Chapter Text
The water scalded his skin.
He stood under the stream, motionless, letting it batter down his back and shoulders like punishment. His hair clung to his face in thick, matted ropes. The silence was almost complete, save for the steady patter of the spray against tile and the occasional groan of the pipes behind the wall.
He’d been in here too long. The steam was thick, curling around him like a second skin, beading against his lashes, coating the mirror outside the stall until it blurred even the outline of his own reflection.
He tilted his head back and let the water hit his face. Closed his eyes. Breathed.
The heat was unbearable now—flaying his nerves open one by one—but still he didn’t move.
He reached for the soap out of habit more than need, his fingers feeling like lard. The bar was nearly melted down to a nub. It slipped twice in his grip before he managed to clutch it to his palm and press it against his collarbone. The lather came quick under the pressure, slick and hot. In seconds, it hit the floor with a wet slap. He ignored it.
Instead, he reached blindly for the washcloth, already threadbare from too many nights like this, and began to scrub. Methodical at first. His collarbone. His arms. Down his stomach. He scrubbed absently. Once. Twice. Up and down his arm again. Across his sternum. Just motion for motion’s sake.
Through the haze of steam and glass, his eyes caught on a blurred reflection. He turned slightly—tilted his head to the side—and saw them. Purple, blooming up from the slope of his throat, like bruised petals. One on his collarbone, two tucked just under the line of his jaw, one faint but unmistakable where his shoulder met his neck.
It was the hottest the pipes could push, steam curling up and clinging to the ceiling like smoke, but it still wasn’t enough. Wukong scrubbed harder—his palms raw from dragging the washcloth over his chest again and again, over the bites, the bruises, the dried salt of tears he hadn’t realized he’d cried.
Then again.
Then again.
Harder.
By the fourth pass, the cloth squealed against his skin. It caught on something—his nipple, raw and half-healed—and he hissed. Pulled away. Looked down.
Pink. Red. A smear blooming under the draglines like ink.
His mouth parted.
He didn’t stop.
He dragged the cloth over the spot again, harder, until the fabric came away streaked, until the sting bloomed bright and alive, and still it wasn’t enough.
The mirror outside the curtain was fogged to hell, but he could still see it—that thing under his jaw. That dark blotch, like a bruise swallowed a mouthful of ink. It pulsed there in the corner of his eye like it wanted to be seen.
The soap was long gone—slipped from his hand minutes ago, hit the tile with a crack, and now sat foaming weakly in the corner like something sick. The scent of it clung to the steam—lavender, cloying and sharp. He pressed his forehead to the tile, the cold kiss of it the only thing keeping him upright, and let out the ragged exhale he’d been strangling on since sunrise.
“Off,” he whispered. “Get it—get it off—”
The washcloth slipped from his grip.
What did I do?
His tail was coiled too tight around his ankle, cutting off circulation. His fingers were shaking. His hair stuck to his neck and shoulders, wet ropes dragging him down, down, down into the drain with everything else. He reached blindly for the nail brush. Found it. Clenched it so hard it cracked.
And then he scrubbed.
Hard.
Faster.
Hands, wrists, forearms. Again. Again. Until red bloomed beneath the bristles, until the drain water ran rust, until the pain blurred into static. Skin peeled in shreds.
He pressed the brush to his hipbone. To his inner thigh. His hands were shaking so bad he dropped it. Picked it up again. Kept going.
The bruises wouldn’t come off.
He bit back a sound—some mangled whimper or curse, he didn’t even know—and scrubbed harder. Like he could peel it all away. The way Azure touched him. The way he cried into it. The way it made him feel wanted. Needed.
Loved.
Loved?
He gasped. His lungs burned. His heartbeat was a rabbit’s. The tile swam in front of him, wavering like heat-haze. He looked down. Red. So much red. The floor slick with it, mixing with water, crawling toward the drain in streaks. His hands weren’t even hands anymore—just trembling things wrapped in torn skin and shaking bone.
Water slammed into his back. His tail was curled beneath him like a rope about to snap. His hair was soaked through, clinging to his face and sticking in his mouth as he panted, wild and wet. The tile against his knees was slick with blood, pink water trailing in rivulets to the drain.
He leaned forward.
He gagged.
The bile didn’t come, but the urge stayed, curling deep in his gut like rot. He looked at his hands. They didn’t feel like his hands anymore. Just trembling meat.
Behind the water’s roar, he barely heard the front door creak open.
“Wukong?” Macaque’s voice cut through the fog, tired and hoarse. “Are you home?”
Panic tightened his chest. Shit.
“I’m in the shower!” he yelled, voice cracking.
Fuck. Fuck.
Wukong scrambled—slapped the wall for balance, nearly slipped, caught the curtain with his claws and yanked it aside in a rush. Steam burst out in a rolling wave. His body screamed in protest. The hot water had turned his skin raw, pulpy red in places, blood snaking down his thighs in watered-down rivulets.
He didn’t look. Didn’t think. Just moved.
His foot hit the tile wrong and he slipped—caught himself on the sink with a jolt that shot straight through his spine. The world stuttered. Pain flared sharp along his hip, and he swore under his breath, clenching his teeth as he yanked the nearest towel off the rack and pressed it to the worst of the bleeding.
The bathrobe. Where was it? Where—?
He found it crumpled on the floor and threw it around himself, cinching the tie hard around his waist. His hands left red smears on the fabric. He cursed again, wiped them on the inside lining.
Shit. Blood. Blood everywhere.
The mat was soaked—soaked—maroon creeping through the fibers like ink blotting paper. He kicked it aside, folded it in half, shoved it behind the toilet. Not clean. Not gone. But hidden.
Sort of.
The nail brush. Still lying there like a fucking murder weapon. He grabbed it, then the washcloth, then the towel—all of it clutched in his arms like some gory bouquet—and stuffed it deep into the laundry basket, pressing it down, down, until it couldn’t be seen beneath the pile of yesterday’s socks and pajamas. Closed the lid with a snap that echoed louder than it should’ve.
Footsteps down the hall.
Wukong flinched.
He wiped his mouth. Tried to straighten up. His knees buckled. No time.
He shoved a palmful of cold water over his face. His reflection in the mirror was a ghost: blotchy cheeks, red-rimmed eyes, hair clinging to his forehead like vines choking out the light. His pupils were blown wide.
He splashed water again.
“Be normal,” he muttered. “Be fucking normal—”
A knock.
“Hey. You good?” Macaque’s voice. Closer now. Right outside the bathroom door.
Wukong cleared his throat, still breathless. “Y-Yeah. Fine. Just give me a sec.”
Silence.
Then, “Okay.”
Footsteps retreated.
Wukong sagged forward, both hands braced against the counter. His wrists stung. He glanced down and caught sight of a deep pink trail running along the inside of his forearm—barely visible above the robe sleeve, but there.
The red under his fingernails. The shaky hitch in his breath. The pounding in his skull. He didn’t have time to fix it.
So he didn’t. The robe clung to him too tight. Damp in the wrong places. His skin prickled, raw beneath the terrycloth. He moved like a puppet with its strings cut, drifting barefoot into the hallway, the carpet dragging wet warmth off his soles. Downstairs.
The light was too warm. It made everything look softer than it was.
Wukong stood just beyond the kitchen doorway, steam clinging to his hair, robe clinging to his skin. His eyes flicked toward the stove, the cutting board, the familiar curve of Macaque’s back.
The hum of domestic life. A knife slicing through tofu. Oil whispering in the pan. The faintest sound of music bleeding from the other room, something slow and lo-fi and offensively normal.
He padded in, silent. The bathrobe dragged around his knees.
Macaque glanced up. Just for a second. “Hey.”
It shouldn’t have hurt like it did. But it felt like being seen through.
Wukong nodded once. Didn’t trust his throat to work. The lump in it was too thick, caught somewhere between words and water. He slid onto the couch, curling tight like paper burned at the edges. Legs tucked up. Tail curled loose beside him, twitching on its own. He faced the window. Not on purpose. But once he noticed, he didn’t move. The fabric was cold. He was colder.
Behind him, the knife paused.
“I didn’t hear you come in last night,” Macaque said after a moment. Not sharp. Not soft. Just neutral, like the clink of glass or the scrape of a chair.
Wukong’s fingers dug into the couch cushions. “You were drinking.”
“I guess.”
That was all. The pause that followed stretched long and thin, like cooling sugar. Wukong could feel the weight of the words Macaque didn’t say, turning over behind his teeth. Where were you? What happened?
Please ask me, Wukong thought. Please make me tell you.
Instead—
“You okay?”
No. Not that. Too vague. Too easy.
He tensed. “Yeah.”
Another beat.
Then softer, closer to something that might’ve mattered—“You’re limping.”
His heart kicked.
“I’m not.” Too fast. Too fucking fast.
“You were.”
“I said I’m fine.” It came out sharp enough to slice. More reflex than language. Regret punched him in the gut the moment it hit the air.
Macaque didn’t move. Didn’t answer. The silence hit like a slammed door.
Then: “Okay.”
Just that.
Like the final breath of something that had already died.
Wukong stared into the fabric under his hands, twisting a loose thread around his finger. Tight. Tighter. His nails were still tender, the skin around them scraped red. Every flex stung. Good. He needed it to sting.
He wanted to speak. To say sorry, to beg for another question, another opening. Please. Please ask me. He wanted to lurch to his feet, grab Macaque by the wrist, and blurt out everything: I’m sorry. I was with him. It meant nothing. It meant too much. I feel sick. I feel like shit. I wanted to die this morning and now I’m just cold—
Across the room, the knife began again. Steady. Rhythmic. Carrot. Ginger. Scallion. The scent filled the air, bright and bitter. Like heat and home. It shouldn’t have made him ache. But it did.
He wanted to crawl across the kitchen floor and throw himself at Macaque’s feet, claw at his arms, sob and scream until something snapped and Macaque finally looked at him like he used to. Like when they fucking kissed. That kiss. That kiss that meant everything to him.
Instead, he turned farther into the couch, burying his face in the cushion like it might hide the rot crawling under his skin.
He wanted to be punished. Needed it. Say something. Say my name. Hit me. Slap me. Demand the truth. Please, please give a fuck.
The silence, instead, was full of absence. Like Macaque had already decided not to try anymore. Wukong felt it like a cut.
His eyes flicked to the crumpled pile of clothes abandoned on the floor in front of the couch—yesterday’s shirt, wrinkled sweatpants, his jacket, socks that hadn’t made it all the way to the hamper. He moved before he could think.
The robe slid from his shoulders and fell around his feet like shed skin. It clung where his body still bled in raw pink streaks down his thighs, across his ribs, behind his knees. Angry brush-burned welts from where the nail brush had scoured him clean. Not clean enough.
He dressed like someone being chased. One sock on backward, shirt inside out. Didn’t matter. None of it mattered.
Behind him, Macaque stirred. “You just got back.”
Wukong didn’t respond. He moved toward the door, jerking his jacket off the hook. His fingers trembled, but not from cold.
“You’re not even dry,” Macaque tried again. Less sure this time.
Wukong didn’t answer.
“Clothes’ll stick to you like that. You’ll catch cold.”
Still nothing.
“You just got back,” Macaque he repeated, quieter this time. “Stay for soup. Five more minutes.”
Wukong turned toward the door. His fingers fumbled with his belt. Too rough. His nails had torn skin in the shower; blood beaded anew beneath the waistband.
Macaque stood now too, brow furrowed but still too far. “Wukong, it’s cold out. Where are you even—?”
But that wasn’t the question.
That wasn’t the one Wukong needed.
Not where. Not where were you. Not you’ll get sick.
He wanted: Who did this to you? He wanted: Why didn’t you tell me? He wanted: Please don’t go.
But Macaque didn’t ask those things. Maybe he didn’t know how. Maybe he didn’t care enough to learn.
Wukong’s throat clenched.
He pulled the door open without a word.
Macaque’s voice followed him: “Don’t be gone long.”
And still—not the question.
The door clicked shut.
The soup simmered low, then not at all. The burner clicked off under Macaque’s hand, and the kitchen grew too quiet. The ladle leaned awkwardly out of the pot like a limb someone had forgotten to tuck in, steam sagging into nothing. He stood there, not sure when he’d moved. The table was still set for two. Two bowls. Two spoons. He hadn’t even finished slicing the scallions.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen. The clock above the stove ticked like it had teeth. Macaque didn’t sit. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, as if he could wait the silence into breaking. As if Wukong might still walk back through the door with that crooked little grin, maybe shivering, maybe apologizing, maybe—
Anything.
He wasn’t coming back.
Macaque hung around for a few more minutes. He sent Wukong a couple texts—no answer. Eventually, his feet moved on their own. Past the threshold of the kitchen. Down the hall. Past the coat Wukong hadn’t hung up, just flung over the arm of the couch like it meant nothing, like it hadn’t been wrapped around blood and bones barely an hour ago. The bedroom door was ajar. The lights off. Still no sound.
It was the bathroom light that pulled him. A sliver of gold beneath the door. He didn’t even knock.
He pushed it open.
And stopped.
There was—god, the smell. Metal, sweat, something antiseptic and not clean. The floor was wet. Not puddled, but damp in that quiet, greasy way that meant someone had been frantic. Smears trailed like fingers. The mat was turned over, bunched and soaked through, a darker patch bloomed from underneath it like a bruise. His eyes snagged on the laundry basket beside the sink.
A towel hung halfway out. Stiff. Dried dark, its corners curling. He reached before he could think better. The cloth resisted, sticking between his fingers. Brittle patches cracked against his skin—flaking like dried paint, fossilized rust.
He didn’t let go. Couldn’t. Not when more came with it. Towels twisted into knots. Streaked red and maroon and brown, some balled like they’d been clenched in fists. Others folded too neat, like someone had tried to pretend it wasn’t what it was.
Then his hand brushed plastic. Small. Rigid.
He pulled it free—
—and hissed as something bit into his palm. He dropped it. It clattered against the sink.
A nail brush.
Cracked. Snapped clean down the middle. The bristles were misshapen, curled, discolored—gummed up with tangled fur and something dark and crusted that glistened faintly under the overhead light. Blood. Hair. Pieces of someone.
Of him.
Macaque looked down at his hand. A long, thin cut sliced across his palm. Blood welled up, bright and eager. He clenched his fist. Shook it out. Didn’t stop. Couldn’t.
His shoulder slammed the cabinet as he reeled up, and that’s when he saw the sink.
There was blood curled there, too. Around the drain like it had circled before it settled. The faucet had pink rings around it, where damp fingers must’ve held too tight. In the corners of the mirror, dried specks he hadn’t noticed before. Like someone had scrubbed and scrubbed and couldn’t tell what part of them was dirt and what part was themselves. The basin still held blood.
And the shower—fuck, the shower.
Fur choked the drain. Clumped. Pulled free and half-flushed. Little pieces stuck to the enamel like they’d been torn, not shed. The tiles around the edge bore long streaks. Dark ones. Not just blood—whatever was left after blood had been cried out of the body.
His stomach twisted.
What did you say? he thought, stupidly. What did you do?
He tried to remember the words. He tried to remember anything else.
And, shit. Nothing.
His hands gripped the sink. Then he was moving again, grabbing the old rag from under the cabinet, fumbling for the nearest cleaner with fingers that kept slipping off the cap. He poured the cleaner too fast. It splashed. Bit into the cut on his hand. He flinched. Swore. Didn’t slow down. The rag dropped into the basin with a wet slap. He yanked it back, swore under his breath, started wiping.
The stains didn’t lift.
It didn’t lift. The red just smeared, grew wet again, bled into the cloth. His hands were shaking, and the mirror swam, and the faucet kept hissing even after he shut it off. The drain burbled. He kept scrubbing. Still shaking. Still scrubbing. The cloth slipped. His knuckles scraped the porcelain. The cut spit. Still scrubbing.
“Come on—come on—fuck, please—”
The pink in the sink deepened. His breath came fast and shallow, and he didn’t know how long he’d been kneeling. Just that his knees hurt. His arms ached. His palms were red, and not all of it was someone else’s blood. He scrubbed again, raw-knuckled, wild, until the cloth came away red and slippery and the porcelain gleamed under the light like bone.
He stared into the mirror. Couldn’t see himself. Couldn’t feel himself.
He leaned on the sink with both palms, dripping. He couldn’t breathe. The drain gurgled. Behind him, the wind shook the window once.
And Macaque whispered into the bloody porcelain, a little too late:
“Where the fuck were you?”
—
The city air hit like a slap. Sharp. Cold. Sobering in all the ways that hurt more than helped.
The sky hung dull and pewter overhead, a thick slab of silence pressing down on everything. He kept his hood up, head ducked low. People moved past him like vapor—blurred shapes with voices that buzzed like static. The pavement didn’t feel solid. His sneakers skimmed over it, not on it, like he was floating just out of sync with the world. Like the whole city was a mouth waiting to swallow him whole.
He wanted to go back and scream.
He wanted to go forward and disappear.
His fingers fumbled inside his pocket until they closed around the crumpled receipt Azure had given him. The corner was torn, worn from being handled too much, like it was the last thread holding something together. The address was still visible. Burned into his brain by now.
He didn’t look at it.
But he didn’t throw it away, either.
He walked. Deeper into the city, through streets where the storefronts grew grimier, older, the air thicker, almost suffocating. The sounds of trains, of life, grew distant, leaving only silence in their wake. Somewhere near the river. Not the shiny part with food stalls and lovers on the railing. No, this was the other part. The one that smelled like rust and piss, where forgotten things gathered in the cracks. A ghost-town in daylight. The concrete barriers here were tagged with graffiti—I was here, I miss you, don’t jump.
Somewhere, someone had left a half-burned candle in a cupholder. A memorial no one had cleaned.
He stopped at a low wall, dropping onto it like he had nowhere else to be. He huddled over his knees, arms locked tight around them, trying to make himself smaller, less visible. The hood clung to his face, his breath thick and wet inside the fabric. His throat ached, his chest burned with every shallow breath. He couldn’t breathe right. His ribs felt tight, like they were breaking with every movement. Every inch of skin under his clothes itched and stung—like it was trying to peel itself off and run away from him.
He didn’t cry. Not yet.
Not until a dog barked across the street—high-pitched, aggressive. Someone laughed after it, a stranger’s voice full of daylight and normalcy, a scrap of joy that belonged to someone else’s better life.
His breath hitched. Then broke. Then kept breaking. One hand clenched into his hoodie, right over the ribs that still hurt when he moved. The other fumbled again for the receipt. He didn’t read it. Just held it. Just stared at the lines in the concrete between his feet and tried to shrink into them. He wanted to disappear. He wanted Macaque to call. He wanted to scream until his voice gave out.
He wanted someone to notice.
There was a time, not too long ago, when he would’ve handled this differently. Duck into some corner, chase something sharp down his throat, let the rest of the world blur away into heat and light. He used to be good at that—too good. He’d carved out whole weeks like that once, back when he was younger and louder and always running from something with a grin on his face. But now—now it just felt pathetic. Like trying to climb into an old costume that didn’t fit anymore.
Pigsy’s Noodles sat wedged between a shuttered laundromat and a convenience store where the lights flickered like they were fighting sleep. The sign buzzed in lazy neon—PIGSY’S NOODLES, one letter half-dead. The “Open” sign blinked tiredly, one tube half-dead. He hovered outside for a second—just long enough for the heat of the kitchen to roll out the door as someone left. A couple laughed behind him, brushing past.
Inside, the last of the lunch crowd was clearing out. Tables cleared. Bowls scraped clean. The smell in the air was less food and more soap now—cleaning spray and hot water and the soft fatigue of a long shift. His feet moved without permission, dragging him in. The warmth inside hit him like a slap. Oil and ginger and garlic clung to the air. It hit him like a memory. The kind that made your knees go weak.
MK’s voice broke the haze.
“Wukong, you’re alive!”
Wukong flinched. Managed a weak smile before he could stop himself.
“Barely, bud.” He croaked.
MK grinned. His apron was crooked, hair messed, a smear of red sauce on his jaw. “We’re closing up for break, but we’ve got dumplings left. Unless Pigsy fed them all to the stray cats again.”
“I’m good.” His voice cracked. MK didn’t seem to notice, already ducking into the kitchen with a clatter. A blessing.
From the hallway came the heavy thump of boots. Pigsy.
He paused in the doorway the moment he saw Wukong—just long enough for his eyes to narrow.
“You look like shit.”
Wukong snorted weakly. “You always say that.”
“Yeah, and I’m always right.”
Pigsy stepped closer, arms folded, looming in that way only someone who knew you too well could pull off. His eyes swept over Wukong—face, neck, posture. He saw too much. He always did.
“You drunk?”
“No.”
“You high?”
“Not lately.”
Pigsy’s jaw tightened. “That supposed to make me feel better?”
“I didn’t say it to make you feel anything.”
Pigsy huffed. “You hurt?”
Wukong hesitated. That was all it took.
“For fu—” Pigsy cut himself off, growling under his breath. “MK!” he barked toward the kitchen. “Go scrub down the back sinks again. You missed a spot earlier.”
MK groaned from somewhere beyond the swinging door. “What? I literally just—ugh, fine.”
The moment the door flapped shut, Pigsy grabbed Wukong’s wrist—not hard, but firm—and yanked up the sleeve. The bruises there weren’t fresh, but they weren’t faded either. He let the fabric fall back and stepped in close.
“You’re coming upstairs.”
“I’m fine, Pigsy.”
“You think I’m asking?”
Wukong didn’t argue.
The last time someone had looked at him like that—like they cared enough to be angry—he was seventeen, wired on god-knows-what, yelling on a rooftop in spring rain. He remembered laughing too loudly. He remembered falling asleep under a vending machine. He remembered Pigsy hauling him back by the hood, again and again and again.
He steered him toward the back stairs. Wukong didn’t fight it. Upstairs, the little room Pigsy and Tang used to store spare blankets and half-broken chairs felt too bright and too clean. Pigsy sat him down on the futon anyway, like he’d done this before. Like Wukong was years younger and scraping into trouble with MK again.
“Oi, Tang!” Pigsy hollered over his shoulder. “Bring the kit. The big one.”
Wukong didn’t look up. The floorboards wavered in his vision. His body buzzed—not just from pain, but cold, and something worse, a kind of crawling shame beneath his skin. His hoodie clung to him where it shouldn’t. Blood had dried into the seams. He didn’t even realize he was shaking until Pigsy pressed a towel to his shoulders, hands firm but careful.
“You need water,” Pigsy muttered. “And food. Rest. You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine.” Wukong’s voice cracked, dry and brittle. It didn’t even sound like him.
Pigsy shot him a glare, the real kind, the kind he usually saved for MK when he tried to skip meals after shifts. “You’re not fine. You’re half a breath from keeling over.”
Wukong lifted one shoulder in a shrug, more of a twitch.
Tang was already kneeling beside them, the big red first-aid kit clicking open with a sound that felt too loud. He didn’t speak—just crouched and handed over the bandages, the disinfectant, the salve Pigsy liked for burns. “Alright,” Pigsy said, crouching. “Let’s see what we’re working with. Shirt off.”
Wukong didn’t move.
“I said—”
“I heard you.” Wukong squirmed. “Just… gimme a second. I’m thinking about how much it’s gonna suck.”
Pigsy’s jaw tightened. “Yeah, well, it’s gonna suck worse if you end up with an infection. Shirt off.”
Slowly, like every movement hurt, Wukong peeled the hoodie off. It resisted—dried blood sticking fabric to skin. The undershirt beneath it was soaked, almost translucent in patches. As he tugged it up over his head, Tang let out a soft sound—not quite pity. Something worse. Pigsy winced.
“Shit, kid.”
His chest was a patchwork of bruises, angry red streaks crisscrossed his ribs, torn from friction. Hoodie lint had fused into the wounds, clinging like they belonged there. His throat was a canvas of mottled bruises and dark, wine-colored hickeys. His skin looked used.
Pigsy scrubbed a hand down his face.
“MK didn’t see you like this, right?”
Wukong shook his head. “He’s still in the kitchen.”
“Good.” Pigsy dunked a cloth in hot water and wrung it out. “You don’t want him asking questions right now. And I don’t wanna lie to him.”
Tang passed Pigsy the cloth. The steam curled off it as Pigsy wrung it out.
“Wukong,” Tang said gently, “did someone do this to you?”
Wukong stared at the floor.
Pigsy dabbed at a particularly bad scrape. “You get jumped?”
“No.”
Pigsy paused, cloth hovering. “Then…?”
Wukong shrugged. “Got messy. I messed up.”
Loud silence.
“This is gonna sting,” Pigsy warned, dabbing the antiseptic on the worst of it.
Wukong flinched, teeth bared in a hiss.
Tang handed him a towel. “Here. For biting. Helps.” Wukong bit down, shoulders rigid, every muscle locked.
“Don’t tell MK,” Wukong said, voice muffled through the towel. “Please.”
“He won’t hear it from me,” Tang promised. “But he’s not stupid. He knows something’s off.”
Wukong didn’t reply. The silence hung, heavy as lead. The kind that dragged time out by the throat.
“It got bad,” he said at last, barely a whisper. “Worse than I thought it would.”
Pigsy stilled. His eyes flicked to Tang, who didn’t look surprised—just… braced. “With whom?” Pigsy asked.
Wukong flinched, just enough for Pigsy to see.
Another silence.
Wukong’s eyes flicked toward the door. “He didn’t mean to hurt me.”
Pigsy raised a brow. “He? Macaque?”
Wukong froze. A beat passed.
Pigsy sat back on his heels. “So that’s how it is.”
“How what is?”
“You got feelings for him.” He said it plainly, like he was naming a weather pattern. “That’s why you look like this.”
Wukong said nothing.
“You get into it?” Pigsy tried again, quieter.
Silence, again.
“… He hit you?”
“No. He doesn’t—no.”
“Then what?”
“I just…” Wukong’s voice wavered. “I needed to feel clean.”
Pigsy blinked. Tang went very still beside him.
“Clean?” Pigsy echoed, like he wasn’t sure he heard right.
Wukong’s eyes stayed glued to the floor. “I—I didn’t mean to. I was cleaning. Scrubbing. I just wanted the smell off me. I wanted to feel like myself again.”
Pigsy’s breath caught. Tang’s hand clenched into a fist.
“You did this to yourself?” Pigsy asked softly.
Wukong’s jaw trembled. “I didn’t think—I didn’t know how else to make it stop.”
Pigsy’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Make what stop?”
No answer.
After a beat, Tang touched Pigsy’s shoulder. “I’ll give you a minute.” He stood, quiet as snowfall, and slipped out, shutting the door behind him.
Wukong’s lips moved. No sound at first. “It doesn’t matter.”
Pigsy didn’t reply right away. He finished dabbing the wound, then sat back on his heels. “Didn’t ask if it mattered. I asked if it was you.”
Wukong nodded once, barely. More like a tilt of gravity.
Pigsy exhaled slowly. He pressed the clean gauze gently to Wukong’s ribs, bandaging in silence for a while. When he finally spoke again, his voice was hoarse.
“You ever do this before?”
Wukong shook his head. A lie.
“Okay,” Pigsy said. “Okay. Then we treat it like a first. Which means it’s not a pattern. Yet.”
Wukong blinked down at his lap. “Doesn’t feel like a first.”
“... You know,” Pigsy said quietly after a moment of silence, “MK’s not an idiot. He’s just young. Don’t think you gotta keep this from him forever.”
“I do.”
“Okay,” Pigsy said, after a beat. “Then for now.”
Pigsy’s hands were rough, but steady. It wasn’t gentle, but it was careful. Like someone fixing something broken with tools not quite made for it.
He let their words hang, then said carefully, “You fall back on someone else?”
Wukong tensed.
“Didn’t say a name,” Pigsy added quickly. “Not prying. Just… I’ve been around long enough to smell old fire. You smell like you walked through one and didn’t come out whole.”
Wukong huffed a joyless laugh. “Guess I deserved it.”
“No one deserves to bleed like this.”
“I let it happen.”
“... You always think pain means you did something wrong,” Pigsy muttered. Not accusing. Just tired. “Like if it hurts, it must be your fault.”
Wukong stayed quiet. His throat worked, eyes glassy and fixed on the floor.
Pigsy didn’t look up from his work. His hands were steady as they moved over the bandages and the basin of water, the damp cloth folding in on itself as he wrung it out.
“You can’t keep doing this,” he muttered, his voice quieter than usual, almost soft in the hum of the shop. “Every time you come back like this, you scare the hell outta me. You know that?” He sighed, the sound heavy with years of quiet concern. “You matter to people, kid.”
Wukong didn’t answer at first. He just stared down at his hands, the raw skin—cracked, tender—pressed into the edge of the futon.
Pigsy didn’t push it, though. He just continued working, his fingers firm and practiced as they moved around the gashes on Wukong’s side. The low buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead was the only sound for a while, save for the occasional rustle of fabric and the soft hiss of water.
“I remember when you first showed up at the shop. What were you—thirteen? Had that ugly little designer jacket and a watch that probably cost more than my rent.”
Wukong grunted. “My parents didn’t notice it was gone for weeks.”
Pigsy leaned back on his heels, eyeing a particularly bad spot just beneath Wukong’s collarbone. “Yeah. That tracks.”
He didn’t say more for a while. Just worked, hands slow, methodical. The bandages came out next—clean, folded tight, still warm from the press of the cabinet drawer. He laid them out on the low table, cutting them with a pair of dull scissors while Wukong sat in silence.
“You were always loud,” Pigsy said. “Always doing too much. Flashy, reckless, mouth running five steps ahead of your brain.”
Wukong opened his mouth to say something, stopped. Waited.
Pigsy finished cutting. “I used to think you were just trying to show off.”
“Wasn’t I?”
Pigsy glanced up. “Nah. You were just trying to be heard.”
Was he? Had he been?
“You remember that summer MK convinced you to climb the Old Bell Tower?” Pigsy said suddenly, voice low, like he was speaking into a memory rather than to a person.
Wukong blinked. “Which time?”
Pigsy gave a short grunt of a laugh. “The first time. You were, what—fourteen? Maybe fifteen?”
“I’d just turned fifteen. It was my birthday.”
“Right. And you both thought it’d be a great idea to carve your names into the copper plate at the top.” He dipped the cloth into the basin again, wrung it out. “You came back with glass in your hands and MK sprained his ankle so bad he couldn’t walk straight for two weeks.”
“He said it was worth it.” Wukong muttered, glancing down at the gauze as Pigsy applied it gently.
“You said it wasn’t. You were just mad he didn’t get his foot in the door on time, huh?”
“Didn’t care about that,” Wukong said, his voice rough. He winced as the bandages wrapped tighter around his ribs.
Pigsy huffed, but it wasn’t annoyed. “You cried the whole damn night.”
Wukong’s shoulders dropped slightly. “Not in front of you.”
“No. But I still heard you.”
Silence again. Pigsy moved to the worst of the cuts, the ones around Wukong’s sides. He paused to peel off the remaining bits of cotton that had clung to the skin and dried into place. Wukong winced.
“You remember that night?” Pigsy said after a moment, voice low. “You stayed over. Wouldn’t let me call anyone.”
Wukong’s fingers tensed around the edge of the futon. “There wasn’t anyone to call.”
“Figured.” Pigsy pressed a fresh strip of gauze against a raw patch near Wukong’s ribs. He was careful not to push too hard.
“That was the first time you let me sleep upstairs,” Wukong said. “MK passed out on the couch. I didn’t even pretend to leave.”
Pigsy snorted. “You never did. You used to sneak back in through the fire escape like I wouldn’t notice.”
“You always left the window open.”
Pigsy didn’t respond to that right away. He taped the last of the gauze down, smoothing the edges with thick fingers. Wukong watched his hands—steady, practiced, the nails short and clean. Not gentle, exactly, but familiar. Comforting, in a way he’d never been able to explain.
“You were a pain in the ass,” Pigsy said finally. “Tried to pick a fight with every customer. Drank all the soda. Ran off to fight when that one rich kid called MK a mutt.”
“I didn’t run off,” Wukong muttered, half-hearted. “I just… didn’t want to bother anyone.”
Pigsy didn’t stop his work. “You were never a bother, kid.”
The words sat between them for a long time.
“They just didn’t know how to deal with you, that’s all,” Pigsy went on, more to himself than to Wukong now. “Too bright, too fast, too full of fire. Their loss. Not yours.”
Wukong pressed his eyes shut. Something lodged in his chest gave a slow, grinding twist.
Too bright, too fast, too full of fire.
What was he now?
Burned out. Burned through. Smoke and singed wires and nothing left but the crackle.
His hands curled into the edge of the futon, nails biting into the old cotton weave.
He just felt… scattered. Pulled too thin in too many directions. Craving something—touch, love, Macaque’s stupid voice calling him out on his bullshit, his feelings, even Azure’s hands, cold and awful as they were—because at least they held him. At least they didn’t pass through him like smoke.
He wasn’t even sure what he wanted from Macaque. Forgiveness? A fight? For him to show up? Stay? Tell him he was an idiot but still—
Still what?
Didn’t really matter. Wukong had ruined that, too.
He didn’t know what he wanted. Not really. Touch? To be held? To vanish into someone? To scream at them until they left so he could say I knew you would?
He was starving. Hollowed out. Not from a lack of anything specific—but from wanting everything at once. From being too much, then not enough, then too much again. The hunger never stopped. For love, for chaos, for meaning. For someone to grab him by the shoulders and say, You are real. You are here. You matter.
Selfish.
He hated that word. But he wore it like a second skin.
“I always ruin it,” Wukong mumbled. The words tasted bitter. “Whatever it is. Whoever.”
Pigsy paused. “Is that what you think?”
Wukong didn’t answer. He stared at his hands—scraped raw, knuckles still stained with dried blood.
Pigsy sat down next to him. “You’ve always run hot,” Pigsy said after a long pause. “That kind of heat? It scares people. And it’s easy to mistake scared for angry. Or cruel. But that’s on them.”
He looked at Wukong, really looked at him.
“You got a big heart, kid. Messy as hell. Doesn’t mean it’s broken.”
Wukong swallowed hard. His throat felt raw.
“Then why does it always feel like—” His voice cracked. He tried again. “Like I’m wrecking things just by wanting?”
Pigsy didn’t flinch. “Because nobody ever taught you what it looked like when someone wanted you back.”
“I’m selfish.”
“You were a kid,” Pigsy said finally. “Still are, mostly.”
Wukong scoffed.
Pigsy ignored it. “You learned to shout so someone might hear you. Ain’t your fault if the only people listening were the wrong ones.”
The quiet that followed pressed in from all sides. The noodle shop smelled like broth and antiseptic and floor polish. Night sounds pushed faintly through the windows—distant traffic, a dog barking, the occasional clang of metal as someone took out trash a block over.
Wukong let his eyes drift down. His hands were open in his lap, palms up. One still held a corner of the receipt, folded down to an edge, soft with sweat. He didn’t remember grabbing it.
He stared at it like it might explain something.
Pigsy didn’t say anything more. He just kept working. And somehow, that helped. More than anything else could’ve.
Eventually, Pigsy stood, wiped his hands off on his apron. “You hungry?”
“No.”
“Tough. You’re getting soup anyway.”
Wukong sat back against the wall, eyes unfocused. The gauze was tight around his ribs, the scent of antiseptic sharp in his nose. Still, it was better than before. His skin didn’t crawl the same way now. The itching was gone. Mostly.
Pigsy moved toward the dresser again. He picked up the hoodie Wukong had stripped off earlier, looked it over, then set it aside and pulled a clean shirt from the drawer—old, faded, something MK had probably outgrown. He tossed it over.
“Put that on before you catch a cold. You’re not invincible.”
Wukong pulled the shirt over his head carefully, biting back a hiss as the fabric dragged across raw skin. It smelled like detergent and something else—something warm, lived-in.
Pigsy headed for the door but paused before stepping out. “You staying here for now?”
Wukong nodded slowly. “If it’s okay.”
“You’re asking now?” Pigsy gave a quiet huff, but didn’t wait for a response. “Soup’s on the stove. Come down when you feel like you can move.”
Pigsy paused at the top of the stairs.
“Kid. I really don’t like seeing you like this,” he said.
Wukong didn’t look up.
Pigsy waited a second longer. Then:
“You’re not hard to care about, no matter what you tell yourself.”
He turned and took the stairs slow.
Wukong waited until the sounds of his footsteps faded below before exhaling again. The room was quiet, warm. The sleeves of MK’s shirt bunched awkwardly at his wrists. He tugged them down, then up, then let them hang (he just needed something to do with his hands). Outside, a scooter buzzed past. Somewhere nearby, wind nudged a chime. The noise was distant and harmless—the world continued to spin.
He sat with that for a long moment. Then, without really deciding to, he stood.
The smell of soup curled up the stairwell. Wukong followed it.
—
2:03 PM
Macaque: where’d you go?
Macaque: you better be back before dark.
2:12 PM
Macaque: wukong, whats wrong
Macaque: are you hurt
Macaque: did someone hurt you
read !
Macaque: wukongn
Macaque: just fuckign say something
3:12 PM
Sun Wukong 🍑: im fine
Macaque: what happened?
3:56 PM
Macaque: if you don’t wanna talk that’s fine.
Macaque: but don’t just vanish on me like that.
Macaque: are you hurt?
Macaque: is the blood yours?
6:07 PM
Sun Wukong 🍑: LOL srry!! didnt mean to scare ya
Sun Wukong 🍑: just needed some air yknow???
Sun Wukong 🍑: pigsy did his weird soup magic and now im basically immortal
Sun Wukong 🍑: ✨✨✨super healed✨✨✨
Sun Wukong 🍑: also he gave me this shirt that smells like mk lmaoo kinda gross?? but also cute???
Sun Wukong 🍑: totally good now!! no biggie!!! 💖
Sun Wukong 🍑: srry for disappearing ily byeeeeeee~
Macaque: wukong.
Sun Wukong 🍑: gonna grab some noodles 🥡 maybe even dessert 🤭🍰 don’t wait up!! xoxo
Macaque: what are you doing
Macaque: wukong this isn’t funny
Macaque: you’re scaring me
Sun Wukong 🍑: lmao dramatic much 🙄 im literally FINE omg
Sun Wukong 🍑: can’t a guy disappear for a sec without you going code red 🚨😭
Macaque: this isn’t you.
Macaque: what’s going on
9:24 PM
Sun Wukong 🍑: im tired mac
Sun Wukong 🍑: like
Sun Wukong 🍑: really tired
Sun Wukong 🍑: can i just sleep
Macaque: yeah.
Macaque: yeah okay.
Macaque: just come home.
read !
—
[Google Search – 2:48 AM]
/
> nezha childhood friend sun wukong
↳ Showing results for “Nezha childhood friend of Sun Wukong”
About 2,980,000 results (0.36 seconds)
🔗 📘 Celebrities Youth: The Celestials Who Grew Up Together
www.immortalarchives.net/blog/childhood-celestials
📝 A speculative deep dive into rumors surrounding young celestial figures, including a now-archived friendship between Sun Wukong and Li Nezha.
“… It’s said Nezha once pulled Wukong out of a pond with a stick of fire—metaphorically or literally, no one knows…”
🖼️ Archived Photo: Tianshi Academy Junior Division, 2009
www.tianshi.edu/archive/gallery2000s
📸 A class photo from the Junior Division of the Tianshi Academy, dated 2009.
📎 Note: Access requires celestial registration clearance.
🏛️ Business Times Digital: Taizong International Appoints Li Nezha to Lead Global Policy and Inter-Species Affairs
www.businesstimes/news/linezha-taizongintl-2025
“At only twenty-three, Li Nezha—son of CEO Li Jing—has taken on executive leadership at Taizong International…”
📄 [PDF] 2025 Celestial Advisory Board Roster – Cupertino Archive
www.megapolisarchive.gov/boards/celestial-2025.pdf
📌 Page 4: “Li Nezha – Public Policy Advisor, Taizong International”
📜 Affiliated with: Department of Interspecies Peace & Regulation
📞 Directory Access: Internal Use Only
—
[Business Times – April 3, 2025]
Taizong International Appoints Li Nezha to Lead Global Policy and Inter-Species Affairs
By Xu Wenjie | April 3, 2025 | Business Times Digital
At only twenty-three, Li Nezha—son of CEO Li Jing—has taken on executive leadership at Taizong International, one of the most powerful multi-sector firms across the world.
A young veteran of the Celestial Accord Youth Assembly and a recognized diplomat in East-West realm negotiations, Nezha now oversees all external affairs, including human-demon relations, supernatural neutrality pacts, and cross-border entity ethics as Head of Global Policy and Inter-Species Affairs. Nezha holds a double major in Psychology and Public Policy from Stanford University, with earlier coursework completed at the elite Tianshi Academy in Beijing. His academic trajectory and postgrad work reflect a growing interest in both legislative systems and mental health frameworks—particularly those affecting interspecies and trauma-impacted communities.
He first drew public attention for his role in mediating a long-standing conflict between the City of Los Angeles and the Thousand-Eyed demon collective, resulting in unprecedented housing protections for supernatural refugees.
“The future isn’t one kind of species, or system, or voice,” he said during a panel at the 2024 Inter-Planar Summit in Seoul. “It’s plural. If you want to survive it, learn to listen.”
—
[Google Search – 2:54 AM]
/
> nezha taizong international contact info
↳ Showing results for “Li Nezha Taizong International contact information”
About 3,210,000 results (0.41 seconds)
🔗 Taizong International – Executive Team
www.taizongintl.org/executives/li-nezha
📌 Li Nezha — Director of Global Policy and Interspecies Affairs
A student of Stanford University pursuing a dual degree in Public Policy and Psychology, Nezha serves as one of the youngest executive officers at Taizong International. Known for his conflict mediation strategies and calm interpersonal style, he is also believed to be in the early stages of clinical licensure.
🔗 LinkedIn – Li Nezha | Director, Taizong International
🌐 Public Policy | Psychology | Multispecies Diplomacy
DMs: Closed
Mutuals: None
🔗 Press Interview: The Diplomatic Edge of Li Nezha
www.techstateweekly.com/interviews/nezha-diplomacy
In this feature, Nezha discusses bridging celestial-human divides in modern society.
🔗 Taizong Contact Gateway
www.taizongintl.org/contact
→ Use this portal to submit messages to executives and departments.
🌐 Select Department: [ Global Policy Affairs ]
✍️ Reason: [ Personal Inquiry / Concern ]
📎 Optional Attachments: [ Choose File ]
🔗 Forum thread – “Trying to contact Li Nezha (Taizong Intl.)?”
www.reachoutforums.com/taizongcontacthelp
User @lotusbeholder: “Tried emailing. No luck unless you have a mutual or a very good reason. Might respond through his father’s aide, but that takes weeks.”
—
Taizong International Congratulates Li Nezha on His New Role as Head of Global Policy
📍 Cupertino, California
🎓 Stanford University – Double Major in Public Policy and Psychology
🏢 Currently serving in international affairs and domestic celestial relations. Nezha has recently taken on public-facing responsibilities in the department, working closely with cross-cultural peacebuilding and interspecies mental health initiatives.
📬 For media or policy inquiries:
Li Nezha
Department of Global and Interdimensional Policy
✉️ [email protected]
☎️ Office: (408) 555-9923
✉️ Assistant: [email protected]
—
[New Tab: Gmail]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Wukong. Urgent.
Body:
I know you’re busy. I know this isn’t how these things are done.
But Wukong’s not okay. And I don’t know who else he’d let close. I think something happened. He mentioned you in passing.
You knew him before he learned how to hide things. I didn’t. If that still means anything to you, please contact me.
Sincerely,
Macaque, 六耳獼猴
[SEND]
[New Tab: Gmail]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Wukong. Urgent.
Body:
Where is he?