’s only one thing, one person, that brings darkness to his mountain.
Before he has time to talk himself out of it, remind himself of the many, many reasons this could be a bad idea, Wukong steps down off the patio and into the snow. It’s cold against his soles, a gentle sting in his lungs. Through the wind and chill, he trudges partway down the mountain to a copse of stone fruit trees. Their stiff branches and frosted leaves rustle a melody, just out of tune with the usual lullaby of the canopy at night.
It’s the solitary eye gazing down at him that catches Wukong’s attention, though. Piercing gold cuts through the darkness, just cracked open a sliver. Three ears flick at the sound of him breathing a sigh.
“Little cold for a nap under the stars, yeah?” Wukong asks.
“Maybe for you,” Macaque replies after a beat, voice a low rumble.
“Who are you looking to fool with that? Cause I’m not really buying it.” Wukong crosses his arms over his chest, just the edge of grin tugging at his lips.
Macaque is bundled tight against the cold, scarf pulled up over his nose and mouth. He’s pressed close to the trunk of the tree he’s perched in instead of sprawled out on the branches, strategically on the side that offers the most of a break against the wind. And there’s a layer of snow sitting atop his head, like someone dusted him with powdered sugar.
He certainly doesn’t look warm. Or comfortable. Yet, he’s still sitting right there in the cold, his head turned to the side and tail giving an annoyed flick.
“Why are you even here?” Wukong asks.
He’s not stupid. He’s seen Macaque turning up around the mountain more and more lately, but he’s left it well enough alone. It is a pretty choice spot for napping, he’ll admit, and Macaque has kept to himself, not hurting anything. So, Wukong lets him stay when he turns up and rather politely looks the other way. What he can’t fathom is why Macaque would be here of all places when the sweet, balmy weather is off on vacation.
“Just leave it, Wukong. What does it matter to you?” Macaque asks, single eye narrowed. That, the lack of glamor, snags Wukong’s attention too.
“No, seriously. Your shadows can take you anywhere you want, so why park in the snow?”
Macaque just huffs a breath that fogs up in the chilly night air. “What, worried about me?” he asks, teeth flashing in the moonlight. There’s almost a sneer in the words, but it’s smoothed and mellowed most of the way out. Almost genuine.
Something in Wukong’s chest prickles, and for a moment, he thinks of turning on his heels and marching right back home. Let Macaque freeze if that’s what he wants. He can take care of himself.
But all the same, he can’t ignore the quiet glow of… something that ignites at the thought of it. There’s warmth, the kind that stings his fingers after he’s been out in the cold too long and finally finds somewhere to warm up. He doesn’t want to stomp that out. Complicated doesn’t even begin to describe him and Macaque and years of sweet, ugly, raw memories, and it’s too late into the night to even touch it all.
But things are better now, getting better, so Wukong turns his back on old instincts and smooths his hackles.
“If you’re not going to leave, you might as well at least come inside. Better than turning into a popsicle out here,” he says, heart skipping just a little too fast for reasons won’t pick apart, not now.
For a long moment, Macaque just stares at him. First with a wide eye, open and honest and wholly surprised. After a beat, suspicion creeps in, searching for plays and angles and traps. He must not find any, because his expression twists back around to mildly puzzled surprise, brows turned up at the center.
“You’re really inviting me in,” Macaque says, somewhere between a baffled statement and a question.
Letting out a frosty sigh, Wukong just shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the craziest thing I’ve done.”
A howling wind gusts over the mountainside again, and Wukong really misses his blanket right about then. He’ll need to see if he can wrestle it back from the thieving little monkeys. Or maybe dig up another one from a closet somewhere if their puppy dog eyes are too powerful.
Maybe that fresh chill is enough to break Macaque’s stubborn devotion to freezing himself stiff out here, because he closes his eye and dips his head for a moment, breathing deep. Then, he hops down out of the tree, landing almost silently in the snow. There’s hardly even a crunch.
Some strange sense of satisfaction swells in Wukong’s chest, and he doesn’t bother to keep the twitch of a grin off his lips.
“Shut up,” Macaque grumbles before Wukong even has the chance to say anything. Just like that, he shoulders brusquely past and follows the trail up the mountain, leaving Wukong to stand and watch after him for a beat. A bit of disbelief wells in Wukong’s chest, but he breathes it out into the cold and trots to catch up. To lead the way. Not that Macaque needs him to. They both know this place by heart, every bend and dip and stream. Even if time and weather shape it, growing a fresh peach sapling here or drying an old riverbed there, the feeling of long trodden ground, of home, never changes.
Wukong’s cozy little house beckons from its clearing, and he’s all too happy to step up onto the porch. He stops at the doorway, though, planting a hand on Macaque’s chest when he tries to come in. An annoyed furrow creases at Macaque’s face, but before he can work himself into an argument, Wukong is ready with an explanation.
“I don’t want your snowflake collection melting all over my house,” Wukong says, gesturing to the snow dusting across Macaque’s head, his limbs. “Do me a favor and shake off before you come in.”
“Fine,” Macaque sighs after a beat. Backing a pace, he gives himself a good shake and sends up a flurry of snow. It lands in a ring around him, leaving a roughly Macaque-shaped bare patch behind when he steps forward again. “Happy now?” He has a brow raised, corners of his lips turned down.
“I will be once I’ve gotten warmed back up,” Wukong says.
Inside, the white monkeys have completely commandeered the couch while he was out. They’re lying all over each other in a heap beneath the blanket, only a few noses and tails sticking out here and there. Macaque scoffs when he sees them, but it almost sounds amused.
It’s not often Wukong finds himself wishing he had a proper bed instead of sleeping on the couch all the time; the couch is comfortable and gets the job done just fine. Right now, though, is one of those times. At least he could give the little monkeys the couch and have a bed to himself. But, as it stands, he doesn’t have the heart to kick them off.
Apparently, Macaque doesn’t either. He just sits down with his back to the wall, pulling one leg to his chest and stretching the other out.
Leaving him there, Wukong goes to hunt down another blanket. He doesn’t generally keep a lot of stuff aside from the essentials, and collectibles of his own merchandise, of course, but there’s got to be one around somewhere. He noses around his cabinets and a messy closet that he hasn’t touched in too long. Dust bunnies float up with every bit of old junk he shoves aside, but eventually, he finds what he’s looking for. Stuffed in the back corner is an old blanket, a gentle turquoise with peach stitching. The fabric is worn thin but soft by a lot of love and use over the years. Feeling the pilling, the threadbare patches, in his hands is like holding a bundle of memories. So is stepping back into the living room and seeing Macaque welcome within his walls. Maybe not as easy and relaxed as he used to be, but still there.
A smile comes surprisingly free and unbidden across Wukong’s face. He pads across the room while he unfolds the blanket and shakes off the worst of the dust. A cloud of the stuff plumes up to the ceiling and slowly starts to settle.
He tosses the blanket directly on top of Macaque, covering him from the tips of his ears to the end of his tail. Macaque splutters a bit, but Wukong just tucks himself right in under the blanket too. It’s not huge, so he has to keep them pressed shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, to keep everyone warm and covered.
“Wukong,” Macaque says, something of an aggrieved rumble low in his chest as he pulls the blanket down off his face. There’s a bit of a dangerous flash in his eye, too, one Wukong pointedly ignores.
“It’s cold,” Wukong says by way of explanation. He’s pretty sure that’s enough. Or, he can pretend like it’s enough. Like all the mess they’ve made of each other can be cleaned up with a smile and a blanket and a nap.
“You’re impossible,” Macaque accuses. His hand is cold where it grazes Wukong’s. His face is warm.
“I would tell you to join the club, but I think you already did a long time ago,” Wukong says, and it’s easy. The venom that used to drip off the bites and jabs he traded with Macaque is gone. This feels like a warm, ribbing comfort of days gone long, long by. He basks in it. Holds onto it for as long as he has it.
And, maybe, Macaque is in the mood to pretend too. He huffs a laugh and rolls his eye and settles in a little closer instead of pulling away. “Yeah, maybe.”
Quiet settles over them, warm as the blanket they share, and Wukong doesn’t disturb it. He just lets his eyes fall shut, breathes in the chill in the air, and savors the heat radiating from Macaque beside him. He hasn’t felt it in too long and it’s nicer than he remembers.
Slowly, the world turns and the stars spin their way across the sky, but Wukong doesn’t quite manage sleep. It comes in like the tide, turning everything fuzzy and hazy for stretches of time, then washes back out. Every time it goes, there’s a question lingering at the back of his mind, keeping the gears in his head turning even when he’d rather quiet them. He thinks about saying something, asking something, but it feels like a bad idea. Disturbing the peace always seems to land him in the worst sort of trouble, and getting out of it hasn’t been as easy lately as it used to be.
“I can feel you thinking,” Macaque eventually murmurs, low and rumbling and a little bleary with the fringes of sleep.
“Just wondering about something.” Wukong lets go of a breath and lowers the set of his shoulders. He can’t quite figure out if he’s transparent or if Macaque just knows how to read between all his lines.
“Yeah?” Macaque asks.
“Yeah.”
For a little while, that’s as far as it goes. That’s as far as Wukong intends to take it. But when Macaque turns to look at him, face soft and relaxed and real, he can’t help himself.
“Why are you here, Mac?” he asks, voice quiet. “Why do you keep coming here?”
The mountain. Their mountain.
Dark fur shines in the snowy starlight that slips through the windows, a soft glow that halos Macaque’s edges. He tips his head away, face hidden but ears kept back towards Wukong. Still attentive and listening. For a bit, he doesn’t say anything, but his breathing has lost that slow, lulled quality. He’s awake, thinking. Weighing his options, probably. The truth is heavier, it always is, but it must be worth its weight.
“The world’s a big place. Loud, too.”
Overwhelming.
“It’s not the easiest thing to find a safe place to settle down. Sometimes I just… need to come home,” Macaque says, ginger and a little cracked open.
Wukong’s heart warms, yet all the same, he aches. Anything he might say clogs in his throat at all the meaning buried deep in those words. That Macaque feels safe here. That he still thinks of this place as his home, just like Wukong does. That even in the cold and snow and shrieking wind, he’d rather be here than anywhere else he could go.
Wukong pulls in a long, slow breath through his nose, eyes suspiciously hot. There’s a dozen things he wants to say.
This will always be your home.
You’re welcome here whenever you want.
You don’t need to stay hidden in the trees outside, you know.
I wish you never left.
I wish you never died.
I wish it wasn’t my fault.
I missed you.
I miss you.
I…
He doesn’t say a thing. His chest is too tight for it, happy and sad and everything in between.
Instead, he leans over to rest his head against Macaque’s shoulder, nuzzling his cheek into dark fur. Breathing in a scent he hasn’t known in too long, like jasmine and bamboo, tinged cold by the snowy night.
He feels Macaque’s shoulder rise just slightly, hears his breath hitch. For a small moment, Macaque shivers a little, and Wukong wonders if it’s really still too cold in here. Even with the blanket. Even together.
“Mac?” he murmurs, going to lift his head. But as soon as he tries, he’s met with Macaque’s cheek pressing to the top of his head, a little awkward but earnest.
Getting the message, Wukong settles back in and stays, comfy against Macaque’s shoulder, overfull with some nameless thing at the closeness.
Eventually, Macaque’s breathing evens again, tipping back towards sleep, and Wukong listens to the rhythm of it all the while. It soothes something in him he didn’t even know was hungry.
In his own chest, his heart beats slow and content, an ember glow stoked warm. He breathes in the crook between Macaque’s neck and shoulder, awash with old memories he lets flow over and past him. There’s time, now, to build new ones. It’s a chance he didn’t ever think he’d get. But now, curled together, he soaks in every moment. He’ll undoubtedly wake up sore from sitting on the floor and with an awfully stiff neck, but that doesn’t feel so daunting. A small price to pay for this little slice of comfort and peace.
Every so often, Wukong takes a little more; bleary and dozing, Macaque lets him. He wraps an arm around Macaque’s middle one moment, twines their tails together in another. By the time Macaque is properly asleep, breathing slow and deep, more relaxed than he ever gets awake, they’re something of a heap of black and orange fur piled together beneath the blanket.
There’s still so many things Wukong could say, floating in a drowsy haze at the edges of his mind. The words feel freer now that he knows Macaque won’t hear, but they still all tangle in a web of emotion, caught in his head, his heart. A few find their way through eventually, though, as Wukong lets his eyes slip closed.
“Goodnight, Macaque.”
When he finally falls asleep, it’s to thoughts of good mornings drenched in sunrise gold and the start of something new.