Chapter Text
The first time Macaque had come back to Flower Fruit Mountain, the Journey had been finished a century, or perhaps two, before. Most of the monkeys had left by then, realizing that their King was beyond their help, and tempted to explore the outside world.
Wukong had been in one of his moods then, as he so often was during those days. So, Macaque had found him in one of his favorite springtime napping spots, in a small clearing in a bush, where the scent of peach blossoms and wildflowers would gently fill the air at all times of day. It was undoubtedly a nice place to rest. Unfortunately, Wukong had decided to rest there, unmoving for a few years at that point.
He must’ve been a sorry sight for Macaque to find that day. The bush had started to engulf him, to swallow him whole, and the mosses and lichen of the area had stained his once golden fur into a stiff, sickly, mottled green. He’d long given up breathing by then, finding it a useless, tiresome habit, and his eyes had been caked shut with dirt and flora.
Macaque had been gentle that day, although whether it was out of kindness or pity, Wukong never understood. He’d tried to urge Wukong to wake up, as so many monkeys before him had, before he’d sighed and hauled the Great Monkey King out of the bushes and into one of the many creeks that blossomed across their home.
Wukong hadn’t resisted -hadn’t even reacted- until Macaque had dropped him into the ice cold water. Wukong screeched from the shock, memories of the icy fingers of death curling around him as he plunged into a dark river clogged with ash and soot to escape the burning that had followed him, even there streaked across his mind like a lightning bolt.
But Macaque had been there, holding onto him with a steady grip, as Wukong had tried to thrash and rip himself free from that awful memory. He’d been ashamed, when he came back to his senses, and saw not the massive river, but a small, shallow stream.
He’d stared at Macaque, waiting to see what his reaction would be. Would he scold him? Mock him? Remind him that the sting of cold water was nothing compared to the harsh cruelties of his own murder.
Yet, Macaque hadn’t done any of that. He’d only laughed and joked that at least Wukong was still alive. It’d been a dark laugh, darker than Wukong had ever heard from Macaque before, outside the heat of battle or the throes of a clever plan anyways, but it’d made Wukong’s heart thump painfully inside his chest all the same.
Macaque had been the one to help Wukong finally get clean again, or at least, as clean as he could get with only a few hours in a cold stream and the rough grit of stone. Wukong had helped as best he could, but it had been hard. His thoughts had kept slipping away from him. One minute he’d be with Macaque as he teased him about his stage fright, and the next, Macaque would be deep into one of his longer stories, a myth he’d found while looking for Wukong.
Wukong longed to ask Macaque how he was here. Ask about how he’d come back. Ask why he’d been gone for so long, but still he couldn’t find the words. It made no sense. Wukong had stopped being able to talk when Macaque had gone, so now that he was back, why couldn’t he even muster a hello?
It was a question that troubled Wukong for a long time. Even as Wukong grew used to Macaque being by his side again, his once meek, quiet shadow, now becoming his voice, the question echoed in his mind. The two of them were happy together even if they had to keep busy so Wukong didn’t fall into one of his moods.
Together, they carefully planned and constructed new wards, new protections on their home, just in case something were to happen to them. Just in case, Wukong couldn’t defend them again. Just in case Macaque died again .
Then, when they couldn’t think of any more protections, they’d gone on adventures. They’d scoured the world for the rarest treasures and took them back to the island to show it off to the monkeys. Late at night, Macaque would tell stories about what they’d found with his lantern. He’d talk about their history, their powers, and how he and Wukong had managed to capture them for Flower Fruit Mountain. Macaque was mesmerizing on those nights, bathed in the lilac light of that lantern, as he flitted between from shadow to shadow, narrating every story with a sly grin and an irresistible voice.
But as wonderful as Wukong’s time with Macaque had been, it hadn’t been perfect, and, as usual, Wukong had messed it all up.
The problem was that Macaque liked to blame everything wrong with Wukong -his issues, his nightmares, his trouble talking- on the Journey, or to be more precise, on Wukong’s companions.
It wasn’t like Wukong couldn’t understand it. Because he was different. He was damaged, broken in a way that no one could even begin to figure out how to fix, but a part of him burned in rage every time he heard Macaque make a comment about ‘that monk’ or how he would never hurt Wukong with a silent ‘unlike your former ‘companions’’ silently tacked on at the end.
Wukong knew he should let that anger go. He hadn’t talked to any of his companions in ages. Most of them were either long dead or had forgotten him by now. Whatever Macaque said or thought about them probably didn’t matter one whit to any of them.
Yet, Wukong had good times with them.
He remembered Zhu Bajie and his terrible cooking. No matter how many times the rest of the companions had tried to stop him, he’d always managed to somehow worm his way into cooking and made truly atrocious -but still technically edible- meals for them. He’d gulp his down so fast, Wukong was still unsure if he could even taste it, and Tang Zangsang would eat his with such stoicism that Wukong was sure that he was using some kind of spell to protect his taste buds. Sha Wujing would pick at his, too polite to make a fuss. While Wukong and Ao Lie would go off to forage for raw food. Ao Lie pretending -as usual- that he was a normal horse and making do with grazing the grass, and Wukong gleefully chomping down whatever fruits and vegetables he’d find, usually in front of Piglet and with as much gusto as he could muster,
He remembered Sha Wujing carving small trinkets for everyone out of the ugliest, most gnarled up roots he could find, turning them into small, warm reminders of home. Sometimes, on some of Wukong’s worst nights, he’d press a tiny wooden monkey or a small wooden peach into Wukong’s palm, and remind him that sometimes the most beautiful things come from the ugliest origins.
He remembered Tang Sanzang and his sutras he recited every night, cracked and broken like a half remembered lullaby. Like Wukong, Tang had grown up without his parents, and he’d been raised instead by dozens of kindhearted strangers. His were monks, instead of monkeys, but nonetheless, his master had understood Wukong in a way that so few had before.
But, none of those stories mattered to anyone before. No one would ever hear about them. No one would ever care about them. Especially not Macaque. Not since Wukong couldn’t share them.
The anger and frustration had built up inside of Wukong had built up inside of him with each comment, surging underneath his skin. Until one day, Macaque had made some stupid comment about the filet that Wukong would only barely remember afterwards.
Wukong had had it with Macaque, and his stupid comments about the Journey, and his stupid pity and his stupid kindness which Wukong didn’t even need. He was just fine on his own.
Blinded by his fury, Wukong gave into his more animalistic instincts, shoving Macaque away from him with his teeth bared. He shrieked, all the repressed rage he’d stored deep in his heart coming out all at once.
Macaque stumbled backwards, looking at Wukong with something akin to pure terror. His glamour flickered, revealing the scar that marred his eye. The scar that Wukong had given him. It didn’t take a genius to know what Macaque was thinking. Wukong had killed Macaque out of anger once. Was he going to do it again?
A chill ran down Wukong’s spine, shocking him out of his anger. Macaque was afraid of him. Afraid of Wukong killing him again. And he had every right to be. Because Wukong had done the unthinkable. He’d murdered his beloved Macaque. Now, he was getting angry with him again? Threatening him? What kind of person did that?
Wukong backed away. Macaque was saying something to him. Something that seemed like it might be important, but the sound of blood rushing through Wukong’s ears drowned him out. Macaque was reaching towards him, trying to grab him, but Wukong wasn’t having it. He took one step. Two.
The ground disappeared from under Wukong’s foot. Dirt giving way to the stone monkey’s weight. He fell, only to catch himself in a cloud somersault. Wukong looked at Macaque. His face was twisted with hurt, anger, betrayal. Already, he knew what Wukong was going to do. It was what Wukong always did, when things got too tough. He fled.
As Wukong hurtled himself to another continent, looking for a nice quiet, secluded spot to cower in for the next few weeks, hot tears stung his eyes. Although why, Wukong didn’t understand. He’d been the one to start the fight. He’d been the one who’d hurt Macaque, and yet, here he was, running like the coward he was. If Zhu Bajie could see him now, the Great Monkey King in tears over a minor disagreement, he’d never hear the end of it.
But he wasn’t here. None of his companions were, and they’d probably never be there for him again. He hadn’t seen them since the Journey. None of them had sent any letters. No messengers had arrived giving word about them.
Tang Sanzang had probably died long ago. Ao Lie had probably burnt out the rest of his lifespan from the Samadhi Fire. Sha Wujing was probably off having the time of his life, and Zhu Bajie had probably forgotten all about old Monkey King, as happy as he could be to get rid of him. The only person Wukong really had was Macaque, but was that even real? Wukong had killed him.
How did you get around that? How could you just ignore that? There had to be some angle, some strategy that Wukong wasn’t seeing, that Wukong was too stupid to see. Macaque was probably laughing it up every time Wukong turned his back, delighting in how the Great Sage Equal to Heaven had been reduced to a mere shell of himself. Or perhaps, it was pity that drove Macaque to treat him like this. So kindly and gently, like a porcelain cup that might break with too rough a treatment.
And with that thought, Wukong found himself pondering which of those options were worse as he tried to drown out his thoughts with the echoes of an unfamiliar waterfall in a deep, moss covered ravine in a new hideout. Until he finally crawled back to Macaque a few months later, and gave him a plum as an apology.
And thus, Wukong and Macaque began a new cycle in their increasingly tumulteous relationship. They'd get together, and things would be amazing. Macaque would be the loud one, the one in charge, and Wukong would become his shadow, until eventually, something would snap, and one or both of them would leave in a huff, until the pain of being lonely grew more lonely than the anger and frustration that always filled the space around them and they'd go crawling back to each other. A mascohistic tango born of loneliness and desperation.
And that way it stayed, until Wukong met MK.