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Chapter Text

There's a moment during his fight with Wukong, a moment where he chances a look at how far he'd drawn his opponent from Mk and the Bone Demon, a split second of time that costs him the entire battle.

White explodes behind his eyelids and he chokes on a scream, body overcome with hot, spiking pain,

Wukong's claws twist in his side, squeezing through his muscles and tearing at his intestines, and in turn he bites through his tongue, sharp canines tearing through the soft flesh in a fruitless attempt of a distraction.

His body trembles with violent aftershocks on the ground after the corrupted King throws him aside carelessly, the sounds of his surroundings fading in and out, an eerie ringing overtaking his very mind, his sight blurry to the point of a headache.

It's probably the blood loss, he amends, eye glancing at the steadily growing pool of his cursed blood, black instead of red.

He should do something about it, he thinks, hand twitching at his side. The battle's not over, and therefore his part in this play, too, isn't.

He tastes blood and frost.

One who cheats through death is destined for nothing more

No -

With a hiss, he pools his magic near the hole, duplicating the healthy and untouched muscles from nearby and trying to create a thin net that will stop the extensive bleeding, the way Gongzhu had once shown him, back during the good days, when his only worry were if he would get ambushed by baby monkey's on his way to the cave.

No, no he's not dying here. Not from his hands, not because of her, not while the kid's still fighting-

His fingers numb at the tips but he pays them no mind, he needs to stop the bleeding, at any cost. That's what matters. Nothing else. Just focus on the bleeding, because if he doesn't stop it he can't do anything, if he doesn't stop it he might as well welcome the Diyuu with open, cold arms once more.

When he's calmed enough to think, he hears through the grating ringing as Mk talks his mentor from literal fucking possesion, and spares a second to marvel at the sheer similarity in technique between the two.

Then, he glares downwards at the pool of rotten blood.

The plays about to unfold. And by the gods above, he'd be Damned if he's stranded uselessly at the sidelines because he hadn't acted quickly enough.

Macaque's a demon, he's prideful and cruel, cold and cunning, vengeful and unforgivingly angry.

Above all, though, he's petty.

The shade under the tree is a small mercy, he thinks, as he holds the bowl on his thighs with one hand and the other focuses on keeping the thin regenerative net from shattering like a firework, spectacularly colorful, just as deadly.

Macaque observes the company he's in, the way the bull demon, son of Gongzhu and Niu, flushes bright red and his hair sparks, lecturing the dragon girl fiercely.

The way there's two sets of eyes on him, and he's flattered enough by the thought that the Third Lotus Prince Nezha thinks him threat enough to keep track of, and then there's the Pig demon too, wary yet soft, closed yet open like a book.

A living contradiction.

He understands, somewhat, where Mk got it from.

And then, there are the two.

Sitting at the cliff side awkwardly, Mk's still steaming bowl of noodle set aside as he squirms in place, trying to get comfortable despite the tense electricity in the air.

Wukong staring off into the distance, pretensely oblivious to the kid's attempts at normalcy, at ease, hands fidgeting and twisting with anything they can, tail wrapped around his midsection, as if a belt, as if to keep from being read- No,

From being known.

Macaque exhales harshly through his nose, eyebrows scrunching as he struggles against a scowl.

Why, why must he still notice such details, why must he still care for the betterment of the one who's forsaken him and all they've known?

He glances to his soaked side, covered thickly with backup magic, glamoured to the point of hurt, and thinks.

A sharp fang plays with his bottom lip, the way he toys with the idea. 

The battle's done. Ice is melting and threats of Arson are under dubious control.

There's no need for a warrior, much less one shattered to the point of no return.

By all means, he can never come back, leave once and for all, abandon the mistakes he's made, embrace the cold of the never ending harsh winter.

In truth, not many would notice, much less care. 

So why is the idea inherently unbearable to consider?

The diyuu breathes down his neck with every step he takes.

His eyes snap back to student and mentor as Mk exhales softly, picking up the bowl, intent on consuming the, frankly, heavenly tasting dish.

Macaque looks, and he decides, then and there.

"You were saving that for me, right?" He grins, leaning to the side in the uncomfortable crouching position he'd taken, an attempt at his up-to-date scheme shtick, and a reminder.

Mk blinks, eyes momentarily hooded with confused wariness, before he raises his eyebrows and the edges of his lips twitch upwards, honey-brown lighting up in recognition.

"Uh, actually-" He starts, lifting the bowl a bit higher, a bit closer to his mouth, a mock show of assertiveness.

"He was saving that for me!" Cuts in Wukong in all his brutish, sun kissed glory. Macaque hardly bats an eye, merely raising a thick and jagged eyebrow, satisfaction curling around his leaking stomach when Wukong's eye twitches,

"Cause you know!" The king puffs out his cheeks, "I'm his mentor!" Wukong's tail thrashes wildly behind hum, ears lowered in hostility.

Macaque rolls his eyes, "Still the same Wukong," He declares, carefully moving upwards while clutching securely with one paw at the gaping hole in his side as the other rests securely on his hip, "Doing whatever he wants with no regards for others!"

The legendary Monkey King growls, claws tightening around the ceramic and Macaque can hear as the undeserving material groans under the strain.

His lips twitch upward involuntarily when he sees Wykong flash his fangs at him, retort at the tip of the bastards tongue, eyes flashing a dangerous and blinding gold-

flashing gold-

Macaque's eyes widen instantaneously, watching with bated breath as the king seemingly pauses.

And simply.. Stares. Right at the bloodied culmination of his glamours, and gods damn it all the Kid seems to pick up on the sudden change in the air because he narrows his eyes and they bounce between himself and Wukong, as if observing a standstill at a tennis match.

Before Macaque can so much as hiss for Wukong to screw off and mind his own business, the kid uses his very own golden vision and-

And two things happen at once.

Mk tries to say something, staring in horror at the wound, hands shaking and hair seemingly coming to life solely so it could flop downwards, as if to show the kids feelings on the matter.

His sight blurs, and it's as if he disconnected from his own body, as if the control panel was covered in cotton. In fact, all his limbs felt like cotton.

And then, Macaque goes hurling downwards the cliff.

Chapter Text

Tik, Tik, Tik.

He wakes up to metal coils digging into his back, the appetizing smell of some sort of food and a grating tik-taking.

Tik, Tik, Tik.

It takes him a regrettable moment to grasp awareness with two claws and dig his heels in as it tries to escape.

Tik, Tik, Tik.

There's voices, he realizes.

Hushed, worried. Frantic and quick. Warm.

Familiar.

Tik, Tik, Tik.

Gauze is wrapped tightly around his stomach, wet and sticking to his skin uncomfortably, and there might be stitches holding him together where he inevitably failed to do so himself, if the tugging is anything to go by anyways. A wet towel rests on his forehead and his tail hangs limply off of, what he assumes is, the bed.

There's no one in the room with him, he thinks.

Tik, Tik-

Macaque cracks an eye open and looks around.

He's never set foot in this place, yet the unseemly amount of Monkey King merchandise, the mess of clothes and empty pots on the floor, various drawings strewn about the walls and ceiling tell him all that he could ever need to know.

Tik-

He glares heatedly at the clock in the far corner of the room.

So, He thinks, stretching his paws, somehow, they'd lugged him all the way back to Megapolis, much to Wukong's chagrin, he muses, nigh pleasantly.

(He can't help the nagging wrongness in the back of his head.)

It makes sense, with the Kid having a bleeding heart capable of hydrating the Sahara Desert itself through sheer will power.

It still leaves him with uncomfortable realizations.

One, if they'd gone through such trouble dressing his wounds, setting him someplace (partially at the very least) soft, additionally leaving food nearby, it's likely he'll have to deal with the consequences of that, mainly a..

Bluehazeashetriestoriptheoffendingpresencenestleddeeplyinhissouldebtclankinginthebackgroundasthecompassfallstothegroundbeforehim-

A favor, hanging over his head like the guillotine, poised to snap at any given moment.

And two, he'll have to deal with whoever comes barging in here, if the angry opposition from his shadows is anything to go by,

(He can feel the thick worry of something not truly sentient pressing into his back, and feels almost guilty.

Almost.)

There's a cough.

Macaque's head snaps to the entrance, body automatically raising before he inevitably winces in pain, paw migrating to hover over the gauze.

"Shit-" He hears the figure hurry through the mess with practiced ease and somehow managing to make space on the busy coffee table in order to place a small tray with-

With… medicine?

Macaque stops, staring uncomprehendingly at what smells like medicine, the herbal aspect mixing with chemicals of modern technology, faux cherry oozing off of it in waves.

It.. smells awful, to be frank.

Sickly sweet, yet at the same time unbelievably bitter. Harsh contrasts with one another, and also something that, under normal circumstances, by no means, would have taken even an ounce of his attention. He's used to the traditional way, namely just sucking it up until it goes the fuck away.

He realizes that whoever entered seemed to have noticed his gawking and paused in their approach, for which he feels vaguely thankful.

"Try not to sit up," They say, and when Macaque looks up he finds Mk, who has this unbelievably soft look on his face, cautious and tired, hopeful. 

Like he was a stray cat accepting an offering treat.

He doesn't puff out his chest in agitation out of the sheer amount of pain aching all across his body, so familiar yet still undoubtedly overwhelming.

"-your stitches. Also, the noodles probably got cold, I can reheat them if you want?" Macaque tunes back into the one sided conversation just in time for Mk to tilt his head questioningly and await an answer.

Instead of providing, however, Macaque continues trying to heave himself upwards, which in turn causes Mk to place two steady, unnervingly strong, palms on his shoulder and chest, before pushing him with frustrating ease back down.

The kid sighs, exasperated, taking the warmed up but no less wet towel from his forehead and throwing it over his shoulder as he picks up the bowl of cold noodles.

He stares at Macaque, contemplative and curious.

"I'm going to chill the towel and heat the food, I'd ask you to stay still but we both know you'll turn tail the moment I turn my back." A statement, one he doesn't grace with a response, only glaring heatedly through the feel of his skin stitching itself together, aided by the thread in his stomach.

Mk's lips only quirk up, and he types something quickly on his phone, before letting his eyes wander back to Macaque.

It feels scarily like forever, watching those honey-browns scan him up and down, a nearly imperceptible frown between his eyebrows.

He's aware of the inexplicable urge to cover himself head to toe, not let anything or anyone perceive him in any way except the one he wants them to. He chooses to ignore it.

The door opens with a bang, and he winces, the sound echoing in his head for a few seconds.

He doesn't notice Mk's mouth twitching.

"Yo." The dragon girl greets casually, as if she hadn't nearly broken the wood off its hinges, posture relaxed and an emerald sword hefted onto her shoulder. She looks wary of him, and he feels deep, practiced satisfaction curl around his lungs.

Mk grins, face lighting up before turning to her. He opens his mouth as if to whisper, and Macaque strains his ears to hear past the irritating ringing and the tik-taking of the clock, but the boy seems to think better of it, squinting in Macaque's direction suspiciously.

And then, he makes weird hand gestures. 

*He lifts three fingers first, slow and considering, then shows a thumbs up, afterwards makes a weird shape with two fingers up and two touching the thumb, and then all the fingers touch the thumb.

The girl- What was her name again? Mei?- tilts her head momentarily, before her expression lights up in understanding, and she enthusiastically shows a thumbs up.

Then, she turns to him with a down-right predatory grin that makes his fur puff in indignation.

She points at him.

"You, me, Uno. I'm gonna beat your ass so hard you'll cry." The girl threatens, eyes glinting maliciously.

Macaque blinks, feeling oddly amused.

He's not one to back away from a challenge, senseless as it is.

"Uno." He says slowly. It sounds more like a question. He squints in the direction of the dragon girl.

She grins, nodding in satisfaction, taking his response as agreement, before patting Mk on the shoulder.

"Leave him to me, Monkey Man!" She boasts loudly, eyes crinkled at the corners, "I'll take care of him just swell!" A pointed glare in his direction, as if promising a slow and painful death if he makes her look like an equivocator.

He feels himself bare his fangs at her, and she laughs loudly, carefree in a way so spectacularly different than the young woman being progressively burnt alive by an inextinguishable flame, the way he'd seen her last.

Realistically, he knows she took part in the big battle. He'd heard the Samadhi fire escape from the very heart of the beastly machine, heard as she greeted Mk alongside the fiery boy.

Still, he hadn't seen much of her, except from by the campsite as she grinned mischievously at the bull demon next to her.

And now here she is, loud and unapologetic.

He can't deny liking this version of her more.

Macaque glares at the cards in his hands, and then at Mei.

In turn, she grins at him, bright and dangerous.

She slaps a +4 down on the stack.

Vaguely, he hears the snap reminiscent of a twig.

He growls, throws the cards as hard and as far away as he can and lets himself flop down on the bedding, ignoring with all his might as Mei laughed and laughed.

(Vaguely, they're both aware of the cards sticking out of the walls. Neither are inclined to care.)

He doesn't pout, nor does he sulk, but by the way Mei keeps making offending faces at him, pointing and then laughing even harder, he assumes she believes in the fairytale where he does.

"Ahhh, you're so shit at it it's not even fun." She mourns aloud, and Macaque glares at her heatedly, watching the way a smirk curls on her lips.

"You cheated." He accuses, tail slapping roughly the side of the bed.

Mei only continues smirking at him condescendingly, as if pitying him.

He turns away from her pointedly, and she simply laughs once more.

Privately, Macaque likes it when she laughs. Because when she laughs, she sounds so entirely unburdened by all the shit she's gone through, it is as if it had never happened at all.

Distantly, he acknowledges how he sees his best friend from countless millennia ago in her. 

It's something he admires, between the two of them. The ability to look at an awful experience and laugh in its face, for it is a thing of the past, no longer binding their will to itself.

He hears the door squeak as it's opened, and he moves slightly backwards to grab a glance at who entered.

It's Mk, smiling at them, as if he knows exactly what happened in the past half an hour he's been gone.

He doesn't have the towel, but he does have a bowl of noodles that are still steaming.

Something's wrong, the wind whispers, his heart is hopping like a wild rabbit, his shadows supply.

He narrows his eyes, and feels around the room with his magic, then spreads his consciousness down, up, further, away.

Ah. He thinks, reaching the part where the kitchen lay, feeling as the brilliant, golden magic pulses gently, up and down and up and down.

A nervous tick he'd come to associate with the one and only Monkey King.

Only his magic has ever been so animated as to show his true feelings.

Most demons have a tight grip on theirs, keeping the bundle under their heart locked and away, incapable of betraying their thoughts.

Wukong's magic had always been too much of, well, everything. Sticking to anything close-by curiously, a personality of its own, a life underneath a life.

He scoffs, rolls his eyes, and holds his head high. The foolish king's presence doesn't bother him as much as it should, though it is most likely because he's still healing.

Mk looks resigned for a moment, and he's about to snap at him, but then the kid switches tracks, and his chance is gone.

"Here are the noodles," He starts, placing the steaming bowl on the pitiful table before glaring at Mei and gesturing with his head towards the door.

Macaque rolls his eyes again, but obediently shuffles towards the bowl.

He pokes at it, wondering if the Pig Demon decided to poison him this time or not, then shrugs half-heartedly and digs in.

It tastes as heavenly as it did the first time around, and it takes a bit of self restraint from shoveling the delicacy into his mouth like a pig.

Mk shuffles awkwardly in place, making a lot of gestures towards the girl in his frustration, and Mei looks pityingly at him

"He wants to talk." 

Macaque pauses, chopsticks half-way to his mouth.

Slowly, so slowly, he looks up and into Mk's eyes.

"I genuinely could not care any less."

Mei snorts. Mk looks like he's considering hitting him over the head.

"Ugh, should've known you'd be difficult about it," The kid grouches, rubbing his eyes.

Macaque, childishly, blows a raspberry at him.

"If he wants to talk, he's gonna have to make an effort." He says, faux-casually, as he continues eating.

The two are studying him now, he knows. They're smarter than they ought to be, and catch on to his train of thought before he finishes the meal.

Mk sighs softly, although he relents, and goes to play messenger boy once more. Oh, the woes of being Sun Wukong's successor.

When the door shuts, Macaque turns towards Mei, and grins sharply.

"I want a re-match."

Mei laughs brightly,

"Bring it on, Monkey-Man."