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“Ready?”
MK grins. “Always-!”
He nearly isn’t able to dodge a shadow staff that whizzes past him in time, not having realized they were starting now. Like, right now. He hadn’t even seen Macaque move and yet the shadow had already thrown the battle in his own favor.
MK finds himself pinwheeling his arms in an attempt to remain balanced after his dodge, a desperate grasp for his own staff proving to be what keeps him from stumbling to the dojo’s hardwood floors.
His teeth grit.
Y’know, he would’ve thought that Macaque wouldn’t want to risk killing him during a training exercise of all things. And yet, nothing quite says “I want you dead” like forcing him into a vulnerable position whilst preparing another attack before he’s recovered from the first.
...wait a minute.
What little had been left of his confidence drains when he realizes why it’s likely a bad thing to see a shadow stretching out toward his feet. A shadow whose grin definitely doesn’t mean good things for MK. Nah, not in this sparring match.
MK uses his staff to propel himself away from the looming shadow, twisting his body so he could roll safely back into a practiced defense stance.
Not that he would ever brag or anything, but he avoids the possible incoming concussion flawlessly. Might he even say his defensive stance is something Macaque would’ve applauded him for if they weren’t mid-fight.
MK barely catches the subtle shine of another shadow before Macaque erupts from it, his shadow staff raised over the head before being brought down. In the back of his mind MK can see that while the impact is devastating, it takes an awkward amount of time for the move to be completed. In the front of his mind, he can only imagine how the crevice left in the earth could’ve been his head if he hadn’t leaped away in time.
Which, putting good news first, he isn’t knocked out! Bad news, his desperate attempt to save his own life had left his back to Macaque, meaning he’d more-so stumbled onto the ground in a flurry of limbs than truly laughed in the face of death.
Far too aware he wouldn’t be able to stand before another attack, he rolls onto his back, yelping when a staff smashes onto the ground inches from his face.
Heavens above, is he trying to kill MK or not? He thought they were cool!
As Macaque lifts the staff above his head for another swing, MK forces his feet firmly into the ground, waiting until he’s about to be struck before pushing with all his might. The force pushes him over the incoming hit, a summoning of his staff giving him enough leverage to land more gracefully behind Macaque.
When the next blow is delivered, MK’s own staff is there to meet the swing. Finally, some actual progress in pushing this match in his favor.
Step, step, block. Step, step, block. The occasional near loss of balance whenever Macaque feints a left swing before making a right one. The loss of space between his opponent before he regains it when he makes his own feint of attack but only to withdraw himself slightly.
It isn’t long before MK finds himself oddly confused amidst the controlled tempo of parried strikes.
If MK could compare his own strategies of combat to a demon’s, Macaque could lay claim for his to be akin to a celestial warrior’s.
They'd always looked refined and practiced.
It’s why MK can’t help the nagging doubt that sits tight in his stomach when he notes the countless openings Macaque’s stance leaves. The monkey is pushing far too heavily into his strikes, making for slower recoveries despite the fast-paced match.
It isn’t sloppy, but it isn’t the familiar polish of experience.
A well-timed block forces Macaque’s staff into the floorboards of the dojo and MK lunges at the sudden opening.
The faintest trace of disappointment registers in Macaque's expression before it hardens into something akin to disapproval.
Oh fuck.
Macaque’s staff reappears just in time to clash violently with MK’s own, the shadowed weapon’s surface wavering slightly. Dread tears through his skin; that waver isn’t from the power of his strike.
That's the crumble of resolve and patience.
He took an opening that wasn't meant to be taken.
Despite the sudden change in tempo, Macaque’s redirection of power is far smoother than his previous strikes and the shadow’s triumph drains what little was left of MK’s confidence.
Macaque’s lips twist into an ugly sneer and its familiarity in context strikes something primal at MK’s nerves. He’s done something wrong.
His thoughts drown beneath the mantra that his stance is perfect. There isn’t anything for Macaque to hold over his head in terms of leverage, to use to turn this fight in his favor. His legs are shoulder width even while ariel and- and he’s using that one strike Macaque taught him months ago what could be wrong-?
A tail made of obsidian fur wraps itself around his tail.
“Wait-!”
It’s too late. MK knows this game well.
The tail yanks him forward. Straight into the boot that carves its home within MK’s sternum just as his lungs shriek.
The sheer power behind the kick sends MK crashing into a beam, the wooden structure’s groan loud enough to smother his desperate wheezes for air.
Between the spinning of his gaze his thoughts filter in. “Stay alert but regain your breath,” a prior lesson sings. “You can’t fight and gasp for air.”
The shadows hiss with laughter and MK has to strain to hear Macaque above the pound of his own heartbeat.
"...break something...the whole place will come down with it.”
The original goal to recover peacefully slips through his fingers, rage a new fuel to feed into his fire. He stands if only to angrily gesture toward the beam. “You threw me into it!”
“You shouldn’t have gotten cocky.”
His eyes roll. Of course.
“Don’t hold back, MK.”
“You’re way too confident, MK.”
Okay, guy.
He’ll just go fight another city-destroying demon with his “too confident” strikes.
As if able to read his thoughts, Macaque’s arms cross. Disapproval writes its own story between furrowed brows. “Don’t give me that face,” the shadow chastises. “You got bold and got it handed to you. Sloppiness won’t fly on the battlefield.”
MK drops back to the floor with a huff of defeat. “Fine.”
Macaque’s mouth curls around another word but MK can’t help the way his mind focuses on just how close the shadow’s crouched beside him.
Suspiciously close.
Like close enough that he could grab the other’s ankle if he really wanted to.
“This’ll be a good stopping point,” the monkey hums and MK’s demand for violence rises slightly. “I’m getting hungry anyway.”
Oh-ho, in that case-
“I can grab us some noodles,” he chirps, using the staff as a pole to lean on in his scramble to stand.
“Hold on, kid-”
MK barely registers the familiar purple hue of Macaque’s clone before he collides with it. His attempt to catch himself does little to fix his accidentally slight. The clone looks disgruntled though its bag labeled “Pigsy’s Noodles” sits safe within its grasp.
He smiles weakly. “Sorry?”
The clone- whose grin looks a little too mocking this time around -thrusts the bag into his arms. It gives a short salute before a plume of smoke swallows it whole, leaving MK and Macaque to their own devices once again.
“Ordered ahead of time; figured it’d be easier,” Macaque shrugs. “Now c’mere, I’ve been craving this all week.”
Don’t need to tell me twice-
The bag rustles as MK lunges to his mentor’s side, his hand already amidst an attempt to grab whatever Macaque had ordered for him.
A loud hum interrupts MK’s interest, the bag falling into a shadow vortex before it reappears within Macaque’s grasp.
If he didn’t know better, he would’ve said Macaque looked a little too happy with himself.
“We’re gonna need some bowls. No offense, kid, but eating out of take-out-boxes is for slobs.”
MK’s eyes bulge, offense blatant in the way his shoulders tense. His clenched fist waves, faux rage on his mind. “It’s not slobbish! ‘Sides, Monkey King does it all the time-”
“My point exactly.”
MK swoons to his left, clutching at his heart. He knows Macaque and Monkey King don’t have the best of history but if he doesn’t defend his mentor, nobody will.
“Monkey king’s not a slob,” he protests. “He’s just…convenient?”
“Kid, you don’t become a hoarder without being at least a bit of a slob.”
…ok, fair enough, fair enough. Macaque’s got him there.
Declaring this a loss, MK stands to fetch the requested bowls. He doesn’t go silently, feet dragging loudly against the ground with each step.
“Cheer up!” Macaque calls, amused. “Moping isn’t gonna get you out of conditioning.”
Nah, he huffs. It never does.
Surprisingly, the dojo’s kitchen isn’t far from the main training room. It’s all the way down a hallway- one eerily lacking in the door department -where the space widens if barely to make room for a dark kitchen space.
Flipping the light on, MK blinks once before the kitchen’s dim light flickers to life.
Sheesh, Monkey King might be a hoarder but his kitchen has never looked half as disorganized as Macaque’s. Whether that’s because Monkey King doesn’t use utensils in the first place doesn’t matter in the long run.
Monkey King 1: Macaque 0.
MK’s careful as he navigates the small kitchen, minding his elbows as he begins to shuffle through the cabinets in search of bowls. Even just a step backwards is enough to press his back against the other countertop, a fact that sparks a fond memory of his own.
The one- and only -time MK tried to find apartments to move into, Pigsy had insisted on accompanying him. It never mattered what apartment they went to; Pigsy always complained about the same thing:
“The kitchen is just too small, kid. How are ya’ supposed to cook anything in this thing?”
And so, MK had feigned ignorance over the true motive for Pigsy’s gripe and agreed that the kitchen space was a deal-breaker.
After only a day of searching he proclaimed that finding the right place was in fact “too hard” and he’d just have to stay in the noodle shop for a bit longer.
He blinks, forcing his knuckle between his teeth.
Focus, MK, focus. Bowls, bowls, bowls- we need bowls!
In all honesty, he thought finding bowls would’ve been waaaay easier than it’s proving to be. Each cabinet he opens either produces a bunch of items MK declares cannot be cooking related or a couple of miscellaneous plates too shallow for broth.
At this point in his desperation, MK’s convinced that Macaque doesn’t own a single cup either.
The only evidence that the monkey owns bowls in the first place is the handful in the kitchen’s sink, some still sporting old broth.
At least, those and whatever on this green Earth was in the gap between the cabinet’s top and the kitchen ceiling.
A closer inspection declares that the dishes seem like bowls, stacked on top of one another and looking like someone had hastily shoved them into the farthest corner.
Oh yeah, this’ll work.
MK nearly trips over himself climbing onto the countertops, eager to dig into whatever Macaque had ordered for him. Even on the counter the bowls are still too far back to reach.
C’mon MK, you’ve got this. A little tippy-toe action never hurt anyone.
An annoyed Macaque might, though.
Much to his own relief, the two bowls are snagged with little to no struggle. He tries to keep his jump from the counter light; only the Heavens know how mad Macaque would be if he ended up breaking a floorboard by landing heavily on it.
He peers curiously at his findings; now that he really looks at them, they aren’t really bowls at all.
They’re more like poorly made clay clam shells, the indent itself shallow and its “lip” frilled in a way that wouldn’t be the best at sipping from. An attempt at pottery, MK concludes, but yeesh if its creator didn’t struggle with whatever image they were going for.
One is definitely more refined than the other, surface smooth as he skims his finger over it. Its depth is just barely deeper than its counterpart too.
The more disheveled one has bumps and bruises along its surface including a fingerprint and what MK is 50% sure is a peach engraved along its side.
…it’s kinda cute, like its creator had tried to make up for its other imperfections.
Still, MK glances back toward the pile of dirty bowls. They’d definitely be more ideal; one thorough scrub and they’d be good as new.
That is, if Macaque has dish soap. Pigsy usually kept his on the counter but MK can’t see any even as he rummages through the cabinet below the sink.
“Clock’s tickin’, kid! The food’s getting cold and we’ve still got conditioning to run through.”
Ah, screw it. The misshapen bowls are good enough.
With a quick rinse-off and a onceover, MK gives his own nod of approval before he darts back through the hallway.
“Brainy kid to rescue,” he declares. “I found a couple of, uh, well-”
Calling the lumpy things “bowls” wouldn’t quite be right. But then again, they definitely aren’t narrow enough to be failed incense plates.
“-old bowls!”
MK’s head lifts triumphantly, prepared for the resounding “-good job, kid/bud” © that both Macaque and Monkey King had gotten into the habit of offering.
But silence only greets him, MK cracking an eye open to make sure Macaque hadn’t abandoned him.
The shadow is right where MK remembers, almost eerily still. The only notable difference is the sudden roundness of Macaque’s eyes and the subtle childish spark of something that lurks there. If Mk didn’t know any better, he would’ve called it fear.
“Macaque-?”
“Where did you get those.”
Gone is the witty banter that’d once infected the dojo, replaced with something far more sobering. If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve assumed the drop in tone alone chilled the room.
Tension lines Macaque’s shoulders, lips slightly curled just enough to show the tips of his fangs. MK’s never been bitten and he definitely isn’t finding out now.
He falters, limbs heavy as he gestures vaguely toward the kitchen. “Uh, they were- the cabinets?”
MK nearly jumps as a vortex forms just above his hand, the pieces of pottery disappearing into the shadows. The portal closes and MK flexes his hand just to make sure it hadn’t taken a piece of him with it.
In a blink the tension in Macaque’s stance evaporates, movements once again fluid as he rustles through the bag until two tubs of broth and noodles are set down. He even grins as he produces two pairs of chopsticks.
“You gonna stand there all day?”
Is that an option?
The nervous laugh MK coughs up only earns him a raised eyebrow, and he’s quick to take it as a signal of being in the clear. Despite the suddenly calm atmosphere he’s still slow in his approach, sitting a little further than normal from Macaque.
MK shuffles his personal tub of broth and box of noodles closer to himself. It smells like Heaven, but that might just be how close MK actually is to death judging by the sheer fury radiating off Macaque.
MK’s not sure why he waits to begin eating; he half expects another vortex to appear and produce two different bowls. Ones that don’t cause fear and anger to whomever stares at them.
But the shadows stay silent and content.
“Eat up,” Macaque grunts, already busy dipping his clump of noodles into the separated broth.
“But I thought you said-”
“Kid.”
MK’s eyes snap to his tub of broth. He knows a warning when he hears one. If it were Monkey King he might’ve pressed it further, but Macaque’s limits are still new.
Pushing it too far could cause a fight that MK definitely isn’t prepared for. He might be good, but he’s still not Macaque good.
Who knows, the monkey could trap him in between two shadow portals and leave him “falling” for Heavens knows how long. MK’s shoulders shudder at the thought and he quickly grabs his own chopsticks.
Macaque offers no further conversation as they eat, silence a companion in itself with how loud it feels.
At least, silence and guilt.
MK’s eyebrows furrow at the sheer amount of guilt that fills him each time he swallows a bite of noodles. He hadn’t accidentally gotten himself between a failed art-project, had he?
…he had kind of implied that the bowls were terribly made. It would be as if Pigsy snooped in MK’s sketchbook and declared his drawings to look nothing like Monkey King.
If not for the chopsticks in his hand, MK would’ve slapped himself.
Good going, MK.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he murmurs. “You did really good with them.”
There’s a beat of silence as Macaque’s expression morphs. His eyebrows pinch, confusion replacing the lurking fragments of irritation.
“That’s sweet, kiddo,” Macaque mutters in a tone that says it isn’t sweet. “But they really aren’t mine.”
Huh. As far as he knows Macaque doesn’t have…friends. Er, at least anyone MK would categorize as a friend.
“Holding onto them for someone else?”
Macaque’s tail flicks and MK finds himself tensing, prepared for an explosion of anger.
But the other only sighs, the final pieces of anger melting from Macaque’s tone until it can be molded into something akin to fondness.
“Sure. We’ll go with that.”