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Night was always special to Macaque. Most would assume it was because his shadows were stronger at night. But he’d loved the night far before then—before he became a shadow wielder, before he learned to hide. No. The nights were special because it was quiet. The present, for once, didn't crowd his ears with the struggles of waking. He could think. He could hear.
Tonight was no different. Tonight, he perched atop Pigsy’s Noodles and closed his eyes, listening to the music of tomorrow, the softness of yesterday. He could hear laughter somewhere in the future, joyous and free. He could hear speeches of triumph from the past, disbelieving and teary-eyed.
He heard footsteps on the rooftop behind him. That sound rang through the present.
"Liu-er," Wukong called. It sounded tired, as if he wasn't truly awake. “Liu-er.” Macaque turned to him, watching cautiously as the Great Sage stumbled towards him. He could smell sake overwhelming his usual peachy scent. “Why’re you out h’re?” He tripped forward, catching himself before he could truly fall. Macaque hadn't seen him drunk like this in ages.
“You're up late,” He answered cautiously, not yet standing to his feet. “Shouldn't you be catching up on beauty sleep?”
“Don’ need beauty sleep,” Wukong slurred. “‘M already pr’tty…” With a hiccup and a giggle, the Monkey King sunk forward, leaning his full weight on his companion. “D’you th’nk ‘m pretty, Liu-er?” Macaque didn't answer. He kept his eyes on the stars above them, praying to god that the immortal monkey would give up and bother someone else. He knew he wouldn't. He never did.
“Go to sleep, Peaches,” He murmured.
“Okay!” And he wasn't quite sure what he expected, but it surely wasn't the Great Sage plopping himself down on the roof next to him and draping his body over Macaque's lap. His furry arms wrapped tightly around Macaque’s torso, pulling him in. “What’re you—?!” Wukong shushed him lazily.
“‘M tryna sleep, Liu-er,” He moans, burrowing his face in Macaque’s belly. He could only sigh in defeat, eyes drifting back up to the stars as he gently ran his claws through Wukong's fur. He could hear him purring against his stomach. It was a soft sound—a familiar one. It guides him away from the sounds of the future, and somehow, makes them obsolete. “I’mmiss you, Liu-er,” He whines against dark fur, burrowing further into him. “Why’ddyou go ‘way?”
“That was you,” Macaque hummed, hand stilling on his King’s head. Wukong paused under his paw, and, as if suddenly gaining sobriety, spoke.
“Oh yeah,” he chirps. “I did.”
And Macaque sits alone on this roof—no Great Sage in his lap, no golden fur between his fingers. He sits there and he looks at the stars. The truth is, his king was never on that roof. No, he was at Flower Fruits Mountain, as he has been for years. But the sounds of the past, it seems, could never quite be silenced. They simply haunted him, a melody that followed him forever.
But at least, for now if not forever, he had this rooftop, and the stars.