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As far as Macaque is concerned, he's already died once. What's the worst that could happen?
Peng, as much as a bastard they were, had as steady a perceptive streak as they had a permanent sneer. They were the only one in Macaque's life—first or second—to call him a coward. Somewhere along the way, amidst the silence crowding the space between all his brothers, Wukong, and even himself at those biting, relentless remarks, Macaque had set up the most enduring of nests for them in his heart. Just like the twigs that made up any nest worth its time, it made for a prickling, rigid, and unforgivingly sharp home. Whether the flesh of his beating heart could hold it up without being gashed open in speckled cuts was neither here nor there.
Then his heart stopped, so. Good a reset as any.
Most the memories that cling to Macaque, as is the case for any living thing, are the most useless. Whatever the useful ones were, they paled into an ether where, whenever he reached for them, he would grasp instead the most pointlessly vivid scenes. The moments where his cowardice was technicolor in the black-and-white of his mundane, millennia-long day-to-day. Meaning, as it could go without saying (and, with Macaque, it often did), Wukong was the lodestone in each one, attracting every bygone moment like metal filings, orbiting around his latent, overpowering-anyway magnetism with an orderliness, an obedience, that teetered on the verge of disgusting Macaque.
But over whatever precipice of feeling Macaque kept dangling, kept staring down, was a longing so intense it corroded him.
If he was never truly immortal to begin with, then any depth of resentment couldn't hope to last even longer. Macaque charted his own path—fought and crawled and died to do so—but there was no charting when it came to falling. And Macaque did, and still was, for Sun Wukong.
What did Macaque see, when he peered back on his past life? All the times he stayed his hand. Held his tongue. Even when every muscle in his body twitched toward Wukong, to convey some measure of feeling beyond only vast loyalty, only blinding admiration, only an endless care to the sun shining beside him, he would swerve, dodge, and deflect. Shadows bent where light stayed true and Peng's words would dig their talons into where Macaque's heart was hardened, all its scratches now borne like a mural.
There was only so long a coward could stay unconvinced by courage.
So, on a clear, ordinary day on Flower Fruit Mountain, Macaque—after staring for an age at a relaxed, animated Wukong lounging beside him—holds his hand.
What divinity conceived of the senses as so multiple and lucid? Macaque can only wonder. With just a middling grip of his hand, Wukong's is warm, sturdy, yet with the most undeniable suppleness of give, right in his. Life is a well that should never run dry, that always inevitably did, with Macaque as its most ravenous partaker. But also its most circumspect. The number of times in his lives he had thought to just take Wukong's hand—times where it would have made every difference in the realms, if one of them had just taken the other by the hand—piled up so many and so high as to blot out any sense of counting, logic, or patience.
Now, though? Sunlight streams steadily on the paradise of Flower Fruit Mountain, coating another layer of warmth on top of Macaque's wrapped-wrong hanfu and his worn out scarf. The angle of the sun lands all wrong if they were trying to enjoy any shade the trees were to offer, but Macaque doesn't need to suspect to already know that, should a freak tundra swipe across the glades of their home, he would be boiling alive either way.
Now, what could Wukong do? Raise his voice? Clear him through a couple mountains? Macaque's been through either the same or worse and, all thoughts of betting aside, the worst that would happen now is that he stops getting to, at long last, hold the stupid idiot's hand.
Of everything Macaque expects from him, it isn't a quiet blink.
"Did you get it yet?"
It isn't that question either.
"Get…what?"
"Y'know." With the shoulder leading to the hand that isn't being held, Wukong shrugs. "The dirt, bits, whatever you wanted to get?"
With his head angling down, Wukong's sheer density weighing on him, Macaque nearly marvels.
"No," he says, rocking with chuckles. "Because there's nothing to get. Well." He gives his own shrug. "Other than what I'm really doing."
"Oh! Well, I figured," Wukong scoffs, pretending, and the sight reels up the corner of Macaque's mouth like a fish curving on its killer of a hook. "And that's…?"
Even as Wukong's wheedling, his hand is perfectly relaxed and pliant. Macaque knows—the small squeeze of his hand encompassing it tells him exactly so. And through the thicket of Macaque's heartbeat, a mess of leaves brushing dirt and smearing bugs over anyone trying to cross through to where it finally isn't so loud, only a slope of his lip soaks through with a disbelieving, enduring fondness.
"Just this."
Two words. In a whisper, they come like a polite rap on a door, a firefly cupped in the nook of two palms, as if the day were closer to ending than it actually was and it was time for indoor voices—a concept far-removed from any limitation any self-respecting monkey would observe in the comfort of their home.
But the door opens. The firefly comes free. And, over the face of the Handsome Monkey King, the most unbelievable expression fans out.
"What?" Somewhere, spit was narrowly avoided, but not a swallow, as Wukong stares at him wide-eyed. "What? What do you… What are you…!?"
Wukong's tail might whip up and boomerang bronze into the blue sky. Maybe it would linger a moment to halo his heart-shaped mask, its peach ripening in a bloom beneath his eyes darting up at Macaque, down at their hands, around as if to ask an invisible audience what was happening, and down for the bugs and up for the gods and finding nothing and having to repeat the cycle over and over again.
The entire time as Macaque stares, transfixed at this once-in-his-lifetimes show, Wukong's hand—flexing, fidgeting, and maybe even dampening—never leaves his.
Not because Macaque grips it to stay there. It simply just stays.
Plopping his chin on his free hand as Wukong, exhausting his reserves of shock, settles into giving jittery glances his way while gripping his hand back, Macaque contemplates how the weather is so oddly beautiful, it calms him.
Another day, another thing to do. This time, it's eating Wukong's fruit while Wukong's skimming through old scrolls from his treasure room, wearing a simpler hanfu for the lazy day ahead.
One second he's scrounging up his priceless memorabilia for inspiration on training MK, the next he's wiling away the afternoon reading. Rope-bound books and scrolls that only serve to take up space in his treasure room now do so scattered near the fire pit outside his hut. Any time Wukong tries to do any kind of searching and sorting through his hoarder's hovel of trophies, artefacts, and bric-à-brac, these texts remind him that they exist expressly to waste his time. So, with the happiest little hums, Wukong brings them all the way just outside where he sleeps, all so he can haul them back to deal with them some interminable later.
It's deeply inefficient. It's adorable beyond words. Wukong's tail swishes as he thumbs through another page, waggling his feet as he sits cross-legged with a little smile, and Macaque, more than familiar with all the feelings he feels about Wukong's behaviour here and practically anywhere, keeps on with his fruit.
Except he's gone through a whole basket of bananas. Scratching his stomach after a belch, he hops into a shadow portal and rises up behind Wukong, peering over his shoulder. An accessible, sensational tale with more action than clarity streams down the page in aged ink, but Macaque takes in the paper's earthy smell and the crispness of its crinkle more than the words, along with Wukong's aimless, silly, sweet humming as he reads on without a care for Macaque's peeking.
Macaque's attention strays to where it may as well call its home: Wukong.
Last time, before holding Wukong's hand, he stared for an age. This time, Macaque stares for half of one, then takes his time sitting on the ground.
"Bud?" Wukong, setting down his book, finally turns to him. "You ran out of fruit, or—?"
Macaque, sitting with his knees up, loops his arms around Wukong's midriff.
In a choked squawk from Wukong that might as well have sounded off from the other side of the world, Macaque's chest rests along the straightening arc of Wukong's back and Macaque's sigh can only twine straight from the marrow of his bone where his blood feeds. With Wukong wearing only a hanfu, too, no rigid breast plate is there to bite at his sternum. The softness of Wukong's relaxed muscles beneath his fur and the cloth—everything ensnares Macaque far faster than any caution prepared him for.
His entirety is sated in a way that defies description, holding Wukong. The only sign that makes it out of Macaque's system, hinting at the sweetest overwhelm to wash over him, is the flutter of his lashes as his eyes shut and he breathes in as if, after a ruthless bout of sleeplessness that thrashes one to near paralysis, he's finally slipping into a dream.
Wukong's tail has little place to go, between his body and Macaque's. So, fuelled by bliss, Macaque does him a favour and picks up his tail with his own.
The gasp that shoots from Wukong's diaphragm makes it swiftly through to Macaque. It would follow, then, that Wukong ought to feel where Macaque's heart is beating. Slowly, as a matter of course for any mystic monkey. But firmly. More deeply, from the peace enveloping him till he might float a simply black mote of dust, up to catch the shafts of light pouring in atop Water Curtain Cave.
For a moment, Macaque could trick himself into thinking, maybe, he would fall asleep. As if he would squander any moment holding Wukong in his arms by sleeping. But if he were lulled into mistaking the rightness in his soul as an invitation to truly dream, then the crisp flick of another ancient sheet—another page Wukong turns in his book—roots his attention to the waking world.
Macaque inhales quietly again. Deeply, again. Wukong's scent—suffused with home—radiates warm and deep from his nape, right where Macaque's cheek is. So he turns and buries his nose in the fur there, Wukong's mane soft and groomed against his bare forehead, the smell having him give the gentlest squeeze to Wukong's stomach, like he could be brought any closer to the curve of Macaque's body.
Wukong, after a longer spell, turns another page.
Macaque's appetite for courage, like a starved stomach gradually learning to eat healthily again, grows over time. He holds Wukong's hand. His tail wraps around Wukong's. He hugs Wukong from behind.
At one point, as they're eating immortal peaches together, he feeds one to Wukong.
They don't talk about it. Until Wukong does.
"What's your deal?"
Macaque can only blink. As much as he has an open love for the dramatic, the current setting lays it on fairly thick. At the peak of Flower Fruit Mountain, near Wukong's birth stone, they stand facing each other. The sun can't help its weary head tilting towards the pillows for volcanoes, lining the horizon with ash and gold. All the while, Wukong stares him down with clenched fists and a lip so pursed it dimples his chin.
Macaque, with his hands behind his back, leans forward and offers, "My deal with what?"
"You know exactly what!" Wukong's smooth fur fluffs, the points of his teeth out. "The— The hand-holding! Tail-grabbing! The hugging and—and the closeness, and don't even get me started on that peach! You…" A growl textures his throat. "You've been messing with me…!"
The sun is cast to light up Wukong's frustration to nothing but a work of art, a warm palette of pink, red, and gold.
But his eyes, with their rich, gorgeous lashes—looking pointedly away—are what reel Macaque in.
"Wukong." He doesn't even mean to say his name. But Macaque would say it again for the hop of the tail it gives him, the slightest hitch and the dark brightening of his heart mask on his face. "Wukong," he does say again, a smile carrying it softly along. "Least you could do is look me in the eye while you're being an idiot."
"What!?" That does get him looking at Macaque, brows crooked with outrage and all, because of course they'd be. That's the point, but Macaque can't keep a straight face anyway. "Just try saying that again and see what happens!"
"I'm almost tempted."
Macaque, riding those growing waves of courage, takes a step forward. Wukong, hackles rising, drops into a fighting stance, aggression radiating from his sharpening snarl. But, unhindered, Macaque takes another measured step, and Wukong can only stop as if he were strolling on water in front of him.
The closer Macaque gets, the more Wukong fidgets in place.
"You—" His swallow is audible, his voice less so. "You're doing it…again…"
His fighting stance is full of holes, his centre of gravity raring to bolt off somewhere if his eyes could decide on a target. And Macaque, as seasoned a warrior as they come, knew heartbeats ago that not a single blow would be traded between them that onsetting eve.
"Doing…what?" Macaque's smirk cocks. "Messing with you?"
"Wh— Yes!" Wukong yells, his limbs all stiff. "I don't even have to say it! You— You went and said it!"
Slowly and lightly, Macaque tuts. His lips naturally pucker as he does, and the way he catches Wukong glancing at his mouth for less than a split-second—before those eyes of his fly back up to Macaque's, those dimples at his chin only deepening—has Macaque fighting to make sure his grin doesn't split his lip. With Wukong in such close range, he's one step away from reaching out and touching him.
"But that's just the thing, bud." The words lope along from Macaque's lips like they have nowhere else to be and no rush to arrive where they need. He takes that step further. "I'd have to be—"
Macaque stops in place, wide-eyed. Because Wukong, for the first time, thrusts his palms out, putting space between them, his face nearly tucking into his arm.
"Look, Macaque, I…" Like a tidal wave nervous at how hard it might crash, his shoulders rise slow and fall fast. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing. And I don't care! I know you're not gonna stick around to explain it to me, so just…!" Tamping down how his voice raised as if without his willing, Wukong chews on his lip. "Just…don't. Okay?"
The sun dies again over the horizon. Wukong's voice shrinks wretchedly small. Where he stands straighter, still looking away, his eyes are strained to hold back how overly bright they shine.
By the time Wukong turns his back to him, Macaque is hugging it.
"Only you," Macaque sighs gruffly, "could think this is a game to me." When Wukong stiffens, his gasp filled with tears, Macaque holds him tighter. "Only you," he stresses the word on an airless laugh, "could possibly think"—his tail winds the tightest it has around Wukong's—"I wouldn't stick around after knowing what it's like. Knowing that you want what I have to give."
When Macaque inhales, his rib cage rattles like keys on a tossed chain. But one thing his trips of courage have never led him to is a hug from the front. And, turning the still, pliant Wukong around, that's exactly what he plans to do.
Then, he sees Wukong trying to hide the tears thickening his lashes and deepening the pink of his heart-shaped mask.
"I hate you." Through a sniff, the poorest excuse of a glare, something far more imploring shining through, Wukong looks straight at him. "I seriously hate you."
He scrubs at his face with his arm, sniffing again. And Macaque, still spellbound, only lowers his arms gently. And plants a kiss where a tear rolls down Wukong's cheek.
Salt tinges Macaque's lip. It only grows that little bit wetter when he kisses another tear. Then the next. His hands cup Wukong's elbows, his tail soothing around Wukong's waist, because Wukong's tail wrapped plaintively around his wrist as the tears keep rolling, so Macaque kisses each one and thumbs away each other he misses.
"I'd say it back, but," Macaque gulps tasting salt, a withdrawal of courage a dry cork in his throat. "Haven't felt like acting for the last li'l while."
"You're lying." Grumbling, grimacing, and weeping, Wukong chews on his words. "You're always up to something."
"Well," Macaque's chuckle threads through a sigh, "I usually am."
"It's true," Wukong insists. "And…" He steps that tiny step closer to him, when there's not much closer to go. "And you hate me, too."
Their breaths are mingling. Macaque's clutch on Wukong's elbow tightens on an inhale, because the shot of his lifelong cowardice has a heady courage mixing in. All the while, Macaque is taking in his face like he's never thought he could even bear witness to it before.
"Would it make you happy?" he mumbles. "If I said I did?"
Wukong's cheeks puff, stained pink and wet.
"What if it did?"
Macaque, breathing out very, very slowly, grips fast onto his cowardice. Because, and only because, he needs to be careful. If he isn't careful—if he falls prey to those teary lashes and peach-pink cheeks, those eyes drifting ever closer to meeting his—he might trip on his courage and ruin everything. Because he needs Sun Wukong laughing his heart out, shining the brightest he possibly can, before he can finally kiss him the way he deserves.
"Sorry, your majesty," Macaque, cupping those sweet cheeks, gives him another kiss beneath the eye. "But I won't say it even if it does."
Wukong's tail, at the very tip where its anxious grip on Macaque's wrist loosens, flicks. "Even if you were lying?"
"Well, that depends." Macaque hums, faux-thoughtful, nothing but warmth in his eyes. "You said you hate me. Were you lying?"
"…I asked you first."
With his side-eye and mumble, Wukong's hands are on Macaque's sides, just above his waist. How anything but the fondest chuckle could leave Macaque, he doesn't know.
"You really are a quick study…"
Macaque is loath to feed Wukong's ego—reluctant to reveal exactly how highly he would think of the moron even now—but he can't help but let slip the truth. For someone so unfamiliar with the kind of affection Macaque was craving to give him—far more unfamiliar than Macaque ever expected—Wukong is adapting so naturally to giving some back. For all he's drip-feeding to Macaque, his soul stands with outstretched arms as if giving itself to a downpour.
"Really?" Instantly, Wukong perks up. "In what?"
He sounds hopeful inching closer into Macaque's space, their noses nearly brushing. Soaked with twilight, his eyes shine in an echo of the bright-eyed wonder Macaque would see before he died, and this up close, he can't control the smile breaking free on his face, nor does he have the slightest desire to.
"Oh, you know." Macaque can barely shrug, this close to Wukong. So, in a courage lancing through his veins, he brings his thumb closer to Wukong's lip. "My 'deal'."
Wukong's fur fluffs again. A squeak strangling away in his throat, his eyes fall to and flit from Macaque's mouth like that split-second it did before, lingering longer and longer every time. And Macaque, an actor who can't help but be a rapt audience to Wukong's every move, only watches as, eventually, with a growing calm and resolve, Wukong is only looking between Macaque's lips and his eyes.
Then, just as the sun and the night touch, so does Wukong touch his lips to Macaque's.
He leans back, blinking wide-eyed, his tail looping in the air, his attention skating all around Macaque's face.
Macaque, smiling the smallest, truest smile he's ever given to anyone, presses his forehead to Wukong's in the lightest tap. Then, breathing in deep, sinks his cheek to Wukong's shoulder and embraces him, Wukong's body perfectly filling the space his arms have always carved out, just for him.
"…I, um." Wukong clears his throat. "Don't...hate you. By the way."
In the nook of his shoulder, Macaque snorts. He has zero need to check Wukong's face, knowing exactly which he's making. But he does so anyway, that sheepish little pout taking on the lilac of the night. Another useless, wondrous memory to loop for the rest of his latest life.
"And I, Sun Wukong," he says, grinning wider as Wukong pouts deeper, "don't hate you, too."
"You are so annoying."
And all Macaque can do, faced with Wukong's blush-ridden grimace while he's perfectly hugged in his arms, is toss his head back in a glowing laugh and say, "And you gotta deal with it!"
"At least you're aware." Wukong pouts to the side. "It ain't easy being me…"
He tries to keep it up, giving a loud and chest-deep sigh. But it falls apart with his glance back to Macaque, his smile seeping through, and Macaque, possessed with a life-changing courage, a light sparking at a wick that will never end, brings his fingers to a giggling Wukong's chin and angles it for another kiss.
As far as Macaque's concerned, he's already living twice. What more could he make happen?