#lmk fics

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If Macaque was asked what his favorite thing about Flower Fruit Mountain was, he’d be the first to admit his fondness for its consistency.

Having risen amidst the calm waters of Earth’s equator, the island had never known the harsh bark of seasons demanding a change of climate, forever encapsulated in a state of spring if only to nurture its vibrant garden of flowers and trees.

The sky, too, never strayed far from the familiar status of clear, the sun’s routinely appearance a gentle glow everso eager to warm the fur of whatever little one had chosen to lounge about in its rays. Rarely was the sun ever blocked by the startling appearance of clouds and rain, their designated gods not daring to tread foot upon the island less it’d been deemed absolutely necessary.

Macaque supposes their fear of going anywhere near Flower Fruit Mountain meant that at least something good to come out of Wukong’s past claim as king. The sage may have disappeared from the mortal plane at least a few centuries ago, but not many beings were willing to take the risk encountering the ire of Wukong just to step on the island’s beach.

But whilst the implied protection very-well scared off any celestial beings or demons seeking new territory, it’d never exempted Macaque from needing to console little ones and fix whatever problems that’d frightened them.

He’d long outgrown the capability of counting on his hands just how many times he’d awoken at the first mention of sunlight to small monkeys hopping frantically atop his bed with urgent cries- ones painfully dismissive of his six ears -howling, “Macaque! Macaque! We lost [insert random number] banana trees last night-!”

Of course, Macaque- even amidst battling the thrall of sleep and his newly formed migraine -would always be mindful in comforting whomever had woken him, reminding them that he’d assist with planting more trees to replace whatever they’d lost. Sure it’d take a good year for the saplings to sprout and bear fruit, but that’d give them plenty of time to ensure other food alternatives remained bountiful.

Besides, if finding a few dead trees ended up being the annual tragedy his kingdom would need to face, Macaque couldn’t find himself bothered by the occasional rude awakening.

But to be savagely dragged from the comforting embrace of sleep by something heavy thumping hollowly against his forehead?

Yeah, no. He’ll take small hands shaking him awake anyday.

“Wha-?”

“Oh good, you’re not dead,” a familiar voice heaves somewhere to Macaque’s left, and he winces as the same hollow sound- which he now recognizes is a scroll -clatters violently against the stone flooring of his bedroom. It’s a harsh noise that harmonizes awkwardly with the distant chitters of other little ones roaming about the upper tunnels of the cave system. “I was beginning to think I’d have to handle the end of the world by myself-”

Now that puts distance between Macaque and the thick tendrils of sleep he’s still partially ensnared by, the king’s ears flattening in brief sorrow as he forces himself from the comforting warmth of his bedsheets and onto his feet.

He’s almost certain the little one that’d struck him is Èzuòjù, a blonde gibbon that’d never been the type to fear Macaque growing angry over his wild antics. Of course, Macaque’s genuine temper was a difficult thing to evoke, but it was the youthful spirit’s bravery that’d gotten him in good graces with the antisocial king in the first place.

Alas, it isn’t the familiar grin of a gibbon that greets Macaque’s brief scan of his bedroom, his eyebrows pinching as he finds an oddly short wall of bamboo scrolls seemingly floating across the floor. It takes an embarrassingly amount of time before he realizes that his library hadn’t suddenly learned the art of levitation, but that it was Èzuòjù himself dragging the heavy things across the room.

It’s an odd sight, really, the little one never having been the type to take an interest in reading. Learning to verbally translate Mandarin? Sure. But stealing Macaque’s reading material?

Maybe the world really was ending.

Wait-

Macaque hisses as the damning thud of a migraine vibrates against his skull, pressing a hand to his eyes if only to quell the pain and attempt to chase aside the fog of sleep still triumphantly seeking refuge behind his gaze.

The noise of discontent that’d managed to surface feels far too muted as well, his tongue heavy and uncooperative despite the verbal communication and sheer mental load this situation is bound to demand from him. “Why- my scrolls? And the world- why is the world ending?”

“The sky’s black,” Èzuòjù announces, helpful as per usual in his report. The wall of scrolls hesitates once before it clatters to the ground, Macaque’s thudding ears echoing the unapologetic “-oops-” that’s carelessly tossed his way.

“And,” the little one drawls with newfound disinterest in the pile of scrolls as he lifts his gaze toward the other. Macaque blinks expectantly when Èzuòjù suddenly pauses, the gibbon’s previous expression of quiet triumph quickly dissolving into one akin to shock. “Holy shit, you are dark.”

Ok-ay.

The world is ending.

The world is ending and it’s all because…the sky is black.

And because Macaque is dark. Whatever that could mean.

A disorientated sound claws its way up the back of his throat and he almost entertains the thought that this could all just be apart of some prank. Macaque was never the quickest to gain coherent thought after being abruptly woken, and Èzuòjù wasn’t the type to pass the opportunity to terrorize Macaque’s occasional moments of peace.

The worlding ending wouldn’t even make sense in the first place; Earth was far too early in its cycle for the Heavens to let it die, and well, the sky being black wouldn’t be anything new.

It’d only mean that the moon was still in its first phases, too weak for its light to reach the Earth and declare that Macaque should definitely be fast asleep instead of doing whatever this is.

“…and?”

The gibbon stares a beat longer before visibly shaking himself from whatever spell had possessed him. “It’s noon.”

Heavens above, no wonder Èzuòjù thought he died. He’d overslept, badly, and now it was noon.

Actually, no. He’d overslept and now the world was apparently ending, all because the sky is still dark and it’s supposedly noon-

Oh.

Oh.

“There it is.”

There’s a shrill yelp as Macaque flings himself toward his wardrobe, unguilty as he disregards the indignant expression that crosses Èzuòjù’s face.

“The world is ending, and you’re getting dressed?” the gibbon asks, incredulously.

But Macaque pays no mind toward the question, clawing desperately through his drawers in search for the familiar rough fabric of his yellow and black hanfu. It was an article of clothing that the king had practically been raised in, and he’d made dozens of copies in the past few centuries if only to keep the original hanfu safely contained within his wardrobe.

On a normal day, Macaque would’ve hissed at the idea of wearing it outside, fearful the Heavens would take his boldness as a taunt to destroy it, but today was anything but normal.

His world was soon to end, and the king could care less for his hanfu’s safety as he dressed himself in red pants and a waistplate tied to his hips by a sash only a shade lighter than his pants. His iconic scarf is the next item to wrap around his neck, Macaque certain it’d match with the pale complexion of his fur.

(“Reds and yellows, bud, reds and yellows. Lemme tell ya, they’ll change your life!”)

He almost hesitates as his hand fastens around the decoration to coincide with his outfit: a gentle crown with leaves that’d been chain-linked together by little ones. It wasn’t a sturdy headpiece by any means, and it needed to be remade as least every three months, but Macaque had never minded such a fact.

The little ones were more than happy to remake him his crown and graciously bestow it upon his head with chants of, “Our king- our king-!”

“The world isn’t ending,” he manages to murmur whilst blindly adjusting his crown, his other free hand naturally clenched at the scarf around his neck. He knows that reds and yellows will never quite fit into his albino color scheme, but Macaque would be damned if he wasn’t draped in clothes that sang of nostalgia for his own king’s return.

He dares a glance at the mirror he’d previously leaned against his wardrobe and-

…and he pauses.

Because surely, that couldn’t be him?

It resembled him undoubtedly, the reflection standing with its own expression of shock and nostalgia as a hand lies frozen against its scarf. There’s even an awkward tilt in the leaf crown it wears, the gentle vegetation having given way to stray fur still tussled from sleep.

A glance toward his arm only confirms his fears, chest squeezing with an emotion he refuses to put a name to.

Gone is the familiar shade of white fur that Macaque had grown to adore amidst his centuries of life, replaced by a pelt bearing an almost navy shade of black.

It isn’t unlike the color of the sky just beyond his window, not quite able to be called black as though whatever deity had cursed him had taken into account the sun’s weak attempts to bring light to Earth.

He looks every bit the king he’d sworn himself to become- even adorned in colors that finally compliment the red masking around his eyes.

Macaque stares and what the fuck- what the fuck-? Why- this had to be His fault- He isn’t here by my side and it feels like a brand, get it off- get it off-

Èzuòjù’s tail flicks, hesitant in the corner of Macaque’s eyes and his mouth instinctively clicks open. It’s only habit as his mind combs desperately for something to say, anything to reassure the little one so blatantly unnerved by the scene.

But it proves to be pointless, his jaw clamping shut once more as a purple vortex pools beneath his feet. The shadows hiss with discontent, a second voice to Macaque’s blinding panic whilst they lash relentlessly at his ankles.

It isn’t until his ears flatten that Èzuòjù suddenly leaps from his state of uncertainty, hand outstretched as though to stop the other.

“Wait, Macaque-!”

But the king only falls blissfully into the familiar snare of his shadows, the temporary comfort that the portal brings short-lived as he’s spat violently somewhere amidst the cave system’s Eastern Tunnels. The spare shadows still lurking at his feet rumble with a silent fury, but for once the apathy his shadows seek appears only in the truth that their master could care less for the rebellious behavior.

He’d been long deserving of the ability to freak out, and today was the day he finally had a reason to do so.

After all, Macaque was nothing but a dead monkey desperate to breathe meaning and control into his final moments of life, certain he’s soon to become the very image of a dead king that Macaque had once proclaimed Wukong to of been.

The only difference will be a body to prove the other’s death.

“…que…!”

No, he doesn’t have the time to think about that. It was noon, and Wukong could very well burst through the waterfall at any moment, seeking any ounce of attention the island could afford.

The great sage might even demand a banquet at once and of course that’d leave no room for Macaque’s tongue to intervene, it never had before. Wukong would do anything to avoid confrontation that he’d inadvertently caused, including using the excuse of hunger like he used to amidst the Brotherhood.

“…caque…!”

His excitement may even gloss over the blatant evidence that a coup had taken place in Wukong’s absence; one orchestrated by his best friend nonetheless. The blissful peace that’d come with the sage’s oversight wouldn’t last though, especially with regard toward the fact that Macaque would refuse to let the little ones approach him.

Maybe he could…oh gods, do what?

Just turn the “Great Sage, Equal to Heaven” away the moment he attempts to step foot on the island?

The bastard would be furious.

“…slo…own…!”

…or maybe he wouldn’t. Wukong’s temper had always been something that’d needed to be fed and nurtured through mutual anger, surely that could be useful. Should Macaque at least attempt to remain calm and blunt, then the sage would have no room to be combative, right?

It wasn’t perfect, but gods was Macaque reaching desperately for straws- anything to preserve the prosperity he’d sworn to eternally gift Flower Fruit Mountain and the little ones.

Besides, Wukong wouldn’t dare do something drastic and violent against someone who’d protected his homeland for centuries, let alone his best friend. There’d be no need for him to summon his staff and-

“Macaque!”

The king freezes at an instant, terror striking behind his gaze as he searches frantically for whoever had called his name. There’s a flash of golden fur- one that looks a little too familiar -and Macaque almost shrieks amidst in his attempts to not stumble.

The suffocating blanket of panic quickly sheds to make way for guilt as he finds Èzuòjù staring, the gibbon’s eyes the size of rice bowls and his fur puffed out in clear concern.

His shadows must have teleported him not far from the confinements of his room, only forgiving enough to gift him a few seconds to breathe.

“Èzuòjù,” Macaque swallows, a hand to his chest if only to calm down its rapid beat. “You scared me.”

“I scared you?” the little one questions and Macaque can do nothing but weakly offer his arm for the gibbon to leap upon, a small olive branch that’s taken almost instantly. “What is going on? The sky’s black, you’re black, the world isn’t ending apparently, but you still disappeared on me, and are we going into lockdown or-?”

“Yes,” Macaque interrupts, lunging at the opportunity to escape the ontourage of questions bound to be sitting on the gibbon’s tongue. He could barely keep his own head straight, let alone try and answer Èzuòjù’s questions should they continue.

…but going into lockdown would be a good idea. It’d certainly keep the little ones far from whatever reaction Wukong could potentially have.

“Look,” he breathes, praying that he doesn’t sound as exasperated as he feels. “Long before you were born, the Jade Emperor foretold an event that’d occur amidst the next eclipse- today’s eclipse.”

“Eclipse-?”

“The sun and moon will merge together, and when they do, a…demon of sorts will appear on Flower Fruit Mountain.”

There’s a beat of silence and Macaque almost fears that the gibbon will claim the excuse to be as phony as his weak attempts to seem collected. Èzuòjù had always been good at that.

But the gibbon only stares a moment longer before his eyebrows knit. “What do you need from me?”

Heavens above, for all the grief he gives Èzuòjù, it’s moments like this that remind Macaque exactly why he doesn’t mind the little one’s mischievous antics.

“I need everyone in the Upper Tunnels of the Western Caves, and no matter what happens, they aren’t to leave. I’ll portal anyone I’m able to find in the Eastern Caves, but a mouth to explain the situation or at least warn others would be helpful.”

There’s only a firm nod before the gibbon scampers off, presumably to locate the desired caves and provide relief to whatever panicked brother needed it.

The crushing wave of relief at being alone once more collides oddly with the cautiously suppressed anger that’d been arising within Macaque’s stomach, a dangerous concoction of panic and frustration over the situation at hand.

Wukong was never meant to return, and it was such a fact that had gifted Macaque the boldness to ascend the throne in the first place.

Macaque might as well surrender his title of king anyway, now sharing more in common with a wife whose husband had come home early and was soon to catch her amidst her affair. For Heaven's sake, he was stumbling about the extensive cave system if only to portal away any little ones like a wife would her paramour.

It’s a measurement of safety, he tells himself if only to comfort his mind.

History was not one to take kindly to being rewritten, but two centuries had proven Macaque’s attempts to be a blinding success. He refuses to give Wukong yet another chance to ruin everything he’d done to protect both their subjects and the sage’s legacy of chaos.

It’d only take one stray slip of tongue for his life’s work to be uprooted. The little ones would learn that Wukong was in fact not deceased, and that Macaque had sworn the sage’s allegiance where it didn’t belong.

After all, Wukong had never proclaimed himself to be allied with the subjects of his mountain; it was only the pride that came with claiming ownership to a kingdom that he had entertained.

You are not ruining this, Macaque swears, and the mantra continues in his attempts to seek out any stray little ones.

It’s only once the panicked chatter of ape-speak settles toward the western side of the cave system that Macaque finds himself content pacing the Central Cave. It was a gracious clearing, full of vegetation and still bearing the same hut that Wukong had built nearly a millennium ago. If there was anywhere the sage would seek company first, it would be here, only a short journey from the cave’s initial entrance.

Macaque isn’t sure how long it takes for his theory to reign true, his ears flicking as the soft hiss of a cloud dissipates somewhere beyond the cave’s waterfall. Clumsiness writes itself in the heavy thrum of each step, the familiar sound not unlike if Macaque attempted to recognize someone’s handwriting.

The note of recklessness continues as the steps grow closer, and Macaque is certain that even if he lacked six ears, he’d still be able to hear the sheer weight behind the sage’s feet.

“Mihou!” that damned voice sings, not unlike a demon outstretching their hand in faux kindness. “Little ones! I’ve returned home!”

Home.

Macaque tries his hardest to chase the anxiety and bittersweet sorrow that laces his tongue, bidding his lips to remain firm in an expression of displeasure.

Perhaps in another life “Mihou” would’ve been all Wukong needed to say before Macaque would spring into chirps of glee, smiling fondly as little ones tackled their righteous king to the ground. Apologies would cascade from the sage’s mouth like a waterfall, and tearful laughter would consume his six ears as they attempted to make up for the time they’d regrettably lost in the other’s absence.

Faintly his mind traces another life, in which Wukong calls only out to the little ones, far too acquainted with the concept that Macaque would never again be able to step foot on Flower Fruit Mountain.

But such fantasies would never be the life Macaque could live within; they’d died the day that the ex-moon had been gifted a choice:

Mourn and daydream over the useless taunts of “what-if”, or focus on protecting the little ones and ensure the prosperity of their lives.

The decision was obvious, so both he and Flower Fruit Mountain had been forced to cut the strings of codependency that’d once kept them enthralled with their past king.

Wukong’s voice yells throughout the cave once more and Macaque hates how heavy the crown sitting atop his head has grown.

Wukong had never needed a crown to proclaim his status of king. His very essence exuded that of power, an ambitious conquest that Macaque had never found himself caring enough to venture toward. He wasn’t king through acts of bravery, nor because he’d inherited it righteously in the death of his best friend.

Macaque was only king because he’d been left to his own devices, and because the crown atop his head exclaimed that such a statement must be true.

A flash of gold finally peaks into the cave’s clearing, and Macaque swallows the desperate whine that’d made its home within his throat, forced into silence out of fear he’d call out for someone he’d sworn he’d buried nearly two centuries ago.

Wukong was meant to be dead and yet here he stood, uncharacteristically shy as he sought refuge behind a grand fern.

“Wukong.”

Said monkey’s head snaps to meet Macaque’s wide gaze, those familiar golden eyes crinkling into something akin to joy before they flee back toward the vibrant greenery in a nostalgic display of guilt and panic.

If not for the sombersome scene, Macaque is certain he would’ve smiled at how familiar the expression is, not unlike the reaction Wukong would have whenever Macaque smacked him upside the head for doing something stupid. It’d all been in good fun, amidst a fun when they’d all been so young and naive, too focused on lounging about and cracking jokes to worry themselves with immortality and power.

The clearing stills, and for a moment, he fears that they’ll both continue the awkward stalemate.

But the anxiety on Wukong’s face quickly falls apart, giving way to a quizzical expression as their eyes meet once more. The sage isn’t unlike a rabbit as he bounds forward, Macaque’s rule of personal space forgotten in Wukong’s eagerness to get a closer look at the newly-turned-black monkey.

“Something's…different about you,” the great sage begins, ever-so-observant as Macaque tries not to squirm beneath his gaze. He doesn’t care to denote the uncomfortable stance of the celestial monkey, springing up dramatically as he chitters with excitement. “Oh, I know! C’mon, bud, even I’d be able to tell you’ve dyed your fur. Kinda miss the grey, though.”

“White,” Macaque corrects, far from amused.

“Pfft, same thing.”

Well, Macaque supposes there is one thing he could always trust Wukong to do; disappoint him time and time again.

“Fun crown, too. The little ones manage to strangle you into it?”

And how could he forget Wukong’s habit of releasing tension through attempts to embarrass those around him?

“No, actually,” Macaque grits, trying his hardest to maintain poise. The crown had been a thoughtful gift bestowed upon him, and as much as the thought made his six ears turn red, Macaque felt much more at-ease wearing it in the face of his past king.

(“You deserve to be king,” the crown sang, sitting content atop his fur. “You wouldn’t of been given it otherwise.”)

“It was a gift. They missed having a king, so…”

So they’d wrapped Macaque in the finest jewelry and armor of Wukong’s treasury, completing his coronation with a carefully weaved crown and Macaque’s now infamous red scarf, whose unique red hue was the result of a dye from the flowers of Flower Fruit Mountain and a few feathers that’d been “borrowed” from a Phoenix.

“That’s adorable,” Wukong grins, an almost knowing expression on his face. “Ya’ think they’ll make me one if I ask them?”

“I didn’t have to ask for mine.”

“Is that a no, or?”

“It’s a no.”

“…it’s my turn, then.”

And Wukong bows, his chest low to the ground as though he were expecting for the crown to be transferred onto his head.

Oh, Macaque realizes, dumbly. Wukong does expect the crown.

His heart makes an ugly snarl, but the sound that comes from his throat is nothing but unkempt laughter. Quickly he swipes a claw at the tears forming at his eyes, if only to keep the salty water from dampening his fur. “You expect me to give you my crown?”

“I mean, every king does need a crown, doesn’t he? C’mon, Mac, just share this once-”

Wukong lunges and adrenaline collides violently with the blood cells running through Macaque’s veins. His brain feels as though it’d been dowsed by the ice-cold bucket of panic, falling into a state of defense even despite the fact the Wukong had clearly aimed only for the crown.

A furious shriek beats Macaque to the punch, fangs entering the scene before being followed closely by the harsh sound of Wukong screeching.

Macaque blinks once, vision clearing to reveal the “Great Sage” himself flailing his arm like a helpless infant and Èzuòjù’s fangs sunken deep into scarred flesh.

“Let go!” Wukong shrieks in Mandarin, and Macaque knows damn well that Èzuòjù understands the command.

After all, the gibbon had been the one to demand that Macaque teach him Mandarin in the first place, now well-educated in translating the language despite the fact that Èzuòjù’s vocal cords would never enable the gibbon to speak it.

Wukong is pleading on deaf ears, as the king of Flower Fruit Mountain has yet to demand the gibbon to release his prey.

It isn’t until Macaque extends his own arm that the gibbon returns to his righteous king’s side, snarling once toward Wukong before settling down at Macaque’s shoulders.

“Little one,” Wukong whines, exasperated as he cradles his wounded arm, and the noise feels…odd as it bounces against Macaque’s thrumming eardrums. It’s a form of ape-speak that the king hadn’t heard in over seven centuries, old but blatantly familiar dripping from the sage’s tongue.

Heavens above, Wukong hadn’t even attempted to keep up with the rapidly changing dialect of his mother tongue.

It’d been at least a handful of centuries since “little one” had turned into the gentle chirp of “little one”.

“I thought I told you to stay with the others,” Macaque begins, forcing himself to ignore Wukong’s noise of confusion. Perhaps if the “Great Sage” had put effort into his own mother tongue, then he’d have the right to tune into the conversation. “What if they come searching for you?”

“They won’t,” Èzuòjù huffs, teeth still bared but certainly not toward Macaque. “And who-? Is that the demon? He could’ve done something if I hadn’t appeared!”

“He woulda just stolen my crown for a moment,” Macaque murmurs in a desperate attempt to diffuse the situation. “He wouldn’t have hurt me.”

Still, Macaque finds himself doubtful of his own words. After all, Wukong had still yet to understand the reason behind Èzuòjù’s aggression.

“Mihou,” the sage complains. “You better be reprimanding him for biting me.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Macaque rolls his eyes before gently petting at the fur surrounding Èzuòjù’s face. “But I’m glad you bit him, I was seconds away from doing it myself.”

“That does not look like reprimanding.”

“You deserved it,” Macaque shrugs. “Don’t try and swipe what isn’t yours.”

“But I’m the king! I’m in need of a crown.”

“The King of Flower Fruit Mountain already wears one,” Macaque hums, bowing his head slightly if only to allow Èzuòjù to try and straighten the tussled crown. “I don’t think I see any other kings in need of one.”

Wukong freezes, and for a heartbeat Macaque almost expects to be punched, even with a little one crouched on his shoulders.

But the Great Sage only stares with wide, uncertain eyes. “You wouldn’t-”

“Èzuòjù,” Macaque interrupts, his voice uncharacteristically harsh as his ape-speak blends into Mandarin. “This is not a conversation for you to hear.”

Èzuòjù’s eyes almost match that of Wukong’s, though a deeper shade of concern versus betrayal runs rampid. “But, Macaque-”

The gibbon is given no further chance to speak, quickly whisked into a vortex that’d put the little one with his siblings in the Western Tunnels. This fight would not be Èzuòjù’s to hear nor attempt to interfere with.

“You’ve been gone for several centuries,” Macaque continues, quickly dismissing the bitterness that’d threatened to lace his words. “Y’know, when you told me to do anything to protect Flower Fruit Mountain, I took it to heart.”

“I didn’t think that meant ‘take the throne’!” Wukong gapes, throat raspy with what Macaque can only hope is disbelief and not strain from attempting ape-speak.

“Oh, of course,” he agrees and now he allows sarcasm to drip from his tongue. “‘Suppose I was just meant to, y’know, keep it warm and then lay down like a good dog, yeah? ‘Heel, Mihou, your king has returned’!”

The words taste as bitter as Macaque recalls them to be, still clear in his mind despite them having been uttered nine centuries ago when they were still on good terms with the brotherhood. He only has Wukong to blame, who’d never let his companion live down the embarrassment he’d caused during one of their many meetings.

Amidst his own exhaustion, Macaque had accidentally stolen Wukong’s seat at the end of the table, a mistake that the table had at first brushed aside. After all, the closeness of the two monkeys could easily explain this odd occurence to of been planned.

Macaque would sit in Wukong’s seat, and Wukong in Macaque’s.

Alas, there’d been a soft croon of “Aww, Mihou, keeping it warm just for little ol’ me? No worries, your king has returned-” before the table realized that the white monkey had indeed made a genuine mistake, bursting into laughter whilst shades of red painted Macaque’s face and ears.

His expression hardens.

“I refuse to kneel before you again.”

“But I am still your king,” Wukong deflects, bold. “And this is still our home.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Macaque shrugs, nearly shocking himself with how nonchalant his taunts sound. It’s a stark contrast to the consistent stutter his heart bears and he’s almost grateful that Wukong doesn’t share his enhanced hearing. “It took centuries, but Flower Fruit Mountain doesn’t remember you anymore. At least, not as anything but their island’s first king, who’s long gone in history. You can’t remain here and call it home.”

Wukong’s smirk is nothing but teeth, lips curled into an ugly expression of gloat. “So, you’re, what? Banishing me from my own kingdom?”

“Yeah.”

Heavens above, Macaque almost swoons over the way the sage’s smug expression drops into something more masked and deadly.

“Don’t be cruel,” Wukong growls. “You’re being cruel.”

I’m terrified, he instinctively corrects. Not cruel.

Wukong merely could not stay on Flower Fruit Mountain. Macaque had built a life that the island’s prior king could not be apart of.

Macaque’s ears flatten. Perhaps he was being cruel.

But who would cruelty’s mother be if not terror?

“Your stupidity and absence killed this island- killed me before I ascended the throne,” Macaque reports, his tail rigid as he stares at the ape he’d sworn he’d buried. No, he thinks, he’d only buried the memory of Wukong amidst his begging to the Heavens that the bastard would never return.

But an eclipse rages on just beyond the curtained waterfall.

And Macaque’s fur will never be white again, forever branded by Wukong’s misdeeds.

“For centuries I called for you, begging the stars to let you return to Flower Fruit Mountain once again, but never once did you heed my call,” he tsks, “You stood tall, strong as ever in the face of freedom, even as I mourned the very thought of you.”

And Macaque hates how his own conscious yearns to protect Wukong’s mistakes, with screams that selflessness and vulnerability had never been the melted rivers of iron that Wukong’s strength was forged within. Neither was it true that kindness was the native tongue the “Great Sage” could conjugate the words of with ease.

Only the familiar sensation of anger could appease Wukong in the face of confrontation, like a heron poised but still ever-so irritated in its wait for prey to arrive.

But unlike the common tale between a heron and fish, Macaque does not quiver nor dart beneath the venomous stare of death itself, standing tall and arrogant as Wukong does before him.

He cared not for the sage’s opinion on that fact that Flower Fruit Mountain was now Macaque’s to protect, and whether such protection was against outside demands or the island’s own previous king would never matter; Macaque would rather face death itself than forfeit his centuries of work.

“I haven’t killed you,” Wukong breathes, voice an inch from being a hiss as his shoulders sit strained with what Macaque can assume is the thin lacing of desperation. “If I had, you’d already be haunting me. In death you would have followed me, taking any form- moon or shadow -just to argue and speak with me.”

And like a newborn fawn, Wukong lurches forward, a hand clenching tightly over his chest as though he were soon to burst into laughter. “It’s in life that you refuse to follow me. You’ve agreed to abandon me and try to banish me from our home.”

Ironic, for Wukong to claim he’d been the one thrown aside.

Macaque stands firm, gaze unwavering. “The ‘Great Sage’ doesn’t need me to find some other island to conquer. Your lust for power has already settled any domain of this realm yours to take.”

There’s a beat of silence, and a vicious snarl hovers atop Wukong’s lips.

Perhaps in another life, amidst the gentle mantras of tranquility and suffrage, Wukong would have paused to acknowledge his misdeeds and agreed it to be best that he found a new kingdom to proclaim as his own. Or perhaps in another life this situation would have never existed, as Wukong chose to live his days peacefully on Flower Fruit Mountain instead of daring to wreak havoc on the Heavens.

But Macaque can only mourn for what could have been, for in this life Wukong was still a creature birthed with the knowledge he’d need to fight his way through life, a mantra that’d grown him obsessed with sneaking past the title of “distrustful and cunning” and proclaiming the words to be sisters of “ambition”.

Macaque knows well that Wukong is an unstoppable force that now stands firmly before an immovable rock, one not unlike the one Wukong had destroyed the moment he was born.

Today will be the day legends will speak of, the Heavens concede, safe from the sage’s wrath amidst the clouds. They’ll pass stories of the rivalry that’d caused the obsessive relation between shadow and host.

For if the Great Sage, an Equal of the Heavens, could not have his moon by his side, then he would have him forever in his shadow, lying in wait for his righteous king to order him about.

Pigsy woke up to his alarm on October 14th the same way he did every goddamned year: with his alarm blaring, dread in his chest, and a lump in his throat. It was aggravating– even when Pigsy made an effort not to keep track of calender dates, his body just knew– it just fucking knew. Then again it probably didn’t help that today was also the day of the field trip to the zoo that Tang was chaperoning for MK and Mei– which was good, but also meant for weeks all he’d heard about was today’s date.

The last time he ever talked to Sandy.

Pigsy was going to open the restaurant. He had every year since that godawful call. He had to. It wasn’t like he ever wanted to close it though– that would be stupid. He needed the money. ‘Sides, Pigsy never closed– unless it was for the kids. But that was different. This was nothing. A memory. Something that happened eight years ago. Pigsy was fine. This didn’t matter.

Sit up. Crack the back. Turn off that stupid alarm. Breathe.

He’d lived here for over a month, but it was still difficult to adjust to the fact that while this room certainly had the space for a kitchen, he’d actually have to go out for any of that.

Unlike that day. Or night, really. It was 2:46 AM when he’d gotten the first call. He’d just gotten home from spending the night with some lady demon at a stupid ass bar. He was exhausted from the drinking and hollering and had just wanted to crash into bed, and when he saw it was an unknown number he just ignored it.

“PIGGY! I CAN’T FIND MY BACKPACK!” Mei called from the hallway.

The chef rubbed his eyes. “Have you looked in the closet?”

A bit of pause.

“NOT THERE– OH WAIT–” Pigsy chuckled a little as he heard things being tossed. “FOUND IT!”

“Well there you go, kid. Get ready.” He called out and with a quick patter, she was gone.

Find a clean shirt. Put in one arm, then the other. Make sure the buttons aren’t crooked. Find pants, one leg, then the other. Find socks. Realize all of your socks are a mess. Realize you are a mess. Put them on anyway. Find shoes, tie them. Breathe.

Pigsy was glad he wasn’t going on the field trip. Of course Mk and Mei had practically begged him, but it was a good step for Tang to have them for a couple of hours. Sorta like ‘testing the waters’ or whatever. ‘Sides, he was feeling hungover, despite the fact he didn’t drink at all the previous night. Or– week, for that matter. Either way there was a headache and he didn’t feel like making breakfast.

MK was already dressed and waiting for the pig demon at the kitchen island, feet swinging happily with the kind of pure joy radiating on his face that only a child could possess.

“Morning Pigsy!” He said, leaning forward. “Whatcha gonna make today?”

“Cereal. I’m tired,” Pigsy grumbled, pulling down a box of ‘Monkey Charms’ and some bowls.

MK laughed a little. “You’re tired a lot, Pigsy.”

“Yeah. I am,” Pigsy sighed, going to the fridge for milk, disappointed to find there was barely enough for two bowls– but whatever, he’d just skip it. Wasn’t like he couldn’t afford it.

MK was content though, scarfing down his food at his usual quick pace while he tried to talk about the latest episode of The Ninja King while Pigsy brewed himself a pot of coffee and tried to listen.

He hadn’t even had time to take his coat off when the phone rang again. With a grunt, he set it on the counter, upset he saw it was the same unknown number. He had gone to pour himself a glass of baijiu. It had stopped ringing by the time he finished drinking it.

“...And then Monkey King– er– Monkey Ninja King was all like ‘Watch this suckaaaaa’ and did a backflip, snapped the bad guy's neck and saved the day! It was so cool, Pigsy– I love cable,” MK finished, snapping Pigsy back.

“Sounds kind of violent, don’t it?” Pigsy didn’t have an issue, he just wondered how a kid like MK would like something like that.

“Eh, it was cool,” MK shrugged with a grin, eating more cereal. “Plus, it was to defend this lady monkey so it was for honor and stuff and the greater good.”

“Well that’s good I guess,” Pigsy shrugged to himself.

“MK-! Do you have my– Cereal? Why cereal?” Mei stopped in her tracks.

“What’s wrong with cereal? Don’t you like it?” The chef frowned a little.

“Nooo, I dooo, it’s just– I dunno– boring?” Mei shrugged.

“Well it’s what you’re getting today. Mr. Tang can buy you two some lunch– and if he can’t, then tell him I’ll pay him back,” Pigsy rubbed his forehead and went back to his coffee.

“Ughhhhhhhhhh, okay,” Mei groaned, taking her seat and complying.

The machine beeped and Pigsy grabbed his favorite mug and poured.

With the blink of dissociative eyes, Pigsy was already out the door and dropped the kids off at the school, and apparently he’d lit a cigarette somewhere along the way too. He wasn’t supposed to– he knew MK hated it, but he couldn’t smother it no matter how hard he tried.

“Hey you two little monkeys-! You ready for the field trip?” Tang snuck up on Pigsy and cheered for the kids who quickly joined in.

“I wanna see the monkeys! I hear they got cool nets and stuff and you can go through tunnels and stuff and they’ll move around you,” MK grinned big, glad to step away from the smoke a bit.

“Well I wanna see the reptile room. I wanna see me a big old lizard boy,” Mei announced.

“I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time for both, you two,” Tang laughed before turning his attention to Pigsy.

“Are… you okay?” His face immediately fell.

“Bad morning. Have fun with the kids,” Pigsy half-lied, not wanting to get into it and figuring a simple explanation would keep him happy and at least slightly unworried.

“Oh– uh– will do then,” Tang winced a little, before adding– “Try not to smoke too much, though.”

Pigsy snorted weakly before saying motionless goodbyes and heading off to the restaurant by himself.

In the subway, his phone rang. Pigsy’s breath hitched as he fished it out and immediately hit decline, not even bothering to check caller ID. He also didn’t get rid of his cigarette when someone told him it wasn’t allowed on the train. He rode in silence, until he was suddenly unlocking the door of the restaurant.

8:32– he was late.

How, he didn’t know– maybe there’d been a delay in the train. Maybe he’d done something wrong– well that was probably guaranteed but– ugh, he didn’t have time for this. He set his cigarette in an ashtray and started prepping, startled when half way through slicing chives he realized he already had another in his mouth, and the stench was starting to burn his throat.

Get it together.

Suddenly he was finished with both the cigarette and the prep work and so opened at–

9:03– still late.

This time he saw himself fish out his reds and lighter but he didn’t even bother to try and pull back.

His phone buzzed to life again at 9:32, when still nobody had arrived at the restaurant. He took it out of his pocket but instead of answering, he placed it on the counter and watched it buzz and buzz and ring and ring and ring and ring and– Why hadn’t anyone arrived yet? It was a friday for crying out loud– Pigsy was supposed to be busy by now– his hands were supposed to be clocking in orders and he was just supposed to be lost in the circadian rhythm– they were supposed to fucking be here already.

When the phone finally stopped buzzing, Pigsy scrubbed down the restaurant one– two– three but still by 10:19 nobody was there. Nobody. Not a single soul.

Alone.

…He wasn't supposed to– it was technically illegal, but he opened a bottle of rice wine and began to drink, the dry mix of sweet and sour clashing with the ash and toxicity of tobacco. It was god awful and didn't do anything to make Pigsy feel better but he continued to drink anyways as his world just started to spiral in his head.

Nobody was there.

Was he even reading the clocks right? It was morning– people should be here– they shouldn't let him do this– he shouldn't let him do this–

His phone rang again.

Enraged, Pigsy snatched the phone from the counter and grabbed another bottle of wine (having finished the first) before storming up the stairs into the mostly empty apartment that was in the process of becoming an office/hang out space for MK and Mei. He set the phone on the counter and sat at a stool and watched it as his mind tugged him further and further back into the past.

Pigsy popped open the bottle and took a long, long swig.

.o0o.

Annoyance had flooded Pigsy’s senses when the phone rang a third time that morning, and despite his instincts to just hang up and block the number, he answered.

“Hello–”

“Pigsy-! Thank the stars you answered– I-i—”

“Sandy? The hell happened to your phone?” Pigsy poured himself another glass of baijiu.

“Pigsy– l-look, I-i– I don’t know what to do– I-i didn’t know who to call– I-i–”

“Woah, woah, woah– slow your roll here, man,” Pigsy huffed and took a sip. “The hell happened? Are you– crying?”

“I-i’m in jail, Pigsy– b-but look– you gotta listen to me– whatever they tell you, I-i didn’t mean to, okay? She was my world Bajie– please–”

All humor left the air and Pigsy set his glass down. “Sandy, you gotta calm down. I can’t understand you with all this weepin’.”

Harsh words– too harsh.

“Pigsy please, you gotta help me–”

“Sandy, stop– Just–” Pigsy rubbed his forehead, leaning on the sink. “It’s way too late for this, and you know I got delivery day tomorrow– ‘sides, bail is closed on the weekends.”

“I just– Xin– you know I-i love her– b-but I thought– she looked like one of ‘em– the enemy soldiers– I didn’t mean to hurt her, Bajie, you know I never would.”

Pigsy’s eyes widened, a lump forming rapidly in his throat.

“Sandy… what happened to Xin?”

His friend didn’t reply.

“Sandy, answer me," Pigsy slammed his fist against his fridge.

Sandy, the tall and stoic and brave, just started blubbering like a baby again and all Pigsy could do was shake his head to stop realization from hitting him, but it settled in nonetheless.

“B-bajie– I swear I didn’t mean to– I didn’t mean to– It was an accident– I thought sh-she– A-and now– I-i can’t live with myself– Bajie please–”

Pigsy took his trembling legs to the table where he lowered the phone and poured another drink through rapidly cloudy eyes.

Hai Xin was the kindest woman alive and the perfect soulmate for Sandy: tall, strong, honest and confident. She was everything Pigsy couldn’t have ever been– she made Sandy happy.

And now she was fucking gone. Because of Sandy. Because of the war.

Because of Pigsy.

“–Bajie y-you have to help me– you know I didn’t mean it– I never would– I loved her– I loveher– please–”

“Jesus fucking Christ Sandy– what the hell do you expect me to do?! Y-you killed her–! I-i can’t–”

"Pigsy, please. No one else knows me like you– y-you’re my best friend– you have to help me," His friend wept.

“Friend???” Pigsy laughed bitterly, tears falling down his face. “I-i– I’m not your friend, Sandy– Friends don’t do this to each other.”

“B…Pigsy, you don’t mean–”

“Of course I fucking do! I-i– I can’t do this– I can’t be with you– I-i–” Pigsy buried his face in his hands.

“Pigsy… please… It was an accident– please believe me…”

Pigsy shook his head violently before having to take several deep breaths so he could spit out, “Get a lawyer, Sandy. A good one.”

Sandy gasped on the other line– “W-wait, Pigsy– plea–”

Pigsy hung up, poured himself another glass of baijiu, and chugged it down before collapsing into sobs.

.o0o.

Sobbing.

Pigsy was sobbing.

He was sitting at the same fucking table, in the same fucking apartment, holding the same fucking phone– that phone– that ringing, unceasing phone– that stupid fucking cursed phone that had destroyed everything–

In half a heartbeat, Pigsy stood and threw his phone against the wall with all his might, shattering it into bits and pieces instantly. He was almost startled by the monstrous force behind it, before he touched his face and realized he had completely lost his glamor.

Long tusks, scarred cheek, wild and matted fur, and roughly seven feet tall– probably 700 pounds too.

He looked like the monster he was inside.

Pigsy immediately sank to his knees and wept– he wept and wept and wept and wept until he was on the floor next to the completely empty bottle of rice wine, sharp pain infecting his chest as it felt he forgot how to breathe.

“S-sandy, I– *hic* – I-i didn’ mean– I’m so– *hic*–sorry,” He gave meaningless, useless, pathetic apologies to the swirling apartment around him. Painful ringing filled his ears and all he could do was cry and cry and cry and cry.

Hai Xin was a saint. Sandy was a saint. And Pigsy? Pigsy was what you saw– a filthy, disgusting, violent, destructive, addicted, fat demon who can’t ever solve his own goddamned messes and was now intoxicated, miserable, and alone.

His vision started to blur as the pain and agony in chest grew. He tried drinking more wine to drown out his disappointment and wrath but by now the bottle was empty so he threw that aside too, glass going everywhere.

Broken pieces– shattered lives– what was Pigsy even doing right now?? God– he totally destroyed his phone– what if it was Tang who called? The school? Were MK and Mei alright? What about Tang? Were all three of them– he shouldn't have left them alone– he shouldn't have left any of them alone. This was his fault. He was a monster– a beast– a murderer– a–

“Mr. Zhu?” A soft voice sent Pigsy shooting straight up, and he immediately swung a punch in that direction, but the (glowing???) figure dodged with perfect ease.

Pigsy landed on the floor with a heavy thud and he cut himself on some of the glass from the wine bottle. He turned back to them, anger still bright in his eyes before the glowing figure touched his arm, and a deep calm washed over him, relaxing his breath and muscles before he could focus his eyes and realize that the bright figure was just–

Gatita..???

“Pigsy– are you alright?” The woman touched his oversized, beastly arm with zero hesitation, which made Pigsy flinch.

“G-gatita– I-i wasn’t– *hic*– expecting you,” He struggled to sit up.

“It’s okay, Pigsy, you’re okay– you're just having a panic attack, just breathe for me,” Gatita assisted, getting him against a wall and kneeling in front of him.

“Th-the kids– they’re– *hic*– are they okay?” He grabbed shoulder. with all his might, making her wince, and he let go in a panic.

“Hey, hey– easy there,” She tried to soothe. “The children are fine, Mr. Zhu– I’m asking about you; What happened? Why didn’t you answer my calls? Why are you up here?” She sat in front of him so he was forced to look at her.

Pigsy’s hands fumbled for his cigarettes in his pocket, but Gatita gently pulled them away from his hand.

“Mr. Zhu, I need you to be forward with me,” She looked at him so softly it hurt. “What happened here?”

Pigsy blinked slowly. “Y-you’re the one who– *hic* –called?”

Gatita nodded. “I was hoping to have lunch with you; have you take the day off to chat and see how you’re holding up.”

Pigsy laughed, covering his eyes with his hand. “Sandy… Xin…”

The woman nodded solemnly. “I’ve heard.”

“You’ve– oh shit– Gatita– please– y-you– *hic* –you can’t– the kids– please the kids–” Pigsy shook his head as tears streamed down his fur.

“Hey now,” Gatita said, and another calm wave washed over the demon against his will. “Nobody is going anywhere, nobody is getting taken away– it’s okay.”

‘It’s okay.’

When was anything ever “okay”? How could ruining your best friend's life and getting someone else killed ever okay?????

“Leave me alone, Gatita,” Pigsy growled, eyes red.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mr. Zhu– you are deeply unwell, and you need help,” She placed a soft hand on his giant cheek.

Pigsy glared. “You should be– *hic* – afraid of me.”

Gatita chuckled and wiped away a stray tear. “I’ve seen my fair share of demons, Mr. Zhu, and you’re a rose compared to them.”

Pigsy grunted his disbelief, before asking, “Why were you calling?”

“Well… if you want to think of it in professional terms, then it’s because I know that my client–Mei–’s wellbeing is directly tied to your wellbeing. However, I like to think of it more as me being fond of you and wondering how you’ve been holding up since I last saw you,” She assured him gently.

“You calling is what set me off in the first fuckin’ place– I mean– goddamn– six– seven times–?”

“It was only twice, Mr. Zhu,” Gatita looked genuinely confused.

Pigsy blinked. “N-no, you had– who–?” the demon shook his head, “Doesn’t matter– phone’s fucking broken,” he gestured to the shattered pieces before rubbing his face. “God, I’m such an idiot– I’m sorry– I just– I–”

“You’ve hurt yourself,” Gatita noticed the cut in his hand.

Pigsy growled, “S’what I get for breakin’ all this shit.”

"Broken glass can be swept, and a phone can be replaced, Mr. Zhu, but a life cannot," she frowned softly, reaching into her bag and pulling out a bandage.

“God– you think I don’t know that?!," Pigsy snapped, startling her.

For weeks he had pleaded to never had heard that phone call– that he'd go to Xin and Sandy's wedding in two months as planned. That he'd be the best man and give a sappy speech and everything would feel okay and Pigsy would be satisfied knowing Sandy finally had someone good in his life and he could become the recluse in his restaurant like he was always meant to be.

He wished for– begged for– prayed for a way he could've possibly made things better– but once the newspaper arrived and the details of the trial were released, he had known the best thing he could do was disappear.

His Nana had stopped him.

"Hey, hey– it’s alright, just breathe for me–"

“Hai Xin is dead because of me, Gatita,” Pigsy snapped. "I cant just fucking 'breathe' that away!"

Gatita went silent for a moment, closing her eyes before unwrapping the bandage and placing it on his hand.

"Mr. Zhu… feeling guilty and torturing yourself or even getting yourself killed won’t bring her back– you must understand this," she pleaded. "MK, Mei and Tang need you, and I will not watch idly by as you throw yourself away."

Pigsy sat up a little. “I-i wasn’t– I’m not–”

Gatita looked deep, deep into his eyes.

"...It's just a bad day."

"You don't have to be alone, you know."

"I've been alone for eight years, Gatita, and I’ve always been just fine, and I’ll always be fine–"

"You know you didn't turn on your sign. The one outside."

Pigsy blinked. "...What?"

"That’s why nobody was in the restaurant. They thought you hadn’t opened.”

The demon shook his head. "But that's… nonono, I always–"

"Mr. Zhu, look at me."

He hesitated but obeyed.

"You are not fine. You are not okay. You made terrible mistakes in your past and they have wounded you severely. You need help and not just for your sake– but for your family's too."

"They aren’t my family…"

Gatita gasped in quiet heartbreak and Pigsy quickly corrected himself.

"I-i don't mean it like that– I-i just– I-i can't. I'm not good enough– I'll never be good enough– I mean– look at me!" Pigsy laughed pathetically. "I'm a seven foot drunk fucking monster with giant tusks and claws and just– I can't. I-i can care, I can watch, I-i can protect, but I'll never– I can't be a– I'll kill them."

Gatita instantly wrapped her arms around his thick neck and squeezed tightly, saying nothing and yet everything at the same time. For some stupid, pathetic reason, Pigsy hugged her back and allowed himself to cry in her embrace.

“Mr. Zhu… you are not cursed, and you are not a murderer. What happened was an awful, awful accident that isn't anybody's fault," She said, still holding on.

Pigsy shook his head. "I'll kill them one day– I will, I will–”

“Pigsy–" She let go.

“All I do is hurt people. A-and yeah, I can try, but I’ll fuck up just like my pops did and then they’ll turn 18 and never, ever want to see me again, and with Mei’s fancy schmancy inheritance they can move to the otherside of the world for all they care, a-and–”

“Pigsy, look at me.”

He did.

“Your father is not kind to himself. Neither was his, or his father and so on and so forth. If you want to break this pattern, you must believe in yourself and that you can be better,” She placed a hand on his shoulder.

“How the hell’d you know that?” Pigsy snorted in contempt, and Gatita frowned.

“That doesn’t matter,” She waved him off. “Let me ask you somethinge: do you think the kids would be happy seeing you like this?” She asked.

Pigsy shook his head and meant it.

He could practically imagine it– MK standing frozen by the door at the sight of him– terrified of him throwing that bottle. Mei would yell at him for scaring MK– say she hates him, or say she wished she’d prefer her babysitters or nannies anyday compared to him. She’d find a way to hurt him– she would. They’d never trust him again. And Pigsy would deserve it.

“Children are impressionable creatures, Mr. Zhu. Their minds are so susceptible to every little thing and pattern– not unlike monkeys, really,” Gatita laughed a little before shaking her head. “But I digress– what I mean is… well… Would you like it if the kids, having heard or seen your self-abusive tendencies, began to mimic it?”

“No-! That’d be–...” Pigsy’s eyes softened in realization. “That’d be awful, ma’am.”

The lawyer smiled at him wearily. “You need to take care of yourself, friend. For the children’s sake because– well– pardon my bluntness, but the last thing they need is to lose another parental figure.”

Her words hit like dagger in his chest, but at least the message was loud and clear.

“I-i don’t… I don’t wanna fail ‘em, I just feel like I will anyways…” He whispered, looking away.

“The best way to make sure that doesn’t happen is to take care of yourself, Mr. Zhu,” She placed a soft hand under his chin.

“But I– I don’t–”

“You may think you don’t deserve it, but don’t the children deserve a happier, healthier guardian?”

“Then give them to Tang-!” Pigsy shouted. “I-i don’t know why or how I was chosen, but I am very clearly not the best guy for the job– I mean– look at me– really, really look at me.”

She did.

“Do I seriously look like I could ever be a ‘happy, healthy guardian’?” He asked, voice cracking.

“Mr. Zhu, you do not understand how much deliberation went into your eventually selection– while Mr. Tang is good and kind and–”

“–And human?” Pigsy glared.

“...and intelligent, he cannot provide the level of protection you can. He lacks your bravery and tenacity and your resourcefulness– he is a great man, but he is not the protector and caregiver they need,” She took two of his fingers and squeezed them, since his hand was far too big to be held.

“...But what if I ruin ‘em? What if–” Pigsy swallowed a lump in his throat– “What if one day that light in MK’s eyes just… fades. What if Mei stops joking around? What if something hurts them– what if I hurt them? What if it’s all my fault and they really would’ve ended up better off with some fancy schmancy royal life instead of being with me? What if you were wrong?”

“There is nothing that cannot be overcome with love, compassion, and care– and that includes to the self,” Gatita didn’t waver a second.

Pigsy opened his mouth to speak, but Gatita held out a finger.

“Think of it this way: if you had the option of boarding a bus with a driver that hated himself, never got any sleep, and was smoking and drinking, versus one with a bit of temperament but always arrived on time and with care, which would you feel better about picking? Heck– which one would you want MK and Mei to ride with?”

Pigsy closed his eyes and bit his cheek before shaking his head. “Dammit Gatita– you make this really hard.”

The lawyer laughed. “I’ve had a lot of practice over the years.”

Pigsy didn’t doubt that.

Gatita dusted herself off and stood. “Look– how's about you let me take you home, I’ll make you some tea, lend you an ear for any other thoughts or feelings you have– or we just watch a movie, go for a walk– and overall just relax until the children and Tang get home and I’ll let you take it from there, hm?”

Pigsy sighed, running his hand through his fur. “I… yeah, I guess that does sound kinda… nice…”

“Wise decision,” Gatita winked and offered her hand.

Pigsy didn’t take it right away though, glancing at her nervously.

“I… I really, really don’t wanna hurt ‘em…” he confessed.

“You want to know something?” She asked.

Pigsy nodded.

“No good parent wants to either,” She whispered with a wink.

Pigsy laughed a little. “Guess I can’t argue there, huh?”

Gatita shrugged. “You put up a good fight– reminds me of an old friend,” she once again offered her hand.

This time, Pigsy took it, shrinking back down to his glamored form, though stumbling a bit forward since he was still quite drunk.

“Feeling any better yet, Mr. Zhu?” Gatita smiled softly and helped stabilize him.

“It’s Pigsy– and… yeah, I guess I am… thanks.” Pigsy couldn’t help but give a weak smile in return.

“Anytime, Pigsy,” Gatita nodded a little. “Now let’s get you home and get something other than two bottles of wine in you, hm?”

“Ugh– is that what happened? Jeez, I really am a mess,” Pigsy cringed.

“You’re a work in progress,” Gatita patted his arm before getting the door. “Shall we?”

He stomps down the urge and ignores the open seat. He’s not so immature to give in to a displacement instinct in a human household-

Wukong scrambles across the couch and takes Henry’s seat, settling down and looking pleased with himself. Macaque doesn’t bother to hide the fact he rolls his eyes. Of course he’s going to indulge. That’s not surprising. Wukong is absolutely immature enough to give in to an instinct like that, without any thought of why he shouldn’t.

Take Wukong’s spot.

Macaque stomps out that urge as well. He doesn’t need his, or Henry’s spots. He’s comfortable in his chair, and not about to act like a fool just because of instinct.

Wukong is looking at him. Noticing this irks him, but he promised he would try not to fight today. They were going to sit in the same room and watch movies and not fight. As per MK’s and Henry’s request.

The process of learning to tolerate each other has been a rough one.

And Wukong won’t stop staring.

Macaque shoots him a glare, which the other monkey only smiles at, tail flicking as he settles down in his newly stolen spot.

Was he… bragging?

Macaque scowls and pointedly looks away, but still hears that amused scoff from Wukong. It was like the brat was trying to start a fight. Well, he’s not about to stoop to his level, just because he wants to fight over a spot to sit. Macaque hasn’t given in to displacement urges in ages, and he’s not about to start now just because Wukong is trying to get under his skin.

He can feel Wukong still looking at him.

Macaque shoots him a scowl, contemplating showing his teeth to warn him off, to insist he’s not in the mood for games-

Wukong very pointedly snuggles further into the cushions and props his feet up on the table.

Macaque lunges out of his chair, nearly tumbling across the couch to collide with Wukong, intent on shoving that smug asshole right out of that spot- it’s his and he wants it-

He can hear MK scramble to his feet somewhere behind him, no doubt alarmed. It’s the loud bark of laughter from Wukong that makes him pause, realizing it’s not a real fight. Macaque doesn’t care-- he wants this monkey off the couch.

The ensuing struggle is nothing like the ones the pair has been getting into lately. No punching or kicking, no intent to harm. The two of them just shoving at each other, Macaque hissing with no malice as he tries to push Wukong over the arm of the couch as the other cackles wildly. As if he’s already won.

Like hell he has. Macaque shoves at his stupid face and snaps his teeth in the air, an empty threat. Wukong’s response is to lick his hand.

With a yowl of disgust, Macaque plants a foot firmly into Wukong hip and starts shoving harder, and in the scramble to grab a hold of something to keep him from toppling off the couch, he manages to grab a hold of Macaque’s tail and tugs.

The result is an immediate full body tackle that sends them both right over the arm of the couch and onto the floor with a heavy thud. For a moment, Macaque is winded from landing with Wukong’s shoulder driving into his chest from the impact.

Then Wukong starts laughing again, throwing his head back as much as he can while pinned to the floor as his whole body shakes with laughter.

“You- you-!” He can’t even continue, only laughing harder as Macaque sits up, flustered.

He really just gave into displacement just because Wukong challenged him.

… The spot was open.

Macaque springs up off the floor and back onto the couch, claiming his prize even as his face burns with embarrassment. Fine, he acted childish and gave in to instincts. But the spot was his now, dammit!

He won it fair and square.

-------------------------------

Henry gets up from the couch and walks away, heading into the kitchen. He knows better by now, and Wukong has no qualms with stealing that spot the second it’s empty-

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Macaque twitch.

He wanted the spot?

Wukong pauses instead of stealing the spot immediately. But Macaque doesn’t move, acting as if the open seat didn’t exist.

His loss.

Wukong eagerly steals Henry’s spot, claiming it for himself. He can see Macaque roll his eyes, as if wasn’t just clearly suppressing the urge to claim it himself. As if his tail isn’t flicking, betraying how much he wanted to pounce.

So why doesn’t he?

Macaque used to be the first and most eager monkey to challenge him when others wouldn’t, arguing that Wukong technically wasn’t his king, and therefore he could challenge displacement whenever he wanted. Said it was more satisfying to challenge him over anyone else.

Wukong figured he just liked his attention.

Yet here Macaque is, just sitting there like nothing happened. What was the point of ignoring an instinct that was just for fun?

He must have noticed Wukong staring, since he sends a glare his way. Automatically, Wukong smiles and settles back, tail giving it’s own flick of building energy.

Come take my spot if you want it so bad.

Instead of taking the invitation, Macaque scowls and looks away. Ignoring him. Wukong scoffs, a little amused and a little disappointed. Really? Nothing?

Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. They haven’t played in far too long. Maybe the challenge was too early. Maybe he should just drop it and wait for Henry to play-

Macaque shoots him another look, and Wukong can’t help himself. He settles in like he has the best spot in the whole world while maintaining eye contact, couldn’t challenge him harder without saying anything-

Wukong can see the second Macaque’s self control snaps like a rubber band, and it’s the only warning he gets before the other monkey hurls himself into Wukong near recklessly. Wild delight shoots through his veins and he starts shoving back immediately, laughing as he’s pressed up against the arm of the couch.

He couldn’t resist after all!

He can’t stop grinning, laughing even as Macaque hisses at him, as if he could even pretend this wasn’t a dumb scuffle over a spot on the couch instead of a real fight. No, Macaque was playing, and Wukong got him to do it, even after he put on such a big act of not caring.

Macaque’s hand plants itself on his face and pushes him partway over the edge of the couch, the snap of teeth in the air only a playful threat. Giddy, Wukong does the first thing he thinks of, and shoves his tongue into the offending hand.

Macaque’s disgusted yowl only has him laughing harder as the hand jerks away-

And a foot plants itself against his hip and starts to push with actual leverage.

Oh shit-

Wukong flails and grabs as he starts to feel himself start to tip over the arm of the couch and-- oops that’s a tail-

Macaque slams into him, and they both go overboard. Wukong’s head bounces off the floor, not hard enough to hurt but enough to shock him. For a second, he just lays there, stunned with Macaque on top of him.

And starts laughing again.

He got Mac to play. The scuffle was short lived, but it happened and gods did he miss it.

“You- you-!” You’re too easy, he wants to goad, to continue the scuffle. He’s too giddy and breathless though, and Macaque is already looking embarrassed with himself. As if he couldn’t believe he was caught playing.

Somehow it wasn’t enough to stop him from scrambling to claim the empty spot the second it hit him that it was open. Wukong only laughs harder from his place on the floor. Macaque can have it. He technically won, after all. Or maybe they both lost. He doesn’t even care.