#eclipse kings

Your mat is nothing special to them, and at first they doubt that you’ll sleep well- then the kings see how deeply you rest, how hard it is to rouse you. It’s perfectly cozy, not to them, but to you. MK tells them you slept on the ground before, left the little bedding available to him. You slept cold and hungry, but he was warm and fed, draped in whatever you could scrounge up.

So they plan to make things a little cozier, maybe only to see how you’ll react, maybe only because MK refuses to use his own bed and instead sleeps on your chest, maybe only because every minute spent with or around you is another reminder that they owe you their son’s life a hundred times and several years over.

Which has Macaque wonder if you can’t be a little cozier, because maybe he owes you some comfort after the hell you endured to provide for his son.

He calls you to the washroom one day and gives you a few of his nicer supplies, a soothing cream for wounds in one jar, a lovely citrus perfume in another. Things he has because Wukong convinced him to love himself enough to indulge in luxuries, now shared with some little mortal that didn’t know such things existed before now.

You have scars, the same as him. Macaque pointlessly “punished” himself for the death of a son still-living, hungry and cold and dirty. You earned yours the hard way, by living as best you could to take care of MK.

You have the scars for the same reason, but yours are a thousand times more earned, less piteous, and far, far worse.

So he teaches you how to take care of them, stretches to work through when they start to ache, what to eat to loosen tension in the body, so on and so forth.

But only because he owes you. Nothing more.

Not yet.

(But you use that perfume each day, and the monkey certainly doesn’t miss how you brighten at the little taste of luxury.)

And MK- “Qi Xiaotian”, they say, trying hard to drill that lovely (it really is lovely, but you don’t think it fits him) name into your mouth, but it tastes bitter and wrong. He’s only ever been your little “Monkie Kid”, even before his years-long illusion (glamour, some call it) wore off.

MK, with all his love for you, anchors you in place.

Fine. That’s fine.

You can justify it. Reason your way through staying, never realizing that you’re adjusting.

You can’t leave because it’s too cold. Because you’re too hurt. Because there’s no easy way to find food. Because, a dozen times over, and the truth is that the only thing keeping you here is the prince.

“Qi Xiaotian”, alight with gleeful laughter, who refuses to sleep unless you’re within arm’s reach, who insists you share every new toy or treat the kings bring him. “You’re my big sibling,” he says, voice bright with conviction. “Why wouldn’t I share?”

It’s easy to let that logic soothe you. After all, MK’s the real reason you’re here. Without him, the kings wouldn’t even know you existed.

So you settle in a little more.

It’s not like you get used to all this, after all.

And then Sun Wukong grows a little more doting. Now your food is somewhat like theirs, tender cuts of meat served beside your porridge to help the adjustment back to solid and hearty food. Fruit juice in place of water. Bread with jam. Only a little bit of each, but your plate is more appealing, and you enjoy those meals a little more each day with all the new things you get to try.

He even grows playful once or twice, clinking his gilded goblet against your glass, pretending to toast with you.

You smile. It’s not the sort of fun orphans like you often get to have.

(He’s starting to cherish your smile. How cute! How sweet! No wonder you cheer his little Xiaotian up!)

You get tucked in sometimes, when you fall asleep and sprawl over MK, who cuddles into your chest like he always has- this means subjecting yourself to nightly check-ups from the kings, but they come with glasses of water and fluffy blankets, so who cares?

They tuck you both in, mostly because any form of separation would be impossible.

And maybe because it’s just cute to see their kids sleeping happily and; more importantly, safely.

Then Macaque wants to change your wardrobe. He calls you in one day, right back to the washroom from before.

Has it been months already?

Weren’t you supposed to leave when spring came blooming through?

He drapes a new hanfu over your shoulders- the last one was shabbier, duller. It was a non-distinct blue and dull white, but this one is black with gold embroidery. He ties a silk sash around your waist and then pulls a fur-lined cape over your shoulders.

It’s warm. It has to be warm, because there’s a cold chill coming in and you’ll “need” to be comfortable through it. There’s no explanation given as to why it matters to him, so you just assume that the king is being a good host.

After all, it’s not like he cares about you.

…right?

It can’t be.

But he goes a step further and tends to your hair with a vast array of implements and products, trimming the uneven edges and setting it with many different creams for restoration. And then applies a few balms for your lips, your nose…

So eventually you’ve whiled the whole day away being doted on and in some manner “soothed”, feeling genuinely and honestly good, and even-

Pretty.

You’ve never felt pretty before.

His hand, harsh as it was days prior, gently swipes the tears gathering in your eyes, then pats your head.

(And he starts wondering if maybe having an older child wouldn’t be so bad.)

And maybe when Wukong is talking to Azure and Yellowtusk about some new invention they’re brainstorming to improve the lives of mortals, some form of metal that always twists to point north, keeping them from losing their way in untamed wildernesses and winding paths. The science of it goes over his head, but he nods along anyways- anything for his Brotherhood.

And you come along to tell him something maybe that trends to “unimportant”, given that you just tug his sleeve with a mild expression, content to wait- and Wukong, really without thinking, scoops you up and sits you on his hip, motioning out a little bounce here and there.

It should be embarrassing (and it is, a little), but… he’s warm, you’re waiting for his attention anyways, and it’s not like either of the demons he’s speaking to mind, so… you just don’t argue.

But even when they leave he doesn’t put you down, and instead cradles you again, like he did the first night you both met, like a father holds his newborn baby, one arm supporting your back and legs, the other your neck. He asks what you need, and smiles when you tell him.

And even when he goes off to do whatever it is that you needed, well… Sun Wukong still does not put you down.

But maybe he just wasn’t thinking on it.

(If you were a frog, the water would be nearing a boil.)

And then there are parental threats, little idle “warnings” that they don’t seem intent on following through with.

Threats that your mouth with be scrubbed with soap, or that you’ll be sent to the corner, or taken over a knee, or some other generic punishment that a parent wouldn’t think twice about administering… but surely they aren’t being serious.

Surely.

After all, those are things parents do to their children, and you are not their child.

So you accept it as “teasing”.

The suggestions that the kings might see fit to correct your behavior slowly become reality- mostly in the form of lectures or lightly tugged ears. They do not remove privileges, given that you take and do so little- would they take your food or bedding, and make you fear a return to your squalid lifestyle?

Instead they just… talk. Talk about how you’ve disappointed them, how they’re sad, upset. How you’ve “let them down”, but there’s still second chances because they know you can “do better”.

You’re teasing MK, something harmless but just sharp enough to make him pout and snap back at you. The kings are in the room, half-paying attention, but you can feel their presence like a storm cloud hanging over your head.

Wukong’s tail lashes once, twice, and then he’s there, tugging lightly at your ear.

“Hey,” he says, his voice mock-stern but with an edge that makes you freeze. “Be nice. That’s your brother.”

Before you can be scared, Wukong lets go, ruffling your hair like he’s brushing away the moment itself, and you’re left standing there, your heart racing for reasons you don’t fully understand.

And you finally can’t find a way to justify it- because they have finally dropped the act and stopped pretending that you aren’t family.

You can’t leave, because they’ve decided you belong here.

Not because they owe you. Not because of MK.

…you want to cry. Or scream. Or gag out an apology to ensure that you are truly in the good graces of these kings.

But the silence stretching on is greater than any word your tongue could manifest, so all stays quiet, uncomfortable and pervasive.

You’ve spent so long carrying unasked and unexpected burdens, wrapping yourself in the notion of necessity as though it were armor to the worst thoughts in your head, yelling at you to abandon or betray or run.

And now, here you are, stripped bare and vulnerable, finally tended to and… safe.

Bathed, patched, clothed, fed.

All in just a day.

Just a sparse day ago you’d be lucky to pick two a week.

Macaque watches you, golden eyes unblinking, his tail swishing, slow and deliberate. Sun Wukong leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. There’s no teasing grin, no sly remark—just the weight of his gaze, heavy and set. The two of them aren’t looking at you with judgment. It isn’t pity either. It’s something raw, something you don’t have the experience to name.

Neither of them- nobody, in fact- dares to speak.

The dread silence turns your stomach, causing the contents to churn and bubble in discontent, thickening the bloat of your skin as the room grows steadily more and more uncomfortable.

The breakneck speed of the day had prevented any true pooling of discomfort, always evaporated by the next urgent thing coming around to keep you occupied, to keep the worst of your thoughts at bay, never able to break for only the fact that every time your mind and body tipped one way, another event came hurtling in to smack you back on beat.

There is no such safety line here.

You are simply tired.

Have you ever been this tired?

Even once? Have you ever been so marked by fatigue that you would sincerely consider resting in front of strangers- demons at that! without covering your throat?

Your fingers curl slightly against the fabric of the borrowed hanfu strung around you, the sensation unfamiliar- not rough or threadbare but soft, clean, smooth. It feels too delicate for hands like yours, hands that have spent too long gripping at survival with bloody knuckles and busted nails.

When have you ever had the chance to rest on a full belly?

There was never a chance for both. You were always hungry and scrounging for the minimum, or somewhat fed and looking for more to take. Even on the rare case that satiation found it's way to you, you simply had one more task to perform, one more resource to scavenge, one more “another” dangling over your head, threatening to overwhelm you, as a sandcastle is swept up and crumbled by the rising tides.

It was not a metaphor that most would've used, casting your efforts as something childish, fleeting and ephemeral. But you were nothing if not your harshest critic, and you had zoned in on a budding "weakness".

The desire to be secure.

And here, in these windingly long and dazzling halls, there was at least some slivers of sanctity to be found, a surplus of supplies to be plundered with, you hoped, relative ease.

"Plundered".

What a strange word.

Had you not made a humble (though distinctly criminal) living for yourself and your brother through plundering? Had it not been through the low brooks of Flower Fruit Mountain's rivers that you had gone, carrying with you what meager portions of bread and rice you could pilfer from the stable? Did you not go scurrying through the thorny bushes wound round the houses of the rich, with their glass-bottled fruit jam and spice-cured jerky? Was it not by this method that you had endured and found your stomach sated?

And was your brother not home, always, an ever-glittering beacon drawing your steps back to the woods, back to that crumbling hut?

Now there was a horde of treasures before your hands, strung just as magnificently through the fur of the stellar kings as it was veined through the marble under your feet.

And you hadn't the stomach to take even a bit of it, for the greatest treasure in the world was sitting before you, lid-eyed with sleepy delight as he worked to sloppily spoon porridge into his mouth.

There had been a changing of the guard, it seemed.

No longer were you to stand tall as the sole guardian of what innocence and softness the darling boy of gold eyes possessed, no longer was his satiation and safety solely held in your hardworking hands.

Now he was a prince, heralded between ecliptic kings.

It was not as severance of family, for there could be no force grand enough to split from you your love of the sweet child.

If he was a thorn in your heart, then you were content to never unweave from him the snag of your fibers.

The thought of losing him to these kings was... unspeakably agonizing. Even though you were tired, full to the point of sickness, verging on tears, -and, frankly a little tired of this awfully gaudy castle!- you were certain that he could not be sundered from your arms.

If preserving the sweet sanctity of his being meant both killing and dying, then you would let bleed and be bled.

With this thought your muscles coil, an instinctual urge to gather MK close, to spirit him away from the opulent and alien warmth, pulses beneath your skin.

You draw deeply in your lungs to steady your breath, but the motion doesn’t come easily. It shudders through your throat, a raw, splintered thing like the fracture of bone. Your grip on the fine silk beneath your finger tightens as you glance again at this boy -your boy- and watch as he softens enough to grin, blissfully unaware of the gnawing dread tunneling holes through your gut.

"I'm done," he says, grinning from ear to ear, proudly presenting his empty bowl.

Your heart clenches, a sharp, involuntary squeeze that sends a jolt of cold comfort trickling down your spine. I’m done, he says, so simple and carefree. Like it’s just another meal, just another day. Like everything about this moment isn’t so earth-shatteringly foreign that you can hardly breathe around it.

MK sets his spoon down with a soft clink, licking stray flecks of porridge from his lips, completely oblivious to the war raging behind your eyes. His shoulders are loose, his golden gaze bright, his tail flicking lazily as he leans back against his seat.

Sated. Happy.

You should feel relief.

You don’t.

Because there’s a weight pressing against your ribs, wrapping around your lungs like a dreadful creeping ivy. The weight of knowing that you have nothing left to do. No next step, no urgent task, no next meal to hunt down, no fire to keep from dying out. Just- this. Sitting in a grand, gleaming room that isn’t yours, swathed in silks that aren’t yours, resting on a full stomach that, if past has say to the future, won’t be yours for long.

Your dread goes unnoticed, or otherwise ignored. Macaque smiles, soft in spite of his extended canines, and leans in close to his son, his baby. Softly he presses a kiss to MK’s scalp, only for the boy to pull away the moment he feels cold lips and colder fangs upon his brow.

Macaque schools his expression almost immediately, but you manage to catch the first glint of a heartrending fracture in the aureate field of the king's eyes, like he's living through the loss of his darling son all over again in just a single second.

Sun Wukong notices too. His tail stills, rounded ears twitching ever so slightly. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, but his gaze lingers on Macaque, reading him the way you read the sky before a storm.

The moment stretches long, a dangerously delicate thing poised on the edge of breaking, right until the sage reaches over to wrap a hand around his mate's.

"We'll get there, Bud," he comforts, sounding for all the mountain like a farmer in the garb of a king. So simple, so soft, so sincere. For a moment he is dethroned and uncrowned, and in the place of that regal man is now only a monkey, gazing upon his dearest mate.

Macaque twitches, just barely, expression unreadable even as his tail tightens around Wukong’s. His free hand remains where it is- limp against the table, unmoving. It's a wonder if the man even realizes he’s holding his breath.

"Maybe it's about time we turned in for the night, Mac. You're tired, I feel like I've been hit by a wagon, the kid needs his sleep... and we have a guest that needs to be shown their room, yeah?

Macaque looks up slow, biting back the wobble of his bottom lip. "Let's-," he starts, voice rough, "-let's lay down. I need- I need to go. Please, Wukong."

The king does not hesitate. He stands, keeping his tail wound around Macaque’s as he offers a steadying hand. Macaque takes it and allows himself to be pulled up. His ears flick back, throat working around words he can't bring himself to say.

You, however, are stuck in your seat, unsure if you even have the right to move.

Remaining still, you watch as the kings stand shoulder-to-shoulder, their hands laced together in a quiet show of unity. The sight should be reassuring. It should ease the tension gnawing at your spine. Instead, it only makes your stomach twist harder.

They belong here.

MK belongs to them, and he's already established enough of a rapport to casually jump up from his over-cushioned chair and kick both feet into his new shoes, reaching out to grip the sleek black of Macaque's robe. Affection on his terms only, not unlike a cat.

In time he would surely grow accustomed to forehead kisses and cheek nuzzles, and assimilate back into the loved little prince that was named for all the little streaks of light strung together through heaven, Qi Xiaotian, the Golden Star of Flower Fruit Mountain.

But for now he is only MK, sweet "monkey kid", little brother to the mountain's littlest thief, and his hand beckons for you, each tiny finger wiggling like a hooked worm. He's gleeful now, bouncing on the heels of his feet as your own hand awkwardly extends, shifting into the itty-bitty palm before you. With his frail grip as reassurance, you rise from the ornate chair and steady your gait.

It dawns now that the four of you are somehow connected, you to the squeeze of MK's thin fingers, MK to the sleek curtain of Macaque's robe, Macaque to the muscle of Wukong's hand.

A chain by which you are lead, last in line, down to the door of the mess hall and taken down another massive way of black and gold.

You are pulled along carefully, MK sure to never break his grip from you or his father as they trek through these halls, only pausing once when a door- the only door on that side of the hall, in fact- has cast under the inch-tall gap a silvery ray of light that catches your eyes. A treasury, perhaps, or at least the holding chamber for something very important.

Perhaps important enough to be worth a visit, then. It wouldn't hurt to have a little "nest egg" stashed away in your little sash, should events turn for the worse and fleeing became a very necessary course of action.

A scrap or two of gold, of silver, or even a little jewel... it couldn't be so hard to find something small enough to hide in the palm of your hand, could it? Something just small enough to go unnoticed...

You weren't going to be able to sleep, after all. Not with too full of a stomach, too heavy of a heart.

A steady ease settles over you as some measure of peace comes to your heart at the familiar feeling- the weight of a goal, immediately in sight.

They would leave, eventually, return to their own chambers to rest, and you'd be alone for the night, wouldn't you?

Some families choose the customary fruit offering for the little long-tailed monkeys around the mountains. Young, tender fruits like mangoes, starfruits, and papayas are diced into neat chunks, artfully arranged on freshly washed taro leaves, and tied up with twine. The leaves are then hung from the branches of the flowering trees at the mountain’s base, a silent signal for the little monkeys to descend.

These creatures are far from simple animals; they are spirits of the mountain, bound to the Kings, with eyes that shine with uncanny understanding. They clamber down with hungry, chittering excitement, ravenous for the colorful spoils. Villagers know to keep their distance, watching from afar as the monkeys gnaw on the bounty, tearing at the fruit until nothing remains but juice-stained leaves and the echoes of satisfied squeals. The villagers believe the monkeys carry whispers to the Kings, tales of each family’s offering—or lack thereof.

Some of the craftier types (usually those with several little mouths to feed) in the village whittle toys from wood and decorate them with feathers or colorful strips of fabric and leave those about in the woods, saving more food for themselves and their children.

Some villagers, either brave or foolish, choose to journey directly up the mountain with their tributes. This is a long, exhausting up a path that was treacherous, steep, and wild, twisting through the ancient woods that seemed almost alive with the spirits of the many mortals who came before.

They would inevitably be hounded by monkeys and insects, trying desperately to sample the goods before they were given to the mountain lords to be devoured or given as gifts to those few other demon lords that the vaunted simian had compiled as allies.

And though the tribute was mandatorily gathered each month, and every family’s name was marked and closely tracked in a ledger by the sable king, with sufficient enough explanation tribute can be delayed or even outright pardoned- as the Eclipse Kings were fathers themselves, they took mercy upon struggling parents and orphans.

…they probably wouldn’t bat an eyebrow at you, honestly.

Living in a ramshackle hut sank half into the earth and insulated with straw and mud that you had smeared into the ever-growing fractures, it was just enough to tide you safely through the year.

When it grew hot you would pull out all the dirtiest blankets and clothes in your possession, sitting for hours in the shade of the many flowering trees of Mount Huaguo, feet dipped into the cool waters of whatever lake you found first- and you’d shred those tattered fabrics to long strips and bundle them up for kindling in winter.

They would be the last thing to go, only after the dried grass and wood you had gathered months prior were gone, used to melt ice for water or ease the ache of deep chills.

You had accustomed yourself to this cycle- prepare for winter all through summer and fall, then take spring as a chance to relax and live a little more freely.

You had accustomed yourself to it for a while, at least.

And then little MK had come tumbling through your door, sniveling and shaken.

Back then he had been almost too young to speak, too small to voice whatever his fears were, too utterly weak to cry for more than a half-minute before the tiny thing collapsed in your arms.

He hadn’t needed to explain.

The pounding footsteps and booming hollers had told you enough- he was being hunted.

Months prior you had dug a little shallow ditch in the soft mud of your home, then hid it under the stiffest rug you could find, reinforced with bark and smeared with mud for camouflage, praying that it would hold and go unnoticed in the event of a raid such as this.

You hadn’t expected to share it with a toddler, though.

But it had held firm and gone unnoticed even as everything else in your home was overturned and thrown askew, ripped apart by invaders with cheap leather armor and fishing knives- an hastily gathered army, clearly.

Before leaving in anger, the lot of them had shredded through your broken house and thrown their frustrated fists through the crumbling walls, leaving dozens of holes that you would have to patch with naught but straw, hay, and mud.

Winter would be harder this year, and every year after.

Especially with a baby in tow.

You hadn’t the heart to throw MK out, or leave him to the elements, but you hadn’t been brave enough to seek out his parents, either- if someone wanted him dead, then you would be on their list for harboring him, too.

“Y/N,” the young boy squeals, breaking you from reminiscence as he runs up to you with a smile. “There’s monkeys outside again!”

“…huh. Usually they don’t come around here. Make sure you stay away from the door, buddy.”

You turn to face him, only to sigh at his blatant disobedience- he’s toddling straight towards the broken hole you use as an entrance, only covered by a thick sheet of wool- it had been a sweater that grew too dirty for further use, leaving you to use the rancid thing as a weighted tarp to keep out chills.

Soap was a luxury you could rarely get your hands on, which meant it was better used for personal bathing than clothes-tending.

If you or MK; whom you tiredly sweep up into your arms, needed new clothing, you could always head down to the cemetery on a windy night to snatch up all the fabric left as offerings- they could easily be repurposed into makeshift garments.

The boy squirms in your lap, tugging on a lock of your hair to steady himself as he stands up.

“Why can’t I go out and play with the monkeys? I’ll be good, I promise!”

“Monkeys like to eat babies, kiddo. They might snatch you up and throw you into a pot,” you return, poking his squishy little cheek.

“I’m not a baby, and monkeys don’t use pots! Cause they don’t have kitchens!”

“Yeah? I hear they get to use the whole palace on the top of the mountain,” you lie, leaning in to kiss his forehead. “And I hear they take itty-bitty babies up to the ovens to be cooked.”

“…liar.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

MK, in spite of his age, is a pretty good sport when it comes to teasing and jesting. He doesn’t hold grudges and doesn’t ask for much. He eats what you give him and never asks for a second plate.

…really, he’s just a good kid.

You’ve done what you can for him. Warm clothes and clean bedding, and the occasional toy when you could scrounge it up. He eats before you do, and you make sure he has the softer portion of whatever meal you’ve scraped together. At night, he sleeps close by, wrapped up in the cleanest blankets you have, his little head nestled against your shoulder. Sometimes, his tiny fingers tangle in your shirt, holding on tight as if, in sleep, he’s afraid of being lost.

You’ve made it through rough times with him at your side, never without purpose as long as you could return to him.

You can make it through anything, you think, as long as you have MK.

But this year, you worry. Winter feels sharper already, creeping into your bones even though it’s only autumn. The flowers on the mountain haven’t died off yet, but the chilly bite warns you that cold days are coming fast. Supplies have been meager; the mountain rains came early, spoiling at least some of the crops before they could be harvested and gathered.

But MK—little, bright-eyed MK—he’s full of life, unafraid, and curious. Where you see danger in the forest’s shadows, he sees playmates and adventure. His world is small—just your home, the patch of trees nearby, and the lakes you risk bringing him to in the break of dawn. He doesn’t yet understand what it means to live with less. To him, the world is a place of wonder.

And you, for all your struggles, feel lighter with him around. His laughter fills the little corners of your life, and his bright chatter fends off the loneliness that once crept in on quiet nights.

“Y/N?” MK’s soft voice pulls you from your thoughts again. “If the monkeys go back to the kings, maybe they could tell them to bring food down here.”

You raise an eyebrow, smiling. “Oh, you think the demon kings will listen to a bunch of monkeys? They’re big and mighty, MK. They don’t worry about little things like the people below.”

“Maybe…” he murmurs, thoughtful, “But maybe if I ask really nice, they’ll listen. Then you wouldn’t be hungry.” His face scrunches up, serious and brave. “I can be nice. Really, really nice.”

Your heart squeezes a little at that, seeing the determination in his young eyes. “Oh, buddy,” you murmur, stroking his hair. “You’re plenty nice. But there are some things we can’t ask for, even from the kings.”

He frowns, thinking it over. “But…maybe if I brought them a really, really good tribute, then they’d listen?”

You stifle a sigh. MK’s generosity knows no bounds—he has so little, yet he dreams of giving. “Let’s not worry about the kings,” you say gently, redirecting his thoughts. “The best thing you can do is keep me company, just like you always do.”

He considers this, nodding, and a smile breaks out on his face again. “Okay!” He hops down from your lap, already chasing after a stray insect that has wandered into your home, flitting in and out of the small rays of sun that pierce through the cracks in the walls.

And you know, as you watch him, that no matter how harsh this winter might be, as long as MK is with you, there will be warmth to hold on to.

“Y’know, I hear that today is the lost prince’s birthday!”

“Really?!” he gasps, his tiny hands clasped in excitement.

You nod, a sly smile playing on your lips. “Yep. Word is, there are grand feasts in his honor, all the way up in the palace on Flower Fruit Mountain.”

His eyes widen, filled with wonder, his mouth forming a perfect ‘o’. “Wow… Can we go see it?”

“Ah, but it’s only for royalty and their guests,” you reply, ruffling his hair. “They guard that palace like hawks. Only those with a golden invitation can even get close. But, this year… I hear that before they eat, they’re going to the village a mountain over to visit their friends this time… and that their guards are going with them.”

He perks up immediately, eyes wide and gleaming- a little ray of lustrous light to match even gold.

“Y/N… are you going to sneak in?”

“I’m gonna rob them blind,” you confirm, squishing his cheeks between your hands. “That’s why I need you to stay inside today, buddy-“

“I’m going up the mountain.”

Those had been the start of your parting words to your surrogate little brother, instilling a brilliant radiance into his wide, innocent eyes. The thought of a belly full of food fit for kings… what orphan didn’t dream of that?

The trek up had been strikingly simple- all the usual simian distractions had retreated to their dens to mourn the lost prince, leaving you with only the occasional fly or gnat to swat away.

No guards. No soldiers. Nothing to stand in your way.

In hindsight it had been foolish to expect things to be so easy, but… the journey up to the peak hadnlulled you into a false sense of security.

The climb grew colder as you neared the palace. The lush forests below gave way to sparse, twisted trees and jagged rocks, their edges sharp enough to draw blood if you weren’t careful. Shadows lengthened as the day waned, and the silence grew thick, broken only by the occasional whistle of the wind through cracks in the stone.

At the top, the palace loomed—a grand structure carved from dark stone, adorned with gilded statues and red banners that snapped and waved in the mountain breeze. It was as silent as a tomb, its towering gates shut tight.

As you reached the summit, a dense mist clung to the air, and the grand stone gates of the palace loomed before you—ornate and ancient, their carved simian figures seeming to leer down with knowing eyes. Despite your heart thundering with the thrill of what you were about to do, you felt a strange weight settle in your chest. The palace was silent, and the eerie hush made it feel like a place caught between realms, haunted by whispers of an ancient power that was never meant to be trifled with.

But in spite of that internal warning you had crept easily enough to the side, and popped open a glinting, golden-framed window, then slid your legs through the maw- and started your thieving crawl through the palace.

The kitchen is laid with a spread so luxurious it makes your stomach clench with hatred and greed- golden plates piled high with delicate fruit, honeyed meat strung from a dozen racks, wine jars glittering with jeweled necks, the air itself thick with the scent of expensive incense and exotic spices.

All for the birthday of the lost prince, you reminded yourself, a prince who had likely never known hunger or hardship.

“Qi Xiaotian,” he had been named, was lost as a babe to a rebellion led several years ago by the discontented people of your village, those who decided that dying by their makeshift blades was better than living under royal heels.

After he had been; presumably, kidnapped by one of the rebels who had broken through the palace gates, the kings had grown cold and harsh, retreating from the world at large and leaving their lavish dwellings only to accept tributes and settle riotous disputes.

…that wasn’t enough to make you feel bad for them, though.

Tray after tray you scout, going through rows of jars, sacks, and baskets overflowed with preserved fruits, dried meats, and delicate pastries. Your hands tremble as you fill a small bundle with as much as it could hold- a handful of salted meats here, a mooncake wrapped in delicate paper there—enough to sustain you and MK for… maybe a month.

Just as you were finishing up, a strange sensation prickled at the back of your neck. You turned, heart thudding, but saw nothing. Just shadows. The silence, however, had shifted, as if holding its breath. Then a voice—low, smooth, and dripping with amusement—broke the stillness.

“Well, well, well… what do we have here?”

You froze, and before you could even think to run, a figure stepped out from the darkness. His robe flowed like liquid night, embroidered with threads that gleamed in the faint light. A crown of twisted vines adorned his head, casting intricate shadows over a face that was as beautiful as it was terrifying.

Beside him is a simian bearing fur the color of sunlight, radiant fur flecked with beads of gold and wound with strings of glimmering citrine. His garments are wrapped with shimmering threads, emphasizing each muscle bulging from below the silk.

The Eclipse Kings of Flower Fruit Mountain: Sun Wukong and the Six-Eared Macaque.

The sable king steps closer, eyes narrowing as he looked down at your small, trembling form. His lips curved into a smirk. “Stealing from the kings of Flower Fruit Mountain. Bold, and… foolish… unless you were planning to pay us back for it?” Prods the long-tailed macaque, poking your crumb-stained cheek with his forefinger.

“I don’t have anything to give,” you whimper, tears of fear and pain beading up in your eyes. “I don’t-“

“Hush hush hush!” Coos the brighter of the kings, moving to lightly swat his mate’s hand from your chin with a dramatic flourish of his claws. “Moonlight, look at this little one!”

As the king who had caught you steps back to make space for his husband, the golden monkey snatches you by the waist and lifts without so much as straining a muscle, clearing your feet well from the ground. His golden tail wraps lazily into an approximation of a heart, bouncing around happily.

“Just look at you, dumpling! Such a cute little thing rummaging around in our cabinets, hmm? Were you too hungry to stay away?”

“…you shouldn’t give grace to such a naughty thief, Peaches,” says the umbral king, holding his hands out to you. “Let me see them.”

Although this one is clearly the icier of the two, he holds you with care in spite of needing to exert more effort than his mate.

“Usually,” the golden simian chirps with glee, “we would execute thieves on the spot! My mate’s cleaved more than a few right down the middle for snatching from our castle.” His face is pulled into an easygoing grin, tail still excitedly wagging.

“I stopped doing that a long time ago,” snaps the darker monkey. “It takes forever to clean bloodstains, and maids are hard to come by, Peaches. I don’t need them wasting their time scrubbing down my carpets.”

“Our.”

“Shut up, you damn-“

“And speaking of what’s “ours”… what do we do with this little thing?”

The two monkeys look over you with varied looks, one grinning ear to ear as he pokes at your cheeks and strokes your hair, the other more restrained with only a cocked eyebrow.

“…what we usually do to thieves and trespassers.”

The feeling in your gut isn’t unlike a falling icicle, coldly sundering any hope you had of making it out of this castle alive. You were going to die. You were going to die and never see your brother again, and then he was going to starve all alone in that awful little hut.

You were going to die alone.

You were going to die unloved.

The golden king sounds a pitying gasp as tears begin to spill over your cheeks and trickles down your chin, splattering onto the polished marble floors below.

The air in your lungs begins to quickly fade, replaced with sharp gasps for breath interspersed with desperately babbled apologies. Sorry after sorry after sorry after-

“Little one, little one! Shh, shh,” the Great Sage pleads, scooping you into his powerful arms. “Shhhh, shhh, there there… it’s okay, dumpling… please, no more tears… you’ll just break this old monkey’s heart, you know that?”

“Stop fussing,” demands his mate, reaching over to card through your messy hair. “You aren’t going to manipulate us.”

“I- I’m not- no, I’m not- that’s not-“

“Shhhh! Be a good little mortal and shush! No more words, little one!” Macaque, what are you even-“

“Haven’t you noticed how they smell?”

The golden king freezes, glittering eyes going wide as his mate points out something he sincerely hadn’t noticed at all- that your scent is indeed strikingly familiar in a way that shreds out his heart and leaves him weak.

Sun Wukong, Great Sage Equal to Heaven, Handsome Monkey King- buries his face into the top of your hair, cradling you like a babe as his lips ghost the crown of your scalp, not unlike a father bidding his child goodnight with a kiss. He breathes in deep, taking the scent into his lungs and chest and holding it tighter than he holds you, only gasping it back out when breathless tears prick his eyes.

“…you smell like our son,” he whispers, holding you tighter and tighter. “I thought I was never going to- I thought I was going to die before I ever felt this- I- no, it- it’s like… gods, it’s like he’s here with us. Macaque, what do… what do we do?”

“…mortals don’t have the same scents as demons. They’re not as complex or strong. The only way a mortal gets the same scent as a demon is to spend hours with them.”

“So he’s alive”, Wukong croaks, the air in his lungs warbling with the effort to stay steady. “Our baby boy is alive. Macaque, he’s still here. Gods, he must’ve been lonely. He was so little, Macaque! He… he’s still alive.”

Wukong drops sharply to his knees, setting you on the ground with the downwards crash. The gold-veined marble cracks under the force of his movement, a testament to well-hidden power.

“Sweetie,” he coos, speaking to you as one speaks to a startled toddler,” “tell me- tell about all of your friends. Start to finish, okay? Can you do that for me, sweetie? I need to know who all they are.”

There’s a deep, desperate pleading in his voice, golden eyes scrunched to hold back tears.

“Please, please. Please tell me you know where my baby is.”

He’s so brokenly hopeful, so pleadingly anguished, so despairingly optimistic that give in to the welling guilt and admit-

“I only h-have one- he- his name is… it’s MK. He… he has brown hair and black eyes, and he’s… his favorite color is orange. He-“

Macaque screams.

He screams louder than the winds howl atop the mountain in winter, louder than tornados roar in the dry spells of summer, louder and louder and louder with each consecutive shriek until gilded windows shatter and silver braziers are snuffed.

“THAT’S HIM,” the sable king wails, throwing a fist through a solid sheet of the gold wall before him. “THAT’S MY BABY!!”

He rips his bleeding arm from the opulent ruin and tackles Wukong in a fit of relieved tears and broken openness, leaving the two tumbling in an eclipse of hues, gold and ebony rolling together on a red carpet.

They embrace in a moment of sheer, mind-numbing relief, wailing together that their beloved son hadn’t been lost, so utterly allayed that they almost forget there’s a world spinning around them.

You take your chance, and dart from the room, footsteps dulled by the luxurious carpet below.

They’ll realize that you’re gone any minute, and raise a din and raise their army- you can imagine them in the village already, desperately offering armfuls of gold and silver to any who can find you or drag you from whatever hiding place you’ve snuck to, to anyone who can return their last ticket to reuniting with their precious little cub.

You don’t even turn a single corner before what sounds like four steps of footsteps sound, racing close behind- too scared to look back, you simply fling yourself from the nearest broken window and pray you’ll land safely.

Sure enough, there’s a peach tree just below you, providing an uncomfortable cushion that prevents any fractures or breaks, thought not without shredding your arms and knees against the rough and untrimmed branches.

But losing a little blood wasn’t much when you were already afraid to lose your life.

The night air feels is oppressively thick, bitingly cold as you scramble down from the branches, your whole body aching from scratches and bruises.

It hurts, but not as much as the thought of losing MK hurts.

Every cut burns, but fear drives you forward as you push through the dark orchard. Peaches litter the ground beneath the trees, bruised and rotting, filling the air with their sickly-sweet scent. You can still hear the faint echo of anguished screams from the castle above, and you know you have to keep moving, no matter how heartbreaking the noise.

Branches continue to scratch at your skin as you hurry through the orchard, weaving between the twisted trunks of ancient peach trees. The cries of the two kings haunt you, but your heart pounds with a different terror—a need to survive, to get back to MK and keep him safe.

Swallowing hard, you push onward into the forest, where the air turns colder and the ground is uneven, littered with stones and roots. It’s dark, and the towering trees block out even the faintest hint of moonlight, leaving you to stumble blindly forward, each step a gamble.

Your lungs burn, each breath sharper than the last as you push through the dense underbrush, your only light the faint silver of cloud-breaking starlight piercing through gaps in the canopy. You can’t help but glance over your shoulder, half-expecting to see the flash of golden eyes in the shadows.

You’ve had your fill of gold and silver- that gleam has quickly lost all luster.

In your scramble down the mountain path, you nearly trip over a root hidden under the leaf-strewn ground, catching yourself just in time. You can feel a faint ache in your chest as you think about MK, probably huddled up alone, waiting for you to come back. You bite back the surge of guilt for leaving him and going so far in the first place; there’s no time for regret, no time for anything but survival.

So you fervently press on, slipping and sliding overrocks and mud, your hands numb and cold as you cling to branches to steady yourself.

You’re going to feel like hell in the morning.

Every step feels heavier, but the thought of MK—waiting, maybe scared and hungry—keeps you upright. You cling to that memory like a lifeline, using it to drag yourself forward when exhaustion claws at you, urging you to collapse into the moss and leaves.

Just as you’re ready to push on, you hear something rustle behind you, faint but distinct. Your heart skips, and for a split second, you’re sure it’s them—the kings, tracking you, maybe already upon you, with Wukong’s wild desperation and Macaque’s icy agony close on your heels. You whip your head around, pulse thundering dangerously fast in your chest. But there’s nothing there, only shadows that play tricks on your eyes.

It’s just the wind, you lie to yourself.

Yet, no sooner have you relaxed than you hear another sound—a soft murmur, almost like…laughter? It’s chilling, unnervingly familiar, a low chuckle that seems to drift from the very darkness around you. You start running, branches whipping against your cheeks, the laughter echoing in the trees like mocking ghosts.

As you push further, the underbrush begins to thin, the ground leveling out into a narrow path long worn into the mountain. Relief fills you as you recognize it—the way back to the village, back to MK. But just as you think you’ve escaped, a figure steps out from behind a nearby tree, blocking the path ahead.

It’s Macaque.

The dark-furred king stands there, arms crossed, his piercing gaze fixed on you. His tail lashes behind him, giving away a tension that his otherwise calm expression doesn’t. “Running away, little rabbit?” he purrs, voice smooth and soft, velvet hiding a dagger. “You thought we wouldn’t find you?”

Panic coils tighter around your heart. You don’t answer, can’t answer, with your breath shallow and eyes locked on his, searching for any hint of mercy. Yet, even in your fear, you see the pain in his eyes, the raw, unhealed wound that losing a son has left behind.

He takes a step closer, and you instinctively back up—until your heel catches on a loose stone, and you stumble. Macaque moves in a flash, catching you before you can fall, his grip like iron around your arm. There’s a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, almost as if he’s hesitant, but it vanishes just as quickly.

At that moment, you feel a warm presence nearby, and a golden glow illuminates the path. Wukong appears behind Macaque, his expression far softer than his husband’s. He looks at you with tearful eyes, earlier desperation simmering beneath his clouded gaze. “We just want to know where our son is, sweetie,” he says, voice coaxing. “Help us find him, and we can put all of this behind us.”

For a moment, you’re trapped between them, their eyes—glowing —boring into you with the weight of ages, burning on either side of you. You are prey, trapped in the gaze of ancient predators, creatures who could tear you apart if they chose.

You feel a lump rising in your throat, guilt twisting in your chest. You want to help them, to tell them more, to ease that raw grief carved into their souls. But how could you? MK didn’t remember them. He’d never once spoken of a family, of a past like theirs.

Would it really be a betrayal to bring him to people who could no doubt care for him better than you ever could?

You rip from his clawed grasp with a sob, blood spilling from your arm where his nails were clutched tight- and then step back.

Air whistles around you through the sharp plummet, blaring out the wails of the two kings. It’s not too long of a fall, it won’t break or kill you- it’s just one more thing that’s going hurt tomorrow, when you wake up next to MK -and you will wake up next to him- and bid him “good morning”.

As you fall, the world blurs around you, and for a moment, there’s only the rush of air and the distant cries of the kings above. The impact comes suddenly—a jolt that rattles every bone in your body as you hit the shallow puddle below, your vision sparking with a burst of white. Pain blooms in your side, sharp and searing, but you manage to roll onto your hands and knees, gasping for breath. Everything aches, but you’re alive. And more importantly, you’re closer to the outskirts of the village, closer to MK.

You rise shakily, wiping a streak of blood from your face. The path ahead is illuminated by starlight growing ever fainter, barely peeling through even the sparsely dotted trees.

The half-hovel is only a short walk away, barely three meters from your spot of impact, leaving you to start crawling; hands and knees alight with pain, to that little refuge.

Every inch forward feels like a mountain climbed, your breath coming out in ragged gasps, as you drag yourself closer to that pitiful excuse for a home. The hut is run-down, its roof half-collapsed, with walls patched by whatever scraps you could find. But right now, it’s the only place that feels safe, and the only place where MK will be waiting for you.

Your fingers scrape against rotted as you pull yourself up onto the threshold, bracing against the shattered doorframe, steadying your shaking limbs. The inside is dim, with just the faint embers of the fire you lot in that little stone pit, the weak light casting long shadows against the walls. And there, curled up on a ragged mat, is MK—sleeping soundly, his tiny form bundled up in a blanket far too thin for the chill in the air.

You feel relief rush over you like a wave, washing away the pain and exhaustion, if only for a moment. You swallow back tears as you carefully lower yourself beside him, reaching out a trembling hand to brush a lock of hair from his face. He stirs at the touch, eyes fluttering open with a groggy mumble, his gaze unfocused at first before he realizes it’s you.

“You’re back,” he whispers, his voice small and sleepy, a hint of worry melting into relief as he reaches for your hand. “I… I thought you weren’t coming back this time.”

“I’d never leave you, MK. Not for anything.” Your voice wavers, and you squeeze his hand tighter, trying to push down the overwhelming flood of emotions. “I’ll always come back for you.”

He smiles—a soft, innocent smile that nearly breaks you. You can’t tell him what happened, can’t bear the thought of burdening him with the danger you faced tonight, or the kings who would give anything to find him.

Instead you settle beside him, draping an arm over his small shoulders as he curls up against you, his warmth seeping into your aching bones.

“Did you get any food?” he asks tiredly, eyes drooping shut again.

You reach for the cloth bundle on your back and pull it off, watching all four corners unravel and flutter open as it’s tossed into the ground-

It’s all still there. Busted, bruised, some of it mangled, but it’s still there. Fruit, veggies, nuts, meat, and even sweets.

Just like you promised.

The boy (a prince, you’ve learned) squeals with delight, clambering over to sample the spoils of your hellish night. He settles for cramming his little face with an assortment of the pilfered banquet, accidentally crushing some bit of it into crumbs with how badly his hands shake from excitement.

It’s only when he’s full enough to pause that MK looks over to you with a frown, clambering over with a mooncake held tight in his little hands- and then he pushes it to your mouth.

“Say ‘ahhh’!”

Even through the agony pricking through your skin, a smile forms- such a sweet little thing he’s grown into, even in these… limited circumstances.

“…aaaah”, you acquiesce, allowing him to nudge the pastry between your parted lips, eating half of it in one go.

“…good?”

“Really good, buddy.” You take another bite, swallowing the rest with some small satisfaction. “I’m gonna take a quick nap, okay?”

“…promise you’ll wake up.”

Oh, gods. That hurt. Sometimes you forgot how perceptive the boy was, how eager and clever. How could you think he wouldn’t notice the suffering crawling all through your body?

“Oh, kiddo. I will wake up, I promise. I’m just tired. I’ll wake up and start a fire, and we can roast the meat and nuts to warm ‘em up, okay? I promise.”

He doesn’t seem too convinced, but settles into a hushed state as he polishes off a mango and ties up the bundle again.

“You better,” the little one huffs, looking over to see that you’ve already fallen asleep. He shuffles to his little chest and pulls out the cleanest blanket he has, draping it over your shoulders before starting to crawl in with you-

Right until a knock sounds on the outer wall of the hut.

MK freezes, clutching the edge of the blanket, his wide, black eyes darting to the door. The thin walls do little to muffle the gentle, deliberate tapping. His face twists in confusion and fear, and he inches back toward you, pressing himself close against your side, trying to make himself as small as possible. He can hear his own heartbeat hammering in his chest, the room so silent that each beat feels like a drum signaling his hiding place.

The knock sounds again, a steady rhythm that’s somehow polite but insistent, as if the person on the other side knows exactly what lies within and won’t leave without answers. The thought tightens MK’s chest with dread. He glances at you, wanting you to wake, but exhaustion has claimed you too fully. He shifts, leaning close to your ear, whispering with all the urgency his little body can muster.

The matted wool curtain is pulled aside, and a long shadow falls over the two of you.

It’s Wukong.

He’s not dressed in the regal robes from before, his crown and adornments discarded somewhere along the journey down the mountain. He looks oddly… humbled, vulnerable even, his golden fur matted and streaked with grime. He too has trekked through brambles and mud to find this place.

In that moment, the fierce, untamed warrior, the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, reduced to a father—nothing more, nothing less—just a father, lost and found in the presence of his child.

“My son.”

MK stiffens, eyes going wide with confusion and a strange, nameless feeling that curls tight in his chest. The voice calls to something deep within him, something he doesn’t understand yet can’t ignore. He doesn’t remember this voice, but he feels it as though he’s always known it—like a lullaby, like the whisper of leaves in the wind.

MK clutches the edge of your blanket tighter, his face a mixture of uncertainty and fear as he looks up at the stranger in the doorway. Wukong’s gaze softens further, and he steps into the dim light, eyes filled with a desperate hope tempered by patience. He’s careful, his movements gentle and measured as he crouches down, bringing himself to MK’s eye level.

“Do you know me, little one?” he asks, voice trembling slightly as he waits, searching MK’s expression for any glimmer of recognition.

MK tilts his head, brow furrowing as he studies Wukong. There’s a flicker in his black eyes—a hint of familiarity that he can’t quite place, something ancient and deep inside him stirring, like a faint memory from a distant dream. But he shakes his head slowly, his lips pressed together as he shrinks back a little, still clutching the blanket.

Wukong’s face falls, his shoulders sagging with the weight of his grief. He swallows, fighting back the tears that threaten to spill. “I… I thought maybe you’d remember.” His voice is barely a whisper, so soft that it sounds like a confession, a plea.

But Wukong quickly straightens, forcing a small, trembling smile. He can’t bear to scare his child, can’t bear to make him feel any more uncertain than he already does. “It’s okay,” he says, his voice still gentle, though there’s a glimmer of resolve in his eyes. “It’s okay if you don’t remember, little one. I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He glances down at you, still asleep beside MK, his expression softening with gratitude. Despite everything, despite the fear and pain you must have faced, you had cared for his son, protected him in his absence. There’s a flicker of respect, maybe even admiration, in his gaze.

But then, before he can say anything else, the curtain shifts, and Macaque steps into the hut as well, his dark, intense gaze zeroing in on MK. His movements are slow and deliberate, as though afraid that anything too sudden might frighten the boy. He stops just inside the threshold, his usual sly demeanor replaced with a vulnerability that’s almost startling.

“…my baby.”

The weight of those two words settles over MK like a blanket of warmth, a feeling he doesn’t quite understand . Still, it stirs a pull in his heart that defies reason. He glances at you again, hoping for some guidance, some sign of what to do—but you’re still sound asleep, completely oblivious to the quiet storm raging in his heart.

After a moment, MK opens his mouth, and his voice, so soft and uncertain, trembles through the space.

“Why don’t I remember you?”

The question, so small yet filled with an innocence that pierces both kings, brings a quiet gasp from Wukong. He reaches up to touch his chest, struggling to contain the ache there. He can’t meet MK’s eyes for a moment, his gaze fixed on the floor as he takes a shuddering breath.

“That’s… that’s because you were very young when we… when we lost you, my little peach,” Wukong finally whispers, his voice hoarse. “You wouldn’t remember us, not after so long, but… we’ve missed you every single day.”

MK steps forward for a moment, wanting and wanting and feeling so very loved-

But then the boy pulls his hand back, glancing at you beside him, his expression suddenly filled with uncertainty. “But… I already have someone,” he says softly, nodding to your prone form. “They take care of me. They’re… my family.”

“We’ll take them too,” Wukong spits out, dropping to his knees and becoming his lost son forward. “All four of us can go home together, Xiaotian. Like… like a big, happy family.”

Macaque steps forward shaking with the effort spent to not rush him immediately. “That’s right, baby. We’ll take you, and… and we’ll take the little thief, and we can go home. Together.”

MK looks back at you, so broken and worn that he fears you might not make the night without someone else’s help- the thought straightens his brow, and sets his little head into a stiff nodding motion.

Finally, he could help you, just as you had helped him so long ago.

“…ah. No, that- okay,” he huffs, pinching the growing knot on his scarifying forehead- without the crown, his usual gouges were quickly healing - as he quickly pieced things together. “They didn’t know your birthday, so… so they just made that up. You were too little to remember the day, so Y/N lied-“

“Nuh uh! They wouldn’t lie to me !”

“…my bad, kid. Of course not. No, you were too little to remember, so Y/N just… pretended to know so you could celebrate. But your real birthday is in the middle of fall- it was yesterday.”

“No, cause it’s in the winter!”

Wukong laughs as his sable mate sits beside him, nestling into the plush cushions and groaning.

“Easy, moonbeam. Don’t push yourself- he’s still a toddler. We’ll get through to him.”

“I’d rather him just remember us and everything we did together,” Macaque snaps back throwing his head into Wukong’s lap- who, for his part, begins to smooth out the inky tresses of fur laid out before him. They stay there for a minute, quietly enjoying each other’s company, and then-

All of Macaque’s ears stiffen, six sharp points flaring up under his fur, which Wukong fluffs to hide them from sight. As much as he loves them, his mate’s feelings are very dissimilar.

He looks over with both hands over Macaque’s ears, looking to the marble doorway-

And it’s just you , wearing “your” lovely sky-blue hanfu, sash shoddily tied and silk pouch held close.

The umbrakinetic demon stands up without a noise, slowly walking over to you for a closer examination- he had heard about your little fit, and didn’t want a repeat for himself.

“It suits you,” Macaque says, giving an approving look to your new outfit- he reaches for the sash, maybe to correct or tighten it, but pulls away when you flinch, simply saying: “You can keep it. If you want.”

Be polite. You want this outfit. And you want the pouch. Be polite.

“…thank you. And.. were you… talking about his birthday?”

The king rolls his shoulders to stretch them, causing the thick spikes of fur on his head to swish and temporarily dip over his many, many forehead scars- they’re a lot more obvious now that he’s smashed the barbed circlet and scrubbed the dried blood from his forehead. “We were. Xiaotian didn’t know that it was in the middle of autumn. I hear the two of you celebrated it in winter.”

“Well, most of the time- it was just whenever snow fell for the first time in the year- I… I really didn’t have… I didn’t have too much to work with. So it was… usually in winter, or really late fall, one time we got really unlucky and it was mid-spring.”

“…what do you mean, ‘unlucky’?” Asks the Monkey King, standing up from his lavish recliner to replace all his accessories, each string of citrine beads and looping gold chains clinking against each other as he threaded them back into place. “I don’t remember ever hearing the mortals talk about a bad snow during spring- not anytime this century, at least.”

“It wasn’t bad- not for anyone else. We- MK and I,” you start, trying to ignore their little twitches at you using his nickname, “we lived in a little sunken hut. It was always falling apart in place, and- and I had to patch it up all the time- so snow was always really hard, cause it would make the mud I used all wet, and it’d drip from the holes-“

“You were using mud to keep your house together?”

Both of them share the same look, worriedly gazing upon little MK with a sort of regretful hindsight, thinking on how hard it must’ve been for him to reside in that squalid, rotted hovel- though Wukong is the one who speaks up. “So you- you and Xiaotian were living in a little muddy wreck?”

Macaque- you can’t read his expression, not quite, stares on with a deeply set frown- if you had to wager a guess, he seems to be some form of vaguely disappointed . Maybe that’s standard for kings when they hear about things like this. You don’t really care what he thinks- not when MK was fed, warm, and happy.

That was enough for you.

If they wanted to pull back and say it wasn’t enough for them, then- oh well.

But that’s not what happens. There is no remand or reproach, nor any discouraging words as to your care of their darling boy.

They just frown, thinking of what you- and more importantly, MK - might have gone through.

And you frown too, caught in a tense silence louder than any storm, more charged than a bolt of lightning forming in graying skies.

It’s simply… too much. There’s been too much everything across too little a timeline to accommodate for proper adjustment, so now everything has wound to a point of near shattering, fractures displayed so prominently across the terse “bond” shared that they were nearly visible to the naked eye.

And it isn’t for a solitary second that the quiet stretches on, heavy and suffocating- it’s pervasive, leaving you all standing there quietly.

You can feel their eyes on you, assessing, judging—not just your words but the years you spent with MK, the choices you made when you had nothing to work with but scraps and hope. They’ve swooped in now, claiming- reclaiming, as the nagging voice in your head reminds - him as theirs, and though you know he’s safer here, better provided for, the thought leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

He had been fine without them.

He had been fine with you.

Why couldn’t it have just kept being you and- not your “temporary charge” Qi Xiaotian, Golden Star of Flower Fruit Mountain- but your little brother, MK?

Life had been miserably hard. It had been cold and drudging and dreary, and more than once you had come to one of the many peering peaks across the mountain, and sat on the idea of a quick end to the struggling.

And you had met your little “Monkie Kid”, just as cold and alone as you had been.

He had not just been your little brother-

He had been your entire reason for living.

And what did you have to live for now, with two people who could grant him ever luxury and possession a child could desire?

What did you have to live for?

Was there anything you-

“Excuse me,” calls a curt voice from behind, slicing the tension with practiced, professional ease. “We’ve prepared dinner for you, my lords.”

Like a metal door long unopened, there’s a hesitant, straining moment before the inevitable give , and then you all turn to look- at a very lovely woman. Her hair has been trimmed chin-short and styled into thick black waves, pulled to each side of her face to prominently display a golden ferronnière.

“My husband and I have finished cooking, and we wished to call you in before the meal grew cold,” she says, utterly unabated by the gone-cold atmosphere. “So we insist that you come and eat soon- preferably, right now. ”

There is no rolling of heads or smashing of bones arisen from the terse almost-command, and instead the Monkey King nods along with a chuckle and a laugh half-forced. “Of course, of course. Sorry for forgetting-“

“If you were truly sorry, you’d be in the kitchen eating all of our hard work.”

“Ahahaha! Fair enough! Moonbeam, let’s go have dinner. We can talk about celebrations tonight, together- when it’s quieter.”

Without you around to interject, of course.

Because why would anyone care about how long you spent in a crumbling shack held half-together with scraps of scrounged fabric and dried mud when you offered inconvenient things like “makeshift birthdays” and “learned attachments”?

Before your thoughts get too seething, the woman lightly claps her hands, snapping you and MK to attention.

“Since the two of you have… “lived a life of little substance”, let’s say, we’ve prepared a list of softer meals to help you both adjust to proper eating as quickly as possible- in about the course of a week. Sudden indulgence to richer foods could sicken you both- especially Lord Xiaotian. Today we’ve made a honeyed rice porridge with ripe tropical fruit, but I imagine you’ll also see fortified broth with bouillon powder, and… well, we’d be here all day if I laid them all out.

As the woman sends you and your brother down a hall together, before turning back to her eployers.

“And,” she whispers to the two kings, voice nearly low enough for you miss it, “ we’ve set aside some fruit purée and steamed milk with honey, if nothing else will work.”

“You are such a gem,” Macaque breathes, expressly pleased with her loyal diligence. “Now, if you’ll excuse me-“

“Your children are waiting,” she confirms, nudging him along. “Hurry and eat with them-“

And though he starts to correct her, to clarify that you are in fact not his child- the woman is gone in a swish of her long green dress.

You keep your head down, one hand gripping all of MK’s tiny fingers during your unflinching trek down the ornate hall. There’s hand-drawn pictures of many different demons, all portrayed with respect and pride. In one a purple minotaur holds an axe over his shoulder, horns and blade polished to a shine, in the next he’s standing beside a red-robed woman, tears brimming through his amber eyes as they focus on a small bundle in her arms. In another there’s a pachyderm demon, portrayed with thick glasses and a gargantuan stack of books- including one he must’ve been working on when the picture was drawn. The next is a bird with golden wings held aloft, spear dug into a training dummy made of stone. Then a lion, holding as many mortals possible aloft while trudging in waist-deep waters. One after another, demon after demon- though only those same four, aside from the woman.

Whoever they are, the kings clearly cherish them.

And said demons walk in unison just backwind of you, though their steps lack the carefree rhythm of easygoing camaraderie. They are just in steady lockstep, too close behind for comfort. You can hear the faint clinking of Wukong’s gold chains and the occasional rustle of Macaque’s red and black robe as they exchange glances, silent communication passing between them.

And then MK squeezes your fingers at tightly as his little fingers allow- a familiar gesture you’ve known through harsh nights and sluggish days, through famine and sickness and chill.

An anchor of reassurance in the overwhelming storm of unfamiliarity.

The shift you underwent was violent and painful. You had woken up half-paralyzed and nude, being scrubbed down by the two beings you feared most, incapable of speaking or moving- it had left a not-insignificant mark.

But MK?

MK had made a choice. He had chosen to come back, you were sure of it, sure that he had made a deal for your safety and retrieval alongside his own- of course he was going to adjust better than you.

But he was still a little boy.

A little boy who had spent his life in the hollow embrace of mud walls and patchwork blankets, in the firm grip of your scarred arms. This was a kingdom of excess, a world so vast and strange that it overwhelmed just as much as it comforted. He looks up to you, his tiny thumb fiddling with your knuckles, and you know what is being asked.

Are you staying?

You squeeze his hand back.

Always.

Neither of you is exactly cozy , but the air between you feels warmer for that little exchange, the newfound fuzziness lasting until the tall and gilded arc of a lavish dining room stands before the two of you, beckoning in.

Inside, the dining room gleams with you might bitterly call opulence . The long table stretches nearly half the length of the room, carved from a dark wood polished to a mirror’s finish. Gold filigree edges the surface, intertwining in swirling patterns that catch the warm glow of the lanterns overhead. The chairs are high-backed and cushioned, draped in fine fabrics with purple and gold-threaded embroidery. The centerpiece is a grand arrangement of flowers- peach blossoms and chrysanthemums interspersed with glowing lotuses.

The sheer decadence is suffocating .

MK gasps loudly at the sight, his wide eyes reflecting the glittering splendor. You squeeze his hand again, grounding him, grounding yourself. The boy looks up at you, half in wonder, half in unease. You feel it too- the crushing weight of not belonging. This isn’t your world. Not really. Not ever.

Not yet.

A man; dressed as elegantly as the woman that you presume to be his wife, is stocking the table with loaded plates. Not a drop spills onto his gold-lined white tangzhuang, no matter how much he moves.

“It’s an honor to be serving you again, Lord Xiaotian. And an honor to serve his savior, dear child.

He pushes up the bridge of his circular glasses, causing a sharp gleam to roll over them before coming over to usher you both in.

“Now, please- take your seats.”

There’s two chairs set aside specifically, both piled with stiff cushions to help someone of the height-disadvantaged reach the table- MK’s is especially egregious, containing no less than four.

Speaking of the boy, he tugs at your hand again, his curious eyes shifting between you and the chair meant for him. “Can we really sit here?” he whispers, voice laced with awe and a hint of anxiety.

Before you can answer, Macaque’s low voice cuts through the air as he and Wukong stride into the room after you, affably clapping their servant on his shoulders. “Of course you can,” he says, his tone soft but firm as both golden eyes land on you both. “This is your home now, Xiaotian. You can be wherever you want.”

Home. The word burns.

Maybe it sears even worse than the branding iron that haunts your dreams.

You take the seat beside his, allowing the cushion to sink as best it can under your meager weight, providing a nice abatement to your sore legs- though the cream Macaque had used to clear out grime and dirt had stopped burning not long after it was used, there was a dull ache left from both the concoction and, well… everything , really.

The man with glasses places bowls of warm, sweet-smelling rice porridge before you and MK, forcing your eyes to the bowl. The simple meal is an obvious concession to your past, but the presentation is impeccable, garnished with thin slices of banana and a drizzle of honey. It’s almost too beautiful to eat. Almost .

MK digs in immediately , tiny hands clutching the spoon with the clumsy enthusiasm only a child could muster. His muffled hum of delight sounds out at the first bite, drawing adoring coos from the two kings, and a faint, weary smile from you.

He deserves this, you think. He deserves a hundred lifetimes of warm meals, safe beds, and more love than his little heart could stand to hold.

You, however, hesitate. The porridge is still steaming, the honey forming golden rivulets over the creamy surface, but you can’t bring yourself to taste it just yet. It feels foreign, indulgent in a way that grates against the life you’ve lived- against the life that has shaped you into a scrapes-by survivor accustomed to spare bits of fuel.

You manage to lift the spoon and take a small bite.

The honeyed porridge is warm and sweet, slices of ripe banana on top to add a buttery texture that melts effortlessly on your tongue, imbuing a whisper of richness to each bite.

It’s good. Too good. It makes your chest ache.

Hunger is the world you have known, sprinkled through every aspects of your life in pieces. In the cold of winter on your stick-thin ribs, never enough meat to keep warm. In the gnawing ache that follows you to sleep. In the morning, curling like smoke in your chest as you wake, already weary. Hunger walks beside you, a shadow that stretches long.

A word heartbreakingly uttered from the lips of your darling little brother, spurring you to further and further extremes to keep him fed.

But today you are both full and warm, dressed and clean.

The thought pricks your eyes with tears, and the spoon seizes as a lump grows in your throat.

You could have never given this to MK.

The movement of your unwieldy hand grows faster and faster, shoveling more and more of the sweet porridge into your mouth, smearing it over your lips as tears begin to fall. Your spare hand drifts downwards to cusp the mildly growing curve of your stomach, feeling the meal compound through you. You drop the intricate spoon, and it clatters uselessly to the ground. In favor of scooping the meal bite by bite into your mouth, you do the simplest- and more importantly, fastest- thing possible.

You upend the contents directly into your mouth, the honeyed porridge spilling past your lips and onto your chin and cheeks. You drain it to the last drop and lick the remnants like a starving dog, and then set down the exquisite piece of china to reveal the tears dribbling over the sticky mess across your face.

“I want more,” you beg, voice plain and will broken. “Please, I-“

“ I don’t want to be hungry anymore.”

“…get them another bowl,” says Macaque, looking at you more closely than ever before. “As many as they need.”

With tear-stained cheeks and gouges torn into his fur from constant scraping, the simian had wobbled down from the mountain and into the nearest smithy, then threw down a glittering heap of golden coins. His only request had been; spoken brokenly, for “something that would hurt”.

The blacksmith had been hesitant at first. The request was unusual—not for the opulence offered, for he had forged again and again petty trinkets to sooth a lord’s ego. No, it was the pain. The simian’s trembling voice and sunken eyes spoke of a sorrow too vast to comprehend, but the blacksmith had seen enough grief bite down any questions. Instead, he had worked through the night, the rhythm of hammer on gold ringing out in the silence, a somber requiem for the monkey’s fresh loss.

So the blacksmith had fashioned him a twisted crown from that heap of treasure, taking what little was left as payment after beating the metal into a branching circlet that splintered out into harsh thorns, then plated it with rhodium to darken and reinforce the malleable gold underneath.

“It’ll hurt,” the man had reminded him, touching the crown only with his thickest gloves.

The look in Macaque’s eyes had told him enough- “I want it to,” spoken through his hollow eyes and gaunt frame and torn fur, but left unsaid on trembling lips.

And Macaque had taken it with his bare hands, punishing his treacherous fingers for “allowing” his son to slip through them.

He had not allowed his agony to end there.

The sharp tips bit into his scalp, drawing thin rivulets of crimson that trailed through inky fur, leaving raw furrows through its heartless embrace. He hadn’t winced or cried or paused, instead pressing it down further and further, lips curling into a grimace that might have once been a smile, his heart brittle and sharp like fractured glass.

It would hurt, but never as much as losing his son.

An unassailable grief, incapable of transmutation into vengeance or betterment.

Until you.

Until you had wandered into their stately pagoda, wandering through the lavish halls and snatching their food, leaving the trail of an all too familiar scent in your wake.

Until you had ran from them in fright as so many had years ago, twisting through woods just as jagged and thorned as the crown that Macaque had finally pried from his forehead, smashed and discarded at the empty grave they had fashioned for their found son.

You had led them back to him.

That thought alone keeps Macaque’s hands gentle as he lathers a thick sponge with fragrant soap, wetting it and rolling the squashy corpse* against your forearms.

His mate, holding his own sponge, tends to your legs with a manic smile- it hasn’t dropped even after a full night of sloppy celebration and utter destruction. Every last little memorial and shrine they had created now lay in pieces around the pagoda, only sparing what little the prince himself would have use for- the clothes and toys they had left on these altars as gifts that would have been now resided in the boy’s room-

“It’s Y/N’s room, too,” the little one had insisted, forcing them to make arrangements appropriate for both a demon toddler and a mortal… whatever age you were. Folding screens and an extra mat.. but nothing else. Not from malice, though- they simply hadn’t quite learned what else to put in “your” room.

There was no need to separate what was his from what was yours- you simply didn’t have anything at all. Every little luxury you had accumulated in that muddy rattrap was all for your brother.

The boy’s bed, piled high with plush animals and soft quilts, had been eagerly pushed closer to yours, left with “only” a few pillows and a single blanket as he excitedly prepared to sleep in warmth and safety for the first time in years.

(Only was not a word you knew. There was no “only” in the life of one who owned nothing.)

“You had enough of a nap on the way here,” Sun Wukong sighs. “So stay awake a little longer. We can’t let you go to bed filthy or injured.”

You want to protest. To scream and cry and plead for them to take their hands off of you, to let you return to that familiar; if squalid, hovel, to let you- and your brother- go back to the only home either of you had ever known.

But words die on your chapped lips, too exhausted to be parted for begging.

You just lay there in the tub, head held aloft by one of Wukong’s muscled hands, completely incapable of moving or protesting. You just… sit there, and accept the reluctant doting.

MK (“Qi Xiaotian”), the kings and all their soldiers and maids say. You don’t think there’ll ever be a moment that you’re used to that. ) sits next to the tub with worry in his little black eyes, trying his hardest to focus on the book he was gifted by his fathers- hand-drawn pictures of him decorate each page, detailing his growth from baby to toddler. Supposedly it would “stir his memory”, but the effort seemed futile- he had simply been too young to remember anything before you.

Neither of you were truly “home” in this pagoda, no matter how they tried to push you into believing that.

MK would adjust, definitely. He would come to enjoy plush toys and doting maids and loving fathers, ample food and warm water. He could grow to love silk pillowcases and wool blankets. He could grow to love warm halls and loving fathers.

He hadn’t lived like you had. No, MK had spent his time safely inside that wretched dump, playing with whatever toys you could scrounge for him, chasing little bugs and cooing at the occasional rabbit or squirrel that came in for shelter.

This was going to be harder for you.

The warmth of the water feels unfamiliar, outright alien in its softness . You are too used to icy streams that prick at your skin, the dry rasp of dirt and grime. Here, the milky water cradles you like a cloud.

Help.

You are being helped .

And you know what that means. Help comes at a cost. A leering smile from a vendor who would try and tail you through the woods. A begrudging shove of stale bread into your hands after a trade. Mumbled curses about a “pest” under the breath of a housewife giving you a chunk of too-ripe fruit.

What price will this cost?

The thought churns uneasily in your gut as Sun Wukong tilts your head upward, his golden eyes studying your face. They gleam like the sun, but there is no warmth for you.

(Not yet.)

They’re calculating, cataloging each bruise, each scrape. Every pale white line scarred deep and unremovable. The truth of agony is plain on your skin, a map of suffering written in purples, blues, and scabbed reds.

It does not miss him that his son is, in turn, totally unblemished.

Admiration without love. Gratitude without familiarity. Respect without want.

You have done him a greater favor than any other being could provide- you are owed praise and repayment, that much the vaunted kings know.

You are deliverance from grief and agony and a haunting eternity of wondering “what could I have done to save him?”.

But you are not his child.

The golden king’s hands are steady as he finishes rinsing the soap from your hair, the last traces of filth swirling down into the bathwater, which drains into a little bamboo pipe leading outside.

One of them, you don’t care to see which, wraps a towel around you. It smells faintly of mint and ginseng- things the rich put in their soaps and lotions.

The silence stretches, broken only by the soft lapping of water and the occasional creak of the tub as one of them shifts. You think you should feel safer in this moment, surrounded by warmth and covered neck to ankle, but the unease still roils in your stomach, a highly coiled spring just waiting to snap.

The unease is not lost on MK, who cuts through it like hot butter.

Y/N!” He cheerily calls, catching your attention. You turn your head slightly, just enough to meet his gaze. He’s holding the book up for you to see, a wide, gap-toothed grin plastered across his face. “Look! This is me! When I was a baby!”

The drawing he points to looks almost too real, imperceptible from reality aside from the lightly yellowed edges. An infant demon with wide, curious eyes, bundled in blankets, his tail peeking from the swaddle You glance at the page, then back to MK, who looks at you expectantly.

You don’t know what he wants you to say.

You don’t even want to speak.

But you manage a “It’s cute,” voice cracking from disuse. It’s the first thing you’ve said since they brought you here, and it feels strange. “ Very cute, kiddo.”

The silence grows tenser for your words, winding further through the room and forcing it into unease. And, like before, MK keeps going in spite of it.

“You’re gonna get sick if you don’t wear something warm,” MK fussed, tugging on the towel with one little paw. “You need to put some clothes on! And you need something to drink!”

“Your Baba can get them something to wear,” Wukong coos, tapping one clawed finger against his son’s rosy snout. “The maids sewed up some nice clothes for the two of you.”

“Moonlight, if you’ll get the paste, I’ll run and grab what they made.”

Macaque nods and releases you to sit alone on the floor, turning to scrounge through his lavish cabinets, each one stocked with a costly product that you couldn’t put a name to, paired to a price that would make your eyes water if you heard it spoke aloud.

You sit motionless on the tiles, towel wrapped tightly around your bruised shoulders. The plush fabric is too heavy, too soft. It’s not comforting—it’s suffocating. Every nerve in your body screams at you to run , but… to where? To what ? There’s no dirty stream to lose your scent in, no puddle of mud to smear yourself with for camouflage. There is no place left but here .

As you think on escapes, Macaque’s shadow coils- like a wispy vein of smoke- along the floor, and for a moment, you swear it’s alive, flickering toward you like a snake.

But you blink and then it is still, unshifting and steady.

You don’t imagine things often. You can’t bring yourself to think that this was one of those rare circumstances.

…he’s even more dangerous than you had believed, and with that dawning revelation a little spark of hope is squashed in your chest.

The sable king turns to you with two glads jars, both smelling of fresh herbs even through their seals. One he sets on the wooden rim of the bathtub, and the other he brings to you- the contents glow from within, faintly white and luminescent, as though moonlight itself had been processed and bottled.

“This is going to sting,” the king warns, dipping his claws into the glittering paste to scrape out a generous, gelatinous lump. “But it’ll keep you from getting infections.”

Everything hurts, and you are tired. So, so very tired that your eyes smear the colors of the world all around, incapable of perceiving fine details. All the embroidery of Macaque’s kingly robe, purple and black and silver, blend into a dark blob as he approaches, as he kneels, peels away the top of the robe, and begins to smear the paste across your upper body.

The searing sting is immediate , sharp enough to make you gasp, breath catching in your throat. It feels like fire crawling across your skin, burning out the grime and decay that had wormed under your flesh. It hurts, worse than icy waters soaking your feet in winter, worse than all the hounds that bit at your heels as you leapt fences, worse than all the beatings you had taken when your thieving was thwarted.

Throughout all your life, only one thing has brought worse pains- hunger. But even that feels like a distant memory now, boiled away by the sensation of prickling, running through your skin in a steady march.

Macaque pulls away with a little huff, shrugging his shoulders as you twitch and writhe in place.

“Be grateful. That stuff costs an eye and a half.”

It’s strikingly casual for a demon of his status, speaking almost like a…

Maybe he had spoken like this to MK once.

Maybe he was settling back into it, with his son back, and simply didn’t think to harshen his tone with you, given his preoccupation with unscrewing the second jar.

“This is something we’ve been trying to spread in that mortal village of yours- a paste blend to scrub teeth with. Mint, ginseng, and some rock salt…”

“…why, um. Why is it… why just for mortals and not demons, too?”

“Yaoguai grow their teeth back once they’re damaged- doesn’t matter if they rot out or get snapped. A new one grows in after the old. Mortals need to take care of what they’ve got. So one of our, ugh “Sworn Brothers”- with a real soft spot for squishy little mortals - worked to make this stuff with another of our “brothers”. He even gave us a crate for our own citizens.”

“…he seems nice,” you remark, thinking on the existence such a benevolent immortal. “I hear most demons just eat mortals.”

“Most yaoguai do,” he snaps, eye twitching at the term you used. “And those yaoguai have tried to break into our village before, and my mate has always protected all of you, even before I came in and married him. Now we protect all of you from yaoguai together.”

(…if he weren’t twice your size and equipped with claws and fanged canines, you might’ve seen fit to call him something mean.)

“Now, open your mouth.”

“…excuse me?”

“It’s an herbal paste. For your mouth. You wet it with clean water and scrub it over your teeth- it scrapes out filth, and there’s not much else you brought with you into our pagoda.”

“Hmm, almost like I didn’t bring shit because-“

Snapping through the air like a whip, he interjects with a snarled- “Language .”

Macaque’s eyes are narrow, golden irises flickering with a dangerous edge that makes your stomach churn. He leans closer, looming over you, and you’re suddenly reminded - and quite vividly- of the disparity in your sizes, in your positions. His shadow shifts, darker, heavier, wrapping around your silhouette in a way that feels utterly suffocating .

Your mouth clamps shut instinctively, a primal reaction to the unspoken threat. A dozen instincts claw at you: run, fight, scream—but there’s nowhere to run, no fight you can win, nothing. So, you simply sit there, jaw tight, avoiding his gaze, your whole body trembling like a leaf in a storm.

The shadow king exhales sharply through his nose and leans back, his oppressive presence retreating as he composes himself. When he speaks again, his tone is quieter, though still sharp enough to make you flinch.

“You’ve had it rough,” he says, somewhat reluctantly. “I get it. But you’re under our roof now. Which means you obey our rules. Watch your tongue, brat.”

Submission is a bitter taste you’ve rarely sampled- rare is it that you lie down and grudgingly accept a losing lot. But there is no choice now- he is stronger, faster, smarter. You have lost without even making a move.

“You haven’t been here a day, and you’re already biting a hand that hasn’t had time to feed you.”

“I didn’t ask to be here”, is what you want to say, to scream about the unfairness of being ripped away from a home that you were at least familiar with… but you’ve been cowed, and thus, simply open your mouth.

Reluctantly, you open your mouth.

“Good,” he says, his tone softer now, though still carrying that edge of command. He dips a soft-bristled tool you hadn’t noticed before into the herbal paste and scrapes up a small amount, before lightly dipping it into a small jar of water, then maneuvers that unfamiliar tool into your mouth with some small measure of gentleness.

The first bristles touch your teeth, and the sensation is strange. Foreign. Not painful, exactly, but intrusive. You flinch, more out of instinct than anything else, and Macaque pauses, his eyes narrowing just slightly.

“It won’t hurt. Or taste bad. Azure made sure none of this would be unpleasant for a mortal.”

You try to nod, though it’s awkward with the tool in your mouth. Macaque takes it as a cue to continue, brushing your teeth with a deliberate circular rhythm. long. But, true to his word, the paste doesn’t sting or leave an acrid aftertaste- instead, it’s cool and herbal, with a faint sweetness from the mint. The bristles tickle more than anything, and after a moment, your teeth start to feel… bare.

Stripped of grit and mud. Of moldy leftovers and bits of sand.

The grime that’s been built up after years of poor living is stripped like bark is peeled from a tree, in that all that is left under the coating is a smooth, soft white. The sensation is uncomfortable in its newness, leaving your mouth feeling raw and exposed. Your tongue darts along the surface of your teeth, licking again and again at the lack of filth.

“There,” Macaque huffs, pulling back as he dips the brush into a bowl of water to rinse it clean. “Clean enough that you don’t have an excuse for getting sick.”

You swallow thickly, avoiding his gaze. You don’t feel like thanking him. Not after everything.

Instead, you glance toward MK, who’s still engrossed in his book. He’s watching you through the corner of his eye, waiting for some kind of signal. You don’t know what he expects from you—a smile? A reassurance?

It seems like you’re as much a stranger to him as he is to you, despite your efforts to keep him safe all these years.

A demon prince hailing from the kings of Flower Fruit Mountain, heir to the throne.

To you, he had only ever been a sweet little brother.

Did you realty know him at all?

The thought alone is too much.

The warmth of the bath, the suffocatingly tight towel, the newness of your teeth, the watchful eyes of a being so much stronger than you. It’s all too much. You sit down and draw your knees up to your chest, clutching the towel tightly, a silent plea for space that you will not receive.

The tension in the air again grows palpable, but before it can thicken further, the golden king reappears, his arrival announced by the clink of glittering beads against tile. Sun Wukong strides in with a bundle of neatly folded clothes in hand, his gaze flicking between you and Macaque.

—-——————————————————————

“That, little mortal, is when I joined my Sworn Brotherhood!”

The Great Sage Equal to Heaven smiles warmly at his recited memories, claws lightly sifting through a large collection of traditional clothing.

“We were going to lead a siege on that stuck-up realm of Celestials, but my darling moonbeam had an even better idea- why not start our own kingdoms? Instead of teaching those stuffy old fools how to respect us, we could just show them up and take all their little worshipping mortals away!”

You don’t say a word in turn, still bundled up in a fluffy towel, sitting on the nearest chair, idly watching through blank eyes. Since you hadn’t been willing to walk or respond, Wukong had scooped you up with a sigh and hurried off to his and Macaque’s shared changing room, given permission to pick out some old clothes of theirs to give you.

“Of course, all of the stuff that was supposed to be boring was, uh… a total mess. Y’know, like deciding on territories, drawing borders, figuring out taxes—ugh. Mortals do not like taxes. Sure like ‘em better than being eaten by demons, though.” He chuckles at his own words, shaking his head as if to dismiss the unpleasant memories of bureaucracy. Wukong pulls out a black ceremonial robe embroidered with purple thread and holds it up against you, squinting as if he’s considering how it might look.

“…no. My sweet moon wouldn’t like you wearing this.”

“…s’it “too nice” for me?”

“…you mortals really aren’t the best with self-esteem, are you? No, little villager- it’s because he wore something like this when we were married. After that, he started commissioning seamstresses to make him more clothes like that robe… the actual thing is framed in a glass box over our bed. I don’t understand why Mac wanted that, but I can’t ever say no to him…”

Wukong’s voice trails off, tone softening as his gaze drifted to the ceiling. A smile plays on his lips, barely restrained, as he’s replaying his dearest memory of Macaque on repeat. You shift uncomfortably, unsure how to respond, the weight of his affection for his moonlit partner pressing against the silence.

He breaks it himself, but only after walking across the room and popping open lacquered wood chest, breaking the preserving sigil printed across it .

“You know,” says the king, his claws tapping the gleaming pauldron of gold within, “I wore this when we got married.”

He turns to the side, catches the fact that you’ve perked up even a little, and continues.

“It was the nicest thing I owned at the time- most of my outfits were skinned animals and stolen rags. This is something my brothers had given me, so it was the nicest thing I had that wasn’t my staff.”

Wukong’s fingers linger on the golden armor, tone rich with an ancient nostalgia. “I wasn’t one for fancy clothes back then- still coming around to it now- but I was even worse with it back then. I wanted to go in my tiger skirt and my old boots! But my brothers? Oh, they insisted: “You’re getting married- you can’t just show up looking like a bandit on your wedding day!” So they gave me this, and a nice red robe with a ton of silly characters embroidered into it- it’s framed right next to my mate’s robe, now.”

Say something. You need to say something. You can’t just mumble and mutter if you want to stay in a king’s good graces, can you?

“…do you… remember your vows?”

He perks with a smile, intrigued by the random question, entirely missing how dangerously close you are to cracking.

“Well, if that’s want you want to know, how about I tell you about the whole ceremony? Here, I’ll lay out how it went…”

——————————————————————

Macaque shuffles in place for a moment, old meekness returning to him- his hands twitch, and the notes smoothly inked onto the sleeve of his silk robe catch in the light, drawing his aureate eyes downwards. The crowd all around is nervous mortals and drunk demons, dressed in red or black or gold, held at peace mostly by his eager “brothers”. On Azure’s lap and shoulders are several children, more interested in his blade and snout than the ceremony. He’s smiling, more at ease than any other here.

The others for the most part are doing alright. Peng is preoccupied with their drink, casually allowing themselves to be marveled at by a blacksmith and a jeweler- though neither are allowed to touch, both mortals are fervently etching the gilded designs into their paper scrolls. The avian flaps those glimmering wings on occasion, causing streaks of light to flash over the modest venue, catching across the polished tiles.

Yellowtusk sits on a carved stone chair, marking the attendants in a neat ledger, made oversized to fit his hands. Several troops of Long-Tailed and Crab-Eating Macaques play on his trunk and tusks, their little fingers deftly taking hold in the cracks of his thick skin to ascend it. They don’t ever distract him for more than a few seconds, even when the youngest cubs forget their manners and start chirping in his ears.

The largest of their Brotherhood stands at attention in the doorway, toying with the straps of his battle axe. His face is painted with a rarely seen apprehension, looking back and forth over the room on occasion. Sometimes his gaze stills on a veil-shrouded woman with painted lips, and then he smiles for a moment.

The Demon Bull King is not nearly as subtle of a man as he thinks.

Not that it matters- when, for all that (which is very much) his Sworn Brothers know he’s courting a Celestial Maiden, they’ve chosen to keep an oath of silence on the matter.

(“He’s our big guy,” as Wukong had put it during one meeting months ago. “And we want that goofball to be happy.”)

(All of them- even Peng- had toasted to that notion, in the general direction of the bull’s empty chair.)

The mortals are safe. His brothers are content. He can do this.

Once more the dried notes on his sleeve catch Macaque’s attention, snapping him from the venue and to his golden love.

One last time he goes over them, dedicating those practiced words to memory.

He takes a breath, and turns to the audience.

“My mate-to-be is… molten gold, kissed by the rising sun. Beautiful is a shallow word to describe him- he is a masterpiece, a divine work of art carved by the heavens themselves. His eyes hold the all the world’s fire within them, blazing with the brilliance of a thousand sunsets. His laughter is a hymn to freedom itself, a melody I pray to hear every day for the rest of my life. When I look at him, I don’t just see a king, but the very heart of my existence, the axis upon which my world turns. He is my sun, my storm, my sanctuary, my everything.”

Several of the softer mortals are touched by his speech, lifting their cotton sleeves to the very corners of their eyes. Others only lightly clap, still uncomfortable at being called to the union.

Macaque does not have time to look away from before Wukong’s ginger-furred paws clasp onto his shoulders, holding tight.

There are no notes, no hours of reciting, no time spent with helpful Sworn Brothers to listen and offer advice, no matter how snarky- Sun Wukong simply turns from the crowd and offers himself.

“Macaque… I love you. I want you to be my mate forever. Until the sun goes dark.” Wukong's tail flicks behind him, expression softening with a rare blush. "Because... you're part of my story, bud. You’ve always been a part of it. And I'm tired of pretending like I can write the rest of it without you. Be mine forever and let’s be mates.”

The world is blurry, at least to Macaque. Nine and a half seconds prior he had thought there’d be some disappointment to push through, delivered an insincere joke or a vow written by another’s hand.

But there was only been Sun Wukong, love of his life, smiling at him.

“I will be your mate,” he chokes out, “forever. Until the sun goes dark.”

——————————————————————

“We’ve never been apart since then,” he purrs, dragging one claw over a hanfu the color of a sky on a gentle morning, toying with the white sash to untie it. “Not even for a day.”

Before you have a chance to respond, he plucks up the garment and holds it out to you. The size difference between him and the outfit is comical, and you wonder why these two demon kings have it in the first place.

“This should fit you, bud! Here, let’s get that towel off-“

You scream.

It’s not particularly loud or long, or even desperate- but it’s a scream all the same.

Worse still for yourself, you take this hysteric moment to lay on some shaky remand.

“NO! No more! Just stop touching me! I don’t- I d-don’t like it! You’re- you’re twice my size and you keep- you and him are always getting in my face and- a-and putting your hands on me, and I- I’m am so, so sick of it! I am not an o-object! I am a person! I am a person! I-“

“Quiet. Now.”

Wukong’s golden eyes narrow as he stands there, the weight of his presence pressing down on the room like a thundercloud ready to burst. His tail flicks sharply, but his voice remains measured.

…there are tears rolling down your eyes now, lost in the fluffy expanse of the towel around your body, sopping uselessly away as the king takes two footsteps to your form, frowning.

Not that it does anything to settle the rapid beat of your heart, crushed by the newly oppressive atmosphere.

“…you’re scared. I understand that. And maybe my moonbeam and I, we’ve been a little too hands on. That’s on us. But this my pagoda, and I did not build it by hand so that a little guest could yell at me. You know that you’re not a prisoner here. The doors aren’t locked, and there aren’t guards stationed outside them… now. I’ll let you get dressed- alone- and then you can eat. And…

“And no more touching without your permission. Okay?”

“…m’sorry. F-for yelling.”

“…I’m not mad,” he lies, one hand shifting to condescendingly pat you on the head. “I forget- my brothers, and my mate, too- we yaoguai just aren’t the same as mortals. You little things are scared too easily, and break so quickly.”

Something about hearing that is humiliating, but you don’t dare argue with him. Instead, you hunch your shoulders and cling to the towel, sniveling down at the floor.

Wukong’s frown softens the longer he watches you cry, all the sharpest edges of his irritation melting away into something closer to pity.

“I’ll leave it here. Call if you get lost looking for the kitchen.”

His words are painfully curt, and then the king is gone, golden beads and silk robes swishing behind him with each step.

You were never close, and only ever tangentially in the “good graces” of these kings. It’s not like you’ve shattered some precious bond.

But you still feel bad.

You wouldn’t, not usually. But as you unwrap the towel and begin to dress yourself in the lovely hanfu left draped over the chair nearest to you, the aches and pains of yesterday’s chase down the mountain weigh on you, just as MK’s new identity and newer happiness strike a deep point of insecurity- that you simply weren’t good enough to take care of him.

You weren’t good enough to provide for him anymore.

You wanted to believe you were more than them- strong enough to survive on your own, to fight your way through the world with MK in tow. But the truth was harder to face: Sun Wukong and the Six-Eared Macaque were meteoric gods, and you were just a mortal caught in the tides of their myth.

And where MK was thriving in this ecliptic chaos, you instead were already cracking under pressure after only a day spent before the kings.

…there’s a lovely silk pouch, dyed the color of new lavender blooms, hanging from the hanfu- you only notice it after tying the sash into a decent bow. The soft texture grounds your tumultuous thoughts, and a powerful aroma steadily drifts from within.

You fiddle with the tie and open the sash, revealing a dried bundle of orange blossoms tightly tied together, each stem marked with a glittering mystic sigil- 提高.

Whatever scent they would’ve had already was amplified by the marking, causing a heavy flow of fresh floral scent to ooze from the little purse.

You lift it and take a deep breath from the bag, allowing the veil of citrus aroma to utterly cloud your mind, providing it a much needed fog to rest under.

The soothing haze is slow to fade, even after you’ve pulled away and sealed the bag, but eventually you are left with only your steadied thoughts in the ornate chamber, amongst fine silks and polished wood, treasures of centuries past hung casually about It’s beautiful—almost too much so.

A reminder that this world of theirs is not the same of yours.

But you would not stop trying to survive in it.