Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Life is what you make of it.

At least, that’s what everyone seemed to say. See, if it were not for the circumstances, Macaque would have gone his whole life without problems or complications. If he really did have the reins over his life, he would have made sure the old ladies at the café he worked at weren’t so cranky about their espresso shots, and that his professor didn’t give a ghastly amount of homework for the weekends. He would have erased bruises and cuts from the face of the planet. He would have made sure saying goodbye to people would have been an option. Maybe the gods really did hate him.

Life is what you make of it.

It was hard to shape things that didn’t particularly have a shape. One minute it could be nothing and then the next minute a wind whirl of turmoil. Macaque failed to shape life. He would have made circles of it if he could have.

Life is what you… fuck this. What a bunch of bullshit.

Macaque had to admit—it was nice to get out of the state. His whole life he’d lived cramped up the smallest room a house could possibly carry. Once he was of age and free of the foster care system, he had taken his private business money and gotten the hell out of South Carolina. He was half-aware that paying for his rent would somehow be the death of him, but his town was suffocating and he had needed air: simple as that. California just seemed like a better place to start… or, that was what Sandy said. Sandy was usually right about most things.

Well, that, and school. Somehow he’d been lucky with that.

Unfortunately, the only job he could get around his place was a waiter at a diner, and as much as he hated it, it had to suffice. His resumé wasn’t immensely impressive, but Macaque didn’t think it largely lacked anything that would have people turn him down. They were just dumb, they didn’t know what they were missing out on.

He’d learned a while ago not to trust others’ judgements.

The only apartment he could afford—he was just glad that he could afford one—was this cheap one-room studio that had somehow cramped a couch, a table, and a kitchen into one small area. The kitchen area was filthy and maybe he saw a roach skitter somewhere across the floor at one point but as long as it kept the cold air out in winter, it would be enough. For now. The place couldn’t fit a bed, so Macaque resorted to sleeping on the couch.

Today could have gone better. First off, he had accidentally left his keys at his apartment before going to work only to go back and find that the door was jammed (which proved how crappy the apartment actually was) which resulted in him using his neighbor’s scissors to force it open. It worked (another proof of how crappy the apartment was) until he realized that the scissors were completely ruined and he had to apologize and promise to buy them a new pair.

At the café, an old lady managed to spill her coffee all over his shoes—thank goodness it was iced, otherwise, it would have burned his toes off. But having to work for the rest of the day in cold, soggy, coffee-drenched trainers wasn’t too much fun. They squelched every time Macaque took a step and he learned today that he despised the sound of wet socks against wet shoes.

And just when he thought the ordeals for the day were over, Macaque found himself in semi-dry shoes, staring at his own apartment door, which stood ajar and open at midnight. Light spilled out in a thick streak across the hall, painting the gray slabstone in gold.

Oh hell no.

Macaque knew he wasn’t stupid enough to have left his own door open—he had got through that entire ordeal in the morning just to get that stupid key. Was the apartment door so crappy that it had somehow unlocked itself? Did a dog or a bird get in or something? What the hell? He needed to have a talk with the landlord about these godforsaken doors.

He flinched when he heard a sharp clink from the inside, and what eerily sounded like a little giggle (literally, what kind of horror movie shit was this) that sort of ended up echoing through the hallway, bouncing off the walls and fading into the dark end of it.

Ah, so. It was definitely not a dog. Nor a bird. Nor anything that didn’t know how to laugh.

Macaque pondered for a second, standing frozen in place while considering whether or not to call the police and have them take care of… whatever this was—but he didn’t want to stand out in the hall waiting for them to arrive (which could take a whole hour, who knew), and he definitely did not want to be the first guy whoever broke into his apartment found. What if they had a weapon? What if they decided to stab him to death and he’d be on the front headlines the day after?

No. This would not be the day he’d die.

“Shit, what am I doing…” Macaque groaned as he shuffled just a little closer to the open doorway, using his toes to slowly step out of his semi-drenched shoes and just into his socks—the stone felt too cold underneath his feet. “What am I doing, what am I doing—”

No, pull yourself together, Six-Eared Macaque. You’re a fucking demon—this couldn’t scare you.

With a noise akin to a battle cry, Macaque slammed the door fully open with his forearm, light instantly blinding his vision. His arms flailed blindly as his fingers grasped for whatever weapon of choice was nearby and in reach. Finally grabbing hold of his weapon—a fuzzy blue slipper—he held it out in front of him in defense. “Show yourself, intruder!” His heart had never beaten so fast, it was about to burst out of his throat.

And to Macaque’s horror, he found the intruder sitting on top of his tiny kitchen island—

“What are youuu doing in my house?”

Macaque watched in utter disbelief at the golden monkey that seemed to be drinking his orange juice out of a… flower vase that wasn’t even his, crunching on a peach with the other hand, casually sitting cross-legged on the table. He wasn’t dressed in much clothes: pajama pants hugged his knees and his Jurassic Park shirt seemed a little too big for him—his denim jacket, which had a bunch of cutesy, rainbow sewn-in patches on it, barely hung onto his form by the arms. Bits of peach went flying out of his mouth and onto the floor, which Macaque couldn’t even care for at the moment because there was a bigger problem sitting right in front of him that went by the name of Sun Wukong.

Macaque despised Sun Wukong.

“I’m gonna go fuck myself on a spike,” he found himself mumbling under his breath as Wukong unceremoniously stumbled off the kitchen island, making a beeline right for Macaque—the half-eaten peach lay forgotten on a chair.

“Don’t do thaaaat, when I can do it for you—”

“No. Get out.”

“Noooo, I wanna go to bed.”

Macaque barely had time to compose himself before Wukong kind of just slumped onto him like a deadweight, although still positively awake—he caught a whiff of… wine? Peach wine? Or was it a combination of just white wine and that peach he had just taken a bite out of? Either way, the smell of alcohol stung. He frowned.

“Are you drunk? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“You’re…” Wukong’s hand hovered over Macaque’s head, which Macaque blinked at in confusion before a finger came and landed itself right on Macaque’s nose. “... cute.” His bottom lip jutted out in an admittedly adorable pout.

Sun Wukong was… the opposite of Macaque, basically. He was literally a ray of sunshine that Macaque would rather close the blinds in order to keep out and stay in pitch darkness. He didn’t know much about him, but knew enough from staying the past few months in this apartment complex: he was filthy rich (his father owned a successful business or something), lived alone on the top-floor penthouse of the apartment, and had a shit-ton of parties while inviting a bunch of other people. And he was loud as fuck.

Wukong liked to say hi to him on the elevator, he was overly enthusiastic about it—and Macaque would return it with a shrug or a snap when the other began talking too much. That never seemed to get him to stop, though. Maybe he was just annoyingly-friendly and a stubborn ass.

Macaque flushed. “Did you get drunk at one of those stupid parties again—”

Hands tightly grasped onto Macaque’s upper arms as Wukong practically clambered onto him, tail wrapping around his ankle—the ebony monkey had to shake it off. “Heh, maybeee…”

“How’d you even get in?”

Wukong seemed to promptly ignore Macaque’s very important question and instead decided to find great interest in Macaque’s feet. He frowned, “Mac, where’d your shoes go?”

“Wukong,” he grunted when Wukong slightly pushed both hands against his chest to return back into the room, attempting to kick his own shoes off and instead throwing one across the room, “I’m serious, this is breaking and entering. Get the fuck out of my—”

“Nah, my—”

“No, my apartment. This is my apartment, you idiot. Leave.” To emphasize his point, Macaque pointed towards the door. “Go!”

“Mmmmm, no.”

“I swear, if you don’t get out in the count of three, I’m gonna call the cops.” When his threat didn’t seem to faze Wukong in any way, Macaque scowled and pulled out his crappy phone from his pocket. “I’m not kidding.”

“Po-po?”

“Yes, the po-po. I’m giving you three seconds,” he dangerously held the phone up, and Wukong simply scrunched up his nose while turning to stare at him dead in the eye, “one, two, th—”

“Has anyone told you you’re really hot? Ooh, what’s this dooo?” And with that, Wukong was rushing towards the rice cooker.

What the actual fuck. Macaque wanted to rip his guts out and throw them out the window… or something like that. He used his palm to aggressively rub his own cheek, groaning—okay, so this was how his night was going to go.

For the next half-hour, Macaque ran around the apartment trying to keep Wukong from slicing his own hand off or burning himself at the stove, or just generally keeping him from setting the place on fire. He was growing tired of it too, because for some reason his socks weren’t drying despite all the running-around he was doing and Wukong wasn’t showing any sign of calming down. He was like a little kid on the sugar rush of the century.

It all finally seemed to come to an end when Wukong lost interest in figuring out how to fit the lampshade on his head (he had whined about wanting to do it so Macaque had to give in and take it off for him). Somehow in the process Wukong had lost his jacket, which was lying rather messily at the foot of the kitchen island, and he had finished the peach and left the seed lying on the middle of his table.

“Mm,” Wukong rubbed an eye with the side of a finger, tired eyes flickering to the couch. “I like this couch, this is a nice couch.” And before Macaque could do anything about it, Wukong spread both arms and flopped himself onto it, crushing all the cushions and his singular pillow that he used for sleep, fully embracing the heavy, creaking bounce of a spring. His arms found his pillow and he hugged it, pressing his face against it to the point the feathers stuck out of that tiny hole Macaque had accidentally made in his sleep.

Okay, there was no way he was going to be able to move him now.

He swallowed a long groan that was almost dragged out from the very edge of his throat. “Fine; you win, dumbass,” he sighed, his shoulders slumping in half-defeat and half-relief—at least he didn’t have to chase the monkey around the room anymore. He was already tired, and his feet needed a dip in the shower.

Fine, one night letting the idiot sleep here. One night. If this happened again, Macaque would call the cops for sure. Macaque turned around to actually get the smell of iced coffee off him when—

“Mac, macmacmacmacmacmacma—”

“For fuck’s sake, what?”

Wukong spread his arms out in his direction, smiling giddily as his cheek smushed itself against the pillow, legs already tangled in the blankets that he forgot to fold in the morning. “Cuddle with meeeee, pleeeeaaaasssseeee?”

Macaque flushed red.

“Why the hell would I cuddle with you?”

Wukong pouted—literally pouted—and made little grabby hands. “Becaaauuussseee—” He then proceeded to slowly point at himself, “me.”

Macaque frowned. “No.” He spun around to leave again—

A strong hand grabbed him by the wrist and gave a hard pull; and Macaque found himself stumbling, tripping on his own feet, falling—

—right into Wukong. Arms shot out and immediately wrapped around his torso, yanking him down onto the couch to lie down beside him and Macaque let out a short yelp of surprise. What?

He struggled, squirmed a bit but Wukong held on with persistence, his forehead pressed tight against Macaque’s spine as he clung onto his person for dear life.

“Wukong, let go!”

“Noooo!”

“Let go, you idiot!”

“Maaaaacccc…”

Eventually after thirty seconds of struggle Macaque knew that he wasn’t going to get out of this without actually hurting the golden monkey—and Wukong was strong, much stronger than he looked. When Macaque finally relaxed in the hold the other had on him, Wukong let out what sounded like a happy sigh and a face buried itself into his neck, inhaling deeply.

Oh.

“Smells nice,” the golden monkey mumbled, his words muffled against the cloth of Macaque’s shirt. “Like… like plummsss…”

“You’re smelling me now? That's not weird at all."

Instead of responding to the half-sarcastic inquiry, Wukong’s fingers found Macaque’s ear. He didn’t stroke it or anything but sort of let his hand play with the piercing.

“Has anyone told youuu,” he slurred, his voice heavy with drowsiness and alcohol, “you have… really pretty ears?”

Fuck, he hadn’t even noticed his glamours had come down amid all the chaos—that moment everything snapped back into place, and it was then when he realized that most of his glamours had been down the whole time. Macaque wore it again and the three ears on each side of his head disappeared from view, leaving only one—Wukong whined quietly as a response.

“Whatever,” Macaque muttered, his face unnaturally hot—it had to be the heat. It was Wukong’s body heat that was flushing his cheeks, and his hands lay trapped by his sides not knowing what to do, fingers flexing confusedly.

How’d he get into this situation again?

“You’ve got pretty ears,” Wukong mumbled, catching Macaque’s attention again, his voice seemingly teetering dangerously on the edge of sleep, “like glowsticks. They glow.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. “They do,” he eventually responded, voice hushed. Wukong just curled tighter around Macaque, chin taking its spot on his back and nose right in the crook of his neck.

A few seconds of silence passed before Macaque began to hear quiet snores coming from behind him and he was finally able to let out a shaky exhale of relief. Soon his own exhaustion from the day (and everything that had transpired just now) came rushing into his system like a wave, and slumber finally took him.

Chapter Text

Macaque woke to… the first few verses of the Jackson 5’s I Want You Back. Huh.

The first thing he noted was that he had a splitting headache—and this wasn’t fair, because he wasn’t the one who wandered drunk into someone else’s apartment to wreck their stuff and fall asleep on their couch. Macaque was better than that, he had decency and he wasn’t crazy.

Oh. So that was what happened last night, someone had stumbled into his place drunk and had been a complete pain in the ass—events from yesterday flooded into his head in a rush, and he pinched his own nose at the dull ache in his head pulsed annoyingly.

“When I had ya to mahself, I didn’t want you around, those pretty faces duh da dum dum mm… ‘n the crowd—”

His eyes blinked open to sunlight—and that was odd, because Macaque hadn’t drawn his shades in months. The most he allowed during the day was a healthy amount of sun to come through the drapes than anything else, and maybe a bit of fluorescent lights. He was hardly a “light” person; if he had an option of turning on a light switch while sitting in a dark room, he wouldn’t take it.

He could smell… toast. And bacon. And… a hint of olive oil? Don’t blame him for his overly good sense of smell.

His back was cold—his legs were obviously swaddled in blankets because he could feel their worn ends tickling his ankles right underneath his fur. Macaque grunted slightly in discomfort, kicked his feet as he brought up a hand, squinting as the sunlight somehow made its way onto his eyes between his fingers. Ugh.

Who was whistling again?

Macaque turned, his head straining from that awkward position of his head on a pillow as he tried to make sense of the music with sleep-heavy vision. Someone stood at the kitchen stove, too happy for the morning, just switching from whistling to humming the rest of the song.

“—tryna live without ya love is one mm… sleepless night! Lemme show ya girl, that I duh doo duh mm… I always forget the lyrics here—”

He must have made some sort of noise to alert this stranger of his state of consciousness, because the guy standing at the stove (and who apparently did not know all the lyrics to the song he was singing) spun around, holding a spatula, pretty golden eyes growing just a bit wider in mild alert—oh shit.

Sun Wukong flashed him the most adorable, annoying smile from where he stood, looking surprisingly good in his short-sleeved Jurassic Park shirt. “Morning, sleepyhead!”

Sun Wukong was cooking food. In his fucking kitchen.

An unintelligible mumble of confusion was all that managed to leave Macaque’s lips at the nonchalant greeting he was offered first thing upon waking—Wukong just blinked at him a couple times in response to the incoherent slur of words, gave Macaque an amused giggle before turning back towards the stove.

Flushed red and his cheeks unnaturally red from embarrassment, Macaque rolled onto his stomach to get a better look at what the heck was happening without painfully craning his neck. Once his back was exposed to cold air and the blankets were no longer strangling his legs, he blinked to force the sleep out of his eyes.

Wukong stood in the kitchen with a frying pan, cooking bacon and potatoes. There was a slice of bread in the toaster already, and somehow he’d known where Macaque stored his plates and cutlery. They were laid out neatly on his kitchen island that at one point had been wiped completely clean of the mess than had been made the day before. A knife and a cutting board lay not too far off.

Oh. This idiot had the audacity to touch his food, cook with his frying pan, use his toaster, and set his cutlery.

“Why…” Macaque winced when his voice left his lips as a weird croak—he cleared his throat. “Why are you still here?”

“I’m making us breakfast, duh!” Wukong replied, sounding way too chipper for the early morning… wait, what time was it? Macaque spared a glance at the clock hanging on the wall: seven thirty, more or less. The battery for it had been acting wonky for a couple months, so maybe it was a couple minutes behind.

“Say bud, do you happen to have vegan gluten-free bread?” Wukong interrupted Macaque from his thoughts about his crappy clock. “I looked in the pantry and stuff and I couldn’t find any but I didn’t wanna wake you.” He turned around, holding his frying pan and looking around briefly for the plate before meeting Macaque’s eyes—he gave him a little shrug. “I prefer gluten-free bread over plain, so…” At the other’s lack of response, Wukong stared back. “No? Okay.” Humming again, he tilted the pan to slide the food onto one of the plates in front of him.

Macaque blinked once. Then twice. It dawned upon him way too slow that Sun Wukong was standing, cooking breakfast in his kitchen, almost as if it were his—oh right, he’d broken in last night claiming that this was his apartment. Of course he’d think this was his kitchen… was he still drunk? Was this a dream deciding to mess with him? Maybe.

Wukong had put the pan down and had now opened his fridge, which sat in a pretty sad corner next to the installed sink. “Oh right, I was gonna tell you—you should probably go grocery shopping soon. You don’t have much in here, do you?”

Macaque took some time figuring out what he wanted to say. His lips opened and closed out of pure disbelief for a few seconds before he finally managed to utter some words. “Do you even remember what happened last night?” He asked with a raised brow.

“Nope,” Wukong popped the ‘p’ as he peered into the toaster before glancing back at the other, a gentle smirk now resting on his lips, “but I’m sure it was amazing.” He then winked.

What the fuck?

“You broke into my apartment.”

Wukong paused, blinked in visible confusion. His socked-feet stopped moving against the floor. “Okay, less amazing,” he exhaled, gently shaking his head to himself while continuing to plate like he just hadn’t heard he’d broken into Macaque’s place, “wouldn’t be the first time I've done it, so I can’t say I’m that surprised.”

“Wh—”

Wukong stopped plating potatoes on the same plate. “... okay, but we did make out, right?”

Macaque sputtered. “What—no?”

“Ah, bummer.” Wukong’s lips upturned in a little grin before he turned back towards the stove. “How do you like your eggs, by the way?”

Macaque barely swallowed a string of frustration noises that were laced up uncomfortably in the back of his throat, pushing himself upright on the couch and rather angrily kicking when the last of the blankets wouldn’t unwrap from around his ankle.

“Eggs? Are you being serio—”

“I mean, I don’t eat them. I’m vegetarian, so I tend to stay away from them if I can. But I have no issue cooking them for other people!” He glanced behind his shoulder. “So, tell me: how do you like your eggs?”

“I like them when you’re not in my house making them for me.”

“Aw, c’mon! Don’t be like that,” Wukong exclaimed, “scrambled, fried, or sunny-side up?”

Oh, fuck me; Macaque let out a long, drawled groan. “Breakfast, and then you’re leaving.” A pregnant pause followed. “Scrambled. And I’m personally kicking you out if I find eggshells.”

Wukong’s smile glowed.

Macaque would have never expected himself to be sitting at his own tiny-ass kitchen island from across Sun Wukong of all people, watching him scarf down roasted potatoes, two glasses of orange juice, and two whole peaches. He looked down at his own plate and poked around at his annoyingly-perfect scrambled eggs, checking for possibly the fifth time if there were any eggshells in there—there weren’t.

Now that there was more unneeded light coming in through the window, Macaque could get a better look at the monkey sitting across from him; his ginger mane and the fur on his arms were almost golden in the sun, giving off what looked to be a healthy sheen. Despite having crashed into his place drunk last night his hair looked completely fine, like it had already been thoroughly brushed or groomed through. A small pendant shaped like the sun lay against his chest on a golden chain, tucked just underneath the neck of his shirt and enough to be visible.

Light speckles of gold flecks and freckles dotted the bridge of his nose and the soft skin on his cheeks right underneath his eyes like stars and constellations mapped across his face. Long lashes fluttered over said eyes with every blink, like the finest of black angel wings. They didn’t curl like lashes usually did with most people—instead they danced delicate and straight under batting eyelids. It was… pretty.

Oh.

Wukong glanced up from his food, meeting his eyes—Macaque caught himself staring and immediately looked down at his own serving of potatoes again.

“Do you have ketchup?”

“Huh?”

“I looked for ketchup in the fridge, didn’t see it.” Wukong shrugged nonchalantly. “They’d be so good with these potatoes right now.”

Macaque’s eye twitched. “I don’t have ketchup.”

“What? Why not?”

He could feel his face getting hotter; Macaque looked down and began to stab his food with his fork, so much to the point where he could tell that Wukong was actually looking at him worriedly.

“I can’t afford it.”

“Huh?”

He sighed, stopped stabbing his perfect scrambled eggs and lifted his eyes to finally meet Wukong’s; any shame he had felt over being too poor to buy ketchup faded for the time being, replaced by sheer disbelief. Was he really this much of an idiot? How come he didn’t notice before?

“It means I’m broke, dumbass.”

A silence followed. “Sorry.”

“Yeah.”

For a few seconds, both of them continued to eat food off their plate—Wukong seemed a little bit redder than before, a light pink dusting his cheeks. Macaque looked away.

He knew Wukong was more than loaded. He’d probably been spoiled since birth, pampered by servants and butlers that served him five-star quality food and parents who bought him whatever he wanted. Hell, he owned two Mercedes cars down in the parking lot, and his apartment was probably ten times larger than his own. He had perfect skin too so Macaque wouldn’t be surprised if he had some sort of million-dollar skin care routine going on—he scowled. It was practically glowing, that wasn’t fair.

“... I could lend you mi—”

“No.”

“—okay.”

Wukong took a bigger bite out of his peach before starting to take smaller nibbles around the seed. His hand reached up to start fidgeting with the chain of his necklace—a habit that Macaque had noticed from Wukong when silence seemed to stretch over. He began humming a quiet song, eyes moving around the apartment room as if trying to take in every nook and cranny.

Macaque had always hated it when people offered to give him things for free—he especially hated it when he could see the pity in their faces when they did. Sometimes Sandy tried to be nice and carefully offered to help pay his bill—he refused every time, albeit gently.

He was not about to accept a bottle of ketchup out of charity.

Wukong’s golden specks lifted from the table to meet Macaque’s, “I mean, don’t you work? I think I’ve seen you work.”

Macaque raised a brow. “You’ve seen me?”

“My chauffeur drove past that diner place downtown,” Wukong pointed out, and the corner of his lip lifted with a tiny smile, stars briefly dancing in his eyes, “I saw you inside working at the cash register.”

“I mean, fifteen bucks an hour is barely enough to afford rent and groceries,” he eventually mumbled in response—suddenly he wasn’t feeling as hungry for roasted potatoes, despite the fact that they looked pretty good. He used his fork to take a bite.

Dammit. It needed ketchup.

“Have you tried looking for other options?”

“You’d think I’d be working at a stinky diner if I could just magically get a better job?” Macaque barked out a quiet laugh of disbelief, and Wukong cocked his head slightly in response. “It means I don’t have privileges like you, genius. I don’t have money making your decisions for you.”

Wukong’s brows visibly furrowed at the last part, but if he was offended by what Macaque thoughtlessly said (admittedly, he slightly regretted saying it after seeing the look on his face) he didn’t show it.

Okay, maybe it was time for a change in subject.

“Can’t believe the first thing you did when you woke up with a right mind was to cook breakfast,” he muttered, trying to seem a little less interested than he was at the moment by finding some blank space on the wall.

Wukong perked up a bit at that, any trace of his previous frown disappearing as his tail rose to gently swish by the back of his head. “Oh! Yeah, that—” he rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking a bit sheepish and waved his paw. “—sorry, force of habit. I sleep around a bit so—”

He said it so casually that Macaque almost missed it. “—you sleep around?”

Wukong blinked, his glass of orange juice halfway to his lips. “Yeah? When I hook up with guys at parties and stuff, sometimes. I’m kind of used to waking up before my partners so I just naturally assumed that we did something last night. ‘Cuz, I mean, you totally look like someone I’d go for.”

Macaque felt his face rapidly grow hot at the sudden blow of bluntness that was unceremoniously tossed at his face, so he immediately rushed to use his glamour to hide it. If Wukong noticed it, he didn’t speak up about it. “Ah.”

“But I’ll make up for the whole thing! I promise!” Wukong said, leaning in a little from across the table. “I could come by some other time, and, y’know, bring some sweets. Do you like sweets?”

Macaque blinked at the sudden turn of events—he wanted to come back? What? And to give him sweets to make up for breaking into his apartment?

He had to briefly remind himself that he hated Sun Wukong. He was that annoying ray of sunshine that he’d rather ignore from the other side of the room, cover his six ears to drown out the existence of his parties and his golden glow and everything else about him—well, that was what he had sworn to do until he found himself a better place to live (or until he got evicted).

“I’m not big on sweets.”

“Uhm—” Wukong’s eyes darted across the kitchen island, “—what about gougère? Gâteau basque? Bienenstich? Unless you have a nut allergy, then you gotta choose something else—”

Macaque blinked. “What.”

“What?”

“What the hell are those?”

“You don’t know what a bienenstich is? How come?”

“... you know what? Call me when the real world hits, you should probably go now.” And Macaque stood up way too abruptly from his chair that he nearly toppled over; he quickly cleared his throat, gathered composure, and swiftly took his plate to the sink—the plate was empty.

“Oh, okay.” Wukong got to his feet, taking his own plate (to Macaque’s gentle surprise) and talking over to the sink, placing it underneath the tab beside his own—his paws brushed against Macaque’s own and although Macaque stiffened, the other didn’t even seem to notice. “I can wash the plates if y—”

“Nope, I’m good.” Macaque cut in and immediately turned the sink on, running the water over the plates and used forks. “You should go.”

“Yeah okay, but I’m coming back with bienenstich—you haven’t lived until you’ve tried it.” Wukong made a finger-gun at him, and Macaque gave him a glance past his shoulder. “I know this really good German bakery, they have the best pastries there.”

“Take your jacket, dumbass.”

Macaque had to hold back a snort when Wukong nearly tripped on his own feet, catching himself against the doorframe as he scooped down to pick up his denim jacket. “Ah, almost forgot about you!” He hummed as he dusted nonexistent dust off the sleeves.

"Shoes."

"Yup!"

"Take your flower vase, you were drinking juice out of it last night."

Wukong picked up said fancy flower vase by its neck and lifted it up with a smile of triumph. "Got it, going now!"

“... Oh, and by the way, I think the place could use a bit more color. Consider painting the walls, it’s gonna look a lot nicer—”

“Bye, Wukong!”

Macaque didn’t check to see if Wukong had really left—he didn’t need to look as he heard the door close shut and a rather loud voice singing along to Bowie’s Moonage Daydream behind the walls, slowly fading into the distance. With a particularly pitchy note, Wukong was gone.

Macaque scrubbed the excess peach juice stains off the plates and dropped the pit down the drain, but the the tips of his six ears felt warmer under his glamour than he would want it to be.

Chapter Text

Macaque angrily stuffed his mouth with another forkful of bienenstich, wiping the bit of vanilla custard off the corner of his lips with the back of his hand. It wasn’t fair that this was this good and that all this face-stuffing was probably causing him to put on a couple pounds, and it was all Sun Wukong’s fault.

Wukong seemed to have found fun in bringing him sweets like he said he would—almost every day he showed up with a box of macarons, this luxurious-looking cream pie that was way too big to finish, and some sort of round, stuffed pastry that had sprinkled square sugar bits all over it. Cakes piled the inside of his fridge and empty paper boxes flooded the bin. When Macaque tried to make Wukong stop bringing him stuff by saying that buying too many pastries was just a waste of paper, he started bringing them in plastic containers.

He groaned in frustration, lips screwed shut around a mouthful of custard and bread. It was so good.

Why did you invite yourself in again?

Wukong had blinked at him and then smiled, the gentle dip of dimples on his cheeks decorating his features. If a neighbor gives you a gift, it’s common courtesy to let them inside! Silly—

What a sorry excuse to barge into someone’s home; Macaque stabbed his fork into the last of his cake and stuffed it past his lips, huffing through his nose—

Someone rang the doorbell.

Macaque had to keep himself from glaring at the door—there was literally nobody else that would visit him at this time of day. Or, anyone else to visit him at all.

A knock this time, knuckles rapping against the metal: “Macaque! Mac—I’m coming in!”

Macaque cursed himself for not bothering to lock the door again; he could have moved his ass up from the couch to do it, but forgive him because he was busy stuffing vanilla custard cake with a fancy german name into his mouth and he desperately needed sugar.

“Hello?” Sun Wukong walked inside, rubbing his shoes against the floor to get them off. Leaving his sneakers by the door, he peeked his head inside, squinting through the stark darkness of the room. “Are you home?”

“I should install a double lock so that random strangers stop breaking in.”

Wukong’s face lit up as he found the source of the voice curled up on the couch. “There you are! You should really let some light in here, it’s like you’re living in a cave—” Wukong left the tupperware on the tiny kitchen counter and headed straight towards the curtains. He wrenched them apart and sunlight streamed into the room, unfortunately right onto Macaque’s face. He hissed and quickly brought the hand up to block it from burning his retinas away.

“I told you, I prefer it dark,” he snapped, scooting away from the sun and into the shadows, carrying his empty plate and fork with him, “draw them back.”

Wukong snickered. “You’re broodier than Batman. Relax, let some light in! A little sun never hurt no one.” Not bothering to draw back the curtains like Macaque wanted, he hummed a random song that Macaque didn’t recognize as he walked back towards the counter. His ears perked up adorably when his eyes found the other’s empty plate. “You finished it?” His ginger tail swished in visible excitement. “How was it?”

Macaque flushed and pressed the edge of the empty plate against his stomach. “How was what?”

“The bienenstich.”

“How’d you know it was—”

“You have vanilla custard on your lip.”

Macaque flushed red and hurriedly brought up the back of his hand to his mouth, wiping the cream residue off his face. “I knew that,” he mumbled, and Wukong just gave him an expectant eyebrow raise, seemingly awaiting a response.

He didn’t answer for a few seconds, fighting feverishly against that part of him that wanted to say yes, it was better than he thought it was going to be and can he come back with more? Absolutely—not. His cheeks filled with air and he bit down on his tongue. “... good.”

Wukong’s face lit up, and his golden freckles seemed to glow. “That’s great! Means that I can bring more.” He headed straight towards Macaque’s tiny fridge like he always did whenever he barged inside. “Have you had dinner yet?”

“... you know, you don’t always have to bring me stuff,” Macaque pointed out like he’d done probably a million times before—his eyes glanced towards the overflowing garbage can.

“Oh, but I want to!” Wukong replied, evenly chipper. “And besides, it’s common courtesy to let a neighbor in when they bring you a gift.” And there it was. Macaque was able to get a good look at whatever it was that Wukong had brought this time—jelly donuts.

Macaque liked jelly donuts.

“So you bring me all this food just so that I’d let you inside?” He raised a brow.

“I mean, there are other reasons too, just basic neighborly mannerisms,” he hummed thoughtfully, “I think that’s a thing—surely. But it also kind of gives me a nice excuse to see you, so…”

Macaque was so done.

He would rather jump off a couple stories than have to admit out loud that while he still hated Sun Wukong for who he was, he still found himself occasionally staring at the door wondering why he hadn’t returned to Macaque’s door to annoy the hell out of him again.

“Yeah, well—” He cleared his throat. “—I’m not always in the mood for visitors, you know.”

“No shit,” Wukong laughed, and for a moment it was the summer rain. “But that’s not gonna stop me.”

“Figures.”

“Anyways, hope you’re hungry! Because I brought all the good stuff.” Wukong chirped, picking up his tupperware again before glancing in Macaque’s direction—an amused smile crossed his face when he found the other still hiding in the shadowed corner of the room with a scowl. “I brought donuts…” He tried this time in a singsong, teasing voice, his tail swishing playfully behind his shoulder and his freckles glowing in a way that made Macaque want to stuff his face into a cushion.

“I just finished the cake.”

“Come on, Mac—donuts are, like, the universal stress reliever. Try one and tell me I’m wrong.” Wukong opened the container and held it in Macaque’s direction… they did look good.

Aw, fuck. Whatever.

“… this doesn’t mean we’re friends.” Macaque snatched a donut from the tupperware and stuffed almost half of it into his mouth as aggressively as stuffing his face could get—stupid donut, stupid Wukong.

Wukong giggled before plopping himself right down beside him on the couch, stealing his own donut from the stash. “Sure, neighbor.” He brought it to his lips to take a bite when Macaque snatched the donut away before dropping it back into the tupperware—Wukong turned to him looking offended. “Hey!”

“These are a gift for me—if you ate it, you’d be stealing my food.” He pointed out.

“But I brought it!”

“Yeah, for me. Hands off.”

Wukong rolled his eyes (albeit playfully) and shoved the container into Macaque’s arms. He nearly dropped it out of surprise but clutched it to his stomach—he wasn’t complaining, these donuts were good. He scowled and glanced in Wukong’s direction. “These taste too sweet.” They didn’t, they were perfect and he liked these.

“You talk like an old man.”

Macaque blinked before shaking his head and going back to licking some off the jelly off the pastry. “I don’t know how I tolerate you.”

“Because we’re friends.”

“We’re not friends,” Macaque snapped, and Wukong’s smile did disappear afterwards to be replaced by a look of… it wasn’t hurt, per se, but a look of crumpled confusion. Or maybe it was hurt and Macaque was just really bad with feelings; it was one of those two. Either way, his brain rushed to mend it. “... yet,” he added a few seconds after, giving himself a mental smack in the face, “don’t get any ideas.”

“One day I’m winning you over.” Wukong responded, shrugging and getting a little comfier on the seat of the couch beside him, and Macaque scooted just a couple inches away when he leaned in too close. “I’m bringing over flowers if I have to.”

“Please don’t.”

“Like, not in the way you’re thinking of! More like a peace offering, you know? Did you know lavender symbolizes peace because it has that nice, soothing scent?” Wukong said, making an attempt to sneak a donut—Macaque slapped his hand.

“What, so you’re into those flower language things?” He scoffed but softly as a quiet exhale through his nose. Wukong shrugged in response with a hint of a smile.

“My first nanny used to be a florist—it was all she would ever talk about, the language of flowers.” He laughed quietly, “naturally I ended up picking up on it.”

Macaque licked a little bit of powdered sugar off his finger. “I always thought those were a bit cheesy. Using flowers to say something instead of saying it yourself.”

Wukong hummed. “Maybe,” he wondered aloud before slightly dropping his head onto his shoulder to look in Macaque’s direction, “but I think it’s nice when you want to show someone you care; it’s sweet.” He looked pretty when he smiled.

Macaque turned away and began to eat another donut in silence.

“Sorry, sorry—” He hissed through his teeth to nobody in particular as he dropped to his knees to start picking up the broken pieces of a once-intact plate. He silently hoped that there weren’t too many eyes on him.

He wanted to curse and throw something (preferably something that couldn’t shatter into a million bits). It just so happened that his fingers had slipped on some leftover gravy while his mind had been wandering elsewhere like a blind idiot.

Diners seemed to shrug and go back to their meals, leaving Macaque hunched over the floor scraping broken shards of porcelain into bare hands. He was trying to mind sharp edges because the last thing he wanted was to bleed all over the place and cause himself more embarrassment than he already had.

Maybe it was the lack of sleep he had gotten this week trying to balance school work and a job, or maybe it was that coffee he forgot to make himself this morning because he was too busy looking for his keys, but he’d already made a fool of himself fourteen minutes into his shift today by dropping an entire saltshaker into someone’s coffee mug—he could use a day without something bad happening to him.

“Macaque—!” A familiar set of hands fell beside him and began to carefully help scrape up the broken pieces—he carried a dustpan and a brush in both, and Macaque released a soft exhale of relief. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, thanks kid.” He sighed, dropping a handful of the broken porcelain into the dustpan MK held out for him. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me today.”

“That lady at table 7 did give you a pretty hard time with the waffles,” MK thought aloud with the slightest grimace, “maybe you’re just tired. I know I get tired on Saturdays. It’s not your fault those waffles were runny and uncooked.”

MK was a nice kid who worked some shifts with him—he was in his freshman year of college and went to the same school Macaque went to. He had two dads (one of whom owned a restaurant downtown) and a little sister. Macaque didn’t know too much about him considering they never really spent time together outside of work, but they still gave each other the occasional friendly wave on campus when they crossed paths and had those short conversations too.

“Yeah, maybe I’m just tired.” He echoed MK, sliding his hand across the tiles to collect those last broken pieces of porcelain, too tired to make up his own reason. “School stuff.”

MK shrugged as he shook the dustpan a little, using the brush to hold the pieces back from falling out. “Yeah, I have this other friend who’s majoring in theater arts and she says the amount of projects the professor makes you guys do is crazy.”

“Yeah, he does that.” Macaque chuckled quietly in response. “It’s a good distraction, though.”

“From what?”

“From this job, for one. I can’t get by a single day without a little kid throwing dino chicken nuggets at the walls or an old baby trying to order from the kids menu.” He rolled his eyes. “But there’s… there’s also this guy that lives in my apartment and he won’t leave me alone.”

Wait, why did he mention th—

“Ooh!” MK exclaimed so loud that Macaque barely kept himself from violently shushing him. “Is he your type?”

“Wh—no, he—no, he’s not my type—” Macaque flushed, ducking his head and hoping he’d lowered his face enough so that his collar hid his cheeks. “He’s just really annoying, that’s all.”

“What’s he like?”

“He’s… just stupidly persistent.” Macaque muttered, swiping the dustpan from MK’s hand who didn’t make any move to take it back. “Always barging into the place completely uninvited, it’s the worst. I’m losing sleep just talking to him.”

MK’s eyebrows shot up in amusement. “Because you can’t stop thinking about him?”

“Wh—what? No, that’s not what I meant—ugh.” Macaque groaned and glared at a stain on the floor. “You’re such a pain in the ass, kid.”

“Thanks, I try.” MK teased back with a grin. “So he’s not your type?”

“No. I mean, he’s just… overly friendly. In a way that’s super irritating. He talks too much too.”

He has nice freckles.

“And he always leaves his shoes all over the floor.”

His face is like a map of the stars.

“Can’t stand him coming over.”

He’s pretty.

“Sounds like someone has a crush!” MK said in a singsong voice and Macaque’s eye twitched.

“I don—” Just then noticing he had raised his voice, Macaque dropped it to a low hiss, “I don’t have a crush. He’s just… too generous with his pastries.”

“Huh?”

“Nevermind, just… just help me with this last bit—” He turned his head towards the familiar, painful shrill voice of a lady calling for a waiter. “—or even better, go help that banshee with whatever she wants this time.”

MK’s grin didn’t disappear as he tossed the bit of broken porcelain into the dustpan.

After giving Macaque a small mock-solute he took off, calling out to let the lady know that he was coming. With a short exhale through his nose, Macaque continued to scrape the rest of his mess up into a pile of broken shards.

Macaque had never pressed another button on the elevator besides the ones that hold or close the door, and that one button that led him to his floor. His hands tightened around the box that he held too tightly between his fingers, and he had to stop squeezing when he heard the wrapper crinkle under the pressure.

He’d never been to the top floor before; he didn’t need to. He was aware that it was used by only one person and that was Wukong, and that he owned a ridiculously massive home that consisted of the size of probably more than ten of his apartment rooms combined. When he was first looking around for a place to live, he’d looked up at the very top floor and scoffed as loud as he could.

Now here he was, scooting past multiple… pet strollers that lay strewn messily by the door to the doorbell, once again asking himself why he was here when he could have perfectly been doing something productive, or quite literally anything else. He had seriously considered it at the elevator, taking steps in and out and holding the door open for over a minute. He had panicked slightly when the elevator had moved past his floor and towards the top, and now he was considering stuffing the box into one of the pet strollers and pretending that he was just here for… no particular reason. He’d make one up on the fly.

“What are you doing…” Macaque hissed at his own feet as his fists curled midair in front of the doorbell, “stupid, stupid—stupid idiot.” He kept his own words directed towards his self-consciousness to something lower than a mumble, his heel rolling against the floor.

He’d give it to him, shove it in his face. Tell him that he didn’t accept charity and that was why he was paying Wukong back with what he could. And then he’d leave.

Macaque pressed the doorbell, silently cursing underneath his breath—the things he did to himself.

A muffled coming made its way past the door and Macaque winced when he heard a crash, and then a quiet grunt that sounded like he had fallen flat on his face. More ominous thumps, before he heard that fancy click of a door with a fancy security lock on it, and then it opened with a colorful beep.

Wukong poked his head out, head tilted to tuck a phone between his ear and his shoulder with both arms hugging a black cat in both arms that was sopping wet and looked reasonably grumpy about the situation. A pair of fluffy, unnecessarily-cheerful monkey slippers sat over his feet. A black bathrobe hugged his form, a sash around his waist probably the only thing that was holding it closed. Oh shit. Macaque had to double-check his glamours were all there.

“I told you, there is literally no way I could have ta—” The ginger stopped moving and froze when he saw who was at the door, and Macaque felt his ears growing hotter. He grit his teeth and squeeze his mouth shut tight into a straight line when Wukong’s lips stretched into a smile. “Nezha, I’m gonna have to call you back.”

“Sun Wukong, don’t you—” Whoever was on the other side of the line was cut off as Wukong switched to holding the cat with one arm and hanging up the call with the other, stuffing the phone into the pocket of his bathrobe—the cat’s bottom half kind of limply swung about with Wukong’s every movement.

“Uh—”

“Hey, bud!” He greeted, cutting Macaque off through his silent panic. The cat mewed and pawed helplessly at Wukong’s sleeve. “What brings you here?” He glanced down at the wet mess on the floor from the water that dripped down from the cat’s fur. “Sorry, I was in the middle of giving Xiaohei a bath.”

“I…” The cat glared at Macaque, and Macaque wanted to glare back. Quickly remembering what stupid idea had prompted him to come here in the first place, he shoved the box of chocolates into Wukong’s arms, ignoring the cat’s protests.

“I got it from someone as a gift, and…”

He bought it when he saw it.

“I don’t eat chocolate.”

He did.

“It has peach filling.”

It was cheap, but it was all he could afford.

Wukong blinked once. Twice. And then the biggest smile stretched over his face and he giggled, hugging the box of chocolates to his chest along with the cat—it yelped quietly and squirmed in his hold. “Daww, that’s so sweet! I love peaches!” He exclaimed, and surprised Macaque when he shot out and grabbed hold of his wrist. “You brought me something, so come in!”

“No, actually, I was just gonna lea—”

“Nonsense! Come inside, I’ll fix you some snacks.” And before Macaque could say anything else Wukong was gone, the sopping wet cat left on the floor in a puddle of water. Xiaohei, as Wukong had called it, looked up at him and mewled. He’d be a total ass if he left now without saying anything.

Xiaohei meowed again, before deciding to start rubbing up against Macaque’s ankle and probably soaking his pants with the smell of wet fur. Macaque sighed—he was a jerk, but he wasn’t that big of a jerk.

“Nice kitty,” Macaque mumbled as he carefully shook the cat off his leg and stepped around it, avoiding the wet puddle on the floor. Once said kitty decided that squirming and rubbing against the welcome mat was the best way to dry itself, Macaque found space to slip off his shoes. He hadn’t noticed until now, but he could catch the faint scent of vanilla.

The porch was as normal as a porch could look—front door with a lock (it wasn’t fair Macaque had to use keys), some sort of tiny Buddha statue sitting on a small stand, and… oh. Wukong had a lot of shoes. They were pretty much all over the place, sprawled across the ground and shoe racks without much order in a way that made Macaque’s eye twitch the slightest bit. He couldn’t find a single normal pair; each one had to be brightly colored or adorned with some sort of embellishment or handiwork sewn onto the material.

He solved the problem for now by carefully pushing some of them away from the entrance with a foot.

He let himself in while trying to get used to the scent of vanilla and… aloe that seemed to get stronger as he went inside. There was a hall that stretched along from the front door, a pile of oil paintings lying against the wall in a messy stack. The walls were bare, so a part of Macaque questioned why Wukong hadn’t bothered to hang them up.

The one sitting face-up in Macaque’s view was a carefully-crafted art piece of a colorful display of a pretty burly man, a golden lion mane traced across his head with gentle brush strokes—a healthy sunflower that somehow looked more to be the center of the drawing covered half of the man’s face, hiding half of what seemed to be a gentle smile. A splash of red, possibly accidental, covered a corner of the canvas. Overall, it was a beautiful piece. Macaque squinted, head tilting to the side as his hand reached out—albeit slowly—to see the other paintings behind this first one.

“Macaque?” Wukong’s voice broke through his momentary stupor and Macaque’s hand shot back to his side, fingers flexing nervously where they stopped. Wukong tilted his head curiously to the right.

“Just… got distracted.” Macaque managed to squeeze out, taking a subtle step away from his previous subject of interest, eyes flickering back to his new one.

Wukong perked up with a small smile. “Oh, you like them? I painted them about a couple years ago, but I was gonna throw them out to make space in the studio.”

Sun Wukong could draw? “You draw?”

“Duh, I’m an animation major—although fine art is more of a hobby than anything.” Wukong shrugged, his eyes briefly glancing towards the first painting before they moved back to Macaque, nodding towards the other end of the hall, his smile growing a tiny bit wider. “Come on, I got cake out.”

Macaque followed Wukong through the hall (it wasn’t as long as he thought it was) and into a more open area—ah. The living room. Although it wasn’t the type of living room that Macaque had ever had the chance to get used to. It was massive, adorned with fancy-looking sculptures and on the more open area of the wall there was a pretty big portrait of three figures, one looking a lot like another and vice versa with the other.

It was a family portrait for sure—Wukong, seemingly much younger and seeming to be about in his early teens, smiled rather stoic-faced at the camera, hair anything but a mess like it was now and combed neatly with a parting. It was a look that didn’t suit him, but he looked good in the picture.

Behind him stood the two adults who were without a doubt his parents—Wukong was the spitting image of his mother: ginger hair, long lashes and all, but the freckles were all his. Wukong looked a little less like his father, whose face in the photo screamed mostly business like all rich, older men probably did, but he did have his eyes. He was handsome, features chiseled and sharpened from time, accompanying the heart shape of a mask over his eyes and nose. Wukong’s could be rounder, a bit curvier around the edges and in just all the right places.

It didn’t come as a surprise that Wukong had very good-looking parents—even if he didn’t have his dad’s sharper features, he had the softness of his mother’s face and his striking eyes came from his father, obviously one of those things that stood out within the Sun family like a trademark burn. But Wukong’s smile seemed like something that he’d crafted out of his own hands and tools—it was something that could only be his.

Macaque tore his eyes away from the family portrait to see Wukong precariously balancing three plates in his arms, the most dangerous one sitting on his right wrist, tongue sticking out of the corner of his lip in a more cartoonish manner as he focused on trying not to drop anything. He winced when one precariously teetered in Wukong’s hold.

“So, funny story,” Wukong said, “turns out the cake’s gone bad, something good comes from letting food sit in the fridge too long—there was gross-looking mold growing on it. But I have cookies!”

It occurred to Macaque just then (as Wukong was setting said cookies onto the unnecessarily luxurious coffee table) that Wukong was still dressed in his bathing robe and presumably nothing else underneath—his ankles were still dripping wet, leaving water stains everywhere he went. Xiaohei had at some point returned to the living room and was trailing behind Wukong like a starved child, mewing loudly for attention with eyes too blue for its own good. Its fur was a mess, sticking out in weird places and making it look like a tiny fluff ball.

Oh. Wukong wasn’t wearing anything underneath his bathrobe—Macaque’s face flared red.

“Aren’t you gonna get changed?”

“Huh?” Wukong blinked once before glancing down at his attire, before looking back up at Macaque with a leisurely shrug. “No…?”

He considered saying something, but decided against it—this wasn’t his house, so honestly he had no say. “Okay.” He felt awkward saying it. Wukong, on the other hand, didn’t seem to mind.

Macaque took that brief moment Wukong was taking to hurriedly clear the coffee table free of papers filled with doodles and clementine peels to take a proper look around—Wukong’s place was massive. There was a big TV on the wall (the screen was bent, how did that work) and everything that lay around him felt like they were either priceless artifacts or family heirlooms… or something like that. Whatever they were, they looked important and expensive.

He could see the kitchen from where he stood—there was a massive kitchen island in the middle made of what looked like pristine marble, the toaster had more buttons than necessary and even the fridge had a screen on it. On the other side Macaque could catch a glimpse of a staircase leading up in a spiral pattern up to this glass balcony in the corner of the living room. He’d always wondered why the penthouse floor looked a couple stories high—now he knew why.

The things the rich could afford to buy and throw away. Macaque bit the inside of his cheek.

Xiaohei meowed at just the right time, impatiently nudging its fluffy head against Macaque’s ankle, seemingly having given up on trying to grab Wukong’s attention. To shut it up, he reached down and gently rubbed the ring of its wet neck, and the cat eagerly leaned into the touch.

“I didn’t know you had a cat.”

“She’s a rescue!” Wukong chirped, now busy fluffing the couch cushions, the sash of the bathrobe swaying by his feet. “I adopted her when I first moved in—the place was kind of too big for me, and she needed someone to take care of her. I guess she kind of waltzed into my life at the right time.”

“And one would think you’d be used to extravagance.” Macaque said before noticing that could have been worded better.

“I suppose,” Wukong shrugged before Macaque could consider taking back what he said, thankfully not seeming offended at all. “But home’s better with company, y’know? And Xiaohei is great company, aren’t you baby?”

Instead of listening to whatever Wukong had to say, Xiaohei had decided to follow Macaque to the couch he had awkwardly perched himself down on and curled up next to his knees, constantly headbutting him in the thigh.

“Uh—”

“Aw, look! She likes you—it’s kind of weird though, because Xiaohei rarely likes anyone. Maybe you smell like cat.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Macaque’s brows furrowed as he snapped his head up to face Wukong, who just innocently shrugged from across the coffee table before his ears perked up in such a manner that reminded Macaque of a golden retriever that had just heard its favorite word.

“Hey, do you want a quick tour around? I recently redecorated and I’ve been wanting to show someone the interior design, but nobody ever comes by.”

“I mean—”

“Great!” And with that Wukong shot up so fast that Macaque himself almost lost balance just looking at him—Xiaohei squirmed when Wukong took Macaque by his sleeve and pulled him back to his feet, nearly knocking the poor cat to the floor. She landed in a graceful manner, shooting Wukong something akin to a glare before proceeding to give herself a cat bath.

Wukong soon began dragging Macaque around after promptly stuffing a cookie into his hand. As Macaque chowed down on the surprisingly-good cookie (maybe vegan chocolate wasn’t that bad) he caught sight of that earlier upstairs area that apparently led to Wukong’s bedroom, and a couple more guest bedrooms right beside it. The kitchen, as seen before, was unnecessarily big and Wukong even had the courtesy of showing him inside the pantries.

“And this is my studio! Or, it’s more of an artsy room than anything… but you get my point.” Wukong announced with a wide smile as he opened another fancy door to a room just a bit smaller than the living area outside. As soon as Macaque stepped in he was hit with the strong smell of oil, making him scrunch up his nose a little. The place was… an absolute mess. Paint cans were hazardously placed on the floors and most of the walls and floor were covered by messily-taped on tarp onto the corners. It was like someone had a paintball match and died. Despite the magnitude of the room itself there wasn’t much inside—a desk sat in the corner, a laptop and a desktop neatly aligned to the wall, and several canvases (some empty and some half-done) lay on multiple easels. A bulletin board, equally paint-covered like everything else, held some pieces of paper that Macaque couldn’t quite make out.

Macaque grew used to the smell of oil in just a few seconds.

“Those paintings in the hall earlier,” he mused as he took a careful step inside, avoiding a can of empty paint rolling on the floor, “when did you make those?”

“Oh, about a year ago before I moved here. It’s a hobby, I used to paint a lot.”

“And you don’t now?” Macaque raised an eyebrow.

“It’s been a while!” Wukong hummed, switching on a few more lights that illuminated just the right places of the room. “I would totally do it way more often, but recently classes have been getting in the way and I haven’t had much time to do it.”

Ah. So Sun Wukong actually went to school.

“Where?”

“Huh?”

“Where do you go to school?”

“GCIA.” The corner of Wukong’s lip tilted up. “It’s not too far away from here actually, ‘s why I got a place at this apartment complex.”

Shit, so Sun Wukong goes to art school too.

The same art school Macaque was going to.

“GCIA?”

“Yeah!”

“I’m going to GCIA.”

“What? Oh my god, no way!” Wukong spun around from admiring his own art room, eyes wide and for a second, Macaque could practically see stars in them. “What major?”

Macaque blinked. “Uh, theater arts.”

“That’s cool! So, you guys do like plays and stuff? Musicals?” Wukong asked, taking Macaque’s arm without much of a warning before starting to drag him out of the room, the mere contact of Wukong’s abnormally warm hand against the fur of his arm causing the other’s mind to go blank sheet paper white. He had no idea why whenever this idiot touched him he lost the decency to function like a normal being—maybe it was the fact that their first physical contact was a forced cuddle that an inebriated Wukong instigated.

His face heated so he pressed on his glamours for good measure.

“Sometimes,” Macaque cleared his throat, a short breath of relief leaving him when his voice didn’t leave him as an embarrassing croak like he expected it to, “I-I prefer plays.”

Was his stutter back?

“Cool! I like Les Mis, it’s one of my favorites.” Wukong said, seemingly proud of the fact that he knew a musical, despite it being one of the most classic musicals that a lesser-enthusiast of theater would claim to be their favorite (no offense to Macaque, he just thought Hamilton deserved to be up there). “Do you know Les Mis?”

“My first theater role ever was Gavroche in the school drama club.”

“Oh, that little blond kid who gets shot? Dope.” Before Macaque knew it and trailed his eyes away from Wukong’s fingers wrapped around his wrist, they slipped away and he found himself standing in the middle of that massive living room again—oh. “So, what do you think?”

“Of… what?”

“The place, silly. I just gave you a house tour, remember?”

“It’s… nice.” Macaque glanced aside to see that one big Buddha statue standing in the middle of the hall again, one of His fingers being used to hang a singular umbrella. “I didn’t think there’d be so many… Buddhas.”

“What can I say? My family is a group of devoted Buddhists.” Wukong exhaled with a smile. “And that’s great! Now you come over any time so you’re not in that dingy place you live.”

“Yeah.” Macaque deadpanned, crossing his brows in a quiet scowl. “Thanks.”

Wukong just smiled.

Chapter Text

If you drop whatever you were doing for a second and stand still and steady you can somewhat feel the world spinning along without you—how small you feel, how insignificant. You can call yourself drastic and find yourself at the edge of the bridge and the world wouldn’t stop spinning for your sorry hide. Sometimes Wukong feels like he is never going to catch up to how fast it seems to leave him behind.

He never likes it when someone happens to point out his golden privileges and his birthrights and the inheritance he has been born to receive just because whatever fate decided to stick him into the crevices of people he never feels like he fits into. People scowl and make a face and call him spoiled, little rich brat who doesn’t know the definition of labor or struggle. Everything is given to him, he doesn’t need to work for anything. He has money, he can buy it all. He’s stupid.

Wukong is no stranger when it comes to sitting for endless hours in bigger rooms that feel emptier than they sound and wanting to tear everything from a body that isn’t his. What’s that called? Dissociation? Ah.

He never retorts or shows that he doesn’t like what they say straight to his face because he can never find himself denying it—the truth is that he has privileges that could have bought him the happiness one would ever want. Growing around children who were born from golden speckles and left their youth in diamond rivers who claimed ever so proudly that they have everything, everything and everyone… Wukong looks down and finds it so interesting how tight his skin wraps around his all and how his nails feel like the only thing possible of scratching it off to find wherever that “happiness” that money could buy was buried deep under. The biggest part of him thinks he isn’t looking hard enough and once again it’s all his fault (are their smiles real or do they hold it until their reddened cheeks hurt too?).

People tell him he has everything and Wukong knows that better than anyone because he is reminded every day about how he is incapable of doing things for himself and for other people while everything is simply given to him—his mother used to call him selfish. Wukong thinks so too.

Once he’d smoked something he’d forgotten about and gotten lost in a blur after too much self-pity—he remembered floating beyond himself and beyond everything he’d ever known, and he dreaded knowing that once it was all over he’d have to return to feel every limb attached to his body like a sick work cobbled together by fat-fingered children, he hates looking at himself in the mirror and he’s gotten his knuckles to bleed when he’s alone more times than he’s with other people.

The house was always empty—that was how Wukong liked it. He would spam the numbers he didn’t know and buy booze from the store from an ID that he borrowed from a friend (he drank, he forgot, it was all a process) and he’d invite people to come party in his house for him. People would say hi and say his name and bring more alcohol and the music hurts his ears sometimes but he feels better when he remembers that he is rich and spoiled and that he is using the money he was born into to buy exactly what he’s always needed.

Trapped between people is where Wukong feels safest.

The first time he finds hands that aren’t his on his body is in high school; a boy thinks Wukong is cute. He remembers everything about that night—there is too much saliva in the kiss, it hurts his lips and the smell between their skin is raw and rotten and it is cold as much as it burns. The hands on his thighs are tight and they bruise his neck because the boy says sluts look pretty under purple.

He likes every second of it and the boy rubs his skin raw and hard in the right places; the taste of cigarettes placed delicately on his tongue in rough hours that lasts for too little. After the boy leaves his home Wukong goes into the shower and scrubs his skin red with his fingers, crying underneath the showerhead like all the sorry excuses of the world.

But if Wukong has to spread his legs for a man to feel like he can be loved, then he will take it—even if that love isn’t actually a thing and more like a rubber face someone puts on his own to make him their pretty little plaything. He prolongs it by cooking a breakfast and makes the fake last for as long as possible and silently hoping that he hasn’t run out of things to give; trapped between a man and his bed is where Wukong feels safest.

Trapped between people is where Wukong feels safest.

His mother had always been right about him; he is egotistical and a self-serving jerk who never cares about others who bother to fit him into a part of their busy lives. Maybe being the life of the party will keep Wukong fit into those just until the music ends and he’d be back to square one.

Wukong smiles because people say he looks prettier that way. He doesn’t need a mirror to check if that’s true.

“Where’d you grow up?” Macaque asked, one hand busy with tea while the other gently traced the fur on Xiaohei’s back—the cat had fallen asleep against his thigh and was making the quietest purring noise that you could only hear if all was silent.

“Oh, around Malibu. I was born there and I’ve lived in the same house ever since.” Wukong shrugged. “There isn’t much around the place, but some tourists come by at times. It’s kind of boring, there’s not much to do.”

Macaque huffed under his breath, briefly freezing when Xiaohei decided to roll over a bit to expose her pink belly. He didn’t stop petting her, because when he tried it earlier she had opened her eyes and given him a displeased look. “Never been. What’d you do for fun, then?”

“When I was young, it was just me and the house.” Wukong said, “my first nanny played pretend with me sometimes but she was never into it as much as I was. I had a bunch of people come by and take care of me—they had to switch nannies for me a lot.”

“What, little Sun Wukong was too much for one person to deal with?”

“Excuse me, I was a pleasant, quiet kid—I was a delight to be around.” Wukong, feigning offense, brushed his own joke off. “I just didn’t like them.”

“So you were a picky baby.”

“All babies are picky, that’s not my fault.” Wukong pointed out. “Anyways, when I was old enough for them to let me walk beyond the gates I met some friends in the neighborhood and played with them instead—and let me say, they were much more fun to play pretend with. I stuck with them for a while until I didn't.”

“Your mom and dad were busy?”

Wukong’s eyes flickered to that massive family portrait on the other side of the room before returning to Macaque. “Most of the time, yeah. They were always on business trips so it was mostly just me.” A brief, somber look passed Wukong’s face; it was so quick and subtle that Macaque almost missed it but didn’t, because his eyes had been trained on the corner of the other’s lip. A smile and a tilt of the head replaced it as soon as it had disappeared. “But it’s not that bad! I got to throw a lot of parties at my place back in high school, so in the end it all worked out.”

Macaque had never been a big fan of parties—after throwing up at his first dorm “get-together” (that was what his roommate called it), he’d found ways to kindly refuse being dragged along to what would be the most common social gathering. The loud music hurt his ears most of the time and too many people talking all at the same time was the first step for a mental breakdown—the perks of having six ears. Ha, what a freak.

“Yeah, I can hear you blasting Lady Gaga from your place almost every Saturday night,” he commented, “by the way, your taste in music is awful.”

Wukong gasped. “Lady Gaga is a musical sensation and a genius! If you don’t like Bad Romance, you’re missing out on a banger!”

“Please, that’s the most cliché Lady Gaga song anyone could ever pick.” Macaque rolled his eyes.

“Okay, if you’re such a connoisseur, what artists do you listen to?”

Macaque hummed thoughtfully, letting the back of his head hit one of the excessively soft couch cushions with a soft thump. “Hozier, Fiona Apple, Lorde…” He lazily counted on his fingers. “... ooh, and I had a Billie Eilish phase in high school.”

“Pfft, everyone had a Billie Eilish phase in high school. I bought her merch!” Wukong scoffed playfully, scooching his knees up closer to his chest onto the couch. “... okay, but Florence and the Machines isn’t bad either.”

Macaque shot up, and Xiaohei meowed in surprise. “Dude, if there really is good party music it’s definitely—”

“—Dog Days Are Over.” They both finished at the same time, and then collapsed into a quiet fit of stupid, unnecessary laughter that tickled Macaque’s chest in what felt like the best way unnecessity could feel. He hadn’t realized he’d grown so comfortable in the comfort of Wukong’s couch cushions and his overly fluffy kitty, but his nerves weren’t bouncing all over his gut and his hands weren’t flaring up as much as they should have earlier. If Wukong felt comfortable at his place then why wouldn’t Macaque be allowed to do the same vice versa?

In all honesty, he blamed that vanilla scent—it was annoyingly soothing.

Wukong’s hair wasn’t as frizzy as it had been earlier, and had seemed to settle down with the hour they had been talking about the dumbest things—his ginger mane with that shimmer to it sat a bit long and uncut on Wukong’s head, enough to just slightly hover over his shoulders and grazing the threads of his initial-engraved bathrobe. His skin was like cherry blossoms dipped in milk and the gentle lines over his peach-colored mask lay too perfectly over a golden set of eyes. His freckles looked so soft like you could touch them without having to feel his face, cup his cheeks in both hands and soothe a thumb over the bridge of his nose. His collarbones were just peeking out of that open neck of the robe he was wearing and despite the bulk of the clothing, he could see where his curves lay and they sat there in the most perfect map of stars, in just all the right places.

Macaque wished he could freeze the frame sometimes.

A snap of a camera jerked Macaque out of his thoughts, making him jerk from his seat with a couple of confused blinks. After that one second of getting his bearings, his head snapped towards the direction of the shutter noise and he found Wukong waving his phone with the most slappable smirk graced upon his lips.

“Ha, caught you staring.”

Macaque flushed red and he dove for the phone, Wukong immediately holding it above his head out of the other’s reach with a hearty laugh. “I wasn’t staring! Wukong, that’s not funny! Stop, I wasn’t staring!”

“Yes you were, you were—” He yelped as Macaque tried another dive, pushing himself up against Wukong’s side to grab the phone back, “—you were totally checking me out!”

Holy shit. What a dickhead.

“No, I wasn’t! Give it!” He growled in frustration when Wukong stuck his tongue out and held the phone way out of his way beyond the armrest. “Dude, c’mon!”

“I mean, I don’t blame you—!” Wukong called out, squirming underneath Macaque’s pinned hold. “I am pretty hot—”

Macaque’s face was burning and he wanted to douse it in acid. “Fuck you, you’re such an ass, oh my god—” And with that, he stretched his fingers just enough to snatch Wukong’s phone away from him and right into his hand, and he let out a bark of triumph, looking down to make fun of Wukong’s attempt at sabotage. “Ha, suck on—”

—and he glanced straight downwards to see Wukong right underneath him, nose just an inch away from his own and golden eyes the closest he’d ever been. They were both jammed into the most awkward position, Macaque crawling over Wukong with one hand pinning Wukong’s shoulder and the other clutching his item of pursuit that probably had an embarrassing photo of him saved in the album. They were crammed into the tight corner of the couch with one of Macaque’s knees between Wukong’s legs and—oh, Wukong’s lips were right under his and he was so close he could feel his breath, curled up into a smile, and regrettably he was really pretty—

… Oh, shit.

He’d planned this.

In Macaque’s stupor Wukong snatched his own phone back with a free arm, snapping Macaque out of his momentary, dumb trance—before he could say anything (or even manage to, his throat felt closed off) Wukong waved the screen in his face.

That picture of him looking hella dumbstruck like an open-jawed idiot, and a cursor blinking, waiting for something to be typed in.

Wukong dropped the phone from Macaque’s face, and that smirk hadn’t gone away—he had to double-check his glamours again. “Sooo, I need a number to save it in my contacts.”

Hoping his magic was enough to cover how close his face resembled a tomato at the moment, Macaque pushed himself upright, stumbling as he quickly removed his hand from Wukong’s shoulder (and having to move his knee away from Wukong’s lap). He sat up, gave Wukong a hateful glare, before snatching the phone back from him and trying to remember how his new number began.

Chapter Text

Macaque had probably made more life enemies than necessary—he remembered when he was a skinny little kid that knew no better than to try and aggressively punch his way out of a problem. The result was always him sitting on his bed with a split lip and a nasty shiner on his eye, dabbing at a part of his face with a soaked piece of washcloth and hoping that there was enough alcohol left in the bottle.

Right now, he had sworn vengeance on life enemies with the vending machine situated on the second floor of the art department building that had taken his last dollar.

“Stupid—” Macaque kicked the foot of the machine with lip-biting, cheek-twisted vigor, gritting his teeth at the ache in his toe, “—fucking—”

Another strong kick, just for good measure.

And nothing. Ah, fuck.

He let out a shaky exhale, pinching that bridge between his eyes and glaring merciless daggers that that bag of chips that made itself known stuck between two obscure bars of chocolate. It hung there, limp, small and pathetic, shuddering from the lastest blow that Macaque had delivered to its abode. His stomach growled and he felt like he was starting to digest himself—leaving the apartment with nearly mismatched shoes (again, nearly) and without any breakfast served him right.

“Fucking asshole,” he hissed, not bothering to check at any judging eyes as he decided to slam a fist down on the buttons, jamming the little slot for possible change. “Good-for-nothing, shit-for-brains—”

“Mac?”

Macaque’s hand slipped away from the vending machine slot way too quickly, catching itself on the card swiper and knocking his knuckles hard on the plastic, rushing it immediately to his mouth to bite on it. Pain rushed to that one bundle of nerves and he spat out obscenities. “Shit—”

“Sorry, sorry—shit, you okay?” The same voice made itself known over Macaque’s briefly speckled (but painful) vision obstruction as he grunted over a couple of probably-bruised fingers. It was only a few seconds until he finally got his bearings to look over at what—who, he meant—had startled him so much.

Wukong stood there, golden curls bouncing over his shoulders and his skin looking as soft as mellowed daisies, one brow slightly arched to give him a look that made Macaque want to sink into a corner with his face in his hands—concern? Or was that him trying to hold back his laughter? A gentle peek of his freckles were visible beyond the stretch of his school hoodie across his shoulders, the material laying almost lazily across his chest all the way to the v-shape of his zipper and a pair of washed jorts hung comfortably around the air of his knees. Those freckles danced across his face like a litany of faded ink across white paper, and under that a corner of his lips curled upward into a semi-smirk.

“Didn’t mean to scare ya, bud,” Wukong said, and Macaque’s eyes flickered up to meet Wukong’s, layered in a sheen of gold, and he fumbled.

“I—” Macaque immediately dragged his knuckles away from his face and tucked it underneath his other arm, other hand instinctively flying to one side of his face to check the number of his ears. He absentmindedly counted with his fingers: one…? One. “—you didn’t scare me.” He said as a half-assed reply. “You just have a habit of sneaking up on people.”

“Sure, sure. Trying to audition for ‘Revenge of the Snacks’ or something?” Wukong said, obviously lightheartedly. “Because you’re totally nailing it.”

“I just—” Macaque dragged a hand down his face, scrubbing his fingers into his fur out of the absurdity of the situation. “—sorry. This stupid machine ate my money and won’t give me my lunch. I got frustrated.”

“And your response was to smash your hand against it?”

Macaque scowled. “I wouldn’t have done that if you hadn’t jumpscared me from behind.”

Wukong grinned cheekily. “Here, let me make it up to you.” He leaned in close to the machine, squinting at the coin slot for some reason. Macaque was just about to point out and ask what the hell he was doing, when Wukong gave the vending machine a strategic nudge on the side, followed by a swift bump with his hip. Like magic, almost, the machine hummed to life and the chips dropped into the retrieval slot.

Macaque’s eyes widened briefly before he let out a short exhale. “Okay. Wow.” He turned to Wukong who looked… pretty rightfully smug, watching as the ginger took the courtesy of leaning down and grabbing Macaque’s bag of chips for him, tail swinging like a wild housecat. “How’d you—”

“Years of experience,” Wukong said with a wink, clearly enjoying Macaque’s bewilderment. “This isn’t my first run-in with a rebellious vending machine.” He blinked a couple times before nodding towards the charmed machine in question. “Also those two chocolate bars are a pain—people usually use the vending machine near the fourth floor student café instead, it’s got more options. But anyways, voilà! Your lunch is served.”

“Right. Thanks.” Wukong held out the bag of chips for Macaque and he took it, his hand briefly brushing over the fur laying Wukong’s fingers. It didn’t come to him at first, but the heat he felt in his cheeks as his head immediately went to that one moment—them on Wukong’s fancy couch, his face an inch away from his right before he made Macaque enter in his number—had him fumbling for words.

The contact lasted shorter than a second, and Macaque snapped out of it and decided to tear open his bag of chips right then and there—he was starving.

Wukong gave him a look, something that looked like incertitude, and then put on a smile that softened into something warmer. “Is that really all you’re having?” he asked, nodding towards the small serving of chips in Macaque’s hand. “You’ve gotta be starving.”

Macaque shrugged, his usual demeanor kicking in when he was reminded how broke he was. “It’s enough,” he lied expertly, even though the empty feeling in his stomach begged to differ. He actually hated how hungry he was right now, but he wasn’t going to admit that he’d spent the last of his cash on this pitiful excuse for a meal.

Wukong’s eyes lingered on him, brows scrunched in some language that Macaque couldn’t quite comprehend. He then leaned in, lowering his voice to a lower whisper, like he was about to whisper him some sort of governmental top secret. “Tell you what,” the ginger spoke with a thoughtfulness laced in his words, “why don’t you let me take you out for something better? My treat. I know this noodle place just off campus—best food around. Plus, I’d love the company.”

Macaque froze, his brain frying and short-circuiting at how close Wukong was to his face. He flushed and scowled. “I’m good, thanks.”

“Come on, Mac. You’d love it!”

He didn’t love being a charity case, though. “I don’t need you to buy me my meal.”

“Look,” Wukong continued, “it’s just lunch, okay? No strings, no charity. Just two friends grabbing a quick bite. And I really, really think you’ll like the place. My friend’s dad owns it, I’ve been there and they serve the best noodles in the city. Please?”

Macaque chewed on his bottom lip, conflicted. The way Wukong framed it made it sound less like a handout and more like an invitation. And truthfully, the idea of a proper meal was becoming harder to resist, especially with Wukong being so damn insistent.

Finally, with a resigned sigh, Macaque gave a small nod. “Alright, fine,” he replied. “But just this once.”

Wukong’s face lit up with a wide grin, his excitement barely contained. “Dope! You won’t regret it, I promise,” he said, his hand already reaching out to grab Macaque’s. Before Macaque could protest, Wukong was dragging him down the hall.

The noodle shop wasn’t far from campus, just a short walk down a side street lined with small, family-run businesses. As Wukong led Macaque down the narrow lane, they eventually stopped in front of a modest storefront with a faded sign that read “Pigsy’s Noodles” in bold, pink neon letters. The place looked charming in its own rustic way, with bamboo blinds partially rolled up at the entrance. There were a couple of seats outside, but they were all empty—Wukong paused.

“Huh, strange,” Wukong said, scratching his head as he glanced around. “Usually this place is packed around lunchtime. Maybe we’re just early?”

Macaque shrugged, trying to ignore the slight discomfort gnawing at his insides. There was still that nagging feeling in his gut of getting “treated” for a meal, especially not by someone like Wukong. “It’s not a bad thing,” he muttered. “Less noise.”

“Mm, yeah, you’re right,” Wukong agreed, grinning as he pushed open the door and waved Macaque inside. “Let’s take advantage of the peace and quiet while we can.”

Inside, the shop was exactly what Macaque had expected: small, warm, and filled with the rich aroma of freshly cooked food. The decor was simple but authentic, with old photographs and calligraphy scrolls lining the walls along with what seemed like old family photos. It was nice.

“Macaque!” A familiar voice called out, full of surprise and excitement. Macaque turned to see MK of all people, waving at him from behind the counter. The kid was all smiles as he practically bounced over to them, his wide eyes darting between Macaque and Wukong. MK wrapped Wukong into a hug, which the ginger eagerly returned before playfully ruffling his head of hair.

Huh.

“Hey, MK,” Macaque said, offering a small nod in return, eyebrows slightly quirking in surprise.

“Wait, you know each other?” Wukong cocked his head in question, looking back and forth between the two.

“Yeah! We work together, at the diner.” MK responded before turning back to Macaque. “Fancy seeing you here!” MK beamed, wiping his hands on his apron. “You don’t usually come by Pigsy’s.”

Wukong chuckled, clapping a hand on MK’s shoulder. “I had to introduce him to the best noodles in town, didn’t I? And besides, we were both starving, so I figured why not?”

“Good call!” MK replied enthusiastically, his gaze shifting to Macaque with a knowing grin. “You’re in for a treat, Macaque. My dad makes the noodles fresh every day, and trust me, they’re unbeatable.”

“Sounds great,” Macaque said, though he still felt a bit out of place. It didn’t help that MK seemed so familiar with Wukong—like they were more than just passing acquaintances.

Before he could dwell on it, a gruff voice called out from the kitchen, interrupting their conversation. “MK! What’s taking so long out there?”

Pigsy emerged from the back, wiping his hands on a towel draped over his shoulder. He was a pig demon, of all people, with a perpetually grumpy expression, like he’d just watched his favorite team get destroyed in a game. “Oh, it’s you,” he grunted when he saw Wukong, scowling and thus drawing deeper lines into his forehead. “Should’ve known you’d show up around lunchtime.”

Wukong grinned unabashedly. “You know me too well, Pigsy. Couldn’t resist bringing a friend along to try your famous noodles.”

Pigsy’s gaze shifted to Macaque, his sharp eyes taking in the newcomer with a scrutinizing look. “Friend, huh?” he muttered, then nodded slightly as if deciding something. “Well, you’re in good hands, kid. Sit wherever you want, and I’ll get the food going.”

Macaque nodded, muttering a “thanks” as he and Wukong found a seat by the bar. MK quickly joined them, pulling up a chair and settling in with the same boundless energy that he always seemed to have.

“So, how do you two know each other?” MK asked, looking between them with curiosity.

Macaque glanced at Wukong, who was already smirking, clearly eager to tell the story. “Well, I mean, we already knew each other. We live in the same apartment complex,” Wukong began, leaning back in his chair with a playful glint in his eye, “but get this: it started when I broke into Macaque’s apartment.”

MK’s eyes widened. “What? No way!” He laughed out loud.

“Oh, way,” Wukong continued, clearly relishing the story. “I was a little—okay, a lot—drunk after a quick party, no biggie, and somehow I ended up at the wrong door. I thought it was my place, so I let myself in.”

Macaque couldn’t help the groan that escaped him, the memory still so real. “And I walked in on him sitting on my kitchen counter drinking juice out of a vase.”

Wukong laughed, not even a bit embarrassed. “Hey, you didn’t kick me out, so I must’ve made a good impression.”

Macaque rolled his eyes, though there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “You were consistently dragging my ass around trying to touch things that might’ve killed you if I let you. Also you were looking at me like a lost puppy when I told you I’d call the cops.”

MK was practically in stitches, grinning from ear to ear. “That’s hilarious! I can’t believe that’s how you two actually met.”

“Yeah, and the next morning,” Wukong added with a wink, “I woke up and was making breakfast. Macaque was on the couch, glaring at me like he was ready to kick my ass.”

“Should’ve,” Macaque grumbled, but there was no real malice in his voice. If anything, he seemed a bit flustered by the attention—a massive part of him was just glad that nothing about the forced cuddling was brought up, if Wukong even remembered it. Probably not, he had been absolutely drunk out of his mind.

“And now look at us,” Wukong said, spreading his arms with a dramatic flourish. “We’re having lunch together like best friends. Funny how things work out, huh?”

Macaque shot him a sidelong glance, the warmth in his chest battling with his usual guardedness. “Best friends?" He arched an eyebrow. "That's a stretch."

Wukong grasped dramatically, clutching his chest. "Wow, Mac. After all we've been through? I'm hurt."

MK snickered. "You two are a riot. I feel like I just got front-row seats to a comedy show."

Macaque grumbled something unintelligible under his breath; he busied himself with adjusting the chopsticks on the table, trying to look anywhere but at Wukong's stupid, smug face.

Pigsy soon arrived with steaming bowls of noodles complete with toppings, setting them down in front of the trio with a gruff, “Eat up, kids. Noodles won’t stay hot forever. MK, don’t forget you’re still on the clock.”

The smell alone was enough to make Macaque’s mouth water, and he realized just how hungry he really was. Wukong was right about one thing—this was way better than vending machine chips.

“Thanks, Pigsy!” MK chirped, diving into his bowl with gusto. Wukong wasn’t far behind, already slurping up noodles with a satisfied grin.

The dish was perfect, swimming in a golden broth topped with tender slices of pork, green onions, and half of a soft-boiled egg. Macaque hesitated for a moment, then picked up his chopsticks, taking a tentative bite. The noodles were perfect, the broth rich and flavorful, and for a moment, all his worries seemed to fade away and Macaque positively melted—

“Oh, shit—” he moaned out without thinking halfway through his chewing before he could stop himself. After coming to his senses, he flushed and stuffed the rest of his noodles into his mouth. Him and his stupid, loud brain.

Wukong watched him with a pleased smile, nudging him with his elbow. “See? Told you it’d be worth it. Pigsy’s noodles have that effect on people. It’s almost like getting high, it’s that good!”

Macaque gave a small nod, unable to deny it, although the part about getting high seemed a bit like overkill. “Yeah,” he admitted, “it’s good.”

They ate in companionable silence for a while, and in mere minutes of slurping noodles the bowls were nearly empty, the steam that once billowed from them now just a faint thing in the past. The three of them shared a little more small talk before they sat back in their seats, full and content. Macaque didn’t want to feel sorry for himself, but this was the best meal he’d had in months.

“Man, that hit the spot,” Wukong said, rubbing his stomach with a satisfied grin. “Pigsy, you’ve outdone yourself again.”

Pigsy, who was wiping down the counter nearby, grunted in response, though there was a hint of pride in his eyes. “You just keep bringing your friends here, and I’ll keep making the noodles. Can’t have you wasting away on that garbage you usually eat.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Wukong replied, flashing a cheeky grin. “Thanks for the meal, old man.”

Pigsy waved him off with a gruff, “Yeah, yeah. Get outta here, you little troublemaker.”

MK chuckled, gathering up the bowls. “I’ll take care of these, Dad. You go on and relax for a bit.”

“Good kid,” Pigsy hummed, patting MK on the shoulder before heading back to the kitchen.

Macaque watched the interaction with a faint smile. Despite Pigsy’s gruff exterior and permanent scowl, it was clear he cared deeply for MK, and MK, in turn, respected his father more than anything. There was something there that Macaque found comforting, even if he wasn’t quite used to it. It was nice to see.

“Thanks for joining us, Macaque,” MK said brightly, turning to him as he stacked the dishes and gathered the chopsticks. “It was really nice to have you here. You should come over more often!”

“Yeah,” Macaque replied, feeling a tiny bit awkward under MK’s enthusiasm. “It was pretty nice.”

Wukong chuckled, standing up and stretching his arms behind his head, tail swishing lazily behind him. “We’ll have to make this a regular thing, huh? You can’t keep living off vending machine snacks, after all.”

Macaque rolled his eyes. “I’ll manage.”

“Sure, sure,” Wukong said with a teasing grin. “But seriously, thanks for coming out with me. We should hang out more, you know? Outside of class, when we’re not busy.”

Macaque hesitated, thinking it over. His head went back to that night where he’d unintentionally pinned Wukong to his back against the couch cushions, holding his phone inches away from their heads and their noses so unbelievably close to each other’s, the other looking up at him with that look on his face. And then asking for his number.

Now that Macaque thought about it, that had been slick as hell.

And that’s what Wukong was—the sly, flirtatious, party-goer who went around fucking guys at random after (probably) getting high on weed. The spoiled brat of a child who lived alone in the biggest pension at their apartment, pampered and showered with attention, the spotlight-hogger. The ignorant kid with awful taste in music that stumbled into his home, inebriated as fuck. Sun Wukong. Everything about him should have made Macaque hate this guy. And yet…

Eventually, Macaque sighed, relenting just a little. “Alright, fine. As long as it’s nothing crazy.”

Wukong grinned, clearly pleased with the answer. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Mac. How about we meet up at the art building tomorrow around noon? I know so many cool places in town we could just go to and hang out at, trust me.”

Macaque pretended to mull it over, even though he already knew he was going to agree. “Yeah, okay. Noon it is.”

Wukong’s hand shot out as soon as the bill was laid on the table, grabbing it before Macaque could even react.

“Wukong—” Macaque started, his tone already laced with protest.

“Don’t even think about it, Mac,” Wukong interrupted. “This one’s on me.”

Macaque frowned, despite his agreement to let Wukong pay earlier. “I can pay for my own meal, you know.” It wasn’t true, he couldn’t pay at the moment, but it left his lips before he could say anything else.

Wukong gave him a knowing look. “I know you can. But I invited you, so I’m paying. Consider it a thank you for letting me hang out with you.” He hugged the bill to his chest with a pout, protectively cradling it in his hands like it was his child. “Come on!”

Macaque crossed his arms, displeased but not entirely sure how to argue with that logic. “I didn’t ask for you to pay.”

“And I didn’t ask for you to agree,” Wukong countered easily, sliding his flashy credit card to MK with a wink. “But I’m glad you did. Besides, like I said, it’s just lunch. No big deal!”

Macaque huffed, feeling a little off-kilter but didn’t say anything else to retort. It was just a meal.

MK swiped the card and handed it back with a grin. “Thanks, Wukong. Dad appreciates the business.”

“No problem, bud, I’ll see you around, alright?” Wukong said, tucking his card away and standing up. He turned to Macaque, his eyes twinkling with stars. “Ready to go, mister oh-so-independent?”

Macaque shot him a glare, though there wasn’t much heat behind it. “You’re infuriating.”

“Yeah, but you love it,” Wukong quipped, giving Macaque a light nudge as they headed for the door.

Macaque opened his mouth to retort, but the words got stuck somewhere between his mind and his mouth. Instead, he just shook his head, a faint smile breaking through despite the slight pain in his cheeks from holding it back. “Nevermind, you’re not infuriating. You’re just impossible.”

“Maybe,” Wukong agreed, holding the door open for him like a true gentleman. “But that’s why you keep hanging around, right?”

Macaque didn’t answer but brought a hand up, again, to the side of his head to check his ears. One… one. Just one.

As they stepped out into the heavy beating of the sun, Wukong glanced over at him, the lines on his face softening just a bit. “So, tomorrow at noon?”

Macaque sighed, knowing he’d lost this round but not minding as much as he thought he would. “Yeah, tomorrow at noon.”

“Great! Can’t wait,” Wukong said, flashing him a grin that was entirely too cute.

Macaque watched as Wukong sauntered off after giving him a happy wave, offering him one more fanged grin before turning back towards the way he was heading, his heart doing a weird little flip in his chest. He was still annoyed, sure, but it was way less annoying than it should have been because he knew that these noodles weren’t about power or charity—it was just... Wukong being Wukong. As dumb was it was.

As Wukong’s figure disappeared around the corner, Macaque finally let out a long breath, running a hand through his hair before tangling his fingers in there to tug it with grit teeth and four more extra, stupid ears. He found himself touching them, rubbing them between two fingers. Wukong had said they’re pretty.

What the hell was he getting himself into?

Chapter Text

The crumpled eviction notice fluttered mockingly in the breeze, hanging like an unwelcome guest on Macaque’s battered apartment door. He didn’t need to read the bold, capitalized SECOND WARNING stamped across the top—he’d already memorized the wording from the first notice. He’d barely started making headway on rent, and now this hung over his head like a death sentence.

His lips twitched into a scowl before yanking the paper free with a sharp tug that sent the tape fluttering to the ground. The corner ripped slightly in his grip, but it didn’t matter. It was still readable. Still real.

“Seriously? You couldn’t have waited until I was out of the building?” he muttered to nobody in particular. The hallway, thankfully, was empty save for the dull hum of a flickering light overhead. That light had been sputtering for weeks now, just another thing the landlord refused to fix on this floor.

It was always like this. No matter how hard he worked, how much he clawed and fought, the world just kept piling on and moving on without him. It wasn’t the first time he’d been in this position. Hell, it wasn’t even the second or third. Being forced to fend for himself was practically a birthright, shoved onto his shoulders long before he was old enough to understand what it meant.

The homes all blurred together in his mind now, each one a stopgap, a waystation until the next inevitable move. Some were better than others, of course, but none ever felt like home. He could still remember tight-lipped foster parents, the endlessly long lectures about not being a pain in the ass, and the subtle disdain when he dared to ask for something extra—a new pair of shoes because he nearly tripped and killed himself in the first pair, help with school supplies, anything that went beyond the absolute essentials.

Over time, he learned not to ask. Not to expect. Independence wasn’t a choice; it was survival.

Even now, as the walls of his world seemed to press in on him, he half-expected some faceless authority figure to step out of the shadows and pile on another indignity. The universe always seemed to have him in its crosshairs, like he was some stupid cosmic joke. It was like the whole world had made it its mission to be after him. The worst part? He could never let people know he was having a hard time. Independence meant keeping his chin up—weakness just gave people another reason to walk away.

That was the last thing he needed right now.

Macaque crumpled the paper in his hand, briefly considering tossing it in the overflowing trash can nearby. Instead, he shoved it deep into his pocket with a frustrated sigh—he had bigger things to worry about right now.

Like that date—no, meeting—he had with Wukong.

Macaque knew that he was probably overthinking it. It wasn’t like (as much as Wukong was a massive flirt) he had been asked to hang out anything akin to a date. Unless Wukong was probably having butterflies like he was about meeting in front of the art department for who-knows-what, Macaque had more than enough reasons to feel absolutely stupid right now.

He groaned, locking the door behind him with his stupid, jangly key and headed down the staircase. He’d deal with the eviction problem later. Or maybe not. It wasn’t like he had a solid solution yet.

__

The bell above the diner’s door jingled in a way that was far too loud and cheery for Macaque’s mood as he stepped inside—the smell of stale coffee, sizzling bacon, and frying oil invaded his senses, grounding him in its familiarity.

MK was already at the counter, poking at a pancake with his spatula—thankfully, the rest of the diner was still empty. Made sense, seeing as it was still early. Macaque stole a glance at the happy, obnoxious, bright red clock hanging on the wall above the old jukebox… ten before eight.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” MK teased, pushing the pancake so that it flipped itself on the pan and turned around, pointing his spatula at him. “You’re late.”

“Traffic,” Macaque lied smoothly, voice flat as he grabbed his apron from the hook near the kitchen door, making sure it was his by checking the initials on the name tag.

“Right, traffic,” MK said with unnecessary exaggerated skepticism. “And I’m the Monkey King.”

“You and your weird obsession with Monkey King, man.” Macaque shook his head, ignoring the jab, trying to tie it around his waist. “It wouldn’t even be weird if you were him at this point.” The knot came out sloppy—just like everything else today.

As he moved toward the coffee machine to pour himself a much-needed pick-me-up, MK leaned on the counter, occasionally minding the pancake cooking behind him. He rested his chin on both his hands with the same shit-eating grin from the day before, staring at Macaque expectantly as he sipped his coffee. “Sooo…”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was gonna say!”

Macaque gave him his best deadpan face. “I know that look. Whatever it is, I’m not in the mood.”

“Fine,” MK said, shrugging and feigning nonchalance, turning back around to put the cooked pancake into the collection of other cooked, golden-brown pancakes. “I was just gonna bring up how I heard someone has a hot date today—”

Macaque spun so fast he nearly spilled his coffee. “Who told you?”

MK’s grin widened. “He told me.”

Macaque groaned, facing forward towards the coffee machine again to down his coffee, wincing as he forgot how hot it still was. “And of course he did.”

“So,” MK hummed, “what’s the plan? Candlelit dinner? Rooftop stargazing? Or just a classy stroll around campus?”

“Would you not?” Macaque snapped, rubbing his hand roughly against his face, before checking his reflection briefly at the countertop to see if he had smudged his eyeliner. He sighed, moving to rub the same hand against the side of his head instead. “It’s not a date.”

“Sounds like a date to me. I’m just saying, he’s probably pulling out all the stops. You better bring your A-game.”

Macaque groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I’m never going to live this down.”

“Oh, totally not.” MK said. “But hey, don’t blow it, okay? You gotta meet him halfway.”

“I didn’t ask for advice, kid.”

“Good thing I’m giving it anyway,” MK said, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning smugly against the wall near the employees only door. “At least, y’know, bring flowers or something. You know, like a normal person.”

“Flowers?” Macaque echoed, his tone indignant. “I just told you this isn’t a date.”

“Just saying,” MK called out, shrugging this time and pushing himself off the wall, before shuffling past Macaque to head towards the (probably nearly-burnt) bacon, “he really likes flowers!”

Macaque rolled his eyes and went to flip burgers.

—

By the time his shift ended, Macaque felt no closer to figuring out why his stomach felt so knotted and made him feel like he was going to die. It wasn’t a date. Wukong had asked to hang out—at least, that was how Macaque remembered it. The sorry bouquet of flowers sitting on the passenger seat of his beat-up car seemed to mock him all the same.

“Shut up,” he hissed at the flowers before realizing how dumb he sounded—he turned back to the wheel. “This is so stupid.” He pulled into the university parking lot and grabbed the flowers without looking at them before stepping out. The hot air hit him like a train on a track, and he suddenly regretted wearing a jacket.

The walk from the parking lot to the art department wasn’t long, but for Macaque, it felt like an eternity. He shoved his free hand in his pocket, the crinkling sound of the bouquet reminding him of the ridiculous situation he’d put himself in. The world was just out to get him at this point, wasn’t it?

Campus was pretty much alive—students were milling about, soaking in the sunny afternoon. Some sat on the grassy lawns, their textbooks open but largely ignored, while he caught sight of others biking along the paved paths or gathered in clusters near the overly-extravagant fountain at the center of campus. Macaque’s eyes flitted to a group of theater majors rehearsing an impromptu scene under a tree, their thespian gestures and loud ass voices carrying over the breeze. Just past them, an art student wrestled with an oversized canvas along with an easel, dragging it toward the building he was headed to. “Overachievers,” Macaque muttered under his breath as he stepped around them, keeping a distance far enough so that they didn’t hear.

The art department loomed ahead, a modern structure adorned with large glass windows that reflected the sunlight perfectly. Apparently some genius had thought of this crystal thingy that floated at the ceiling of the building to make these rainbow-colored light streaks criss-cross across the grounds whenever the sun was up—Macaque had always thought that was pretty cool. Sculptures and installations from famous and nameless artists dotted the courtyard out front.

Macaque tightened his grip on the bouquet as he spotted Wukong waiting near a particularly colorful piece—a twisting metal sculpture painted in vibrant reds and oranges. He looked relaxed as ever, leaning casually against the wall nearby with his hands stuffed in his pockets as he talked to another student—a girl, seemingly younger, chattering about noisily with two small pigtails and two dyed green highlights. She wore a cropped neon jacket and ripped jean shorts, her whole vibe practically screaming cool skater chick.

“Wukong’s got friends?” Macaque muttered under his breath. Swallowing his urge to toss the flowers into a nearby trash can, he forced his feet to move.

The walk wasn’t long enough for Macaque to steel himself.

The girl noticed him first—her sharp eyes flicked towards Macaque, lighting up with almost something that seemed like recognition. She elbowed Wukong, a little harder than necessary, and nodded subtly in Macaque’s direction.

“Oh, hey!” Wukong turned to see him (after taking a few seconds to recover from the elbow blow), a grin spreading across his freckled cheeks. “You’re here!”

Wukong’s outfit struck the perfect balance between casual and artsy. He wore a lightweight linen shirt in a soft cream color, the top few buttons casually undone to let the breeze in, seemingly. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing golden sun-kissed fur dotted with faint paint stains, like remnants of his last artistic endeavor. On the bottom, he sported loose, dark olive chinos; a simple leather belt added a touch of polish without trying too hard. Sandals, the kind of worn-in, comfortable pair that screamed artist-on-the-go… his tail flicked lazily where he stood, the sun effortlessly caught in his hair.

The girl, standing beside Wukong, snorted softly. “This him?” she asked Wukong under her breath, though failing to be quiet enough.

“Mei, don’t,” Wukong replied, his tone playful but clearly trying to keep her from saying too much.

Macaque’s eyes narrowed. “This him who?” he asked, crossing both arms across his chest and then just remembered he was holding flowers and how much gravity it added onto the situation.

Wukong laughed. “Ignore her. Mei’s just, y’know, being Mei.” Then, with a casual wave between them, he spoke. “Macaque, Mei. She’s practically MK’s best friend. Mei, Macaque.”

“Guilty.” Mei grinned, giving Macaque a once-over. “Oh, I’ve heard all about you,” she said, her voice dripping with some sort of untethered mischief.

“I’m sure you have,” Macaque deadpanned back.

“Well,” Mei chirped, stepping back. “Don’t let me interrupt your… meeting. Have fun, you two!” She gave Wukong a very noticeable wink, who just sighed and shook his head dramatically, before bouncing off with a wave over her shoulder.

Once she was gone, Macaque raised a brow at Wukong. “What was that about?”

Wukong shrugged, his grin turning the slightest bit sheepish. “Mei just likes to stir the pot, don’t mind her.” His eyes trailed down from Macaque’s eyes to his shoulders, then straight to the flowers in Macaque’s hand. His grin widened in an instant. “Aw, are those for me?”

Macaque immediately bristled, barely suppressing the urge to rub his hand against his ears like he usually did when he felt like they were too purple for his own good. “Don’t read into it,” he snapped, shoving the bouquet toward Wukong with more force than necessary. “It’s nothing much.”

Wukong took the flowers with a quiet giggle, holding them delicately. “Right, of course. It’s not like it’s a date.”

“Good,” Macaque said firmly.

“But, you know,” Wukong continued, inspecting the bouquet with an amused glint in his eyes, “it could be a date. If you wanted it to be.”

Macaque did a good job of keeping his face stoic, but his teeth clenched when he felt his tail flick behind him. “It’s not a date.”

“Okay, okay.” Wukong said, raising his free hand in mock surrender. Then he smiled, softer this time, and gestured to the flowers. “You remembered that I like flowers?”

Macaque rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. He had, which is why he was so in disbelief about the fact that he decided to buy flowers in the first place. “Yeah, well, you wouldn’t shut up about it that one time. Something about lavender for devotion, daisies for purity, marigolds for…” He trailed off, realizing he was rambling.

Wukong cradled the bouquet like it was the most precious thing he’d ever been given. “Marigolds are for creativity and passion. You did good, Mac. Really.”

Macaque shrugged, counting his ears on the right side of his head with his fingers. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“It’s already a thing,” Wukong teased, stepping closer, letting Macaque get a full look at him again. His face was striking in the way the summer sun seemed to adore him, gliding every feature with a warm glow. A dusting of his freckles bridged his nose and scattered over his round cheeks, faint yet unmistakable, almost like pollen.

His smile, though—that was the real showstopper. It wasn’t just a curve of lips; it was a whole performance, lighting up his face and radiating warmth that felt contagious. His teeth weren’t perfect, just slightly crooked in the most endearing way, and when he grinned, his canines gleamed. He was summer itself. It was like the marigolds almost muted in comparison.

There was a pregnant pause where for a few seconds, neither of them said anything, before Wukong took the bouquet with one hand and shrugged. “So, let’s go.”

“Go where?” Macaque asked suspiciously as he followed Wukong off campus.

“You’ll see,” was all Wukong said in response.

They walked through the town just outside the university, where the streets were lined with quaint shops and bustling cafés. It wasn’t the busiest part of the city, but it had a charm—brick storefronts with quirky signs, the occasional mural splashed across a wall, lamp posts decorated with seasonal garlands, that one bookstore that Macaque really loved.

As they turned a corner, Macaque noticed Wukong’s tail flicking way too excitedly for its own good.

“You’ve got that look,” Macaque said, narrowing his eyes.

“What look?”

“That look that says you’re about to do something dumb.”

Wukong shook his head. “Relaaax, Mac. I promised something fun, didn’t I?”

“I mean, I don’t really know if I should ever trust your idea of fun.”

They stopped in front of a brick building, right by a doorway which led to a dark staircase. It was a staircase going down, and there wasn’t really a light down there—none that Macaque could see anyway. He glanced around for a sign, a neon light, something, but only found… brick. Macaque spun to look back at Wukong, who sported a smug grin.

“You’re gonna murder me in there, aren’t you?”

“With this sweet face?” Wukong blinked innocently before snorting and gently shoving past him to descend down the stairs. “Come on.”

After a moment of hesitation, Macaque stepped inside. The descent was unnerving, but he was soon met with a light that Wukong had seemed to turn on with a switch, which immediately lit up the stairway. It soon opened up to a space—it was cozy but bright, with windows that somehow let in a bit of natural light. Most of the light, however, came from the lanterns and bulbs almost messily strewn around the room. Tables were scattered with art supplies—paints, charcoals, sketchbooks, and a variety of brushes. A wall of finished artwork displayed pieces from visitors of all skill levels, from professional-level portraits to messy, endearing stick figures.

“We’re… drawing?” Macaque asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yep!” Wukong chirped, stepping past him to grab a set of supplies. “Figured it’d be a nice way to hang out.” He then shoved a brush in his face. “You draw, right?”

“I dabble,” Macaque said, unsurely taking the brush from Wukong, who hummed as he headed straight to the corner where an old vinyl record player rested atop a wooden stand. “Are we just… allowed to be in here?”

“First time in an open studio?” Wukong hummed, tail swishing back and forth as he skimmed through the vinyls. “Don’t worry, I rented this place out this morning for a couple hours, so we have it all to ourselves. The only rules are to wash the supplies after we’ve used them and to not hook up on the tables.”

Macaque chose not to respond to that and instead picked up a stubby pencil from a box full of drawing materials. He looked around the room, trying to decide on a place to sit… or stand. Wukong hummed thoughtfully from the corner. “Can’t work in silence,” he said with a grin, flipping through the stack. “Let’s see… jazz okay? It’s good for thinking.”

Macaque shrugged. “Sure.”

Wukong selected a record and set it gently on the turntable. He carefully dropped the needle, and after a brief crackle, the notes began. “Classy, huh?” Wukong teased as he leaned against the wall, minding a painting right by his hip.

“Unexpected,” Macaque admitted, his gaze drifting to the record player. “Didn’t peg you for a jazz guy.”

“Hey, I’ve got layers.” Wukong responded with mock offense, and Macaque just shook his head as he finally found himself a seat at a table across from an easel, where he assumed Wukong would be sitting. The music wasn’t bad, and it actually suited the studio. He looked around for something to start with, and found a discarded sketchbook on a nearby counter—he stretched out and grabbed it. Idly flipping through the pages, he rested his pencil loosely between his fingers.

Wukong joined him across that table, seemingly content with his choice of music, and began working immediately—there was confidence in the way he moved, charcoal in hand, already sketching without a moment of hesitation. Macaque had never been much of an artist—he drew, sure, for fun. But he’d never gotten the basics down, and anatomy was hard… so he’d stuck with what his body knew how to do on stage. He watched, for a few seconds, Wukong’s hand glide over his large paper with bold strokes. He couldn’t quite make up what it was, but from his guess it’d show in time.

For a while, the only noises present in the studio were the music and the sounds of scratches of pencil and charcoal on paper. Wukong broke the silence.

“So… where are you from?” he asked casually but with just enough interest to make it clear he actually wanted to know.

“Oh, uh—” The tip of his pencil broke off, but Macaque kept going anyway. “South Carolina.”

Wukong glanced at him. “That’s cool. What’s it like there?”

Macaque shrugged, keeping his eyes on his paper. “Small town. Quiet. Not much going on.” He kept his tone neutral, trying to focus a little more on this one line he was trying to get right. “They had this one vendor that sold really good Turkish ice cream.”

“How’d you end up here, then? California’s a long way from quiet little towns.”

Silence stretched for a few more seconds before Macaque replied. “Needed a change of scenery.”

Wukong seemed to wait for more, but when Macaque didn’t give it to him, shrugged and returned to his piece. “Fair enough,” he said lightly, his tone giving Macaque an easy way out. The look on his face suddenly grew playful, and he lifted up his drawing, spinning it in Macaque’s direction.

“Alright, what do you think?” Wukong asked, and Macaque glanced up from his own piece to look. It was, of course, annoyingly good—a charcoal sketch of the bouquet that he’d given him earlier.

Macaque scowled. “Do you even need to ask?”

Wukong grinned, seeming pleased. “I mean, yeah. Validation is important, y’know?”

“Validation is for people who aren’t already obnoxiously talented,” Macaque shot back, the corner of his lips twitching upward with a smile he possibly couldn’t keep.

“Let’s see yours, then,” Wukong said, suddenly leaning forward—Macaque reacted by nearly throwing his pencil aside and hugging his sketchbook to his chest.

“It’s not ready,” he said firmly.

“Pretty please?”

“No.”

Wukong sighed in mock defeat and pulled back, moving to carefully tear the page of his sketchbook out for a new page to draw on. “Fine, fine. Keep your secrets.”

The jazz song was still going, surprisingly, filling the lull that followed afterwards. After a while of who knows how long, Wukong spoke again.

“So… South Carolina, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Not what I expected.”

“Yeah? What were you expecting?”

“Dunno,” Wukong shrugged, tilting his head thoughtfully. “New York? Chicago? Someplace big. You just seem… city-smart.”

Macaque let out a short laugh. “City-smart? That’s a first.”

“Well, am I wrong?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘smart,’” Macaque responded, albeit ending up sounding pretty dry. “But I know how to get by.”

“How’d you end up here, then?”

Macaque winced when his line went off the sketch he had, and he looked around for an eraser—when he couldn’t see one, he went with the one on the tip of his pencil. The inside of his cheek hurt from biting it. “Foster care. A lot of bouncing around. Ended up in one place. Wasn’t great, but I got by.”

Wukong, after busy sketching, put his pencil down. “That sounds rough.”

“It was what it was,” Macaque responded with a shrug, voice clipped. “Left as soon as I could. Came here for school.”

“That must have taken guts,” Wukong said, voice uncharacteristically soft.

Macaque gave a humorless laugh. “Or desperation.”

Wukong didn’t say anything right away, letting the words settle. When he finally spoke, his tone was warm, almost careful. “Well, for what it’s worth, I think it’s impressive.”

Macaque glanced up at him—he never got to figure out how to take compliments. He’d seen people who refused to take them, and those who instead took them with pride, expressing the same pride at the same time. “I guess,” he muttered, looking back down at his sketch—he opted for not saying much. “What about you?” Macaque asked after a moment, deflecting. “You’ve got that whole rich kid vibe going on. Must’ve been nice growing up with everything handed to you.”

Wukong let out a short laugh, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “I mean, I guess. My family’s loaded, so it’s not like I ever had to worry about money or anything.”

“Must’ve been nice.”

Wukong hesitated, the grin on his face fading slightly. “Yeah, I guess. But... I was always kind of background noise, y’know?”

Macaque glanced at him, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, they didn’t care,” Wukong said simply, his voice quieter than usual. “Good grades, bad grades, parties or alcohol… I could’ve been a doctor or a dropout, and they’d have reacted the same way. Or... not reacted, I guess. They’ve got their own lives. I was just kind of... there.”

Macaque didn’t say anything for a moment, studying Wukong’s face. “That doesn’t sound great.”

Wukong shrugged, his usual nonchalance and easygoing smile slipping back into place. “It is what it is.” He didn’t continue—it made Macaque wonder back to all those times he’d jabbed at Wukong’s situation of being a spoiled brat. He shouldn’t have, really.

Macaque wandered quietly in silence, finally being able to start putting the finishing lines on his drawing. It wasn’t the best piece he’d drawn, but it wasn’t the worst either. “I guess…” he started, “I guess we’re both two fuck-ups.”

“Yeah.” Wukong laughed, sounding a little more genuine. “But hey, we’re here. Somehow. And I think we’re happy.”

“I guess so.” Macaque meant that.

“And we’ve got jazz.”

At that, he burst into laughter. “You,” Macaque huffed, “are such a dork.”

“Better a dork than a cynic,” Wukong shot back, sticking out a tongue—it was adorable.

The record crackled softly in the background as the two of them sat in companionable silence, each focused on their respective drawings. Macaque chewed absently on the end of his pencil, his tail flicking idly behind him as he added the finishing touches to his piece. Across from him, Wukong leaned over his sketchpad with that same maddening intensity, golden eyes scanning his work with meticulous precision.

“Alright,” Macaque announced suddenly, breaking the quiet. He set his pencil down and turned his sketchpad around with a flourish, trying to hide how stupid he felt beneath a grin. “Behold! My masterpiece.”

Wukong leaned forward eagerly, resting his chin on his hand as he examined the drawing. It was an exaggerated anime-style scene: two chibi figures—one distinctly resembling Macaque with oversized ears and a dramatic swoop of hair, the other clearly Wukong with golden fur and an impish grin—standing triumphantly atop a mountain with sparkles exploding in the background. The Wukong chibi was winking and giving a thumbs-up, while the Macaque one had a tiny speech bubble that read, “This isn't a date!”

Macaque glanced at Wukong’s face, half-expecting him to laugh or make some snarky comment, but Wukong was grinning ear to ear.

“Okay, first off, this is adorable,” Wukong said, his voice somehow adoring. He pointed to his chibi counterpart. “Look at me, all charming and heroic—and muscular! You really captured my essence.”

“Essence?” Macaque snorted, crossing his arms. “I made you look like a dweeb.”

“Nah, you made me look lovable,” Wukong shot back, his grin widening. He tapped the sparkles in the background. “And clearly the star of the show.”

Macaque rolled his eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.” Wukong leaned closer, his gaze flicking from the drawing to Macaque’s face. “Seriously, though. It’s cute. And I like your style—it’s got this whole bold, exaggerated vibe. Feels like it’s got a lot of heart.”

Macaque blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in Wukong’s tone—he was being real with him. “It’s just silly doodling,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Maybe,” Wukong said, resting his chin on his hand, “but it’s your silly doodling. And I like seeing what goes on in that ridiculously dramatic head of yours.”

Macaque scoffed. “I’m dramatic?”

“You’re the one who does theater.” Wukong shrugged before thrusting his own drawing towards him. “Alright, my turn.” And Macaque’s jaw went slack.

It was a portrait—of him.

The drawing was strikingly detailed, full of flowing lines that captured the sharpness of his features while softening them in subtle, flattering ways. The shading on his fur was meticulous, blending tones of gray and black to create texture and depth. His expression was calm but intense, his golden eyes glinting with a quiet confidence that Macaque wasn’t entirely sure he possessed in real life. It depicted him, hunched over across the sketchbook he had been drawing over earlier, quiet and focused. Everything was there, captured with a stunning precision that made him feel unnervingly seen.

“... You drew me?” Macaque said after a long moment, his voice leaving him unusually quiet.

“Yep,” Wukong replied, propping his chin on his hand and seeming very proud of himself. “I figured if you’re gonna immortalize me as a sparkly chibi, I might as well return the favor.”

Macaque stared at the drawing, unsure whether to feel flattered or embarrassed. “This is... weirdly good,” he admitted grudgingly.

“Just weirdly?” Wukong teased, leaning forward. “Come on, I put my soul into this.”

Macaque glanced at him, narrowing his eyes. “If this is your soul, you’ve got some explaining to do.”

Wukong chuckled, leaning his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his clasped hands. “Should I submit it to the Louvre, or would that be too much?”

Macaque huffed, trying to fight the heat rising to his cheeks. “The Louvre? Please. They’d laugh you out of Paris for this.”

“Hey, I slaved over every little detail of your devilishly handsome face, and this is the thanks I get?”

“Devilishly handsome, huh?” Macaque raised an eyebrow, his tail swishing behind him. “You sure you weren’t just practicing your shading?”

“Oh, I was shading,” Wukong said, his grin widening as he leaned closer, voice dropping slightly. “But only because your face has so many interesting angles. Couldn’t help myself.”

Macaque rolled his eyes, trying to play it cool despite the heat creeping up his neck. “Flatter me all you want; it doesn’t change the fact that you’re a show-off.”

“Guilty as charged,” Wukong said with a shrug. He tapped the edge of the sketchpad. “But you have to admit—I nailed it.”

Macaque’s gaze flicked back to the portrait, and for a moment, he forgot how to be flippant. The way Wukong had drawn him—it wasn’t just accurate. It was... thoughtful. Careful.

“You’re not half-bad,” he muttered, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

“Not half-bad?” Wukong repeated, his grin turning wolfish. “Coming from you, that’s practically a declaration of love.”

Macaque tried to glare. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, his ears flicking back.

“And you’re fun to tease,” Wukong shot back, leaning on the table with a smirk. “But hey—if you ever want private art lessons, you know where to find me. I could teach you a thing or two about proportions.”

Macaque raised an eyebrow. “Proportions? This coming from someone who gave me ears bigger than my entire head.”

“Hey, you said you liked the drama,” Wukong replied, his grin turning slightly wicked. “But if you really want to critique my work...” He turned his drawing around again, tapping on his portrait of Macaque. “Why don’t you start here?”

Macaque glanced at the portrait again, his tail swishing behind him. “You’re ridiculous,” he said, and his cheeks hurt from holding back a smile.

“And yet,” Wukong said, his voice softening as he leaned closer, “here you are, putting up with me.”

Macaque rolled his eyes, but he didn’t pull away. “Yeah, well. Somebody has to.”

“And I’m glad it’s you,” Wukong said, his tone teasing but with just enough sincerity to make Macaque pause.

The room grew quiet, the soft crackle of the record player filling the space between them. Macaque hadn’t realized how close Wukong had leaned until the silence stretched, and the gold in his eyes caught the lights in a way that had Macaque’s chest tighten in such a good way. For a moment, neither of them moved, the air between them heavy but not uncomfortable. It was as if the world had shrunk to just this room, just this moment, just them.

Macaque’s ears flicked back as he suddenly realized how long they’d been locked in this silence. Heat rushed to his face, and he forced himself to look away, clearing his throat. “Uh—can I... keep it?”

Wukong blinked, startled out of his trance, and then his lips broke into a grin that was so bright, it made Macaque’s heart stutter all over again. “What? The drawing?”

“No, the table,” Macaque deadpanned, though the edge in his voice was more flustered than sharp. “Yes, the drawing. It’s... it’s good. I, uh, want to keep it.”

Wukong leaned back in his chair, visibly delighted. “You want to keep it,” he repeated, his voice brimming with warmth. “Wow. Didn’t think you’d actually like it enough to want to keep it.”

“I didn’t say I liked it,” Macaque mumbled, ears twitching. “I just—look, it’s better than my chibi doodle, alright? It deserves a proper home.”

“Your chibi doodle is a masterpiece,” Wukong countered, still grinning. He slid the sketchpad across the table to Macaque, tilting his head slightly as he watched him. “But yeah, it’s yours. Take it. I’m glad you want it.”

Macaque hesitated for a moment before carefully tearing the page from the sketchpad, his fingers brushing over the textured paper. He folded it gently, as if it were something fragile, before tucking it into his bag. “Thanks,” he muttered, not meeting Wukong’s gaze.

Wukong’s grin softened as his gaze flicked to Macaque’s drawing still sitting on the table. He reached for it, holding it up to study it with exaggerated seriousness. “Speaking of masterpieces, this little guy is coming home with me.”

Macaque blinked, confused. “Wait, what?”

“Your chibi doodle,” Wukong said, his tone almost reverent. “Look at this charm, this personality. It’s adorable—don’t even try to argue.”

“You don’t have to humor me,” Macaque frowned, “it’s just—”

“I’m not humoring you,” Wukong interrupted firmly, meeting Macaque’s eyes with an earnestness that caught him off guard. “I want it. Seriously, it’s cute, and it’s you. I don’t care if you think it’s silly—I think it’s awesome.”

“You really want it?”

“Do you think I’d be this dramatic if I didn’t?” Wukong teased, waving the paper like a flag. “Come on, hand it over. Let me keep a piece of your brilliance.”

Macaque huffed, crossing his arms but unable to hide the faint blush creeping up his face. “Fine, take it. But if you start showing it off to people, I’m stealing it back.”

“Deal,” Wukong said, beaming as he carefully tucked the drawing into his bag with exaggerated care. “I’ll treasure it forever.”

Macaque looked away, his ears flicking back as his chest tightened again. It wasn’t just the words—treasure it forever—but the way Wukong had said them, like he meant every syllable. As the silence returned, Wukong’s gaze lingered on Macaque, his expression softening once more. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

Macaque glanced at him, caught off guard by the shift in tone. “For what?”

“For trusting me with it,” Wukong replied, his voice warm.

Macaque felt his ears flick back again, his heart thudding just a little harder than he wanted to admit. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late,” Wukong said with a laugh, leaning back in his chair.

For once, Macaque didn’t argue. And if his heart skipped again as Wukong’s gaze lingered just a little too long, well... that was nobody’s business but his own.

—

Macaque sank deeper into the worn couch, the cushions lumpy but familiar beneath him. His old, threadbare blanket—smelling faintly of musty lavender detergent—was wrapped around his shoulders. His curled legs underneath him were starting to feel a little numb, but he was way too tired to move as he scrolled through his phone.

The screen lit up with a new message, the name “Monkey Boy 🙄🍑” appearing alongside the photo Wukong had somehow managed to sneak onto his phone earlier that day while they were cleaning up art supplies. It was a close-up selfie, Wukong’s face practically pressed against the screen, his freckled nose scrunching slightly with the effort, and his lips curled into a playful canine-biting grin. It was ridiculous and endearing all at once, and Macaque had stared at it far too long the first time he saw it.

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: hey hey mac what u up to

Macaque: nothing much. just sitting around. you?

Wukong’s response came almost instantly, complete with an emoji flourish.

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: just thinking abt how ur doodle is gonna look AMAZING framed on my wall 😎✨ u better sign it next time btw

Macaque: you’re not seriously gonna frame it.

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: oh i am. it’s art. it’s personal. IT’S ICONIC

Macaque snorted and shook his head. He adjusted the blanket, pulling it tighter around his shoulders as he typed back a response.

Macaque: you’re such a dork omg.

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: and yet u still hang out with me 😌

There was a pause in the flurry of messages, and Macaque hesitated for a moment before typing again, his thumbs slowing.

Macaque: hey. just so you know. i had a pretty shitty morning. like one of those days where everything feels like crap.

The three little dots signaling Wukong was typing appeared and then vanished, making Macaque wonder if he would have been better off not saying it. But then they reappeared again, lingering for a while.

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: oh no :( u ok now tho?

Macaque hesitated again, glancing around his dimly lit apartment. His eyes landed on the drawing Wukong had done of him, now pinned above the couch on a thumbtack he’d hastily stuck into the wall.

The sketch was, well, a sketch—but it captured something real. Wukong had drawn him with a thoughtful tilt to his head, a quiet expression that Macaque wasn’t sure he’d ever actually seen in himself. Yet somehow, Wukong had.

Macaque: yeah. honestly, hanging out with you helped. it was nice.

The dots appeared again, followed by Wukong’s reply.

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: aww 🥺🥺🥺 mac ur gonna make me cryy. glad i could help tho!!!

Macaque rolled his eyes at the emojis used so unironically but couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at his lips.

Macaque: don’t let it go to your head.

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: too late it’s already there 😏

Macaque: idiot.

Wukong sent a string of sobbing emojis and a monkey covering its mouth. Macaque’s smirk softened as he set his phone down for a moment, letting his head drop against the arm of the couch, and relaxing for once. He stared at the ceiling, the faint shadows of streetlights creeping in through the blinds casting jagged lines across the plaster. Macaque closed his eyes.

His mind wandered, as it always did in these quiet moments. He thought about the bouquet Wukong had drawn, and then about the sunlight catching in Wukong’s fur, the way he laughed so easily, like he’d never known a day where the world felt heavy. And yet, Wukong’s words from earlier lingered then and there.

They don’t care much about me.

Macaque sunk deeper into the blanket. He didn’t know what to make of Wukong sometimes. For someone who could charm the paint off a wall, he was oddly… lonely, wasn’t he? Macaque shook his head, trying to shove the thought away—it felt too close to home. His heart had done strange things today—something warm, something terrifying.

The buzz of his phone on his stomach startled him out of his stupor. He blinked his eyes open, fumbling to grab it before it slid off the couch. The screen lit up, and Wukong’s name appeared again.

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: gn mac!!! had SO much fun today :)) we should totally do this again soon

Macaque smiled.

Macaque: night, wukong. i had fun too.

He stared at the screen for a solid moment after sending it, watching as the message slid up into their thread. Then he set the phone down gently on the armrest, letting out a long breath.

Sleep came easy that night.

Chapter Text

Macaque glanced at the clock on the wall of the campus café, the thin black hands crawling just past two-thirty. His next lecture started in half an hour, but he wasn’t in any rush to leave the booth he’d claimed in the corner. A textbook was splayed open in front of him, highlighter uncapped but abandoned in good fashion, and his laptop glowed faintly with a half-finished essay on Romanticism in art.

He let out a quiet sigh, his chin resting on his palm as he stared blankly at the screen. The essay was supposed to connect his theater major with his art history minor, analyzing how Romantic ideals influenced stage design and performance. In theory, it was a topic he loved. In practice, he’d been stuck on the same sentence for ten minutes, staring blankly at the screen as the bustling café noise blurred into static.

“Hey, stranger.”

The familiar voice broke through the haze in Macaque’s head, and he glanced up just in time to see Wukong sliding into the seat across from him with the effortless swagger of someone who thought the world revolved around them. He had campus’ infamous peach smoothie in one hand, his duffel bag slung lazily over one shoulder, and a grin that could’ve melted concrete. Under that, a dark denim jacket, a bright graphic tee and jeans with enough tears that if it were Macaque’s high school, he surely would have gotten in trouble for. As always, his sun pendant sat gracefully against one of his collarbones. A pair of round sunglasses perched in the mess of his hair—he looked like he’d walked out of the wrong indie movie.

Macaque raised a brow, snapping the highlighter shut and leaning back in his seat. “Flattery won’t get you out of whatever shit you’re about to pull.” He took a sip out of his forgotten cup of old coffee. “Don’t you have class?”

“Skipped it,” Wukong replied without a hint of shame, slurping obnoxiously on his straw. “Thought hanging out with you would be way more inspiring.”

“You can’t just skip class to annoy me.”

“Not annoying you.” Wukong leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand as he shot Macaque a slow, deliberate grin. “Just wanted to see your pretty face.”

Macaque groaned, though his ears turned traitorously warm. “Stop calling me things like that.”

“Things like what? Compliments? More compliments?” Wukong leaned forward, feigning innocence as he nudged Macaque’s textbook aside to peek at his laptop screen. “Ooooh, fancy essay. What’s it on?”

“Romanticism in art.” Macaque deadpanned, tapping the highlighter against his laptop. “Which, depending on how you feel about flowery 19th-century nonsense, might count as a slow death.”

“Ugh, tragic.” Wukong groaned dramatically, tugging his jacket tighter around himself as he slouched further into his seat. “No wonder you look so miserable. Good thing I’m here.”

“Shouldn’t you be working on that animation project? The one about, what the fuck was it, a frog who dreams of being a chef?”

“Excuse you,” Wukong said, pretending to be offended. “It’s a toad, and he wants to be a five-star Michelin chef, thank you very much. But I’m ahead on that, so here I am. Besides—” He glanced at the screen, tapping it lightly. “Looks like you’re in desperate need of a break.”

“I’m fine,” Macaque said flatly.

“You’re lying,” Wukong shot back with a cheeky grin, pulling something from his bag. He slapped a folded piece of paper onto the table, hard enough to make Macaque’s coffee splash over the glass. “But I know how to fix that.”

Macaque gave him a deadpan look, shaking off the excess cold coffee out of his fur. “If it’s another one of your terrible doodles, I’m not interested,” Macaque said, though he couldn’t stop himself from reaching for the paper.

“Just take a look at it, you dumbass.”

Macaque rolled his eyes but took the paper. As he smoothed it out, his expression softened despite himself. It wasn’t a doodle, exactly—it was a rough sketch of Macaque, face marked by a gentle smile. The detail was loose but careful, every line deliberate in the way it captured him.

“I was cleaning up and found this in my folder,” Wukong explained, propping his chin on his hand. “Forgot I even drew it. Thought you might like it.”

Macaque stared at the drawing for a moment longer before folding it carefully and tucking it into his textbook. “Thanks,” he muttered, making a mental note to count his ears when he could.

Wukong grinned again, leaning back with an air of smug satisfaction. “Anything for my favorite theater nerd.”

“Don’t call me that, either.”

“What, too personal?” Wukong teased, propping his chin on his hand again.

They sat in companionable silence for a while after that, the bustling café around them fading into background noise. Wukong pulled out his own laptop, pretending to work on his sculpture project but mostly just scrolling through Tumblr. Macaque managed to get a few sentences down on his essay (something about Schiller), though his gaze kept flickering to the sketch tucked neatly into his book.

It wasn’t until Wukong spoke up again that the quiet spell broke. “Hey, what are you doing Friday night?”

Macaque frowned, setting his highlighter down again. “I don’t know. Why?”

“There’s this student abstract art showcase at the gallery downtown. Thought we could check it out.”

“You hate abstract art.”

“Yeah, but you don’t.” Wukong shrugged, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “So? You in?”

Macaque stared at him for a moment, trying to parse the casual offer for something deeper. Wukong met his gaze evenly, head tilting as he seemingly waited for an answer.

“Sure,” Macaque said finally, turning back to his essay. “It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.”

Wukong’s grin returned in full force. “Awesome. I’ll pick you up at seven.” Wukong was already halfway out of his seat before pausing and glancing back. “Oh, and Mac?”

“What?”

“Dress nice. You know, just in case it accidentally turns into a date.”

“It’s not a date, you know.”

“Totally not a date,” Wukong agreed, winking as he slurped the last of his smoothie, leaving his glass on Macaque’s table. “But, uh, dress nice anyway. Just in case.”

Macaque groaned—Wukong’s laugh followed him out of the café when he finally took his leave, leaving Macaque to wonder, not for the first time, how someone could be so endearing and fucking infuriating at the same time.

—

The day rushed by fast—it was from one lecture to the next, one rushed homework assignment to the other (not including that one email he had to send to extend a deadline). By the time Macaque stepped into the theater, he felt like he was officially losing his mind.

He took a deep breath, letting the familiar scent of sawdust and paint calm his nerves. The chaos of the day dulled in the quiet stillness of the stage. It was empty now, save for a few props scattered haphazardly from the last rehearsal, like remnants of another world left behind.

Macaque perched himself on the edge of the stage, script in one hand, pencil in the other. He focused on the margins, scribbling notes and edits as his thoughts began to settle. Somewhere beyond the thick theater walls, the faint echoes of voices from another rehearsal filtered through, a distant hum of activity that let him feel alone without feeling lonely.

Theater had always been his refuge, even if he wasn’t the kind of person who craved the spotlight. While others say they flocked to the stage for applause or the thrill of performing, Macaque had always loved the quieter magic of it all—scattered props and backdrops behind him on display just did something to him. Each and everything was crucial—but none demanded all the attention. He appreciated that balance, being there to perform and that ability to shape something extraordinary from the wings. It suited him.

“Okay, Macaque, we get it—you’re brooding,” a bright voice cut through the quiet.

He looked up to see Mei bounding down the aisle, her green-highlighted hair pulled into two high buns and a bubble tea in hand. She hopped onto the edge of the stage with the kind of confidence that only came from being absolutely comfortable anywhere she went. She looked wildly out of place in the subdued theater—and completely unbothered by that fact.

“What are you doing here?” Macaque asked, raising a brow as Mei swung her legs back and forth like a kid on a swing set.

“I asked around,” Mei replied with a grin. “Thought I’d come say hi. You’re the mysterious theater guy I barely know, and that’s a crime against friendship.”

Macaque let out a short laugh. “Right. Well, welcome to the tragic world of play rehearsals. It’s glamorous, as you can clearly see.” He gestured to the chaotic stage behind him.

“Tragic? Please.” Mei took a sip of her bubble tea, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’ve seen Wukong covered in paint and glitter at three in the morning trying to finish an animation project. This? This is luxury.”

Macaque hummed. “Fair point.”

“So,” Mei said, hopping down from the stage and walking in a slow circle around him. “You and Wukong, huh?”

Macaque tensed, narrowing his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing!” Mei raised her hands innocently, though her grin was anything but. “He just talks about you all the time. Like, ‘Mac said this’ or ‘Mac’s sketch was so cool’ or—”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Macaque interrupted, scowling as he felt heat rise to his face. “He’s just like that. Talks about everyone.”

“Sure, sure,” Mei said, drawing out the words. She stopped in front of him, leaning in like she was about to tell a secret. “But he doesn’t call me at midnight to ask if this one shade of orange is ‘too aggressive’ for a storyboard.”

Macaque blinked, unsure how to respond. “That’s… just because I have better taste.”

“Uh-huh,” Mei said, clearly unconvinced but letting it slide. She gave him a sly glance. “Honestly, I’m glad he’s got someone like you around. Way better than some of the other guys he’s been into.”

Macaque’s pencil froze mid-tap against the script. “Other guys?”

Mei smirked, leaning against one of the stage props oddly shaped like a tin foil tree. “Oh, don’t act surprised. You know he’s got a type, right? Charmers, big personalities, a little reckless…” She tilted her head at him, as if he somehow fit the description.

“Yeah, well, I figured Wukong was more into short-term stuff. Flings, semi-hookups, you know.”

Mei shrugged. “Mostly, yeah. That’s true. But he did have one serious thing a while back.”

Macaque hummed, acting disinterested. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Mei shook her head quickly, brushing the topic aside. “Not my place to talk about it, honestly.”

Macaque didn’t respond immediately. He was turning her words over in his head, his thoughts snagging on the idea of Wukong in a serious relationship. Somehow, even with all the obnoxious pickup lines Wukong had been throwing at him all week, Wukong had never pegged him as the type to settle down with one guy.

“Anyway,” Mei said, snapping him out of his thoughts, “I actually came here to tell you something. You’re into stage design and performing stuff, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

“So! My cousin’s boyfriend’s sister is running this immersive theater project downtown. It’s this crazy cool mix of live performance and projection mapping. I thought it might be your thing.”

Macaque raised a brow, intrigued despite himself. “Projection mapping? Like animations interacting with the actors?”

“Exactly!” Mei said, practically bouncing on her toes. “It’s super experimental, and they’re looking for collaborators. I figured I’d mention it in case you wanted to check it out.”

Macaque tapped his pencil against his script. “I don’t know… I’ve already got my hands full with this production and, y’know, homework.”

“Come on, Macaque,” Mei said, giving him an exaggerated pout. “You’d kill it in something like this. Plus, imagine the bragging rights if you pull it off. Wukong would lose his mind.”

Macaque groaned. “That’s not exactly a selling point.”

“Fine, fine,” Mei said, grinning. “But just think about it, okay? The theater world needs more cool guys like you.” She turned to leave, but then paused, glancing over her shoulder. “Oh, and Mac? I can call you Mac, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Wukong’s not just like that,” Mei said, smiling all the same. “He’s got a good eye for people. If he’s sticking close to you, there’s a reason.”

With that, she walked out of the theater, her bubble tea straw squeaking as she took another sip. And once again, Macaque was with nobody but himself—and the stage.

He wasn’t sure what to make of that. Wukong had always been… well, Wukong—loud, overconfident, annoyingly charming. Someone who made you feel like you were the center of the universe for five minutes before turning that same sunlit attention onto the next lucky person. At least, that was how he saw it.

“Don’t overthink it,” he muttered to himself, flipping his script closed and setting it on the edge of the stage.

He found himself wandering—the way Wukong would ramble about the smallest details of his storyboards , or the way he’d ask Macaque’s opinion on color schemes like it was a matter of life and death. At the time, Macaque had written it off as Wukong being Wukong—hyper, obsessive, and just needing someone to bounce ideas off of.

No. Mei was just messing with him.

His phone buzzed on the floor next to him. Macaque picked it up, the screen lighting up with a text from Wukong.

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: dont forget abt friday thing!!!!! ur still coming right??? 👀

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: also bring those stage sketches i wanna see em

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: bring snacks also 🍜🍿🍸

Macaque huffed to himself in place of laughter and tapped out a response.

Macaque: if you want snacks, you better be specific about what friday’s “thing” is. i’m not guessing.

Macaque: also is that a martini?

He hit send, watching as the little “delivered” tag appeared beneath his message. Less than ten seconds later, his phone buzzed again.

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: DUHH the art thing!!! downtown gallery!!!! omg mac pay attention 😤✨

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: yesm its a martini <3

Maybe—just maybe—Mei was right. Maybe Wukong wasn’t just like that. But figuring out what that meant was a whole other question, and Macaque wasn’t sure if he wanted to dive down that rabbit hole yet. He’d never really believed in stuff like fate, ever—but maybe these were one of the things he’d be willing to let fate drive.

For once, as silly and stupid as it might have sounded, Macaque wouldn’t have minded being an exception.

Chapter Text

It’s easier to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. When things are moving too fast and too slow for him at the same time, it’s always easier to exist somewhere outside of “being” where time isn’t really a thing. In these moments, he’s nothing more than a breath in the air. The world blurs, and he simply lets it.

It’s not a choice, not really. It’s just the way things happen. Sometimes he wonders if it’d be better if he was more willing to give it all away—the weight of his skin, the curve of his bones, his heart—neatly packaged and tied up with a bow in a small box. If he could remove everything from his body that would fit him right into that narrow space that people liked him to be in, he’d stay for good.

But none of that ever comes. The box stays empty, and he runs out of himself to scoop into it (too soon). He waits, usually, thinking or not at all, waiting for something to call him into it. It rarely happens, so in the end it’s always him drifting back into place. He’s learned to live with this—to cover it up with noise, with people, with things. Always with things. Music, laughter of bodies, burns. Kisses. Hands. He’s his best self when there’s people in the room and until it empties out.

There’s a kind of safety in all of it, being surrounded. Gaps between songs that last too long and the pregnant pause between glass on his lips and the burn down his throat—those are harder to fill. He’s not exactly sure where the ache starts but it’s never not been there. His skin is tight and sometimes he just finds it harder to breathe; he doesn’t quite know how to settle into it, so he doesn’t. He moves. He reaches. He gives.

It’s strange how hands on his body can make him feel like he’s almost someone—and then, just as quickly, not. The warmth lingers just long enough to convince him it might stay, but it never does. It’s the only constant thing, and he doesn’t know what to do when it comes, so he lets it pass. He’s not so sure he has the right to hold onto it. He’s more familiar with absence, anyway. He doesn’t mind it, really. It’s easier to drift until he’s an outline, to be air. He thinks, sometimes, that he might disappear entirely, but the thought doesn’t scare him as much as it probably should. There’s less to feel when he’s nowhere, when he’s nothing.

The press of his skin against the world makes him sick, and only when he comes back—when the noise fades and the room empties—it sharpens, slicing through him in all the places he’d thought he’d hidden. He doesn’t know how to stop it, so he doesn’t try. He waits for the next moment to pull him under again, somewhere quieter. Someplace else.

He sits on his bed with his phone, waiting for the dial tone to end. He adjusts his tone when it does—now he’s happy.

“Hey, mom.”

“Wukong,” comes the clipped response. “It’s about time you called. You’re still in that—what is it—art thing?”

“Yeah,” He says—he’s still happy. “Animating, painting, all that stuff.”

“Hmm.” The stretch is longer than it usually is. “I suppose it’s better than nothing. Though I don’t see why you can’t find something more… respectable. You’re not getting any younger, you know. You’re twenty one.”

He’s twenty three. He laughs. “I’m doing fine, mom. Living my dream and all that.”

She sighs. “Dreams are nice, I suppose, for someone who doesn’t have to think about real responsibilities. At least you don’t like one of those… starving artists. Your face is still your best asset. You should focus on keeping it that way.”

Oh, how he wants to wrap every bow and tie every string. Pour and spill everything his body has to offer and swallow what’s left. His skin rots where he stands.

“Thanks, mom. I know.”

She continues. “You need to be realistic. You’re too loud, too… much sometimes. People don’t take that seriously, you know. You haven’t let yourself go, have you? We can’t have you gaining weight from the last time your father and I saw you.”

Maybe that’s all it ever is: leaving. Returning. Breaking. Stitching himself back together with thin thread. It’s easier not to think. Now, he blurs.

“Yeah, no, mom. I haven’t. I’ve got it.”

The line goes dead after she says something, but he can’t quite make out what it was. His phone is too heavy in his hand, but lighter on his fingertips. It’s a strange feeling, but it’s home.

So he keeps moving, keeps reaching, keeps giving. It’s not enough, but it’s something, and something is better than the weight of nothing. Maybe, if he moves fast enough, the ache can’t catch him. Maybe, if he gives enough, he’ll forget there’s nothing left to take.

—

Macaque watched Wukong at the edge of the garden, arms crossed over his chest as he eyed the old stone archway draped heavily in ivy and climbing roses. Wukong laughed, spinning carefree in wide circles.

The place sat tucked away at the far end of campus, behind a stretch of ancient stone buildings that most students never bothered passing unless they were hopelessly lost or looking for a shortcut. It wasn’t locked away or hidden, but it had a quiet, forgotten air about it. Rumor had it that the groundskeeper once wanted to turn it into a proper botanical showcase but gave up when no one seemed to really care. Over time, it grew into what it was now—a strange blend of deliberate cultivation and wild neglect.

Macaque had personally talked by the arched entrance countless times without sparing it a second glance, his attention more often on watching people or the bustling quad. It had never seemed worth a detour. That is, until Wukong audibly gasped at the mention that Macaque had never been to the campus garden, and decided to drag him down there one late evening on a Thursday, claiming it was “the best spot on campus, hands down.”

“Come on, Mac! Quit catching flies in your mouth and get over here,” Wukong waved him forward from the cobblestone path ahead, his grin wide.

Macaque rolled his eyes but stepped inside.

The garden unfolded like some sort of other world that he wasn’t supposed to know of—roots pushed through the stones on the path and clusters of lavender swayed lazily in the breeze, often interrupted by taller grass, stalking high and tickling the skies on their whim. Wildflowers danced in every untended corner, blending with the carefully planted roses that climbed trellises and wrapped around the old, dry fountain at the center. There was no care, no order here—Macaque smelled fresh earth.

He paused, stood. Took it all in.

“This your secret hideout or something?” he asked, following Wukong down the path toward the fountain, more caught up with him at this point now that Wukong had slowed.

“Sort of,” Wukong replied with a casual shrug, glancing back at him. “I come here all the time. Nobody else does, so it’s perfect. No crowds, no noise. Just…” He trailed off, gesturing broadly to the garden. “... this.”

“Thought you liked being the center of attention.”

“Eh,” Wukong said, sticking both hands in his pockets. “Figured you could use the quiet more than I could.” He grinned, and Macaque, silently, didn’t comment on the way his face immediately softened.

He began to wander, blindly following Wukong but also taking him for himself. His gaze found a cluster of sunflowers near the edge of the path. Their petals stood out against the muted greens, catching the light like tiny suns. Macaque wondered, briefly, if he should touch them.

“They suit you, you know,” Wukong said, his voice cutting through the quiet. 

Macaque glanced over his shoulder and found Wukong standing there, watching. “What?”

“The sunflowers,” Wukong repeated, gesturing vaguely. “They really make sure they’re noticed without really trying, don’t they? When I was little I used to think they glowed. We had some in the family garden, on this spot where the sun would hit whenever it was around six, seven.” He offered a smile. “I dunno, reminds me of you. Kind of makes it hard not to stare.”

Macaque blinked, unsure of how to respond. In the backdrop of wildflowers, he brought up his hand to count his ears—one. He tried the other side—same result. He turned back to the flower. “You’re such a sap.” His tone lacked the usual bite.

“Maybe,” Wukong shrugged, moving to stand beside him. He leaned in, close enough for Macaque to catch the faintest hint of peaches on him. “But I’m not wrong.” 

Macaque straightened, brushing imaginary dirt off his pants as he stepped away. “And here I thought you brought me here for the peace and quiet,” he said dryly.

Wukong giggled. “Hey, I can multitask. Pretty efficient, if you ask me.”

Their words floated above their heads in the air, soft and unassuming. There was something about the way Wukong looked at these flowers, something that made Macaque’s want to squeeze onto his sleeve, dig and find something else. He chose not to say anything.

Wukong had, at one point, found his way across the fountain and had wandered over to a rosebush, with roses cascading over the edges like tiny bursts of snow—after a moment of staring, he leaned in, and plucked a white bloom with surprising care. He twirled it a couple times between his fingers, and held it to the light. Macaque followed.

“You know white roses can mean loneliness?” he said suddenly, but quietly—the wind carried his voice. “I always thought that was kind of sad. Like, they’re so pretty, but…” He trailed off.

Macaque frowned, something tightening in his chest. “Wukong—”

Before he could say anything, Wukong spun to his direction and tucked the rose into his hair, right behind his ear with a cheeky grin that made his cheeks fuller and his freckles more like stars. He adjusted the flower with an almost exaggerated level of care, and proceeded to admire his own handiwork. “There, perfect,” he exhaled happily, the weight in his voice vanishing like it had never been there in the first place. “Now you’re the most elegant guy in the garden.”

Macaque froze, caught off guard by how bold that had been—he felt himself flush as he reached up, hesitated, before carefully pulling the rose out of his hair. “You’re really laying it on thick tonight,” he said, adding sarcasm for good measure but the words felt softer on his lips.

Wukong just smirked, unrepentant. “You just bring out the romantic in me.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously charming, you mean,” Wukong hummed.

Macaque shook his head, but let himself smile. “You’re just… unbelievable,” he said finally, his voice low but free of malice.

Wukong tilted his head, as if considering. “Unbelievable, and yet entirely real,” he quipped, stepping back with a little flourish of his hands.

Macaque didn’t bother responding, though he made a show of gently cupping the rose in his hands before letting it fall back to his side. As Wukong started making his way further down the path, Macaque stayed for a moment, letting the breeze hit. 

“Come on, Sunshine,” Wukong called out, “the night’s not gonna wait for us.”

Macaque exhaled through his nose. One, two, three. “You’re lucky I tolerate your ass,” he called out in response, loud enough for Wukong to hear over the rustles of greens and the wind.

Wukong laughed, his voice carrying through all the colors in the world. “Tolerate my ass?” He called out, his voice rising in mock offense. He threw his head back as he spun on his heels in loose circles, arms wide and open to the world. “Mac, you’d miss me if I wasn’t around!” The motion was carefree, so unabashedly Wukong, that Macaque found himself momentarily stunned, rooted to the spot.

He stopped abruptly, his laughter still echoing through the evening as he faced Macaque, chest slightly heaving from exertion—his hair shimmered, messy and untamed, catching like silk in the breeze as it framed his face. It almost didn’t seem real. Something strange tightened in Macaque’s chest; it wasn’t jealousy, not exactly. It wasn’t longing, either, though it might have come close.

He didn’t understand how Wukong could do it—how he could throw himself into life with so much reckless abandon, how he could laugh, how he could exist like this, untethered. Macaque wasn’t sure if he envied him for it or if it just made him feel smaller in comparison. Maybe both.

A part of him, though, softened. For all his bravado, Wukong wasn’t untouchable, not really. He liked to call himself perceptive, and he’d glimpsed once or twice in the quiet moments when Wukong believed his thoughts were alone—those moments had stayed with Macaque longer than he cared to admit. Maybe that was why it hurt to watch him now, to see him like this, because a part of him knew that, somehow, this wouldn’t last.

Still, Macaque closed his lips into a smile, brought his hand up, and waved at him. He kept his fingers curled around the stem of the rose in his hand, not sure he was ready to let go of it quite yet.

And in that moment, even Wukong forgot he was slipping away.

—

The diner buzzed with its usual hum of activity at this time of day—plates, voices, hiss of coffee machines in the corner. Macaque leaned against the counter, phone in hand, ignoring the pile of homework that sat on the table in the EMPLOYEES ONLY room. He stole a glance at MK, who hurried past with a tray of milkshakes balanced precariously in one hand and a plate of fries in the other.

“Careful, kid,” Macaque muttered, eyes flickering back to his phone.

“I’ve got it!” MK called back, somehow managing to deliver the tray to a booth without (utter) disaster. Macaque smiled faintly before his attention drifted back to the screen. Another buzz. He swiped to open the notification—a text from Wukong.

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: u working hard or hardly working??? 🤓

Macaque snorted—classic. He typed back quickly.

Macaque: unlike you, I actually do my job.

The dots popped up immediately, and Macaque felt a small wave of relief. At least Wukong was quick to reply this time.

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: some of us are born for greatness 💥🐒

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: and some.. just wash dishes :p

He shook his head and had to keep himself from smiling too wide. Across the counter, MK sidled up, wiping his hands on his apron. “You texting Wukong again?” he asked, leaning in to sneak a glance at the screen. 

Macaque held his phone to his chest, shooting the kid a glare. “Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, working?” He replied, his tone flat, but without real venom.

Macaque: you’ve got a lot of nerve for someone who eats instant noodles five times a week.

MK shrugged, unbothered. “He’s, like, always texting you. So I take it it’s going well?”

“What is?”

“The thing.”

Macaque chose to ignore what MK just said, opting to scroll upwards to the messages Wukong had sent him earlier that day—some meme about a monkey doing karate. “dis u?” he had texted along with it. Another notification popped up at the bottom:

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: better than ur greasy ass diner food 🥲

“You know, he was the same with me when I started college. Always texting me random stuff.” MK rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s, uh… not so great at being consistent, though.”

Macaque: you’re gonna turn into a cup of rmen at this rate. bet your fur’s already getting dull.

Macaque: *ramen

Macaque paused, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. “What do you mean?”

MK shrugged. “I dunno. Sometimes he just goes quiet for a bit. Like, not gone gone, but… different? He’s normal when you meet him in person, which is kinda weird. Anyway, he always bounces back. Just Wukong being Wukong, if you ask me.”

His phone buzzed with another notification, and MK perked up. “Come on, what is he saying? Is it juicy? Let me see—”

“Touch my phone, and I’ll kill you,” Macaque snapped, tucking the device closer to his chest before making space for himself at his side to look at the new text, expecting something teasing in return.

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: lol. you sound like my mom.

He blinked, fingers tightened around the device.

MK watched him. “Did he say something weird?”

“No,” Macaque replied quickly, hesitated, then locked the screen. “It’s nothing.”

MK managed to sneak a view of Macaque’s screen—he raised an eyebrow. “Hey, his mom’s kinda intense, you know? Always riding him about stuff like that. Maybe you just hit a sore spot.”

“I wasn’t—” Macaque stopped himself, sighing as he slipped his phone back into his apron pocket. “Forget it. Don’t you have to go wait tables?”

MK didn’t budge. “He does that sometimes. Gets in his head. But he bounces back. Trust.”

Macaque didn’t respond, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. He thought of the words he wanted to say, but they stuck in his throat. Instead, he typed:

Macaque: don’t let your noodles catch on fire.

MK nudged him slightly with an elbow, going to dump a stack of dirty plates in the sink from the counter he’d left them on. “Seriously, don’t overthink it. You know he’s kind of all over the place.” He then finally left with the coffee pot after a particularly loud lady yelled for more coffee.

The phone stayed silent in his pocket, and Macaque hoped it’d buzz at one point where he didn’t notice it did.

Chapter Text

The week that followed felt like wandering blindly into a fog.

Macaque noticed it first in Wukong’s texts. They were still there—Wukong wasn’t the type to ghost—in place of the usual backdrop of emojis and comedically-ignored punctuation was a string of monosyllabic answers.

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: busy, cant tonight

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: maybe laterr

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: got a lot on my plate rn

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: u know how it is

Macaque told himself it was normal. They both had midterms coming up, and stress had a way of sinking its claws into anyone. Weight could do strange things to people. He understood that—he did. But this was different. He could feel the shift even without the words.

When they saw each other on campus, it was like nothing had changed. Wukong was his usual, cheery self. He’d throw out an exaggerated wave from across the quad, shout a greeting, crack a joke (he’d made it a habit of calling Macaque the nickname “Sunshine”—it was more playful than endearing, if anything else). For a moment, Macaque would forget. The texts didn’t matter. The distance didn’t matter.

But then there was the way Wukong’s eyes flickered from one color to the next, the way his laughter faded before it reached its peak. Almost like he was trying to fill a silence that was already too loud. Macaque wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been watching. It left him standing at the edge, dangerous and precariously balancing himself on stilts. 

It wasn’t that Wukong was distant in person—not at first. He was still there, still playing the role of the friend, the flirt, the annoying ass confidant with questionable music taste. It was harder to watch up close than it was through a screen. The texts, though impersonal, had been easier to dismiss. But this? This was real. This was happening in front of him.

And then there was the other thing: the pastries. The little deliveries of fancy French or German desserts with an insane amount of whipped cream that Wukong used to bring over every Tuesday night, just because—that, too, had stopped. No more boxes of freshly baked pastries waiting outside his door, no more excited texts from Wukong asking if they lived up to his standards.

By the end of the week, Macaque had stopped checking his phone at every buzz (as stupid as it sounded that he actually used to) just for that familiar username to pop up on his notifications. It was no longer a thrill. Instead, it was like he was waiting for something that never came—waiting for Wukong to be real again, to show up, to break the silence. 

And then Friday came—and with it, a plan that even Macaque didn’t know he had been holding onto as a lifeline.

The art gallery. He’d spent most of the week quietly looking forward to it—something calm, something familiar. But when Wukong’s text arrived that afternoon, it took all of two seconds for Macaque’s stomach to drop.

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: HEY 🤩🤩🤩 meet me outside the station at 10!!!!

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: dress fun ;)))🙈🙈🙈

Macaque stilled, hand halfway stretched outward towards the abandoned half-filled water bottle that he was just about to drink out of.

Macaque: what? why 10?

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: TRUST ME 🤭🤭🙊🙊

Macaque sat still in his seat in the library near the history section, staring at the text for a long moment as he felt his irritation bloom. Not a single mention of the gallery. Not even a flimsy excuse for the change. Just a chipper, emoji-laden dismissal.

At first, he thought about ignoring it—what was the point of showing up just to get dragged into something he hadn’t agreed to? But he’d convinced himself that confronting Wukong in person might shed some light on this sudden flakiness. The thought of whatever vague excuse Wukong would toss back felt worse than just showing up and confronting him in person. After all, Wukong had seemed so normal the last time they met—maybe it was all just some stupid misunderstanding.

So, when ten rolled around, Macaque was at the station, bundled in his usual dark jacket despite the summer air. Wukong spotted him first, bounding up with that easy grin on his face.

“Hey, bud!” Wukong greeted, clapping him on the back with more force than necessary. “Ready for a wild night?”

“A what?” Macaque blinked, slightly winded. “What about the art gallery? It closes at ten thirty, what are you even talking about?”

Wukong tilted his head, his smile faltering just enough for Macaque to catch it. “The what?”

Macaque’s stomach sank. “The gallery,” he said more firmly. “You asked me if I could go. Last Sunday, at the café.”

For a moment, Wukong’s eyes darted away, then back, the briefest flicker of confusion crossing his face. “Oh... uh, I don’t remember that,” he said with an awkward laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “You sure? I mean, we probably talked about it, but—”

“We did talk about it.” Macaque’s irritation sharpened. “Or are you saying I imagined that too?”

“I’m not saying you imagined anything,” Wukong replied, his grin growing tighter by the second. “I just—I really don’t remember. My bad.”

Macaque opened his mouth to press further, but Wukong’s hand landed on his arm, steering him toward the bustling downtown streets.

“C’mon, you’ll like this way better. I promise.”

“Wukong—”

“I’ll make it up to you,” Wukong interrupted, voice unnaturally chipper. His fingers fidgeted at his side, and his golden eyes darted to the neon-lit streets beyond the station. “Alright? Trust me.”

Reluctantly, Macaque allowed himself to be dragged along, his frustration simmering. By the time they reached the club—a neon-lit brick building pulsing with music—Macaque was ready to turn back around.

“Wukong—” he found himself choking up but then noticed Wukong, who flashed Macaque an excited grin before bounding downstairs to where the flashing lights were brightest. Chest sinking, Macaque followed.

The club’s entrance swallowed them both into the pulsating chaos, and the air seemed to thicken as they stepped inside. Macaque felt the weight of it immediately—the heat, the suffocating crush of bodies, the electric hum of loud music that vibrated all the way through his bones. His ears twitched under his glamour in response, overwhelmed by the cacophony of bass-heavy beats that throbbed from all corners of the room.

The lights flashed in frantic bursts, slicing the dark air like jagged knives. Neon pinks, greens, and blues danced across the walls, flickering so quickly they blended together into a mess of color. Macaque squinted, his senses assaulted, and the constant shift of flashing lights made his eyes ache. Every time the lights switched, it felt like his whole body was jolted, every movement around him feeling like a phantom brush of something too fast to catch. His ears caught every distorted note, every deep thrum of the bass, every slurred syllable shouted in someone’s face. His feet moved back towards the door, but sweaty bodies moved him into the crowd.

Oh god, it was loud.

He tried to do so, to keep his own chest from choking him, but it only made things worse. The music was too loud, everything was too close—someone laughing too loudly behind him, the scrape of chairs against the floor, the sudden crash of a glass breaking somewhere in the distance. 

Wukong, grinning too brightly, was in front of him. He moved fluidly, almost effortlessly, like he was used to the chaos of the club, thriving in it. The people around them bumped against him, a blur of faces and bodies, the smell of cologne and alcohol cloying the air.

He was out of his depth. 

“Wukong!” Macaque shouted, trying to make himself heard over the deafening bass. He reached for Wukong’s arm, pulling him to a halt. 

Wukong barely flinched with a smile that was way too big, moving quickly to take Macaque’s hand in his own, giving it a tight squeeze that felt anything but comforting. “Come on, loosen up a little! Relax! You need this, bud!” He handed Macaque a drink, forcing it into his hand with a gentle push.

But Macaque couldn’t. Not here. His pulse spiked as he caught sight of the bar ahead, a blurring, bustling mess of people shouting orders over each other. He tried to pull away, but Wukong kept him close, tugging him further into the thrumming crowd.

He needed to breathe. The walls and the floors tilted haphazardly in a way they shouldn’t have.

His eyes darted around the room, trying to focus on anything other than the noise, but it was all the same. Lights. People. Music. All at once. “Wukong, I can’t—” Macaque started, his voice hoarse from the noise, his hand trembling where it still clutched the drink, but Wukong’s face had already disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by the sea of bodies.

His throat tightened. His skin prickled with something that was so very wrong. It clawed at his chest like some rabid animal that had been refused to be fed for ages, and he needed out.

Somehow he found a wall, and Macaque squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shut out the world, trying to find some quiet space in his mind that didn’t feel like a war zone. Every breath felt like it was coming from the wrong place—too shallow, too frantic. His heart was in his throat now, beating too fast, too erratic. It hurt. His skin felt too tight, every nerve in his body jangling, electric. His hands were shaking, and he didn’t know if it was from the panic or the anger he was holding in.

It was too much. The noise, the lights, the feeling of being utterly alone in the middle of all of this—he couldn’t do it.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Macaque began to push through the crowd, shoving people aside as gently as he could, his movements frantic. He was no longer thinking about Wukong. All that mattered was finding a place to escape. A corner. A quiet moment.

Finally, after what felt like hours of stumbling through the chaos, he spotted a darkened alcove off to the side, barely visible to anyone who wasn’t looking closely. The space was tucked away behind a few tall plants and a narrow staircase leading up to a balcony. It was small and dim, with only a few low-hanging lights casting soft, muted glows on the walls.

Without hesitation, Macaque darted toward it, his breath ragged as he squeezed through the narrow gap and into the shadowed corner. He found a wall and felt it, touched it with his hands, pressed his fingers against the wallpaper. Not surrounded by people anymore, he slid, slowly, to the ground.

He ran a hand through his hair, gripping the roots, trying to anchor himself in the physical, trying to shake loose the tension that knotted his body. I don’t want to be here. I want Wukong. I want—

Breathe, breathe, breathe. Please breathe. His thoughts were a jumbled mess, but he clung to that single command like it was a lifeline. Slowly—painfully slowly—he started to draw in a longer breath, trying to stretch it out, feeling the air fill his lungs in shallow, hesitant sips. His chest burned with the effort, but he focused on the sensation. In. Out. In. Out.

It was a small thing, a simple thing, but the world around him began to dull, just a little.

His heartbeat was still too fast, too erratic, but it was slowing down. His hands didn’t shake as much. The world didn’t feel quite as close anymore, and that was a good thing.

Macaque didn’t know how long he stayed there, curled up in the musky corner, his breath finally slowing, his heart gradually finding a steadier rhythm. The music still blasted in the background, but it didn’t feel like it was tearing him apart anymore. He could still feel it, the vibration in his chest, but it was muted now, distant.

It felt like he could breathe again.

He let his hand slide down to the floor, feeling the rough, cold concrete beneath his palm. It was grounding in a way nothing else had been tonight. This is real. This is here. And as the sound of the club continued to dull around him, all he could do was stay in the moment.

But as he sat there, the realization came crashing back: Wukong was gone. Had dragged him to the one place where he’d been reduced to enough of a mess to have a stupid panic attack out in public, and had actively ditched him. It was just him, standing here in the middle of the chaos, trying to put himself back together.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to throw something, anything, just to get it all out. The frustration clawed at him, every breath tinged with the bitterness of being here, in such a place, at Wukong’s insistence. How had he ended up in this mess? Wukong had promised they were going to an art gallery. That was the plan. That was the only plan. The thought of stepping into that quiet space, the peace of it, the focus of something real, had been the one thing he’d been holding onto all week only because Wukong had been acting so off all week.

But no. Wukong had changed everything at the last second, dragging him to a club he didn’t want to be in, didn’t belong in. A place with loud music and lights and chaos. A place where his ears felt like they were going to rupture.

For a second, he sat there and wondered how pathetic he really was. He closed his eyes, pressing his palms against his face as the weight of it all hit him. He was the one who had agreed to come. He was the one who couldn’t just say no. He had just gone along with it. He always did. He was always so willing to bend, to accommodate for him, until it felt like he was losing himself in the process.

Wukong was so caught up in whatever mess was going on in his own head, in whatever it was he was running from, and Macaque was just... here. Was he even meant to follow Wukong in the first place? What the fuck was he even doing here?

After what seemed like forever and five loud songs later, Macaque stood. He couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t breathe in this noise, couldn’t keep pretending that he was okay with this mess, with Wukong dragging him through this night like it was nothing. The anger and the hurt boiled over, and he just... left. He turned sharply and started to push his way through the crowd, ignoring the shoulder bumps, the loud laughter, the neon lights flashing like daggers in his eyes.

He didn’t care anymore. The floor was sticky beneath his shoes, the stench of sweat and alcohol thick in the air, but he didn’t care. He had to get out. The exit was too far, the crowd too dense, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop—how could he stop?

Wukong wouldn’t mind if he left. Macaque would leave him a text letting him know how much of an asshole Wukong was.

But then, as he neared the bar area, the last place he wanted to look, he froze. Wukong stood there, heavily-leaned against the counter, too obviously intoxicated by whatever liquor he had decided to down that night—he was swaying back and forth, side to side, all directions, really, head lulling against the table top, clinging to a drink like it was the only thing keeping him from floating away.

The whole night had been one thing after another—Wukong ditching him, getting himself in this state, and now this. Macaque had been trying to hold it together, but it was getting harder by the second, especially when Wukong, that damn fool, all playful smiles and slurred words, and didn’t even seem to care about what the fuck he’d done to him.

Screw this. Screw everything.

Macaque had barely made it to the bar when the guy appeared.

Tall, confident, dressed like he’d walked out of some sleek magazine ad, the kind of guy who was so effortlessly charming it made Macaque’s stomach turn. The stranger walked right up to Wukong, a flicker of interest in his eyes, and without missing a beat, greeted him with an ease that made Macaque’s chest tighten. “Well, hey there.”

Wukong’s expression shifted immediately, his lips pulling into that magnetic grin Macaque knew all too well. The smile was the same one he used when he was on, when he was in his element, attracting attention like a moth to a flame. Tonight, it was a little too eager.

“Like what you see, babe?” Wukong purred, his voice dipped in a flirtatious lilt. He leaned in slightly, his gaze wandering over the stranger like he was already sizing him up, trying to find a hook, a way to reel him in. “How’d you know I was the one worth talking to?”

The stranger smirked, unphased by Wukong’s usual cocky charm, his eyes never leaving Wukong’s face. “Just a feeling,” he said.

Macaque’s ears pricked, the noise of the club washing over him like a chaotic tide, but his hearing was sharp enough to catch every word. He watched as the stranger placed a hand on Wukong’s arm, leaning in closer, his body language oozing confidence. “You know, you’re even cuter up close.” The words slid over Wukong’s skin like a sin.

Wukong didn’t pull away. Instead, he let the stranger’s hand stay, his own posture subtly shifting, as though he was leaning into it. As though he needed this, like the attention was the only thing anchoring him in a world that felt like it was slipping through his fingers. 

Macaque’s stomach churned. His breath quickened, and the noise of the club around him faded, narrowing down to the sound of Wukong’s laugh, the hollow edge to his voice that Macaque had never heard before. It was different. Worse. A little too bright, a little too much. It was like Wukong was trying to convince both the stranger—and himself—that everything was fine.

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Wukong responded, his laugh trailing off with a strange edge, and Macaque could feel the heat rising in his chest. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t Wukong. The man who teased and flirted but still stayed grounded, still stayed himself. Was this how he was at parties? 

The stranger moved in even closer, his fingers grazing Wukong’s cheek—they stayed longer than they needed to. The way Wukong’s gaze softened, the way his shoulders slackened, as if he was unraveling in the face of the stranger’s touch—it tore something open inside Macaque. 

And then the guy leaned in, his lips brushing against Wukong’s ear, his words low and intent. “You wanna get out of here?”

Wukong’s response came a little too quickly. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”

It was too much. His mind spun, his body felt like it was on fire, every part of him wanting to move, to do something. His body wanted to move, to shout, to stop them, but his legs felt like lead, his thoughts a tangled mess.

The moment the stranger’s hand slid around Wukong’s waist, grabbing his chin and pulling him in for a kiss without asking, Macaque’s world stopped spinning. It was forceful, hungry—a kiss that left nothing to the imagination. He could hear it, even over the pounding bass and the shrill laughter that filled the air: the wet, messy sound of their lips meeting, the way Wukong didn’t pull away, didn’t resist, but melted into it. The kiss was sloppy, hasty, and Wukong’s body went slack against the guy, surrendering to the touch as if it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

The scene played out in slow motion. Wukong’s hands gripping the guy’s shoulders like he couldn’t get enough of the attention, his body leaning into the stranger’s touch as though he needed it. Wukong wasn't just enjoying the chaos, he was consuming it. Needed it to feel something, anything. Like he was starved for it.

Oh. He was desperate.

Macaque could hear the words coming from the guy’s mouth, muffled under the sound of his own pulse roaring in his ears. “You’re so cute,” the stranger said, his voice low. “Can’t wait ‘til you’re screaming for me in bed like a little slut.”

And Wukong—Wukong—just stood there, eyes fluttering closed, sinking deeper into the kiss, into the sensation, like he was trying to fill some hole Macaque couldn’t even begin to understand.

Macaque felt his chest tighten, his heart beating so fast it felt like it might explode. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t real.

He didn’t know what broke first—his control or the rage from all the shit that had gone down the past week. Without thinking, his feet were moving before his brain could catch up. He shoved the stranger hard, sending him stumbling backward.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He growled, feeling his body shake with a sudden rush of adrenaline. 

The guy’s eyes flashed with irritation, but he smiled. “Relax, man. I’m just trying to show your friend a good time.”

Macaque’s eyes locked onto Wukong, whose dazed expression was like a punch to the gut. Wukong’s lips were swollen, his face flushed, and his eyes—god, his eyes—were unfocused, distant. Macaque could see it, in the way his posture drooped, in the tremble of his fingers, the way he couldn’t meet Macaque’s gaze. It was like he was barely there.

“Wukong,” Macaque bit out, his voice a low warning. “Are you seriously just going to let him do that to you?”

Wukong blinked, like he was coming out of a daze, but his eyes didn’t meet Macaque’s. He was still caught up in whatever had just happened, and his voice was barely a whisper when it came. “It’s fine... I don’t mind.”

Macaque’s vision narrowed to a red haze. His anger flared. “Bullshit.”

Without thinking, his hand shot out, grabbing the stranger by the collar and yanking him back, before his fist collided with the guy’s jaw. The crack of impact sent a jolt through Macaque’s arm, and the stranger stumbled, barely able to brace himself. The impact jolted up his arm, but he didn’t pause, didn’t even flinch. The anger coursing through him was like fire, and it was a hell of a lot easier to throw punches than deal with what he was feeling. The recovery was short, but the switch was instant—the smooth, charming demeanor he’d worn with Wukong was gone, replaced with something more dangerous.

“What the hell is your problem, man?” the stranger snapped, voice low and hard, but there was a flicker of something else—resentment, maybe, or fury.

A split second later, his fist slammed into Macaque’s stomach with bone-crushing force. The air whooshed out of him, and he gasped, vision flashing white at the impact. He stumbled back, winded.

Macaque shoved back, throwing a wild swing that connected with the stranger’s jaw. He didn’t have time to think. His fists kept moving, each hit more desperate than the last. The guy wasn’t giving an inch. He was fast, strong—just as relentless. A punch to Macaque’s ribs had him gasping, and a split-second later, a fist collided with his cheek. The sting was sharp, the world spinning for a moment.

“Fuck!” Macaque cursed, forcing his body to move despite the pain. He managed to land another punch, a clean hit to the guy’s stomach, but the stranger countered, a brutal jab to Macaque’s side.

The two were locked in a flurry of punches and shoves, the air thick with tension and the sounds of the fight. Macaque’s head was swimming, his chest heaving with every breath. His focus narrowed to the guy in front of him—the bastard who’d dared to touch Wukong.

With a growl, Macaque ducked under a swing and drove his knee into the guy’s gut, knocking the wind out of him. The stranger staggered back, giving Macaque a brief opening. He threw another punch, landing square on the guy’s temple. The stranger crumpled, dazed, and Macaque didn’t hesitate. He followed up with a final blow to his jaw, sending the guy crashing to the ground.

Macaque stood over him, chest heaving, hands trembling. The guy wasn’t moving.

Macaque didn’t even bother to look at the stranger again as he turned toward Wukong, who was still standing there, frozen, his eyes wide and unfocused. He was shaken, barely able to stand, his body trembling. Macaque’s stomach twisted as he stepped forward, grabbing Wukong’s wrist tightly, his fingers digging in with a force that bordered on desperation.

“We’re leaving. Now.” Macaque growled, his voice rough with both anger and worry. He didn’t give Wukong the chance to argue, didn’t let him make any more decisions that could hurt him. Wukong needed to get out of here—they needed to get out of here.

Wukong followed suit but without a word—Macaque dragged him forward, through the crowd of people that had gathered to watch the spectacle, out the door and into the cold night air, not daring to look back. 

—

Wukong’s apartment was cold when they got back. The door slammed shut with a finality that echoed through the empty room, the sound hanging in the air like a dead name. He hadn’t stopped shaking since the club, and it wasn’t from the fight. He stalked in, his jaw tight, his tail flicking sharply behind him. He didn’t even look at Wukong.

Xiaohei padded over from the couch, her sleek fur glinting under the dim light. She wove around Wukong’s legs, purring softly, but he barely seemed to notice. Wukong shuffled toward the couch, scratching the back of his neck like none of it mattered. Like dragging Macaque to a club he hated, ditching him, and then letting some stranger paw all over him was nothing worth addressing. He tossed a hollow smile over his shoulder. “Well, that was fun, right?”

Macaque froze in place, his ears twitching as the words registered. Fun? His breath hitched, and before he could stop himself, he whirled around, his voice cutting through the tense silence. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Wukong flinched at the volume in Macaque’s tone but tried to keep casual. “What? It’s not a big deal—”

“Not a big deal?” Macaque spat, his voice rising with each word. His fists clenched so tightly his claws bit into his palms. “You ditched me, Wukong. In that crowd. You didn’t even tell me where you were going!”

Wukong’s smile faltered, slipping away like it had never been there to begin with. “I thought you’d be fine—“

“You thought?” Macaque interrupted, stepping closer, the anger crackling off him like a live wire. “You didn’t even look back! I was stuck there, surrounded by—by everything, and you just... you just left me. For what? To flirt with some random guy? Do you have any idea how fucked up that is?”

Wukong blinked, his expression flickering between guilt and something unreadable. “I didn’t mean to—"

“Of course you didn’t,” Macaque spat. “You never mean to, do you? You just do whatever the hell you want—because you're Sun Wukong.” His tail lashed violently, his ears pressed flat against his head. “Dragging me to that hellhole without even asking, leaving me there like I don’t matter, then acting like it’s all fine because you needed some asshole’s attention?”

Wukong opened his mouth to respond, but Macaque cut him off again, his voice trembling with barely restrained anger. “You know what the worst part is? I followed you. Like some idiot, I followed you, and what did I find? You letting that guy treat you like you’re—like you’re nothing. Like you’re some toy for him to use. And you just let him.”

Wukong’s tail drooped, his mask of nonchalance slipping. “It wasn’t—”

“I saw the way you were acting out there. You weren’t having fun. You were desperate. You let him touch you because you needed it, didn’t you? Like you’d rather let him hurt you than face whatever the hell’s going on in your head.”

“Shut up,” Wukong hissed, his voice trembling.

“No! You don’t get to tell me to shut up after what you just pulled!” Macaque took another step forward, his voice shaking with a mix of anger and something else—something raw. “Do you have any idea what you put me through tonight?”

Wukong flinched like he’d been struck, but Macaque didn’t stop. He was too angry, too exhausted. “I watched you let that guy treat you like shit, and I had to fix it. I had to pull your head out of your own damn ass because you couldn’t see what the hell was happening. You just expect me to stand there, alone, wondering if I’m gonna find you passed out in some back room with some sleaze who doesn’t give a shit about you?”

Wukong still didn’t look up. His silence was infuriating, maddening, and it only made Macaque’s chest tighten further.

“Say something,” Macaque hissed, his voice quieter now but no less intense. “Explain to me why the hell you thought this was okay. Why you thought it was fine to treat me—treat yourself—like absolute shit—”

“I’m sorry,” Wukong choked out, his voice hoarse, barely audible. “I... I didn’t mean—”

“Stop saying that!” Macaque’s voice cracked, his frustration spilling over. “You’ve been acting weird all week—you’re so you one minute, ignoring me the next—and now this? Do you even realize how... how off you’ve been?”

Wukong didn’t respond. His eyes stayed fixed on the floor, his hands gripping the hem of his shirt tightly.

“Are you even there—”

“I didn’t want to be alone, okay?” Wukong’s voice cracked, his voice breaking as the words tumbled out past his lips in a desperate rush. He took a shaky breath, his gaze darting away again as his shoulders slumped completely. “I-I’m sorry. I just—I just really didn’t want to be alone tonight.”

The admission hit Macaque like a punch to the gut. For a moment, he stood there, staring at Wukong’s crumpled form, the fight draining out of him as quickly as it had surged, the anger in his veins giving way to something heavier. He stared at Wukong, who was standing there, so small, so vulnerable, and for a moment, he didn’t know what to say. He wanted to keep yelling, to demand answers, to shake Wukong until he explained what was wrong—but he couldn’t. Not when Wukong looked like he might shatter under the weight of his own words. 

“... You could’ve just told me,” Macaque eventually said. “Instead of pulling all this shit.”

Wukong didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the floor.

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Xiaohei jumped onto the couch and curled up by Wukong’s lap. Finally, Macaque’s voice broke through, soft and hesitant. “Do you... do you want me to stay tonight?”

Wukong’s head snapped up, his eyes wide and glassy. For a moment, he looked like he might argue, might say no, but then, slowly, he nodded, just once.

Macaque’s chest ached, but he nodded back, his voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.” He didn’t say anything else, didn’t try to push. “Okay.”

For now, they both had to pretend that this—this, right here—was enough.

Chapter Text

The apartment was quiet save for the soft rustle of fabric and the faint clink of a first aid kit. Wukong sat cross-legged on the couch in front of Macaque, his hands steady as he carefully cleaned the last cut on his knuckles. The sting barely registered; Macaque was too busy watching Wukong’s face, his movements—trying to read the silence that hung between their beings.

Wukong’s brows were furrowed in concentration, his lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t speak, didn’t look up. His hands were careful, almost too careful, as if he was afraid of breaking something fragile. It wasn’t like him.

Macaque’s tail twitched, the unease growing in his chest. He shifted slightly, his voice soft but probing. “What’s my name?”

Wukong blinked, the question catching him off guard. His hand paused mid-motion, hovering over Macaque’s arm. “Huh?”

“My name,” Macaque repeated, his tone sharper now. “What is it?”

Wukong frowned, his eyes narrowing in confusion. “Macaque. What kind of question is that?”

Macaque didn’t let up. “And yours?”

“Wukong,” he replied, but there was a faint hesitation this time, as if the word didn’t quite fit in his mouth.

“What’s the date?” Macaque pressed. He needed to know, needed to be sure. “Where are we?”

Wukong’s frown deepened. “Why are you asking me this?”

“Because I need to know where you are right now,” Macaque snapped, his tone hardening. “Now answer me.”

Wukong shifted uncomfortably—his hands faltered completely as they lowered to his lap. He stared at Macaque, his eyes clouding with something distant, something unreachable. “I... I don’t—” His voice broke off, his gaze dropping to the floor.

Macaque’s stomach twisted—he knew this look. He’d seen it before—this kid in one of his shorter stays at a foster home, a boy who’d check out of reality when the world became too much. He’d learned the signs early on. Dissociation.

“Okay,” Macaque muttered, clenching his jaw. His mind raced for something to tether Wukong back to the moment. He glanced around the apartment until his eyes landed on the small black cat curled up on the coffee table, her ears twitching at the sound of their voices. 

“What’s the cat’s name?” Macaque asked, pointing with his chin.

Wukong’s head jerked up, his eyes following the gesture. He stared at the cat for a long moment, his brows knitting together as if the question was impossibly difficult. Finally, he mumbled, “Uh... Xiaohei.”

“Good,” Macaque said, his voice gentler now. “And mine again?”

“Macaque,” Wukong whispered, his tone more certain this time. He swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as if trying to shake off whatever cloud had settled over him.

Macaque nodded, the tightness in his chest loosening slightly. But he wasn’t done. “Have you eaten today?” he asked.

Wukong frowned at the question. “What? Why does that—”

“Have you?” Macaque repeated, cutting him off.

Wukong’s mouth opened and closed a few times before he finally shook his head, looking down at his hands. “No.”

“Thought so,” Macaque muttered, pushing himself up from the couch. His bruises protested the movement, but he ignored it as he crossed the room to the fridge. “Come here,” he said over his shoulder.

Wukong hesitated, but after a beat, he pushed himself up and trudged over, his shoulders hunched like a scolded child. Yanking the fridge door open, Macaque scanned the shelves until his eyes landed on a plastic container tucked in the back. He grabbed it and popped off the lid, revealing a neatly frosted slice of cake.

“Here,” Macaque said, holding the container toward Wukong. “You like sweet stuff, right?”

Wukong’s eyes flicked to the container, then quickly away. He shifted uncomfortably and shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”

“Look, it’s not about being hungry, it’s about grounding yourself; tasting something, feeling something,” Macaque snapped, pulling a fork from the drawer. “You’re eating something, and this is what we’ve got. Sit.”

“I don’t want it,” Wukong muttered, looking away.

“You don’t want it?” Macaque’s frowned. “Fine, then tell me what you do want. But you’re eating something. You don’t have to finish it, but we’re starting with this.”

Wukong hesitated again, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I don’t need that.”

Macaque raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Wukong shrugged, his voice quieter now. “It’s just... I can’t overdo it.”

Macaque’s jaw clenched, his frustration bubbling up again. “Overdo what?” He froze for a moment, his grip on the fork tightening. He turned to look at Wukong, watching him with a speculative eye, everything from his fingers fidgeting with the bottom of his shirt to the way he looked around for some sort of escape—and then it hit him. “Are you serious? After everything tonight, that’s what you’re worried about?”

Wukong didn’t answer, but the slight dip of his head spoke volumes. Macaque sighed heavily, setting the container down on the table and sliding into the chair across from it. His tail flicked thoughtfully behind him. “Well, I think this cake is good. And I think you’d like it, too. Sit, and we’ll eat. Together,” he repeated, his voice gentler this time.

Reluctantly, Wukong sat down. He stared at the cake like it was something foreign, his fingers fidgeting on the table. Macaque jabbed the fork into the slice and held it out. “Here. A bite.”

Wukong hesitated, his hand hovering over the fork before he finally took it. He poked at the cake for a moment, glancing up at Macaque as if testing his resolve.

“I’m not leaving this table until you eat something,” Macaque said flatly, crossing his arms. “So either you take a bite of this cake, or we’re going to sit here all night.”

Wukong hesitated again but finally took another bite, then another. His movements were slow, reluctant, as though each forkful was an effort. Macaque watched him the whole time, his arms still crossed, but the hard edge in his gaze had softened.

Eventually, Macaque slid into the chair across from Wukong, resting his elbows on the table. “You like it, don’t you?” he asked, his tone lighter now, almost teasing.

Wukong glanced up briefly, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Yeah,” he admitted.

“Thought so,” Macaque said, leaning back. He watched as Wukong took more forkfuls from the slice into his mouth, some of the tension finally easing from his frame. When Wukong took another bite, Macaque nodded toward him. “Feel a little more like you now?”

When Wukong didn’t respond, Macaque shook his head and gestured at the cake. “What flavor is it?”

Wukong blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Huh?”

“The cake,” Macaque said, his tone a touch lighter now. “What’s the flavor?”

Wukong frowned at the question, then took another bite, chewing slowly. “Vanilla,” he said after a pause.

“Good,” Macaque said, leaning back in his chair. “Now keep eating.”

Wukong hesitated, his fork hovering over the cake before he resumed poking at it, more out of habit than hunger. Macaque watched him for a moment, his own body leaning heavily against the chair. The silence wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t too unwelcome either. It just was—thick and strange, and Macaque wasn’t sure how to walk out of it.

When Wukong was halfway through his slice of cake, Macaque shifted, wincing at the string of the cuts as they pulled against his skin. He didn’t bother hiding it; he’d learnt years ago that there wasn’t much use in pretending around someone already so raw. “What’s going on, Wukong?”

Wukong’s hand stilled. He stared at the dented frosting, his fingers twitching slightly. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “I just… I don’t know. I called someone, and…” The words evaporated, leaving a hollow in their wake. He didn’t finish his sentence.

“You called someone?”

Wukong hummed vaguely, the sound more like a shrug than an answer. He started poking at the cake again, the motions slow and aimless. Macaque leaned back, letting the silence stretch for a beat before filling it himself.

“You know,” he began, “I’m not great with places like that. Crowded places. Loud ones. The kind where everything feels like it’s caving in, and you can’t tell if you’re breathing or just pretending to.”

Wukong’s head tilted slightly, his eyes flicking up to meet Macaque’s. There was something there—curiosity, maybe, or recognition—but no words came. Just the gaze.

Macaque rolled his shoulders, feigning nonchalance even as his injuries protested. “Never sat well with me. My ears pick up everything—conversations I’d rather not hear, car tire screeches. Footsteps. My brain can’t sort through it fast enough, and I lose track of where I am.”

Wukong blinked, his brow furrowing a little like he was trying to squeeze out a faint memory—Macaque remembered the time he had let them slip, let Wukong see. What he’d said. “Your ears?”

Macaque chuckled dryly, one hand moving instinctively to touch the side of his head. “Yeah. All six of ’em.” He smiled, but just barely. “Don’t get too excited; you’ll only ever see two. Glamour’s a neat trick.”

“Why hide them?” Wukong’s question came quick, his voice steady but faintly slurred, like it took effort to form the words.

Macaque shrugged, letting his hand fall back into his lap. “People stare. Not in the nice way, either. Easier to keep things simple. Two ears, less questions. Less people think you’re just a massive snitch.”

“So you’re always pretending?”

Macaque huffed a quiet laugh, the sound heavier than he intended. “I do theater, Wukong. This is just one more part of the act.”

For a moment, Wukong didn’t reply. Then, almost breathlessly, he spoke. “... can I see them?”

Macaque froze. “What?”

“All six.”

The question hung in the air like a delicate thread, and Macaque stilled. Then, with a sharp breath, he shook his head. “No.”

“Oh.” Wukong’s voice dropped, and he looked away, shoulders curling. “Okay.”

“It’s not about you,” Macaque said quickly. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. “It’s just… it’s not something I do. Not for anyone.”

Wukong didn’t reply. He set the fork down gently, the clatter unnervingly loud in a space that was so unnecessarily wide. When he finally did speak, his voice was so faint Macaque had to strain to hear. “... I didn’t mean to make things worse for you.”

Macaque exhaled through his nose. “I know.” Instead, he watched as Wukong traced circles into the table’s surface with a fingertip, his eyes downcast. “You don’t have to explain,” Macaque said eventually, his voice low, almost absent. “Not tonight.”

For a moment, Wukong looked like he might say something—his lips parted slightly, a flicker of words caught on the edge of his tongue—but they never came. He looked away again back at his half-eaten cake, his hand stilling against the marble.

Macaque shifted his position on his seat so that his leg didn’t grow numb. His voice softened further. “You should finish that. You might feel worse tomorrow if you don’t.”

Wukong hesitated, his fork briefly hovering over the cake in a moment of contemplated silence. After a moment, he sighed to himself and finished the rest of the slice, in a way that made Macaque think he wasn’t entirely sure why he was doing it. He studied him quietly, tracing everything from the dip in Wukong’s shoulders to the amount of tremors in his fingers, the way they moved against the metal.

Eventually, Wukong broke the silence. “... you put up with me.”

Macaque huffed quietly and leaned back in his chair with a slight wince. “Putting up with you? Is that what you think I’m doing?”

Wukong’s gaze flicked up, his expression hard to read. “Isn’t it? I messed up. I made it worse for the both of us.”

Macaque shook his head. “Wukong, if you think I’m sticking around just out of obligation, you’re a fucking dumbass.”

A faint, fleeting laugh escaped Wukong before he could seemingly stop it, and the sound seemed to surprise even him. Macaque seized on the moment, a grin teasing the corner of his lip just enough so that it felt genuine to himself.

“You’re not the only one who screws up, remember?” Macaque shrugged. “Trust me. I’ve got years of fuck-ups on you.”

Wukong made a sound—half a hum, half a sigh—as he folded his arms, his hands gripping his biceps almost like he was hugging himself. For a while, neither of them spoke again. Macaque enjoyed the quiet hum of the city static.

Wukong broke the silence again eventually, his voice barely louder than anything. “You think… this is enough? That we’re both just… disasters waiting to happen?”

Macaque quirked a brow. “Depends. Enough for what?”

“I don’t know,” Wukong muttered. His tail curled tight around the leg of his chair. “For making things better. Or less… whatever this is.”

“Less fucked up?” Macaque supplied helpfully, his words lighter than the words deserved.

Wukong didn’t answer, but the twitch of his brow said enough.

Macaque let out a long breath, turning his gaze toward the Californian city lights through the window—it was a nice view, expected from the top floor of an apartment. “Well, if you’re waiting for some big fix to make it all better, you’ll be waiting forever. Trust me.”

Wukong’s head tilted slightly, his focus narrowing in on Macaque. “That’s bleak.”

“Yeah, well. I never claimed to be a ray of sunshine.” Macaque said sharply albeit unintentionally. “It’s just… how things are. You get through it, one shitty step at the time. Maybe you screw up again. Maybe you make things worse before they get better. That’s just reality.”

There was a pregnant pause. “And you’ve been there?”

Macaque made himself smile, feeling his cheeks pull like fresh stitches, before letting it fade entirely. “Still am, most days.”

The weight of it all hung in the air for a moment, stagnant.

“You’re not exactly the ‘share your feelings’ type of guy,” Wukong said after a beat, but there was no malice there that Macaque could find—just quiet curiosity.

“Neither are you,” Macaque shot back with low volume.

Wukong’s tail uncurled from the chair leg and flicked, a little restless. His voice dropped further, like he didn’t like the taste of the words leaving his mouth. “What keeps you going, then?”

Macaque hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor—what did keep him going? He’d been alone for as long as he could remember. Life treated him shitty, and he barely had the means to go on. Money was scarce, people sucked. He sat, pondering for an answer while his fingers traced idle patterns on the countertop, their rhythm uneven. “You really wanna know?”

Wukong didn’t answer aloud, but the gentle gaze he held gave the impression of reluctant interest.

“Because… stopping’s worse,” Macaque laughed, the sound quiet and bitter. He tried a smile again to see if it suited what he felt at the moment, which he wasn’t exactly sure what it was. “What’s the alternative? Sit in the dark and let it eat me alive? I’ve done that. Never liked the view.”

The words felt offhand, but heavy, and there—they floated around his head like a quiet existence, almost like they’d always been there.

“So you’re fine with just… sitting in the dark, then?”

Macaque stilled before hesitating. “There’s a difference between sitting in the dark and being swallowed by it. I’ve learned to keep my head above water. Doesn’t mean I like it.”

Wukong’s grip on his own arms tightened. “You make it sound like you’ve tried stopping.”

“I’ve thought about it,” Macaque shrugged, looking down to feign interest in his hands. He then scrubbed a hand down his face, palm roughly rubbing against his own left cheek, “plenty of times. But I’m still here. Stubbornness, stupidity—take your pick.”

Wukong’s gaze flicked up briefly, searching Macaque’s face for something. “You act like it’s all okay. Like it’s just… normal.”

Macaque scoffed quietly. “It’s not okay. Things haven’t been okay for a long time. But you don’t need to hear my sob story.”

“Maybe I do,” Wukong offered quietly.

Macaque thought about it—he stared at Wukong while weighing his response, who stared back at him. “Fine, you want the short version?”

Wukong nodded.

Macaque leaned back, his gaze drifting to the window where the city lights flickered. “People leave,” he said flatly. “Or they stick around just long enough to remind you why you’re better off alone. Either way, you end up by yourself. So, you stop hoping for anything else.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Wukong’s breath hitched. “Isn’t that lonely?”

Macaque gave a humorless chuckle. “It is. But it’s safe. And when you’ve been passed around enough times, safe starts to feel like the best you can get.”

Wukong’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “And you don’t think that’s worth it? That short moment where there is something?”

Macaque looked at him. “I don’t know. Maybe it is. But that doesn’t matter if you think you don’t deserve it.”

The words hit like a storm. Wukong shifted in his seat, fingers digging into his arms as though trying to physically hold himself together. For a moment, he said nothing, just staring at the space between them, as if weighing whether he wanted to continue this conversation at all.

“I hate it,” Wukong said, barely loud enough for Macaque to hear. “The way people just… come and go. I mean, it’s not like I can blame them. I don’t exactly make it easy to stick around.” He chuckled to himself. “But it’d be nice. If they stayed.”

Macaque watched him, trying to gauge Wukong’s face, but the other had moved his gaze to the floor, looking oddly unfocused.

“You like it though, don’t you?” Macaque asked, more of an observation than a question. “The fleeting seconds. When it feels real.”

Wukong didn’t flinch at the words, but his shoulders tensed the slightest bit. “Yeah,” he said quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I do.” His voice stumbled. “Flirting, fucking, whatever. I don’t know. I guess I just… like it when they want me. When they’re paying attention. When they do, I don’t feel like a joke, or just some… passing distraction. Like they actually see me.” He paused. “I know it’s not real. They leave in the end, ‘cuz they get what they came for. But for that moment, I feel like, maybe, they’ll stay for more than just the quick fix, but because of me.”

It was so quietly desperate that it felt like it could break him, and yet Wukong didn’t move. His arms remained too tightly crossed, slightly curled into himself as if bracing for something. He’d heard this before—from different people, in different ways. Wanting connection, wanting people. He couldn’t really understand it, not fully, not the way Wukong wanted him to—people had been a big thing in his life for a while, and he’d simply grown used to it.

“You think someone will stay for you?” Macaque asked.

Wukong’s laugh was bitter. “Nah. Not really. But I always hold on to the idea that maybe one day, someone will wanna stay.” He shrugged, looking back at Macaque, the look on his face something so unreadable. “It’s stupid, isn’t it?”

Macaque paused. “It’s not stupid to want that.” Then he gave a small shrug. “It’s easy to start thinking there’s something wrong with you, like you’re the problem.” He kept his voice firm—but unapologetically genuine. “But that’s not you, Wukong. That’s… that’s their shit, not yours.” He looked at Wukong with a steady gaze. “Someone will stay for you. The way you care, even when you don’t know how to show it. Your energy. You’re not the problem here—you never were.”

The room sat in stillness—Macaque sat back slightly, letting the moment breathe. Wukong didn’t, his eyes still glued to the floor. Macaque considered saying something else but stopped himself after seeing how tired Wukong looked.

But words caught his throat when Macaque caught the faint glint of a tear sliding off Wukong’s chin. He watched, silent, as another followed, tracing a slow, deliberate path down Wukong’s cheek as it caught a low light before dropping soundlessly into the fabric of his shirt.

Another followed right after. Then another.

Macaque froze, his mouth slightly open like he was about to say something but had forgotten how. His hand hovered in the air, unsure whether to reach out or pull back. “Wukong,” he finally managed, voice quieter than he’d intended.

The name seemed to pull Wukong from whatever haze he’d been lost in. He blinked slowly, brows furrowing, and raised a hand to his cheek. When his fingers came away wet, he stared at them in mute confusion.

“Oh,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Macaque stilled, caught off guard.

“I—” he started, then stopped, his voice catching. He wiped at his other cheek, finding the same. “I didn’t even—” Wukong’s hand left his face, his gaze distant. “I don’t even know why...”

“You don’t have to know why,” Macaque offered carefully, leaning forward a little. “It just means you needed it.”

Wukong huffed, though it came out more like a shaky exhale as he swiped at his face again, almost angrily. For a moment, Wukong didn’t respond, his movements slow and deliberate as he wiped his cheeks. The tears weren’t stopping, though—not really—and Macaque could see the frustration flicker across his face as he realized it too.

“It’s stupid,” Wukong muttered, his voice thick with a quiet, trembling edge. “All of this.”

“It’s not,” Macaque said firmly, deciding to turn away towards a blank wall. “It’s not stupid, okay? It’s normal.”

“Barely,” Wukong said, the bitterness in his voice sharp enough to cut. “It’s just stupid moments. Stupid hookups that mean nothing.”

Macaque hesitated, unsure if he should say anything more. The air between them felt delicate, like the wrong word might shatter the moment. But then he looked at Wukong—truly looked at him, sitting there with his head bowed, hair swept across his face, his cheeks streaked with tears he barely seemed to understand—and something in Macaque wouldn’t let him stay silent.

“Wukong,” he said softly, leaning forward just enough for that height for their eyes to be able to meet. “Listen.”

Wukong hummed but didn’t quite lift his head to face him.

“No,” Macaque stressed this time, firmly, “really listen.”

This time, he did look up.

“Someone’s going to see you one day. All of you. The annoying parts. The sweet parts. The parts you don’t even know how to show yet. Someone’s going to see all of that, and they’ll stay. And not because of what you give them,” Macaque added, his voice quieter now, steadier. “Not because of what you can do for them. But because of you. Just you.”

Wukong watched him, his golden eyes wide and searching, his lips parted like he wanted to argue but couldn’t quite find the words.

Macaque shrugged, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips. “They’d have to be an idiot not to.”

Wukong blinked, fingers tightening on the kitchen counter. He swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Macaque said simply, leaning back and resting his hands on his knees. “Because if I can see it, then someone else will too. Someone who’ll stay for all the right reasons.”

Wukong was quiet for a long moment, staring down at the faint tracks of tears still glistening on his hand. He seemed to wrestle with something, his mouth opening slightly before closing again. Finally, he looked up at Macaque.

“Do you think… you’ll stick around?” His voice was barely above a whisper, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Macaque blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the question. He hadn’t expected Wukong to ask—not to him, not now. For a split second, he almost dismissed the question—but the look on Wukong’s face said he wanted honesty.

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t planning on it,” Macaque eventually said, his voice steady but quiet.

The moment lingered in a silence that felt fragile but not unwelcome, the kind of quiet that comes after words that mattered. Wukong shifted slightly, his hand dragging down his face as if to wipe away more than just the remnants of his tears.

“Macaque,” he started, hesitating. His voice was softer now, more grounded. “About the club.”

Macaque simply hummed.

“I shouldn’t have left you like that.” Wukong’s fingers twisted in his shirt, his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor between them. “I wasn’t thinking. Or—no, I was thinking, just… not about you. And I should’ve been. I-I was selfish. I get caught up in my own shit sometimes—hell, most of the time—and it’s not fair to you.” He finally looked up, his amber eyes meeting Macaque’s with a rare steadiness. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Macaque studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he exhaled, leaning back slightly as his arms crossed loosely over his chest.

“You’re right,” he said plainly, though there was no malice in his voice. “I didn’t.”

Macaque stared at Wukong for a moment—time between them stretched, but Wukong didn’t look away. He waited, waiting to see what Macaque would say (or if he’d say anything at all). 

Finally, Macaque exhaled, his shoulders sinking slightly. “You really were out of it tonight, huh?” he said softly.

Wukong didn’t answer that, his hands tightening into fists on his lap as he looked down at the empty plastic container, remaining frosting lining its insides. His voice was quiet when he finally spoke. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Macaque. I hate hurting people.” He swallowed hard and it almost seemed painful. “I hate that I hurt you.”

Macaque sighed. “You don’t have to make it so complicated, just… don’t be an idiot.”

Wukong let out a short, humorless laugh. “Easier said than done.” His fingers flexed against the counter, feeling it. “I mess up a lot, Mac. I know I do. I just… I don’t want to mess this up too.”

“Look,” Macaque said after a beat. “I’m not asking you to have all the answers, okay? You don’t have to get everything right. I haven’t either. Just… don’t shut me out.”

Wukong nodded slowly, his golden eyes focused on the faint tracks of tears still drying on the back of his hand. “Okay,” he said quietly. “I can do that. I think.”

“You think?” Macaque teased.

Wukong let out a weak chuckle. “I’m not keeping promises I can’t keep.”

Macaque leaned against the counter, watching as Wukong worked with whatever was going on in his head. After a moment, he exhaled through his nose. “Hey, Wukong,” he said, his tone light.

Wukong looked up. “Yeah?”

“What’s today’s date?” Macaque asked casually, just in case.

Wukong blinked in response. “Uh… the twelfth.”

“And where are we right now?”

Wukong glanced around the room, from the tabletop and the fridge to the paintings lined up on the wall, as if he were taking in each brush stroke and each deliberate rub of charcoal. “My place. The kitchen,” he mumbled, before almost defensively, adding: “Why are you asking me this?”

Macaque let out a breath, the faintest hint of relief shrugging his shoulders. “Just checking,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you’re here. Now. With me.”

Wukong stilled, like he was pondering what Macaque had just said. “I’m trying to be. It might… it might take a while.”

Macaque studied him for a moment before nodding. “That’s fine. We’ve got time.”

Wukong stared at the counter, tracing invisible patterns with his finger on its surface. The lines his mind drew didn’t connect, didn’t form anything tangible, just endless loops and swirls that went nowhere. He exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping as if the weight of the air leaving his lungs was too much.

Macaque watched him without a word. He didn’t rush to fill the silence; it didn’t feel like it needed to be filled yet. Instead, he gave Wukong the space to find his footing—or at least a part of it.

Finally, Wukong spoke, his voice low and almost hoarse. “You ever just… feel like you’re not really here? Like you’re watching everything from the outside, and none of it… none of it feels real?”

Macaque tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. “I… don’t think I’ve ever felt that exact thing,” he admitted, his voice quieter than before. “But I think I’ve been close. Like… the world gets too loud or too quiet, and you don’t know which one’s worse.”

Wukong glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Something like that.”

Macaque studied him for a moment longer, not pushing but feeling the weight of the quiet between them. It wasn’t just the isolation that he had noticed in Wukong recently—it was the way he seemed to pull away even from himself sometimes. He was still drifting, just out of reach, and Macaque couldn’t help but wonder if he was still lost somewhere inside that haze.

“Do you... remember the flowers I got you a few weeks ago?” he asked quietly, studying Wukong's face for any shift in recognition. “The ones when we went to the art studio?”

Wukong blinked, his gaze flickering momentarily back into focus. He seemed to consider the question for a second, as if the answer was just beyond his grasp. His fingers twitched on the counter, a subtle sign of the effort it took to pull himself from the haze.

“Flowers?” Wukong echoed, voice rough. He looked at Macaque for a beat, then his eyes softened ever so slightly, the fog lifting just a fraction. “Yeah... marigolds, right?”

A small flicker of warmth crossed Macaque’s face. It was brief, but there. “Yeah. Marigolds.” He let the silence stretch for a moment, his fingers idly picking at the hem of his sleeve. “Creativity, and passion,” he said quietly, almost as an afterthought. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt like saying it mattered.

Wukong’s lips parted, as if he were about to say something else, but the words seemed to get stuck in his throat. Instead, he let out a sharp breath and gave Macaque a quick, almost imperceptible nod, as if acknowledging the moment before letting it slide back into the quiet.

Macaque shifted slightly, casting a glance toward the TV across the room. “I don’t know about you, but I’m kinda in the mood for a movie,” he said, his tone casual. “Got anything in mind?”

Wukong stared at him, his brows furrowed in thought, saying nothing for a long moment. Then, without warning, he opened his mouth. “You like horror?”

Macaque blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. He shrugged, a quiet laugh slipping out despite himself. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”

Wukong nodded, as if that settled something, and pushed off the counter. He crossed the room, grabbing a blanket and tossing it onto the couch, the first aid kit already set aside on the table. “C’mon, then.”

Macaque followed, his steps slow and deliberate. He settled beside Wukong, close enough to share the space but not quite enough to crowd him. The blanket ended up bunched at their feet, half-forgotten, as Wukong scrolled through a list of movies on the screen. The glow of the TV painted the room in shifting shades of blue and gray, the faint hum of its speakers keeping Macaque from actually thinking. For now, he was grateful for that.

As the movie queued up, the eerie strains of the opening music barely filling the silence, Wukong leaned back. His gaze lingered on Macaque for a fraction longer than it needed to. “Y’know,” he murmured, almost as if to himself, “you’d look nice with your ears out.”

Macaque didn’t move, his gaze fixed on the screen as if he hadn’t heard. Yet, the smallest flicker of his tail betrayed him, a subtle response he Wukong seemed eager to acknowledge. He didn’t press, turning his attention back to the screen as the opening credits rolled. Beside him, Macaque sank further into the cushions. The movie finally started, and the room fell into a stillness. 

For both of them, this was enough. For now.

Chapter Text

The low hum of the television stirred Macaque from sleep that morning. His eyelids dragged open, wishing he’d woken up hours later, the dim light filtering through them as he proceeded to pull the blanket tighter around himself. It was softer against his skin—warmer, cozier than he remembered—and then came the scent like a slow breeze.

Vanilla. Subtle, smooth, like a memory. Beneath it, faint traces of citrus—almost a little too faint to notice, but familiar enough for Macaque to enjoy it. The mix clung to the fabric he hugged, and without thinking, he pressed his face into the folds of the cloth, inhaling again.

The faint chattering of a commercial played out in muted tones, blending almost seamlessly with time. Something about the marvel of modern blenders, how it can grind chunks of ice into flakes almost in an instant. It wasn’t intrusive—if anything, it suited the moment. Still, Macaque’s hand fumbled blindly for the remote, his fingers finding the smooth plastic perched precariously on the armrest of the couch. He clicked the red power button, and the screen went black, leaving a perfect, blissful silence in its wake.

He took a moment.

The golden, heaven’s light of dawn stretched lazily across the sprawling cityscape visible through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. The view from Wukong’s apartment was breathtaking, as it should be from a penthouse floor—endless clusters of skyscrapers softened by the morning haze, the streets below just beginning to stir with life yet muted by a considerable distance. The sunlight filtered through the glass, catching the motes of dust suspended in the air like tiny, floating stars. It wasn’t yet that white light that you saw in the mornings—it was still that orange color that Macaque had always preferred, the kind of orange you usually saw at pretty sunsets.

Macaque shifted, humming as he found a comfortable nook on the couch, the blanket rustling softly against his legs. His muscles protested the movement—stuff and sore in a way that felt half-earned, half-regretted. And that was when he saw him.

Wukong.

He was sprawled just inches away, curled up on the opposite end of the couch like some overgrown housecat. His head was turned toward Macaque, his cheek pressed into a cushion, the lines of his face soft with sleep. Wild strands of orange hair tumbled across his forehead and fanned out over the cushion, catching the light in fiery bursts that seemed brighter than the sun at this very moment. His lashes—longer than anyone had the right to have—cast feathery shadows over the faint stars dusting his cheeks. His mouth hung slightly open, his lips parted just enough to catch the rhythm of his breathing: soft, steady, completely unguarded.

For a moment, Macaque forgot how to breathe.

He watched the rise and fall of Wukong’s chest, as slow as it felt, the slight furrow of his brow as he shifted deeper into the cushion he hugged. One other hand, usually so animated and restless, lay slack and open against the couch, enough so that you could see the calluses on his fingers from holding a pen for too long. Macaque’s eyes stayed there, and here—on the way Wukong seemed smaller like this, softer, worlds away from the brash presence he carried when he was him.

Idiot, you’re staring.

The events of the night before crashed in, each detail sharper than he wanted: antiseptic stinging against torn knuckles, the crush of bodies at the club, Wukong’s voice in empty silence. And then, that comment—the one about his ears.

Vanilla. He breathed it in again, trying to focus on that instead whatever the fuck this was.

He removed his face from the wrinkled mess of the blanket clenched in fistfuls in his hands and stole another glance at Wukong. It would be so easy to reach out and brush that stray strand of curly hair hanging over his brow. But he didn’t dare. Couldn’t. So he let the morning wrap around them both.

After what felt like a good while, Macaque shifted to sit up, pushing the blanket aside. It slipped from his shoulders in a soft cascade, brushing over Wukong as it fell—Macaque froze when it snagged, catching slightly on the other’s arm before sliding off altogether. The movement disturbed Wukong just enough that he stirred—a faint, wordless mumble leaving his lips.

Macaque hesitated, his breath catching in his throat as he waited for Wukong to wake—but he didn’t, only shifted a bit, the crease in his brow deepening for just a moment before his breathing evened out again. Macaque let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding before he leaned down, fingers working deftly to pull the blanket back up.

The fabric was still warm to the touch from holding onto the heat of their shared rest—Macaque draped it over Wukong’s shoulder, making sure it stayed.

“There,” he whispered softly, the word leaving him more like a breath than a sentence. Wukong moved again, a faint hum rising from his chest as he found the warmth, burrowed into it. His head tilted slightly into the cushion, and his lips parted, forming the shape of some half-formed word he never finished saying. His brow smoothed out, eventually, as he returned to how he was.

Macaque stayed there longer than intended, his fingers unable to leave the edge of the blanket as he watched Wukong relax into the couch. The traces of his breath stirred the loose strands of his hair, and Macaque pulled his hand back as though he’d felt like he’d been burned. He straightened, stepping quietly across the marble floor, the coldness of it seeping through the pads of his feet.

The apartment stretched out around him, bright, open and huge—and yet undeniably lived in. The early sunlight softened everything, spilling across the corners of the living area and the edges of a coffee table crowded with (probably) unopened textbooks and a cup of something long gone cold. His gaze wandered, tracing the room, its bursts of color interrupting the otherwise neutral palette it’d been built into.

In the hallway near the living room, paintings hung at slightly uneven angles, frames mismatched in size and style. One, a vibrant explosion of sunbursts and streaks of fiery orange—it was so unmistakably Wukong that Macaque almost smiled. Beneath it, smaller paintings jostled for space: a quiet watercolor one, something that seemed to be a crowd of people on a bus; some bold piece of a single close-up rose with brushstrokes that looked almost violent; a gateway to heaven. Wukong’s worlds, glimpses in all of them and between, drawn on blank sheets of paper.

Macaque’s eyes fell to the floor again, to the stack of canvases leaning haphazardly against the wall near the corner. He remembered seeing them before, and it seemed like Wukong hadn’t done anything about it—they were in the same place he had last seen them. The one on the front still hadn’t changed: the lion—a striking, beautiful portrait, half of its face obscured by a sunflower, half-lost in shadow. The splash of red hadn’t gone anywhere.

Faith, Wukong had said in passing once: and loyalty. Unconditional love. Sunflowers meant many things, but those were the ones Wukong stuck with.

Macaque stayed on it, wondering if he could touch it, to feel the dried paint, like it’d give some window into what Wukong was feeling when he painted this—he didn’t. He stood instead, his attention caught by the small table near the couch. A vase sat atop it, simple glass filled with water and marigolds—fewer now than when he’d first thrust them into Wukong’s hands, their edges curling slightly at the tips but still impossibly bright.

They looked nice there. Macaque stepped away from the hallway and back to where he started.

He ended up watching Wukong doze away on his own couch again. Still asleep, the mess of his hair like fire and embers, the quiet of him wrapping around the room like a blanket. He had turned at one point so that his face was half-shadowed by the sun, most likely to avoid the light shining directly onto his face. So unlike the time Macaque had woken up with a splitting headache to Wukong standing in his small, cramped kitchen, cooking eggs like it was the best thing to do at that moment of breaking and entering someone else’s home.

Maybe it was his turn—the idea of stepping into the role of… giving, felt like a new territory. It didn’t feel wrong, per se; he didn’t even know what Wukong liked.

Or maybe it wasn’t about what he liked or didn’t like. Maybe it was just what was needed in this moment. He wasn’t entirely enthusiastic about cooking, but Wukong had done it for him once.

Macaque turned and walked toward the kitchen. The air in the space was still cool, tinged with a faint smell of sunflower seed oil and open windows. The sunlight had shifted now, filtering through the blinds in slats, leaving thin shadows across the marble countertop. The space was cluttered but functional—there was a bowl of fruit on the counter, a couple of stray paintbrushes in a jar next to the sink, the water inside tinged with pinks and oranges like swirling sand. Macaque put the empty plastic container from last night into the sink to wash, and opened the cupboard—he found olive oil, the salt, the pepper. Things that were familiar, that he knew how to use, at least.

The fridge was a mess of mismatched containers, but Macaque strangely found himself not minding the chaos. His fingers slid over a few cold jars, finding what he needed: some tofu, a bundle of fresh vegetables oddly tied together with a pink rubber band, and a block of tempeh tucked into the corner. Decent enough.

Once the ingredients were all out, Macaque rolled his sleeves and got to work. He moved quietly, slicing bell peppers and zucchini with a knife he had to run through water twice because of some sort of jam on it that just wouldn’t wash off, the click of the tool against the cutting board turning into some sort of oddly calming rhythm. He heated a pan, the faint hiss of oil spreading across its surface, joining the mess of small sounds in this moment, all at once. Macaque went and opened the windows at some point—he’d gotten used to light, more that Wukong would force his shades open all the time he was at his place: let some sun in, won’t kill ya!

The kitchen began to warm, the scent of garlic and ginger blooming as he sautéed vegetables in the way he remembered, adding a pinch of salt and pepper (hopefully enough or, at least, not too much). He glanced toward the couch once, half-expecting Wukong to stir at the smell—but the other remained blissfully unaware, still cocooned into the blanket like some overgrown cat. Xiaohei had found him at one point and was now lazily curled up at Wukong’s feet, purring in drowsy silence. Macaque turned back to the stove.

He cubed the tofu next, browning it lightly before tossing it in with the vegetables, letting the flavors meld. A quick rummage through the cabinets yielded soy sauce and sesame oil, which he drizzled into the mix.

The blankets on the couch rustled faintly, pulling Macaque’s attention. He glanced over his shoulder, catching the subtle movements of Wukong shifting beneath the pile of fabric. At first, it was just a twitch of his fingers, then a low, muffled groan as he twisted onto his side, his face smushed unceremoniously into the cushion. His orange curls stuck out in every direction this time, like he’d been struck by wind at full force. His lashes fluttered, and for a moment, it seemed like he might wake.

Instead, Wukong let out a soft huff, turned again, his legs stretching out awkwardly before curling back in. He pulled the blanket closer as he made himself into a ball, making Xiaohei jerk into surprise and jump off the couch with a displeased look. Macaque huffed a quiet laugh. Figured.

The smell of food flooded the kitchen in no time—it was something he rarely smelled at his own place, mostly because cooking was a waste of what he had and he’d rather just buy takeout—he slided the stir-fry onto a plate and set it down on the counter in front of Wukong’s chair, wiping his hands on a dishtowel he’d found. He cast another glance toward the couch.

This time, Wukong was stirring in earnest. His nose twitched slightly, his brow furrowing as if caught in some half-formed dream. Then, his head lolled to the side, golden eyes cracking open just enough to catch the light.

Macaque crossed the room, leaning casually against the arm of the couch. “Morning, sunshine.”

“Whuzzat,” he muttered, voice a gravelly mumble. His lips barely moved as he attempted to piece together words while half-asleep. Wukong then squinted at him, the effort of recognition almost too much. “You… cookin’? Or stealin’? Both?” He slurred, his head lolling back against the couch.

Macaque raised a brow. “Yeah, good morning to you too, genius. Go back to sleep if you’re gonna talk bullshit.”

Wukong let out a soft grunt, vaguely waving a hand toward Macaque as if to dismiss him. Instead, he burrowed deeper into the couch cushions, his body curling slightly. “Not bullshit,” he murmured. “Could be… a robbery breakfast. S’thing, prob’ly.”

Macaque barked out a small laugh. “Yeah, sure,” he hummed. “I’m robbing your fridge and feeding you in the process. Sue me.”

Wukong hummed back faintly, not quite a laugh, and for a moment, it seemed like he’d drifted off again. But he cracked one eye open this time, his gaze sluggishly following Macaque as he moved back towards the kitchen, plating something from a pan.

Finally, Wukong made a concerted effort to sit up, groaning as he pushed himself upright. His hair was a tangled halo of orange, his blanket hanging precariously off one shoulder. “What’re you even making?”

“Breakfast,” Macaque said flatly, setting down the spatula. He looked back towards Wukong, who sat dumbfounded on the couch. “Which I’m now seriously considering eating myself, since you’re clearly too out of it to appreciate it.”

Wukong frowned, his face still sleep-soft. “Breakfast?”

“You don’t want it?”

“Yeah, I mean—” Wukong whined quietly under his breath, stretching his arms back, shifting in place. “I don’t know if I can eat w—”

“You’re hungry, aren’t you?” Macaque prompted. His tone was kept steady, not pushy, as he watched him.

The reply returned a beat later. “Yeah.”

“You can’t function all day on an empty stomach.” Macaque eventually said. “Get up, or I’m eating all of this on my own.”

The smell must have gotten the better of whatever was on Wukong’s mind, because he shook his head and moved to crawl off the couch. “Wait, no—’m awake,” he said, though his sluggish movements betrayed him as he rubbed his face. “Jus’—gimme… sec. Where’re my slippers? You hide ‘em?”

Macaque rolled his eyes. “No one hid your slippers, dumbass. Get up before it gets cold.”

Wukong groaned, but he staggered to his feet, blanket still draped over his shoulders like a makeshift cape, and shuffled toward the kitchen. When he reached the counter and caught sight of the plated breakfast, though a tad bit messy, he blinked a few times, his brain struggling to catch up.

“You made this?” he asked, tone soft with genuine surprise that Macaque caught behind the layer of drowsiness. “For me?”

“Who else?” Macaque shrugged.

Wukong sat, and stared at the plate in front of him—the vegetables and tofu were still steaming. For a moment, he simply hovered, the chopsticks poised awkwardly in his hand, as though the act of eating required careful calculation. His eyes flicked up to Macaque, who’d already started on his own plate with a pointed lack of ceremony. It was good.

“Not poisoned, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Macaque quipped once he felt eyes on him.

“I wasn’t—” Wukong started, then paused, before finally picking up a piece of tofu. He lifted it to his mouth with some sort of cautious deliberation, and this time Macaque did watch.

The first bite was small, slow. He chewed with absent focus, his brow furrowing a little as if he were trying to decode flavors. Before he could finish this bite, he was soon reaching for another. By the time he was a few bites in, Wukong was fully immersed, his earlier hesitation gone. The clink of his fork against the plate mingled with Macaque’s own chewing, and for a while, they ate in silence. The morning light was calm, casting long shadows across the kitchen that seemed to stretch with every passing second.

Wukong finally leaned back slightly, chopsticks idly poking at the remnants on his plate. “It’s been a while,” he said, his voice now more awake.

Macaque glanced up, his own chopsticks pausing mid-air. “Since what?”

Wukong’s lips quirked into a half-smile. “Since someone cooked for me,” he admitted. “Usually it’s the other way around. When I wake up at someone else’s place, I mean.”

Macaque hummed as he shoved bell peppers into his mouth, before swallowing. “You’re telling me you always whip up breakfast for random flings? You weren’t kidding when you said that last time?”

Wukong laughed quietly. “Usually,” he said with a small shrug. “But yeah. Can’t help it, I guess. Makes things better in the morning, especially when they appreciate it. Like, hey, thanks for last night—here’s some pancakes or something.”

“Pancakes,” Macaque echoed flatly, but his lips twitched.

“Yeah,” Wukong said, the light in his eyes coming back to life—and in that moment, Macaque was relieved to a degree he couldn’t explain. “I make a mean pancake. But this is new. Someone else cooking for me. After I moved out, I mean.”

Macaque didn’t respond right away, trying to seem interested in the sink, where the pan still sat soaking. “I don’t cook much.”

“Yeah?” Wukong said, leaning forward. “Could’ve fooled me. Food was really good.”

He shrugged, finally picking through the last of his food. “It’s just one of those things you figure out, y’know? You either learn it, or you eat instant noodles for the rest of your life—and trust me, I’ve had enough of those to last ten lifetimes.”

Wukong watched him. “What, no doting people teaching you secret recipes?”

“If I wanted to eat something halfway decent, I had to figure it out myself. I mean, it’s not rocket science. Watch a few cooking shows, steal a few cookbooks, and hope you don’t burn the place down. First time I made rice, I forgot to put water in the pot. Nearly set the kitchen on fire, and got in a whole shitload of trouble.”

Wukong snorted, trying not to laugh with his mouth full. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Macaque deadpanned, although frankly finding the situation funny. “But I got better, Start figuring out what worked, what didn’t. Eventually, I stopped following recipes and just… went with it. It’s not about being fancy—it’s more about making something you can stand to eat at the end of the day.” He looked back at the mess on his own plate. “Still have to work on plating, though.”

Wukong grinned, and it was so clearly genuine that Macaque almost smiled back before he was able to stop himself.

“I’ll wash,” Wukong said as he stood, and Macaque couldn’t do much at that moment but simply nod.

—

The next few days passed in a blur of textbooks, studying at night instead of sleeping, and endless cups of coffee that tasted more like burnt despair than caffeine. Macaque had thrown himself into the deep end of finals with single-minded determination that he wasn’t going to fuck himself up, buried beneath a chaotic sea of notes and flashcards. Despite everything that was going on, there was a quiet reassurance in the way things felt normal again.

By the time finals were over, Macaque’s grades had come back with satisfying results—despite that one short panic over that one biology question, he’d crushed it. Straight A’s, top marks, the kind of performance that made him feel smart as hell. Even if it had cost him his sanity for the past few weeks, he allowed himself a small quiet victory (and even treated himself with a banana milkshake).

Wukong, however, had a different approach to finals.

Macaque could already picture the scenario as he scrolled through his phone, opening yet another series of texts from him.

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: AHHHHHH I THINK I FAILED EVERYTHING 😭😭 but IM ALIVE SOOOO ITS FINEEEE 🤪🤪✨

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: hey do u think theyll still let me pass if i smile REALLY REALLY HARD during the test??? 🙃

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: BRO I THINK I BOMBED MY HISTORY FINAL 💀💀

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: wait wait nvm i got a C+ LETS GOOOO 🙊🙊🙊

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: LMK IF I CANNOT do this anymore. 

Macaque had taken every second to read the messages when they came—it was nice, really, to see those stupid little pictures next to the words. Still chaotic and ridiculously upbeat, here he was. It was dumb to admit that he had missed this… but he had missed this.

So when Macaque, in the middle of his third milkshake treatment, got the final notification from his phone—a simple text from Wukong that read:

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: YO I PASSED

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: LIKE BARELY BUT STILL 🙌🙌🙌

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: it’s a D for physics BUT WE TAKE THOSE WINS 🔥🔥🔥

—he was neither surprised nor impressed, but the smile hurt his cheeks. Barely was still good enough for Wukong.

A few days later, Wukong made his grand, energetic entrance into Macaque’s apartment, effectively scaring the shit out of him while he was staring into his phone while brushing his teeth.

“I passed!” Wukong yelled, throwing the door open like he was storming a battlefield, his phone held aloft like it was the holy grail. He careened inside, nearly tripping over his own shoes as he kicked them off upon entering. “I’m a fucking genius.”

Macaque sighed, proceeding to go and spit his toothpaste in the kitchen sink. “You didn’t have to break up to tell me that—congrats. Should I get you a participation trophy, or do you want a foot massage instead?”

“This is a momentous occasion.” Wukong threw himself dramatically onto the couch, sprawling out on the cushions, his curls bouncing with the movement. “I’m living my best life right now. I’m happy. I’m thriving. I’ve triumphed—I survived finals!”

Macaque rolled his eyes, but let a smile play on his face. “I’m insanely thrilled for you. I don’t think a D in physics qualifies as a triumph. So, no mental breakdowns?”

“I blacked out halfway through my physics exam,” Wukong confessed casually, as if that was a perfectly normal thing to admit after taking a college-level exam. “Don’t kill my vibe—I worked hard for that D, okay? Blood, sweat, and—”

“—last-minute cramming and lots of coffee,” Macaque finished for him.

“Exactly,” Wukong said with a grin, either ignoring the sarcasm or not recognizing it. “And now, I’m here to bask in my victory with my very responsible, very diligent best friend who probably crushed all of his finals because he is a total nerd.”

Macaque found his place next to Wukong on the couch, although keeping a fist-sized distance between them. “If you’re trying to get me to congratulate you for passing by the skin of your teeth, it’s not happening.”

“Aw, c’mon—” Wukong teased, pulling out his phone to scroll through his grades again. “I didn’t even fail physics. That’s growth! I’m, like, basically a scholar now.”

“You’re an idiot.” Macaque shot back.

For a while, the silence was only broken by the different audios coming from Wukong’s phone as he scrolled through, presumably, reels on his phone. About half an hour had passed—as the evening sunlight slanted through the window, Wukong stretched dramatically, letting out a groan of exaggerated exhaustion. “Okay, we’ve been cooped up here long enough. Mac, we have to celebrate. This is non-negotiable.”

Macaque glanced up from the laptop he had grabbed, having been considering asking Wukong if he wanted to watch a movie or something. “Celebrate what? You barely scraping in physics? Or my clearly superior academic performance?”

Wukong stuck out his tongue. “Celebrate finals being over, duh! Who cares about details? We survived another year! And, hey, let’s make it a group thing. What if we bring MK and Mei?”

“MK and Mei?” Macaque echoed—he was closer with MK at work, and Mei he’d talked to those couple times and had forgotten to ask for her number to reach out about that theater thing, but he’d never hung out with them outside of anything else.

“Yeah! They’re an absolute riot when they’re together.” Wukong stole a glance at him from his phone. “Don’t worry, they’re super chill and fun. You’ll love Mei too, she’s great. Knows all the right things to say.”

“Okay, but—”

Wukong had, in that second, already created a group chat—he could see the little green dots on the edge of Mei and MK’s profiles, both of them matching pictures with each of their faces from a single selfie.

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: FINALS ARE DONE LET’S CELEBRATE !!!

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: mei bring that ridiculous neon jacket bc we’re going out 🔥🐉

dragon pony girlll 🐉: YEAAAUHHHHHH

dragon pony girlll 🐉: mk don’t say ur busy bc i will literally show up at your dorm

Macaque sighed. “Do you ever think before you act?”

“Not when it comes to good times, nope.” Wukong replied cheerily, tossing his phone aside. “It’ll be fun. You’ve been holed up studying for so long you’ve probably forgotten what fresh air smells like.”

Macaque snorted. “And you’ve probably forgotten what responsibility feels like.”

“Touché,” Wukong shrugged with a smile. “But I’m still right. Get up, we’re going out. No more arguing.” Macaque raised a brow, and Wukong looked back. “... no clubs. Promise,” Wukong said after a few seconds, voice a volume quieter.

“Yeah, okay,” Macaque sighed in response, and the relief broke across Wukong’s face. Just then, both Macaque and Wukong’s phone lit up with notifications.

mk the monkie boiii 🐒🔥: YEAA im so down!!! finals destroyed me tho.

mk the monkie boiii 🐒🔥: OH HEY MAC is mac coming too???

Macaque: i’m being dragged along against my will, just saying.

dragon pony girlll 🐉: YUHHH AWESOME we’re gonna have sm fun

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: mei are u driving???

dragon pony girlll 🐉: um OBVIOUSLY. i’m not letting mk navigate us anywhere again?

mk the monkie boiii 🐒🔥: that was ONE time. and i was multitasking!!

By the time MK and Mei were flooding the group chat with arguments about who was worse at navigating, Wukong had already rummaged through Macaque’s wardrobe as Macaque watched helplessly from the side. Wukong pulled out random pieces with zero regard for cohesion.

“Dude, where’s your sense of style?” Wukong asked, holding up a plain black hoodie with a critical squint.

“I don’t dress like a traffic light, unlike you,” Macaque replied, snatching the hoodie back and folding it the way it was.

“Boring,” Wukong teased. “Fine. Wear your broody goth thing. We can go look at better stuff at the mall.”

Macaque made a face. “The mall?”

“The mall!” Wukong echoed. “Not gonna lie, Mac—your wardrobe screams ‘mysterious loner’ and not in a cool way.”

“Oh, come on. I’m not here to impress anyone.” Macaque hugged his hoodie to his chest.

“Well, that’s tragic because you have potential,” Wukong declared, yanking Macaque towards the doorway. “C’mon, let’s go shopping.”

“Wait, what? Now?”

“Yup!”

Macaque knew that there was a pretty big mall not too far away from campus—he’d just never really found any reason to go there. Pay was low, and he had never had the extra cash to blow on things like designer clothes or overpriced accessories. His wardrobe was utilitarian at best—plain hoodies, worn jeans, some sweats, a couple of t-shirts he’d had since high school. It wasn’t like he cared much about what he wore anyway.

But Wukong had other plans.

The gentle heat of the late afternoon brushed against his face as he adjusted his scarf. Wukong walked alongside him, dressed in the school varsity jacket and casual jorts, typing furiously on his phone.

“Texting the kids?” Macaque asked dryly.

“Duh.” Wukong flashed a grin, holding up his phone for Macaque to see. The screen was flooded with emojis and chaotic text bubbles—someone had changed the group chat’s theme to Harry Potter at one point, making the bubbles look like stupid little broomsticks.

dragon pony girlll 🐉: im bringing bubble tea for everyone!!! what’s everyone’s order???

mk the monkie boiii 🐒🔥: omg mei youre a SAINT. taro milk tea w/ boba pls!!!

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: whatever has peach in it 🍑 

Wukong looked up from his screen. “What about you?”

Macaque shrugged and texted his answer into the group chat instead of bothering to answer:

Macaque: i don’t care.

dragon pony girlll 🐉: rude, mac. ill get u a matcha latte!!! you seem like a matcha kind of guy yknow???

“Matcha latte,” Wukong mimicked with a laugh. “You’ve been typecast.”

Before Macaque could retort, Mei’s bright green sports car screeched to a stop in front of him, nearly sending a phone flying—heavy techno music blasted from the open windows. MK practically fell out of the passenger seat as Mei waved enthusiastically from the driver’s side.

“Shopping squad assemble!” Mei announced as she hopped out in her neon green jacket as promised, holding up a tray of bubble teas like a trophy.

“Squad?” Macaque repeated, raising a brow.

“Don’t fight it,” MK said, handing him the green cup with the words ‘matcha’ messily scrawled in marker on the surface.

—

The mall was bustling, the chaotic energy less overwhelming than the club from a few nights before and definitely much more manageable for Macaque, who lagged behind as the group plunged into the crowd. Mei took the lead, practically sprinting toward the first store.

“Okay, Mac,” she said, spinning around dramatically. “We’re getting you out of that shadowy cryptkeeper vibe and into something fabulous.”

“I’m fine with what I have,” Macaque protested, but Wukong and Mei were already rifling through racks.

“Absolutely not,” Wukong said, holding up an orange, vibrant patterned shirt. “This says ‘I’m approachable and fun.’”

“I’m not approachable or fun,” Macaque deadpanned.

“Fair,” MK chimed in, sipping his bubble tea as he followed behind.

Mei held up a pair of ripped black jeans with silver chair accents. “Edgy. You could pull this off.”

Wukong shook his head. “Nah, that’s too predictable. Look at this!” He held up a bright purple hoodie with a giant phoenix emblazoned across the front.

Macaque raised an eyebrow. “You’re joking.”

“Why? Purple is totally your color!” Wukong declared, tossing it over his arm.

“Powerfully hideous, more like.” Macaque mumbled.

“Oh, look at this!” Mei held up a sleek black bomber jacket with embroidered cherry blossoms on the sleeves. The blossoms were intricate, each petal in shades of blush and ivory, their delicate veins stitched with silvery thread. The black fabric had a faint sheen, not flashy but just enough to catch the light, and the cuffs and hem were ribbed for a snug fit.

Macaque tilted his head. “Looks… alright.”

“Alright?” Mei gasped, holding the jacket up like it was a sacred artifact. “This is a masterpiece! It’s edgy but refined—rebellious, but classy. It’s basically you in jacket form.”

“I don’t see how embroidered flowers are rebellious,” Macaque folded his arms, but kept his eyes on the jacket.

“They totally are.” Wukong leaned in, grinning with armfuls of clothing. “You’re wearing something soft and beautiful while also saying, ‘Yeah, I dare you to make fun of me.’”

“That’s a stretch.”

“Try it on,” Mei urged, practically shoving the jacket into his arms.

“I don’t think—”

“Try it on,” Mei and Wukong said in unison.

Giving in, Macaque slipped the jacket over his shirt. The lining was smooth and cool against his skin, and the weight of it was just right too. He tugged at the sleeves a little, the cherry blossoms catching his peripheral vision. He turned to the mirror, stared at it a little.

Mei clasped her hands together dramatically. “See? Perfect.”

Wukong, noticing the change in his posture, grinned from a couple feet away. “See? I knew you’d look good. Too bad you didn’t listen to me sooner—now I’m gonna have to keep all the other guys away from you.”

Macaque shot him a look, finally turning away from the mirror. “You’re joking right?”

Wukong hummed, leaning against a nearby rack of clothes. “Joking? I’m serious. I’m gonna have to fight them off with a stick if you wear that around.”

Macaque rolled his eyes, but the jacket was nice. It wasn’t too flashy, but there was something striking about the color contrast, the texture difference, everything—he liked it.

He tugged at his sleeves. “Yeah, well, I didn’t think you’d be the one getting all territorial about it.” The price tag hung out from the collar, and it was turned in a way he couldn’t see the number—Macaque stepped up closer to the mirror and spun it around with his fingers, and then his stomach tightened.

The number was printed right there in bold, clear digits. His eyes widened.

“Wait,” he said, his voice a little too sharp. “How much is this?” He yanked the tag off and glanced over at the counter, a small panic rising in his chest.

Wukong was already approaching, eyes flickering over the price tag with a look of recognition. “Ah, yeah. That one’s a little pricier than the others,” he admitted, his tone casual. “But I think it’s worth it. I mean, Mei wouldn’t have picked it if it wasn’t.”

Macaque blinked, still staring at the price tag like it might suddenly change. “Are you kidding me? This is—” He paused, shaking his head. “This is, like… half my rent, I—”

Before he could finish his sentence, Wukong stepped closer so that he stood right at his shoulder, close enough that his curls bounced against the jacket he wore. His voice softened. “Hey, listen. You deserve it, alright? You’ve been working hard, and… and a lot of shit went down. And besides, you’re gonna look damn good in it. I’ll make sure you get your money’s worth.”

Macaque tried to make it look like he didn’t flinch—he hadn’t expected the sudden closeness, and Wukong stayed there almost like an imprint. His heart skipped a long beat. He ignored it for now.

His hand lingered on the jacket for a moment longer, his fingers brushing the fabric. The truth was still there, and it was clear: it was too much. It wasn’t just a jacket—it was too much.

Wukong’s smile faded as he caught the subtle shift in Macaque’s posture, the way his shoulders sagged a little. He glanced down at the tag again, then back to Macaque.

Macaque was silent, but couldn’t help the small sigh that escaped his lips. He’d been here before—standing on the edge of something he wanted but couldn’t afford. Every month, another bill. Every week, a reminder. The eviction notices that had started piling up in his inbox. He could feel his savings—what little there was—slowly evaporating with every payment. There was no room there for anything unnecessary, no matter how much he really liked this jacket, no matter how good it made him feel in the moment.

“I… I’m gonna have to pass on it,” he said, almost apologetic. “I’ve got other shit to worry about.”

Wukong tilted his head slightly, studying for a second, before his smile faltered, just a little. It was gone in an instant, replaced by a more thoughtful expression, but Macaque could feel it—the shift.

He could hear Mei’s voice from behind him, bright and encouraging. “It’s okay, Mac. You don’t have to get it just because we said so.”

Macaque felt a flush creep on his neck, his gaze darting down to the floor for a second, feeling so seen at that moment. He hated it—he’d always seen people with all the good stuff they could buy with the money they could throw away, spend on themselves, and then there was him.

“Seriously, Mac. It’s just a jacket.” Mei laughed with a simple wave of her hand. “You’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

MK, who had been casually scrolling on his phone, popped some bubble gum into his mouth and looked up with a wide grin. “Yeah, exactly. Clothes don’t solve everything. And if you’re not comfortable with it, that’s cool.” He went back to his phone.

Macaque looked back at the jacket, and then met Wukong’s eyes in the reflection of the mirror—he smiled at Macaque, golden eyes and all. Macaque, after a few seconds of thought, shrugged the jacket off. “Yeah. Maybe some other time.” He meant that.

Mei, who was already back to flipping through another rack of clothes, barely glanced back as she waved her hand dismissively. “Totally, no rush. You know, I think you’d look amazing in a few more colors though. I swear, everytime I see you, you’re living in black and gray.”

“Hey, black’s timeless,” Macaque shot back, putting the jacket back on the rack and glancing over at the rest of the store, letting the easy banter fill the gap. “And don’t you dare put me in something bright. I’m not about to be a walking highlighter.”

Wukong chuckled beside him. “You could be a walking highlighter,” he teased, nudging Macaque with his elbow. “I bet you’d still look good.” His voice dropped just a touch, playful but still stupidly flirting.

Macaque rolled his eyes but found it hard to suppress a grin. “I’ll pass on that.”

They moved from rack to rack, the group slipping easily into that rhythm of comfortable hanging out—half looking for clothes, half just passing time together. MK found a ridiculous shirt with a picture of a dog wearing sunglasses, and Mei insisted Macaque try it on for the sheer chaos on it. The oversized shirt practically swallowed him whole, and he couldn’t help but burst out laughing at how ridiculous he looked.

“Yeah, that’s definitely a look,” Mei said, squinting at him with an exaggerated expression. “Now I just need a pair of cargo shorts and you’re ready for the beach, Mac.”

“Not the beach, Mei,” MK interjected, pointing. “He looks more like a dad at a barbecue.”

“I’m not a dad.”

“Yet,” Wukong added with a wink, and Macaque huffed.

MK snagged a quick photo of Macaque with his phone before breaking into laughter. “Alright, alright—how ‘bout it’s time we wrapped this up? You’re not actually buying that, aren’t you?”

“Definitely not,” Macaque replied, taking off the shirt. “But I might get myself those sunglasses from earlier. They were okay.”

“Ooh, we could all match!” Mei said excitedly. “I saw them in green either!”

“We could,” MK hummed, but kicked against his own heel. “Orrrr, we could definitely also get food first. I’m starving and I haven’t had breakfast.”

“Food sounds good,” Macaque agreed.

“There’s a bunch of food down at the food court, we should go grab something.” Wukong shrugged, hurriedly shoving a jacket onto a rack.

As they made their way down toward the mall’s lobby, the easy conversation and laughter continued. It was about the simple joy of being these people, of having a little bit of time to just be.

MK was buying eyeing booths, while also multitasking as he also argued with Mei over the best topping for fries—Mei insisting that chili cheese fries were the only right way to go, while Mei fought back with a vehement “no way, just classic cheese!”

As they stood in front of the different stands, Wukong taking a lot of extra time studying the menu of burgers and fries, Mei suddenly turned to Macaque.

“So,” she grinned, “have you thought about it?”

Macaque squinted, trying to remember exactly what she was referring to—and then it clicked. “Oh. The immersive theater thing?”

“Yes!” Mei practically bounced. “You remembered! Thought it could be right up your alley, y’know? I mean, you don’t always have to take on everything at once, but I really think this could push you to do something awesome.”

He hummed before he glanced at Wukong, who was looking up at the brightly colored menu, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Is Wukong doing this theater thing too?”

Mei shot him a teasing look. “Oh, what, are you planning on dragging him into it?” she grinned.

Macaque immediately rolled his eyes and brushed the back of his hand against the side of his head, checking the number of his ears while disguising it as brushing hair. “No,” he muttered. “I just… thought it might be something he’d get into. He does animation, so…”

“Uh-huh. So you don’t want him involved, then?” she pressed, grinning ear to ear.

Macaque gave her a sideways glance, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s not like that,” he insisted, “I’m just asking.”

“Sure, sure.” She hummed with a satisfied smile. “You know, Wukong would totally love to be a part of something like this. I could ask, if you want me to.”

“I mean, that’s up to you.” Macaque said. “... alright, fine. I’ll do it.”

Mei’s grin widened immediately, her eyes lighting almost a green color that he’d failed to see before. “Yes! I knew you’d come around.”

As she started pulling out her phone to send him the details, Wukong suddenly spoke up, looking around the food court. “Hey, where’d MK go?”

Macaque glanced around, realizing the younger guy had slipped away without them noticing. “Huh. No idea. He was just here a second ago.”

Mei shrugged, seeming a little too casual. “Meh. He must have wandered off again. He’s always disappearing when you least expect it.”

They wandered through the tables, around the boots, checking the area, and still no sign of MK. Finally, Macaque’s eyes landed on a suspiciously out-of-place movement behind a large potted plant by the Chinese food corner. He nudged Wukong, then pointed.

“Is that… MK?”

Wukong squinted, then did a double take as he spotted MK crouched low, peeking out from behind the plant with exaggerated caution, fingers pushing two giant leaves aside, like a kid trying to avoid being caught sneaking into the cookie jar.

Mei nearly squealed. “Oh, em, gee—he’s totally checking somebody out.”

Macaque and Wukong turned to look at what had caught MK’s attention. Standing behind a booth for a spicy noodle restaurant was a boy with striking red hair, tied into a messy high ponytail. His frown was etched deep onto his face as he argued with a customer standing on the other side of the counter. There were small, subtle horns protruding from the crown of his head, blending effortlessly with the wild red hair—a demon, Macaque noted.

MK seemed oddly transfixed by the way he was exchanging yells with an angry customer, poking his head out from behind the plant only to quickly duck back in whenever the red-haired boy glanced around. It was like watching a game of hide-and-seek—only MK seemed to be losing miserably.

“This is not spicy enough,” the customer was saying, fanning his mouth dramatically. “I’ve had spicier noodles from a fast food joint, man! You call this spicy, kid?”

The red-haired boy scowled, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the counter, the faint glint of his horns peeking out through his hair. “If you can’t handle the heat, don’t come to a spicy noodle booth,” he shot back, his tone dry and unamused.

The customer scoffed, taking a dramatic gulp of water. “It’s not spicy at all! You must’ve watered it down.”

The red-haired boy’s expression grew sourer. “For your information, peasant, I didn’t water it down. Maybe your taste buds are just… weak.” He grabbed the bowl back, looking the noodles over as if inspecting them for some hidden defect. “You want spice? Fine. But you’re paying for the extra heat,” he added, a smug grin creeping onto his face.

The customer seemed to hesitate before muttering his breath. “Fine. Make it extra hot, then.”

With a sigh of apparent annoyance, the red-haired boy grabbed a jar of chili paste from the counter and dropped a hefty spoonful into the bowl. “Here you go, valued customer—extra hot. Next time you come around, don’t waste my time,” he said, pushing it back across the counter toward the customer.

Macaque chuckled. “I’d say he’s got a bit of an attitude.”

Wukong, still more interested in watching MK duck behind the potted plant. “Yeah, but at least he’s spicy in more ways than one.”

“Do you want to go and embarrass him?”

Mei gave them both a mischievous grin. “Oh, definitely.”

The group made their way over, and as they approached, MK’s eyes widened. He quickly stood up, turning to face them with the most exaggerated innocent expression he could muster, almost knocking over the potted plant in the process.

“I-I wasn’t—! I wasn’t doing anything!” MK sputtered, hands flailing in the air.

Mei raised a brow. “Sure, MK. Just chilling behind a plant like a professional stalker.”

Wukong leaned in with a whisper made intentionally loud. “Did you know spicy food can be pretty… hot? I think you’re more interested in the chef, huh?”

MK’s face turned scarlet. “No! I-I just… he’s—uh, the noodles! I was just—”

Macaque, amused but also slightly concerned for MK’s dignity, stepped in to help. “MK, you know it’s okay if you want to look. It’s just noodles.”

MK groaned, rubbing his cheeks. “It’s not that! It’s just—you guys!” His face was turning even redder, and he looked like he might sink into the floor and disappear.

“Alright, alright,” Mei grinned, waving her hand dismissively. “We’re just messing with you. Besides, it’s just food, right? Go get your noodles and maybe—maybe even make your move.”

Wukong grinned. “Yeah, go ahead. Show him what spicy means, huh?”

MK buried his face in his hands with a low whine. “I’m going to die.”

At that moment, the red-haired boy glanced up again, his eyes meeting MK’s for just a second before MK quickly ducked behind the potted plant again. The boy gave a small, almost amused smirk before turning back to his work, unaffected by the weird kid popping in and out from behind fake greenery. 

“See?” Wukong said with a satisfied grin. “He noticed you! Look at you, making an impression already.”

MK peeked out from behind the plant, cheeks still flaming with an admittedly adorable little pout. “I hate all of you.”

Mei giggled. “We love you too, MK.”

“Alright, MK.” Macaque gently pushed MK back toward the plant. “We’ll let you pine in peace for a while.” He gave a playful shove to Wukong’s shoulder, who was still grinning at MK.

“C’mon, MK, don’t keep him waiting too long!” Wukong teased, to which MK proceeded to kick at air. They began making their way to a nearby table, and Macaque watched with a chuckle as he tossed a casual glance back at MK, who was now staring in the direction of the red-haired boy with an awed expression.

He was totally gonna bring this up at work—revenge, basically.

They found a table where it would be easy to keep an eye out on MK and the red-haired kid at the noodle booth. They piled their trays of food onto the surface—Mei sat across from Macaque, digging into her burger and cheese fries with gusto, while Wukong plopped down next to him, eyes on his phone.

Macaque focused on his food (and Mei’s rants about how good the burgers were), but his attention kept drifting back to Wukong, who had settled in next to him, still hunched over his phone. He’d been typing for a while now, his expression changing from relaxed to something else. His brows furrowed, his thumb moving quickly across the screen as if he were deleting and retyping messages in a hurry. He’d been fine just now—why the sudden change?

Wukong hadn’t touched his food yet, so Macaque grabbed his attention by stealing one of his fries. Wukong’s eyes flickered up to him. “Thief.”

“Everything good?” Macaque asked quietly.

“Yeah, just… some old friend that reached out. Texting ‘em.” Wukong said, the words coming out much easier than Wukong thought they would. “Nothing to worry about.”

Macaque didn’t press and instead chose to poke at his burgers. He stole a quick glance at Wukong’s phone, noticing the glow of the screen as Wukong pushed it out of sight. He saw a chat window with a string of short, clipped messages, and though he couldn’t make out details, it seemed a little one-sided.

“God, you’re so nosy—” Wukong teased. “Let’s just eat, alright? Veggie burger. Yum.”

Macaque made a face—he’d shove the issue aside. For now. “Not a veggie burger.”

“Yes, a veggie burger. It’s got quinoa. Fancy, right?”

“Oh yeah, quinoa. Real fancy.”

“Okay, fine.” Wukong rolled his eyes dramatically. “You can’t handle the sophistication of it, but that’s on you. You’re just jealous of my healthy lifestyle.”

“Healthy lifestyle?” Macaque smirked. “Then I’m the Dalai Lama.”

Mei threw in her own jab. “If Mac’s the Dalai Lama, then I’m the Queen of England. Clearly.”

“Aw, yeah! Now that’s a title I can get behind,” MK chimed in, still a little red from earlier but his eyes lighting up. “Mei for Queen!”

“Yeah, boyyy!” Mei exclaimed, “I guess I’ll just have to rule the world from this burger joint.” She picked up her fries and waved them around like a royal scepter.

Macaque rolled his eyes. “No one’s ruling, anything—definitely not this veggie burger.”

Wukong proceeded to stick his tongue out at him again, and Mei decided to make fun of the situation by imitating him and sticking her tongue out at Macaque as well. He frowned at both of them before picking at his own fries again.

Wukong ate about half of his veggie burger, seeming happy for the most part, but then his eyes flicked back to his phone, that playful glint disappearing for just a moment. It was subtle, but Macaque noticed it—he would have missed it if he hadn’t been watching.

“So,” Macaque began, taking a long sip from his drink, “this old friend? Someone I know?”

Wukong quickly snapped his phone face down on the table, sliding the screen away. He leaned back, spreading his arms out like he had no care in the world.

“Just someone from back in the day. Nothing too exciting,” Wukong said breezily.

Macaque couldn’t help but stare for a moment—but after a beat, he sighed, deciding to let it go for now. “You’re not gonna tell me, are you?”

“Not a chance,” Wukong winked. “Not when you’re so busy judging my fancy veggie burger.”

Macaque shook his head. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. But if there’s something—”

“I know, I know,” Wukong cut him off, waving a dismissive hand at his face, completely shoving his phone in his pocket this time. “I’ll let you know. Promise.”

Macaque hummed—he took the last gulp from his banana milkshake. “So,” he started, changing the subject. “You up for the arcade?”

“No way, Macaque actually wants to hang out with me?” Wukong said with exaggerated flattery, and Macaque had to keep himself from pinching the guy. “I’m always down for some competition.” In a snap, he was back to his cocky self.

Mei raised an eyebrow, her smile widening. “Competition, huh? Is that a challenge I hear? I’m so in.”

MK slammed his phone down his lap, looking over at Mei with a grin. “Are we seriously not going to the arcade now? You’ve got me hooked.”

“Of course we are!” Mei said, scarfing down the rest of her food. “And while we’re there, I’ll let you two see me absolutely crush MK at Monkey Mech. Don’t worry, it won’t take long.”

“Hey, I totally beat you last time! I have my name on the high score to prove it!”

As the group finished up their meal and tossed out the wrappers, they made their way toward the exit. Mei was already talking a mile a minute about how she was going to win every prize and her dad’s famous pinball machine (which is basically how she practiced at home), MK following closely behind with a grin plastered on his face. Macaque and Wukong brought up the rear, Wukong still checking his phone for messages, though he’d fallen back into his usual playful mood by the time they got to the mall doors.

“Let’s see if your thumbs run as good as your mouth, Wukong,” Macaque teased, nudging him as they left the food court.

Wukong shot him a sideways grin. “Oho, Mac. You’ll regret the day you ever doubted me.”

Somewhere in his pocket, his phone buzzed—Wukong, this time, chose to ignore it.

Chapter Text

The arcade fun stretched on for hours, with Mei predictably dominating the pinball machines and MK making a valiant (but ultimately doomed) attempt to beat her high score. By the time the group spilled out into the cool night air, their arms were loaded with small prizes and their laughter echoed in the empty parking lot.

“Alright, losers, I’ll be taking my leave,” Mei announced, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Dad’s gonna flip when he sees all the stuff I won. Later, nerds!”

MK waved after her before turning to Wukong and Macaque. “You guys heading home?”

“Maybe,” Wukong said, stretching his arms behind his head. “This guy’s been dragging me around all day. I need to crash.”

“Me dragging you around?” Macaque shot back in disbelief.

MK just laughed, waving them off as he headed in the opposite direction. “You two fight it out. I’m off!”

Wukong leaned back against his car, hands shoved into his pockets as he watched them go. “Well, that was fun,” he said, a grin tugging at his lips. “You can’t say I don’t know how to celebrate.”

“Oh, yeah, the neon lights and sticky floors really scream ‘celebration,’” Macaque deadpanned, opening the passenger door of Wukong’s car and slipping in.

“Hey, you didn’t seem to mind when you beat Mei at air hockey.” Wukong smirked, sliding into the driver’s seat.

“Fair,” Macaque admitted with a shrug. “But we’ve done your idea of fun. Now it’s my turn.”

Wukong raised an eyebrow as he started the car, the engine rumbling to life. “Oh, really? And what’s your grand plan?”

“You’ll see,” Macaque said, his grin widening as he reclined in the passenger seat.

Wukong narrowed his eyes suspiciously but didn’t press further, pulling out of the parking lot and onto the main road. Macaque gave him directions—mostly vague ones—and after a few twists and turns through the city, they ended up in the drive-thru of a fast-food joint.

“A drive-thru?” Wukong asked incredulously, glancing at the glowing menu.

“Don’t act like you’re above a greasy burger,” Macaque said, leaning out the window to place their order.

“Fine, but I’m getting fries,” Wukong grumbled. “And they better have vegan options, or I’m turning this car around.”

Once they had their food, Wukong followed Macaque’s directions again, winding through quieter streets until they began ascending a narrow road. It took him Wukong a few seconds and some squinting, but his eyes lit up with some sort of recognition.

“Twin Peaks?” 

“Figured you could use a change of pace,” Macaque said with a shrug.

The car rounded the final bend and came to a stop in a small clearing overlooking the city below. The view was breathtaking—twinkling lights stretching into the horizon, framed by the fading streaks of twilight. The car coasted to a gentle stop at the overlook, headlights cutting out to leave them bathed in the soft, shifting hues of this hour. Macaque stepped out first, the rustling of drive-thru bags tucked under his arm as he scanned the horizon.

The sky was caught in a delicate limbo between day and night. Streaks of fiery orange and deep plum blended seamlessly into the encroaching indigo, and just above the skyline, the first stars had begun to blink into existence. Below them, the city sprawled out like a glittering mosaic, its lights winking and shimmering like spilled jewels. Cars moved like fireflies along snaking highways, their headlights blurring into ribbons of light. Somewhere in the distance, the Bay’s dark surface reflected the last hints of the sun’s glow.

Macaque breathed.

He stood there for a moment, taking it in, before setting the bags on the hood of the car and glancing over at Wukong, who was still lingering by the passenger door. “Well?” Macaque asked, gesturing grandly toward the view. “Worth it, or what?”

Wukong wandered up beside him, his sharp eyes reflecting the light of the city below. For once, he didn’t have a quip ready; he just leaned against the car with a soft huff, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips. “Alright,” he conceded. “I’ll admit, it’s not bad.”

“Not bad?” Macaque echoed, sitting on the hood and pulling out their food. “Please. This is top-tier stuff. You don’t get sunsets like this everywhere.”

Wukong shrugged, smirking. “I don’t know, Mac. Seen better.”

“Liar.”

Wukong grabbed his burger and hopped onto the hood beside him. For a while, they ate in silence, the world around them settling into its evening rhythm. The hum of distant traffic rose faintly from the streets below, blending with the soft chirp of crickets and the rustling of leaves in the breeze.

Macaque’s attention drifted back to the sky. The stars had grown brighter now, scattered across the heavens like shards of glass. A crescent moon hung low, pale and watchful, as though caught between the glowing embers of sunset and the deep shadows of the night. It reminded him of a stage—the way the light shifted and danced, soft and dramatic all at once.

Macaque glanced sideways at Wukong, who sat beside him with a fry dangling precariously from his lips, completely at ease in the growing darkness. The amber light caught on his profile, and for a moment, Macaque let himself stay rooted to the scene—Wukong against the backdrop of a world slowly shifting from day to night, as if caught between two states of being.

“You’re quiet,” Wukong remarked, breaking the stillness.

Macaque shook himself out of his thoughts and turned his attention back to the skyline. “Just enjoying the view. Some of us know how to appreciate the finer things.”

Wukong snorted, his phone buzzing faintly where it lay on the hood between them. The sound broke the spell, and Macaque’s gaze dropped to it instinctively. The screen lit up briefly, an unreadable name flashing before fading into darkness again.

“You’re just gonna let that keep going, huh?” Macaque asked, his voice light but edged with curiosity.

Wukong shrugged, not meeting his gaze. “Not exactly in the mood to deal with it.”

He hummed in response. “So,” he started casually, gesturing toward the phone. “You gonna tell me what’s up, or do I have to guess?”

Wukong sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Alright, fine. It’s just my ex.” His fingers drummed against the hood.

“An ex?” Macaque raised an eyebrow, briefly recalling what Mei mentioned months ago about it. “Didn’t know you did relationships.”

Wukong huffed a laugh, leaning back on his elbows. “Yeah, well, I usually don’t. This one was different. I mean, it started with a hookup, but it lasted a while. Only real relationship I’ve ever been in, if you can call it that.”

Macaque waited, letting the words settle. When Wukong didn’t continue, he asked carefully, “Did it end bad?”

“Let’s just say it didn’t end good.” Wukong’s tone was light, but there was a shadow behind his words. He rubbed the back of his neck, his usual cocky demeanor faltering for just a moment. 

Macaque tilted his head, studying him. “Did you end things, or did they?”

Wukong hesitated, then gave a humorless laugh. “They did. Pretty messy, too.”

They lapsed into silence again, the air between them heavy but not uncomfortable. After a while, Wukong broke it with a question of his own.

“What about you? You ever been in a relationship?”

Macaque shrugged, pulling his gaze from the skyline. “Once or twice. Nothing serious.”

“Once or twice?” Wukong teased, leaning closer. “C’mon, Mac, you gotta give me more than that.”

Macaque rolled his eyes. “Fine. First one was in high school. It was fine, I guess. The second one…” He trailed off, scratching the back of his head. “That’s when I figured out I’m not really into girls.”

Wukong raised an eyebrow, his interest obvious. “Oh? So, what are you into?”

Macaque shot him a look, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Okay, so what I’m hearing is, I’ve got a shot.”

Macaque rolled his eyes but felt the heat creeping up his neck anyway. “Yeah, no. I’m saying that’s when I figured out what I don’t like.”

“Doesn’t sound like a no,” Wukong teased, leaning closer with an exaggerated waggle of his eyebrows.

Macaque shifted slightly, trying to keep his tone even, though he could feel the heat in his neck again. “You think you’ve got a chance?”

Wukong’s grin widened, eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh, I know I’ve got a chance. I mean, come on, look at me.” He leaned in a bit, clearly relishing the way Macaque was reacting.

Macaque caught himself for a second, trying to figure out how to respond without giving too much away. But the way Wukong was looking at him—too confident, too sure of himself—he couldn’t help the flicker of something in his chest. “You’re awfully persistent,” he muttered, glancing away.

“Persistent gets results,” Wukong replied, his tone teasing but with a little more warmth underneath. “Trust me, I know how to get what I want.”

Macaque let out a small breath, feeling his pulse quicken. He was trying to keep the edge, trying to resist the pull of Wukong’s confidence, but something about the way the other leaned into the conversation, so sure of himself… it was hard to ignore.

“Guess we’ll see about that,” Macaque eventually said.

Wukong tilted his head, his grin turning just a bit softer, eyes narrowing in that way that made Macaque’s chest tighten. “You’re a challenge, y’know that? I’m into it.”

Macaque swallowed, finding it harder to keep his composure as the moments passed. “You know, you might be a little too confident for your own good.”

“Too confident?” Wukong echoed. “Maybe. But I’m pretty sure you like it.”

Macaque froze for a moment, his heart skipping a beat. He turned quickly, catching Wukong’s eye, searching for something in the other’s face. But all he found was that damn smile.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing here,” Macaque said, voice softer now, almost hesitant, “but you’re playing a dangerous game.”

Wukong raised an eyebrow, his grin never faltering. “Dangerous? Nah, I think I’m pretty good at this game.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “But hey, if you’re warning me, I’ll take it into consideration.”

Macaque gave him a sidelong glance, a small, knowing smirk tugging at his lips. “Just saying, you might not want to get too close. Things tend to end up sucking a lot.”

Wukong chuckled lightly, leaning back against the windshield with a playful shrug. “I’ve got a good head on my shoulders. I can handle it.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Macaque replied, his tone light but with an underlying firmness, like a challenge. He let his gaze drift back to the city below, his arms crossed. “People get too close, and they always end up disappointed.”

“I’m not everyone, Mac—I’ll take my chances,” Wukong replied, his voice teasing but lighthearted. “Besides, I’m not one to back down from a challenge.”

Macaque glanced at him, just the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re really gonna learn the hard way, huh?”

Wukong shrugged, undeterred. “Guess we’ll find out.”

They fell quiet again, watching as the last streaks of light faded into the dark. The city below glittered like a million tiny stars, and for a moment, the weight of the conversation seemed to dissipate.

“You ever think about how weird it is?” Wukong asked suddenly.

“How weird what is?”

“This,” he said, gesturing to the view. “All those people down there, living their lives. We’re up here, completely separate, like none of it matters.”

Macaque tilted his head, letting Wukong’s question settle in the air. He glanced at the view again, the city sprawling endlessly below them. “I don’t know. Maybe. Feels like everything matters and doesn’t at the same time, y’know?”

“That’s not an answer,” Wukong said, though his voice was more curious than pushy.

Macaque shrugged. “Alright, fine. Yeah, sometimes it feels weird. Like… we’re looking down at something huge, and we’re so far removed, we might as well be on another planet.”

Wukong nodded slowly. “Exactly. Like we’re here—on the outside—but they’re all there, living their little lives. Paying bills, making dinner. Falling in love.” He paused, his gaze distant. “I don’t know… it’s hard to explain. Like we’re part of it and not part of it at the same time.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Macaque said after a beat. “But I don’t think that makes it meaningless. It’s like…” He gestured vaguely toward the skyline. “Just ‘cause we’re watching from a distance doesn’t mean we’re not connected. They’re down there, doing their thing, but we’re doing ours. Different lives, same world.”

“… what do you think makes it all matter? Like, if none of this is permanent, why does it matter at all?”

Macaque hesitated, his fingers drumming against his leg. “Maybe it’s not about permanence. Maybe it’s the small stuff—like this.” He gestured to the rooftop around them. “Just sitting here, talking. Watching the stars.” He paused, then snorted. “Or whatever you want to call this mess of city lights.”

They fell quiet again, the hum of the city below filling the silence.

Wukong broke it after a while, his voice softer. “You think we’ll be remembered?”

Macaque raised an eyebrow. “What, like legends or something?”

“Yeah,” Wukong said, his tone light but with an edge of sincerity. “Do you think any of this—us—will last? Will matter?”

Macaque exhaled, leaning forward again. “I think it matters to the people we care about. And maybe that’s enough.”

Wukong glanced at him, back, and then back at him. And then towards the night. “Maybe you’re right.”

Wukong fell silent after that, uncharacteristically still. His gaze stayed fixed on the city lights, but his foot tapped lightly against the car’s hood, the only sign of his restlessness. Finally, he shifted, rubbing the back of his neck like he was gearing up for something.

“Hey, Mac,” Wukong said, his voice quieter than usual, hesitant in a way Macaque wasn’t used to.

Macaque turned his head slightly, brow furrowing at the tone. “What?”

Wukong glanced at him, then away again, drumming his fingers against his knee. “Can I—uh—can I touch your hand?”

Macaque blinked. “Why?”

Wukong shrugged, feigning casualness but still not meeting Macaque’s gaze. “Dunno. Just feels like… something I want to try. Call it a whim.”

“A whim,” Macaque repeated dryly, though the way his tail flicked behind him gave him away. He narrowed his eyes, studying Wukong like he was trying to figure out his angle. “You’re weird, you know that?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Wukong said, finally meeting his eyes with a crooked grin. “But you didn’t say no.”

Macaque huffed but didn’t pull away as Wukong slowly reached out. The first touch was tentative, Wukong’s fingers brushing lightly against his. Macaque swallowed, resisting the urge to jerk his hand back. It felt... odd. Not bad, just unfamiliar, like he wasn’t sure what to do with the sudden warmth spreading through him.

Wukong’s touch grew bolder as his fingers traced along Macaque’s, lingering at the knuckles before gliding to the back of his hand. The contact was gentle, unhurried, as if Wukong was memorizing every curve and line.

“You’re really leaning into this whim thing,” Macaque muttered, his voice a little too tight to sound indifferent.

Wukong huffed as a laugh but didn’t respond. His fingers were so deliberate, so calm, and it made Macaque’s chest feel too tight. He should have pulled back. He wanted to pull back.

But he didn’t.

When Wukong’s fingers finally curled fully around his hand, holding it in a way that was firm but unassuming, Macaque froze. For a moment, all he could do was stare at their hands—his hand—wrapped up in Wukong’s. It didn’t feel real.

“Relax, Mac,” Wukong said softly, his voice carrying none of its usual teasing. “It’s just me.”

“That’s the problem,” Macaque muttered, though his words lacked bite—but a part of him, maybe, meant it. His hand had stopped resisting, his fingers gradually threading with Wukong’s. He could feel Wukong’s pulse against his, a quiet rhythm that matched the faint hum of the city below. The city lights had a show in front of them, but Macaque’s attention was stuck on the way Wukong’s fingers curled around his, their hands fitting together almost too easily.

It scared him, just a little.

After a while, Wukong broke the silence, his voice barely above a murmur. “You’re not letting go.”

Macaque’s breath hitched, his gaze snapping to their hands. He tensed again but didn’t pull away. “Shut up,” he muttered, turning his face sharply back to the skyline. His ears were burning now, no question about it.

Wukong chuckled, low and soft. “Okay. Shutting up.”

Macaque kept his eyes fixed on the skyline, though he wasn’t really looking at anything. His mind was too full—too focused on the warmth of Wukong’s hand against his, the way their fingers stayed intertwined despite every instinct telling him he should pull back.

He hated how steady it felt, how grounding.

The city lights flickered on the horizon, tiny and fleeting, like they were winking out one by one. Macaque couldn’t help but wonder if that’s how they’d end up, too—small, forgotten, swallowed up by time. It felt inevitable. Everything was temporary. Everything faded.

But the hand holding his felt steady, like it wasn’t going anywhere.

Wukong shifted slightly beside him, breaking the silence. “You know,” he began, voice soft, almost hesitant. “I hope this means something.”

Macaque froze, his breath hitching just enough to betray him. He could feel Wukong glance at him, waiting, but he didn’t turn. The words hung there, unanswered, too big and too heavy to touch.

Instead of responding, Macaque’s fingers tightened, just barely, around Wukong’s. It was subtle, the kind of gesture he hoped wouldn’t give too much away. But Wukong didn’t push, didn’t press.

He just smiled.

They sat there for a while longer, neither moving, both of them content in the simple connection. The world around them continued on, unnoticed and unimportant.

Macaque didn’t pull away. Wukong didn’t let go.

And in that moment, this was more than real—more than it needed to be.

Chapter Text

The house feels smaller when she’s angry. Like the walls are leaning in, waiting for her to speak. Sometimes Macaque wonders why it was so hard to breathe.

She appears in the doorway, her eyes taking in the broken porcelain on the ground, and then his own dripping, soapy fingers. 

“You’re still here,” she mutters, her voice low and flat, as though she can’t decide whether he’s a nuisance or an afterthought. “That was my favorite china.”

He doesn’t respond.

She crosses the room slowly, like she has all the time in Macaque’s world. Her eyes stay on the shards of glass, and then she looks at him.

“Stupid boy. You know, if I didn’t have to keep you around,” she says, “I’d have tossed you out a long time ago. But the government doesn’t just give you money for nothing, does it?”

He suddenly feels sick at the mention of the money—the checks that come every month, that were meant for him, but always are meant for her. Her and her husband, who always drinks too much and comes back with alcohol clinging to his clip-on tie. And the baby that cries too loudly in the nursery.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says this time. His own voice is hard to hear, but the words are the first things he’s said since the glass shattered, and he’s hoping that it’s enough to set things right.

She doesn’t respond right away. “Don’t pretend like you didn’t know this would happen,” she says, her eyes never leaving the pieces of china scattered across the floor. “You always do this. Always mess things up and think it’s someone else’s fault. You think this is my fault too, don’t you?”

Macaque feels like he’s been slapped.

“But I didn’t mean to.” His voice shakes this time, because he’s pleading. He doesn’t know why he said it.

“Of course you didn’t.” She shakes her head. “But that never makes it better. Doesn’t matter how many times you say sorry. You just keep doing it.”

Macaque wants to throw up. He wants to get down on the ground and scoop the porcelain into his hands. He wants to cry with something he can’t understand. He wants to be quiet, to not be the reason everything goes wrong.

“I didn’t mean to,” he tries again, but this is the last time and he swears to himself. “I swear, I didn’t mean to.”

She stops in front of him. Her lips are in that tight line he never likes, and he wishes there was some sort of emotion in her eyes that he could decipher. The bruise on her cheek, still dark purple and blotchy with the messy foundation, pulses like it’s alive. He doesn’t dare look at it.

“Yeah, well, you didn’t mean to ruin everything either, did you?” she says, and her tone is dangerous. His hands, still wet from soap and water, pinch his own knees to remind himself that he’s the problem here.

He opens his mouth to say something, but is interrupted by the sound of the door slamming shut down the hall. Her eyes flicker toward the sound, and then back to him. Macaque knows what this means.

She sighs, a long, drawn-out exhale that makes Macaque want to shrink. He watches her long, skinny arms fold across her chest like she’s trying to hug herself.

“You’re lucky he’s home,” she mutters, more to herself than to Macaque. But he hears it. He feels it.

She lowers her voice and crouches down so that she’s eye level with him. Her eyes narrow, and for a second, he wonders if she’s searching for something in there. Something weak, maybe. Something wrong.

“You know, if it weren’t for the paycheck,” she hisses, “I wouldn’t even have to put up with your little ass. You’re nothing but a problem. Always in the way. Just like him.”

For a moment, Macaque isn’t sure if he’s breathing at all. He’s never learned how to respond when someone says things like that. He can’t even bring himself to look at her, so he watches the shards of porcelain in the dim light.

She stands up, abruptly, her hands hugging her sides as she glances over her shoulder toward the hall. The baby’s crying louder through the baby monitor, and the sound of her husband’s muffled voice is growing louder.

“I can’t deal with you and him at the same time,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m not going to clean up after both of you. So, just stay out of the way until he passes out. You don’t want to be near him when he gets like this.”

Macaque doesn’t fully understand what she means, but he knows enough to be afraid. He’s seen the way the man is when he comes home, what he does to her. The way she scrubs so hard to erase the marks on her arms but they never really seem to go away. Sometimes Macaque wonders if he’ll find the same marks on his own arms too, one day.

“I didn’t mean to break it,” he says again, breaking his own promise. This time it feels like the words are slipping through his fingers.

“I don’t care,” she snaps. “Don’t make excuses. Just… stay out of my goddamn way.”

With that, she turns on her heel and walks out of the room, leaving him standing there with the baby monitor too loud in his ear and the broken china poking him in his bare feet. He thinks he might be bleeding. There’s the clinks of multiple beer bottles from down the hall, and someone yells. Macaque stands there long enough he hears a scream.

And he wonders, for just a second, if this is what home is supposed to feel like.

The thought is fleeting, and he takes a breath to slowly gather the shards of glass at his feet, trying to make the pieces fit together again. He has to, somehow. He doesn’t know what to do with this feeling, but he doesn’t know how to deal with it when the world keeps telling him to keep out of the way. He could apologize for breaking things a thousand times, but it can’t make a difference.

He’s tired. He’s always tired.

He takes a breath, collects the last few pieces of the shattered plate, and quietly begins to clean the mess—it’s all he knows how to do.

—

Macaque sat at his kitchen table, staring at the scattered bills in front of him. The papers were old, frayed at the edges, and the ink had started to fade from the constant handling. He rubbed his forehead, trying to push past the headache creeping in since the rent reminder had arrived this morning. His stomach growled, but he had to remind himself he wasn’t hungry.

The rent was overdue by two months. He hadn’t been able to pay utilities for the past month either. The fridge was nearly empty, only a few wilted vegetables and an old bottle of soy sauce sitting next to a carton of milk that had probably turned into cheese by now. He’d tried to stretch what little he had, but it was getting harder each week. 

His fingers brushed against the small wad of crumpled bills in his pocket, then he pulled them out and laid them on the table in front of him. The few crumpled twenties and scattered coins didn’t even add up to half of what he owed. Rent alone was three times this amount—there was no way in hell he was going to make this work. Not like this.

“Damn it,” he muttered, dragging his fingers through his hair. How had he let it get this bad?

His phone buzzed on the table, snapping him out of the spiral. He glanced down to see Wukong’s name flash on the screen, followed by a message:

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: HEY u wanna grab dinner??? my treat ✨🙈

Fuck. He should’ve known. Macaque stared at the message, thumb hovering over the screen. It was tempting. More than tempting. Wukong always made it sound so easy—go out, eat something decent, get out of this miserable apartment for a while. Maybe even forget about the shit storm that was his life, just for a minute, if it meant stepping out of the building for some good food, for anything other than the stench of misery—for Wukong.

But it wasn’t just him, nor just the food—the price mattered. Wukong threw him things without abandon, and it was just the way he was, carefree and generous that made Macaque feel a jumbled, fucked-up mess of grateful and uncomfortable in his skin. It wasn’t anything he could return or reciprocate, and he knew this. He wasn’t in that position to owe anyone anything right now.

And then there was the fact that his hand had still been in Wukong’s that one night before—god, what was that? He hadn’t heard from Wukong in a couple of days, not since that night, when they’d been sitting together, hands brushing lightly like a scene from some sort of stupid highschool romance story.

I hope this means something.

Macaque’s heart had stalled in his chest then, frozen for a second, a wave of something—panic maybe—sweeping through him. It didn’t mean anything. He didn’t want it to mean anything.

But now this. Wukong, as carefree as ever, asking if he wanted to go grab dinner. Just like that. No strings, no pressure, just a casual invite that Macaque couldn’t even begin to untangle from everything else. Every offer, every meal Wukong bought him, every time he said something so... easy, it felt like a weight was being piled on him. He didn’t know how to say no without feeling like he was losing something, but he didn’t know how to say yes either without feeling like he was losing himself.

He stared at the phone, his thumb hovering over the screen, thoughts running in circles, but none of them making sense. Wukong was always so generous with no expectations—maybe that was the problem. He had nothing to give back, nothing that mattered, nothing that could ever make things right.

Macaque’s fingers clenched around the phone. It was tempting—more than tempting. A break from all of this, from the suffocating weight of his apartment, from the bills, from everything. Just one night to forget, to not think about how messed up everything was. To let go for a second. But then—no. He couldn’t.

It was the touch, too. Wukong’s hand in his. That moment. It hadn’t meant anything, and yet it had meant everything. His pulse had sped up, the breath caught in his chest. He wanted to pull away, but his fingers had stayed. A stupid, stupid thing. How could he even begin to untangle that from everything else?

God, I’m an idiot.

It wasn’t that Macaque didn’t want him to. There were moments—too many lately—where he found himself craving the sound of Wukong’s voice, the easy weight of his presence beside him. Moments where he’d catch himself glancing at Wukong and feeling something he couldn’t quite name, something warm and terrifying all at once. And that was the problem.

Wukong was getting too close.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut.

Macaque’s breath hitched as the thought hit him fully, like a stone dropping into the pit of his stomach. Wukong wasn’t supposed to get close. He wasn’t supposed to lean in with that stupid grin and those half-lidded eyes, wasn’t supposed to touch him like he meant it, like he actually saw him. Because if he did…

Macaque closed his eyes and pressed his forehead into his hands, the weight of the thought threatening to crush him. If Wukong got too close, he’d see everything. The cracks, the ugliness, everything. He’d see the parts of Macaque that weren’t enough, that never had been and never would be. And once he saw those things—once he saw him—he’d leave.

And yet, when Macaque opened his eyes and looked back at the sky, he felt the faintest flicker of something he didn’t want to name. A stubborn little ember, refusing to go out no matter how tightly he tried to smother it.

What if he didn’t leave?

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, trying to quiet his head. The dull buzz of the fridge in the corner was the only sound filling the apartment, the hum like a reminder of just how little he had. He ran a hand through his hair, already messing it up, and thought about how fucking easy it would be to just take the offer. Go out, eat something decent, not have to think about all the shit piling up.

But that wasn’t him. Not right now. Not when he had no way to make it right.

Macaque’s phone buzzed again, and he cursed under his breath. The fucking temptation. His thumb hovered over the screen, his pulse a little too loud in his ears. There was that stupid, easy smile Wukong always gave him when he offered to pay for something. Like it wasn’t a big deal.

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: c’monnnnnnnnnnn don’t leave me hanging 

Monkey Boy 🙄🍑: i’ll even let u pick the place 😜

Shit, he thought, as his fingers clenched around the phone. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to throw his cares away for just a few hours. But the whole situation felt like a fucking trap. Let Wukong take care of him once, and that was it. It would never stop.

“God, I’m so fucking stupid,” Macaque muttered, pacing back and forth in his tiny kitchen, glaring at the phone in his hand.

His gaze drifted over to the crumpled bills again, and the guilt hit him all over again. How could he let someone else pick up the pieces when he couldn’t even keep his own shit together? It didn’t matter that Wukong wanted to help. That wasn’t the point. The point was that he needed to figure his shit out without relying on other people’s charity. He didn’t need to be anyone’s project.

Macaque squeezed his eyes shut for a second, trying to push the pressure out of his chest. This is fucking pathetic. He was pathetic.

The phone buzzed again.

“Goddamn it, Wukong,” he cursed, his patience running out. He reached for the phone, his thumb moving decisively. The message was simple. Short. Clean. It had to be.

Macaque: i’m good, kinda busy. catch you later.

He stared at the screen for a second, the words burning in his gut. But there was no going back now. The message sent, and his phone screen went blank. Macaque just stared at it for a moment before he tossed it back onto the table.

With a frustrated growl, Macaque grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair and walked out the door. The evening air was thick and humid, a lingering reminder of summer’s end. The streets were still warm from the day’s heat, the air holding that weight, clinging to his skin like an extra layer he didn’t need. It was stifling but still had the faintest edge of relief from the sun setting. There was that buzz in the air, the hum of cicadas fading as dusk settled over everything. He didn’t know why, but it felt like the city was holding its breath.

The store across the street wasn’t anything to write home about. Just the same shitty convenience store with the same shitty, overpriced crap. But it was something. It was all he had.

The automatic door slid open with a tired squeal, and the cool air inside offered only a slight reprieve from the warmth outside. He grabbed the cheapest bread and eggs, his fingers brushing over the price tags without a second thought. It didn’t matter.

The cashier barely looked at him as he paid, just a bored glance as he shoved a crumpled bill into the register. Macaque didn’t care. He stuffed the bag in his coat and turned back toward his apartment, the city still buzzing around him as if everything was fine. It wasn’t. But it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to fix anything today.

The walk back felt longer than it should, but the streets weren’t empty. People were laughing, talking in that easy way, their voices floating over the pavement. He watched them, the simple ones with their lives still in order, still having a good time, and it made him sick. When he finally made it back to his apartment, he was drenched in sweat, his neck sticky and his shirt clinging uncomfortably to his skin. The apartment was just as he left it—small, dark, and suffocating. But it was his.

He set the bag on the table, the heat from the walk still radiating in the plastic. Bread and eggs. Enough for a few days, though that meant little now. 

He stared at the door for a moment, the hum of cicadas still ringing in his ears. The apartment, the street, the city—they were all the same. And so was he.

Nothing would change. Nothing ever did.

—

The diner smelled of grease and burnt coffee, the hum of conversation blending with the clatter of plates and the occasional hiss of the grill. Macaque wiped his hands on a towel, eyes darting to the clock on the wall. Another two hours until his shift ended. Two more hours of forced politeness, plastering on a smile that didn’t fit, and his landlord’s (possibly last) eviction notice in his bag, the constant uncertainty about whether he could stay afloat another month.

God, this sucked.

MK was stationed at the far end, wiping down a table with a rag and humming to himself. His uniform apron was crooked, as usual, and there was a smudge of ketchup on his cheek that Macaque didn’t bother pointing out. He was humming some song by Gracie Adams, Macaque thought, he didn’t really know. The kid’s endless energy grated on Macaque today—normally, he could roll with it, but everything going on right now made him want to snap at the next person who even looked at him wrong.

“Yo, Macaque!” MK’s cheerful voice cut through the din as he slid behind the counter, dropping the tray with a loud clatter that made Macaque wince. “Busy day, huh?”

“MK, I’m working.”

“Yeah, but you can spare a minute, right?” MK turned away from the table and flipped the rag over his shoulder. “You’re looking… I don’t know, kind of frazzled? Just wanted to check in.”

Macaque shot him a look. “I’m fine.” 

“I dunno, you just… seemed kind of intense.” MK shrugged.

“Maybe I’m just focused on doing my job,” Macaque replied dryly, not looking up from the salt shaker he was currently screwing the cap onto.

“Or maybe,” MK said, approaching him before leaning on the counter, “you’re thinking about Wukong.”

Macaque’s hand froze mid-motion, and the shaker toppled over, spilling salt onto the counter. He glared at it for a moment before sweeping the mess into his palm. “Not everything is about Wukong.”

“Uh-huh.” MK grinned, unfazed by the sharp tone. “But you’ve been hanging out with him a lot lately. And I don’t mean to, like, pry—okay, I totally mean to pry—but there’s definitely something going on, right? You can’t fool me.”

Macaque slammed the salt shaker down on the counter harder than he meant to, drawing a startled blink from MK and a couple of diners sitting nearby. “Don’t you have tables to clear or customers to annoy?”

“Dude, chill,” MK said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just asking. You don’t have to get all defensive. I think it’s cool if you two—”

“Cool?” Macaque snapped, cutting him off. His voice was low, but it carried enough bite to make MK’s grin falter. “You think this is some kind of joke? Something you can gossip about between refills and tips?”

MK’s expression shifted to something more serious, his brows knitting together. “No, I didn’t mean it like that. I just... I think you guys are good for each other, that’s all.”

Macaque let out a bitter laugh. “Good for each other? You don’t know the first thing about what’s between us.”

“Then tell me,” MK said quietly.

Macaque froze at MK’s words. The rag in his hand hung limply, and for a moment, he just stared at the kid. Tell him? What was he supposed to say? That he was scared out of his mind? That every moment with Wukong felt like walking a tightrope over a pit he’d sworn he’d never fall into? That it wasn’t just about Wukong—it was about him and his own shit, period.

No. He couldn’t say that. 

Instead, he let out a sharp breath through his nose and shook his head, turning back to the salt shaker like it demanded all his focus. “Look, MK, I don’t have the time—or the patience—for this. Just... drop it, okay?”

“Why can’t you just admit you care about him?” MK’s voice was softer now, but there was still that persistence, that hopeful edge that made Macaque’s skin crawl.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, quieter but no less sharp. “And honestly? It’s none of your business.”

MK took two steps back, stunned. “I was just... I didn’t mean to—”

“Yeah, well, you did,” Macaque interrupted, his voice trembling despite himself. He wasn’t even angry at MK, not really. The kid didn’t know about the financial shit he was in, the nights Macaque spent awake wondering if he was going to mess things up again, or the suffocating fear of hoping for something he might never deserve.

MK opened his mouth like he was going to say something else, but then he closed it again. He nodded, his voice unusually quiet. “Okay. Sorry.”

And just like that, he was gone, retreating back to the tables he’d been cleaning earlier.

Macaque stared at the counter, at the tiny grains of salt still scattered across the surface. His chest felt heavy, like a stone was sitting on it, and his hands shook just enough to make him clench them into fists.

Shit, why couldn’t he ever do anything right?

Why did he always do this? Why couldn’t he just let the kid be kind without biting his head off? But the truth was, kindness didn’t come without strings. It never did. And the thought of someone—especially someone like Wukong—getting too close was enough to make his fur stand on end.

He grabbed the rag again and started wiping the counter, scrubbing at a spot that wasn’t even dirty. Anything to keep himself busy—to stop thinking, for one goddamn second of his life.

—

The apartment was unusually quiet, the kind of silence that felt alive—the type that pressed against Macaque’s temples. His jaw ached from grinding his teeth, his hands raw from gripping the edges of his worn-out couch. Every muscle in his body screamed at him to do something, but what was left to do?

He’d avoided Wukong through the week, rather successfully. It hadn’t been easy—Wukong wasn’t exactly subtle. A knock on the door here, a text there, a couple of pastries left on his doorstep with a cheerful note that Macaque didn’t bother reading. He’d come up with some excuse if they passed each other in the hallway, keeping his head low and his strides brisk, slipping into his apartment before Wukong could get a word in.

Macaque was in a constant state of fight-or-flight. He’d thrown himself into looking for other jobs, scouring classifieds, firing off applications, and even stopping by local businesses to ask in person. But it was either his shitty résumé or they didn’t like his face, because he’d only received piles and piles of rejection.

He didn’t want to see the warmth in Wukong’s eyes or hear the easy laugh that made something sharp and unfamiliar twist in his chest. He didn’t want to acknowledge the way Wukong’s presence chipped away at the walls he’d worked so hard to build. Vulnerability wasn’t safe—not when everything else in his life was falling apart.

So he’d buried himself in job hunting and diner shifts, pushing Wukong to the back of his mind. The less Wukong was around, the less likely Macaque was to screw it all up, to let himself hope for something that would inevitably end in disappointment.

Every little thing bothered him lately: the neighbors blasting music at ungodly hours, the incessant ringing of his phone from spam calls, and now this—the feeling that his life was slipping through his fingers no matter how hard he tried to hold it together. His mind raced through the same anxious loops, the same questions. What am I supposed to do next?

He hadn’t slept much last night—or any night this week, really—his mind looping endlessly over the same anxieties. And now, here he was, completely out of steam and utterly alone.

A sharp knock at the door shattered the stillness.

“Mac! It’s me!” Wukong’s cheerful voice rang out from the hallway. “I come bearing gifts, so open up!”

Macaque groaned, sinking deeper into the couch. Not now, Wukong. Not tonight.

“Mac, come on! Don’t make me eat all these yummy things by myself!”

Macaque clenched his fists, willing himself to stay quiet, but the persistent knock came again. He dragged himself up with a sigh, his limbs heavy and unwilling. Yanking the door open, he was greeted by Wukong’s bright grin and the unmistakable aroma of freshly baked pastries.

“See? I knew you were home!” Wukong stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, holding up the bag like it was a trophy. “Guess what I managed to snag? Last batch of apple turnovers from the bakery down the street. You’re welcome.”

Macaque stared at him, unamused. “What makes you think I wanted apple turnovers?”

Wukong waved him off, already unloading the bag onto the counter. “Everyone wants apple turnovers. Besides, you looked like you needed a pick-me-up last time we talked. Consider this a kindness from your favorite neighbor-slash-best-friend.”

Macaque folded his arms, leaning against the doorframe. He wasn’t in the mood for Wukong’s relentless optimism, not tonight. 

“I didn’t ask for a pick-me-up,” Macaque muttered.

Wukong glanced at him over his shoulder, still smiling. “That’s the beauty of it. You don’t have to ask! That’s what friends are for.”

For weeks now, Wukong had been dropping by, somehow easing his way into Macaque’s life without even trying. And for weeks, Macaque had let him. 

“Friends, huh? Funny how that works when one of them doesn’t listen.”

Wukong blinked, his grin faltering slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Macaque’s shoulders tightened, his claws digging into his arms as he leaned against the doorframe. He hadn’t meant to say anything. He’d planned to let Wukong chatter on until he left, but the words were already bubbling to the surface, too bitter to swallow back down.

“It means,” Macaque began, his tone low and sharp, “you don’t get it. You can’t get it. You stroll in here with your… your apple turnovers, acting like it’ll fix everything, but you don’t have a clue what it’s like to actually struggle.”

Wukong turned fully toward him, his demeanor stiffening. “Okay, hold up. Where is this coming from? I’m just trying to help—”

“Help?” Macaque’s voice rose, his anger spilling out like a dam had burst. “You think dropping off some overpriced pastries is helping? You think standing there with your perfect little grin, like you haven’t lived your whole life cushioned by money and convenience, is helping?”

“That’s not fair,” Wukong said, his voice tinged with defensiveness. “I’m here because I care. I’m trying to make things easier for you, not harder.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you should try leaving me alone for once.” Macaque shot back, the words coming out harsher than he intended. “What’s not fair is me scrambling to keep a roof over my head while you sit pretty in your fancy apartment, throwing parties and pretending everything’s just okay.”

Wukong stared at him, stunned into silence. “You don’t mean that,” he said quietly.

Macaque’s fists clenched at his sides, the anger now boiling over into frustration he couldn’t hold back anymore. “You think you’re so selfless, don’t you? You think showing up with pastries is going to fix anything? Newsflash, Wukong: it doesn’t. It just makes me feel worse. You don’t care about me—you care about yourself. You’re too scared to sit with your own mess, so you dump it on me and call it ‘help.’”

Wukong’s face fell. “That’s not true,” he said softly.

“Isn’t it?” Macaque pressed. “Your place is way too big and empty for you, so you come here, pretending to care, pretending like we’re—” He stopped short, the words catching in his throat.

“Like we’re what?” Wukong asked.

“Like we’re something more,” Macaque admitted, the truth slipping out before he could stop it. His chest tightened as the weight of his fears came crashing down. “You can’t stand being alone, so you latch onto anyone who’ll let you in. You’ve been doing it your whole life, haven’t you? Trying to make people stay because you’re so afraid they’ll leave you—because deep down, you know you’re not enough to make them want to stay on their own.”

The words hung in the air like a slap, and Macaque immediately regretted them. Wukong’s expression crumbled, the hurt in his eyes cutting deeper than Macaque expected.

“Wow,” Wukong said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

He turned away, grabbing the bag of pastries from the counter. “I should go,” he muttered, heading for the door.

“Wukong—”

But the door clicked shut before Macaque could say anything else.

Macaque froze in the middle of the room, staring at the empty space where Wukong had been just seconds before. His chest felt hollow, like all the air had been sucked out of it.

He tried to push it down, to swallow the knot in his throat and convince himself it didn’t matter. But it did. It always did. His hand hovered over the edge of the couch as if sitting down might make everything less real, but his legs locked in place. He couldn’t bring himself to move.

What the hell was wrong with him? Wukong had done nothing but show up—again and again, in ways no one else ever had—and Macaque had thrown it all back in his face. Because what? Because it was easier to drive him away than to risk letting him stay?

But before he could fully try to make sense of the mess in his head, the soft creak of the door startled him upright.

He turned, his breath catching when he saw Wukong standing there, framed by the dim light of the hallway. The bag of pastries dangled from his hand, but the expression on his face made Macaque’s stomach churn. Wukong wasn’t angry—that would’ve been easier to deal with. No, what Macaque saw in his eyes was worse. It was hurt, deep and raw, mixed with something else Macaque couldn’t name.

“You know,” Wukong started, “I really thought we could be something.”

Macaque’s chest tightened. “Wukong, I—”

“I don’t mean anything serious,” Wukong interrupted, his tone almost bitter, though his expression remained heartbreakingly soft. “I’m not asking for a fairy tale or… or even love. But I thought—I don’t know—I thought we had… something. Something that’s real.”

Macaque swallowed hard, his throat dry as he struggled to find the right words. But Wukong wasn’t done.

“And I thought,” Wukong continued, his voice breaking just slightly, “that maybe, for once, I didn’t have to work so hard to make someone stay. That maybe you liked having me around because of me, not because of what I could bring or how hard I tried to make you smile.”

The words hit Macaque like a punch to the gut. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Wukong shook his head, cutting him off again.

“But I guess I was wrong,” Wukong said, his voice trembling now. “You don’t want me here. Fine. Message received.”

He took a step back toward the hallway, the pastries swinging slightly in his grip. His glance flicked towards the mess of papers sitting on his counter, the slip with giant letters stamped across the surface. “I hope they’re worth it, Mac,” he said softly, nodding toward the eviction notice still sitting on the coffee table. “I hope they keep you warm at night.”

And with that, Wukong was gone.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, a quiet, uneven sound that did little to release the knot of tension coiled in his stomach. Slowly, he turned back toward the couch, his movements heavy, deliberate. He dropped onto it without grace, the cushions groaning under his weight. His hands dragged over his face, pressing hard against his skin, as though trying to force himself to feel something other than the hollow ache expanding in his chest.

It wasn’t until his fingers brushed against something soft at the sides of his head that he froze. His ears.

They’d unglamoured themselves, the faint glow they emitted spilling across the dim room. Macaque lowered his hands slowly, staring at the pale violet light that painted the floor and walls, his hands. He reached up again, his fingers grazing the edges of his ears as though to confirm they were real. 

His breath hitched, breaking the stillness. Without thinking, he curled forward, tucking his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms tightly around them. His tail coiled loosely around his legs, and he pressed his face into his arms, willing the world to disappear—

—or at least to stop spinning long enough for him to catch his balance.

Chapter Text

The café had a kind of warmth that wasn’t forced. Sandy had furnished the place with an eclectic charm—armchairs deep enough to swallow you whole, wooden tables etched with the history of countless conversations, and strings of soft, amber lights that turned even the gloomiest corners into havens.

Macaque had always felt at home here.

He was at his usual spot—a table tucked in the corner, just out of the flow of traffic. His shoulders were hunched, his hands cradling a mug of tea he hadn’t yet touched. His tail curled tightly around the leg of his chair, a small tell he didn’t bother to mask.

dragon pony girlll 🐉: HEYY so i asked wukong if he’d be willing to do the project thing and HE SAID YES!!!!

dragon pony girlll 🐉: didnt tell him u were part of it yet tho

dragon pony girlll 🐉: thought itd be fun if it were a little surprise >:))

The message draft on his phone stared back at him.

Macaque: i don’t think i have time to work on that right now. sorry mei.

His thumb hovered for a second before he sent it off to Mei. No explanation, no preamble—he really didn’t have the energy for more.

Across the room, Sandy was wiping down the counter, the broad sweep of his arm slow and deliberate. His presence always seemed to fill the space, not because of his sheer size, though that certainly played a part, but because of the way he made everything feel settled—like whatever chaos you brought in would get absorbed and softened if you let it, like the subtle way tea leaves turned in water.

“You doing okay, Maquack?” Sandy’s voice was soft as he pulled a chair from a nearby table and sat across from Macaque. He folded his hands on the table, making himself small despite his broad frame. Sandy’s cat, Mo, found his way onto one of the chairs and started kneading at the seat cushion.

Macaque’s ears twitched at the question, but he didn’t look up. “I’m fine,” he said flatly.

“You’ve been staring at that tea for an hour,” Sandy said. “Not that I’m judging your process, but it doesn’t seem to be doing much for you.”

Macaque huffed, leaning back and rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Guess I’m not much for tea wisdom today.”

Sandy tilted his head. “Want me to make you something else? You could probably use some food, too. I’ve got that mushroom soup from this morning left—your favorite.”

Macaque shook his head, dropping his hand back to the table. “I’m good, really. Just... a lot on my mind.”

“I can see that,” Sandy said, his gaze steady but kind. “Do you want to talk about it, or do you just need a quiet space to think?”

Macaque hesitated. “You don’t need to sit here and babysit me, Sandy.”

“I know,” Sandy said, smiling faintly. “But I enjoy your company. And, well, you look like you’ve been carrying something heavy today.”

Macaque’s shoulders tightened. “It’s nothing. Just... work stuff. Life stuff. Same as always. Just…” He squirmed, trying to find a more comfortable position for his arms on the table. “… it’s been a long week.”

“Sure, sure,” Sandy said with a slow nod, though his tone made it clear he wasn’t convinced. “You’ve been saying that for a while now, though. Makes me wonder if maybe it’s not just the week that’s been long.”

Macaque sighed and leaned back, idly poking at the steam around the edge of his cup. “I’m not trying to dump all my crap on you, Sandy. You’ve already done more than enough just letting me sit here and take up space.”

“Maquack, I’ve known you for years, and you’ve been coming here for just as long. I think the walls might get lonely if you stopped taking up space,” Sandy said lightly. “And anyway, this place is yours as much as it’s mine.”

Macaque rolled his eyes, but there was no real malice to it. “You’re too nice. It’s suspicious.”

“Maybe,” Sandy said, smiling faintly. “Or maybe I just know a good friend when I see one.”

Macaque didn’t respond right away, his gaze dropping back to the table. His fingers traced absent shapes against the wood grain as he spoke. “I don’t know, Sandy. Sometimes it feels like... I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. Like I’m just spinning plates, waiting for them all to crash.”

Sandy leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his broad chest. “That’s a tough place to be,” he said after a moment. “But you don’t have to figure it all out at once. No one expects you to.”

Macaque snorted softly. “Feels like everyone does.”

“Not everyone,” Sandy said simply.

Before Macaque could answer, his phone buzzed sharply against the table, breaking whatever fragile thread of conversation had started to form. He snatched it up and glanced at the screen, his eyes narrowing as he read the message.

Property Management: Final notice: You have until 11:00 p.m. tomorrow to clear your belongings from the unit. Anything left behind will be disposed of.

His stomach twisted, and he shoved the phone into his pocket as he stood abruptly. The chair scraped loudly against the floor, making a few heads turn.

“I’ve gotta go,” he said, already moving toward the door.

“Maquack—wait,” Sandy called, his brow furrowing.

“Thanks, Sandy,” Macaque said over his shoulder, his voice tight. “I mean it.”

And with that, he was gone, the bell above the door jingling softly as it swung shut behind him.

—

The apartment felt like a hollowed-out shell of itself, and it killed Macaque in a way that he couldn’t exactly show.

The room was so quiet that Macaque could hear the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen. It had been broken for months, leaking water onto the warped linoleum, but the noise had become something like company—a reminder that something still worked, even when nothing else did. He sat on the edge of the bed, surrounded by half-packed boxes and scattered clothes that hadn’t made it into his suitcase. The air smelled faintly of dust and damp paper.

He held a shirt in his lap, twisting the fabric between his fingers. It was one of the last things he had left from before all of this—before the debt, the fights, and the steady erosion of everything he’d once taken for granted.

He leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees, staring at the scuffed floorboards. He couldn’t sit still, but he also couldn’t move. It wasn’t panic—not yet. It was something slower, heavier. Like his thoughts were caught in wet sand, dragging him deeper the harder he tried to surface. His tail draped over his lap, coiled and tense like a knot of nerves. He pressed the heel of his palm into his eyes, trying to block out the burning behind them—crying wouldn’t fix this. It never did.

He set his shirt down gently and looked at his hands instead. His nails were uneven, torn at the edges. There were small cuts along his knuckles from handling the boxes, but the sting didn’t register. There wasn’t room for it. His mind buzzed with the growing awareness of what came next, but he couldn’t shape the thoughts into anything useful.

Where would he go? He’d been avoiding the question for days. If he sat still enough, maybe the answer would come on its own. But it didn’t. It sat just out of reach, mocking him.

His phone sat on the bed, its screen black and cracked like a window into nothing. Macaque reached for it, his fingers brushing the edge, then pulled back. He didn’t need to check the time. He knew it was late. Too late for anyone to care.

But then, there was one name.

He picked up the phone, thumb dragging down his call log. The same few numbers appeared, over and over again. People who didn’t answer anymore, numbers that rang until they didn’t. But near the top of the list, like a brand he couldn’t scrub away—

Wukong.

He pressed the name before he could think too hard about it. The phone rang, each tone pulling tighter at the invisible thread that kept him upright. He stared at the far wall, counting the seconds until he could convince himself to hang up.

But then—click.

“... Macaque?”

Macaque froze. His grip on the phone tightened, as if holding it any looser would let the moment slip away. For a second, he thought about ending the call without saying anything.

“Yeah,” he said finally, the word rough at the edges. “It’s me.”

There was a beat of silence. In the background, Macaque could hear faint noises—a chair scraping, the soft rustle of movement. Then Wukong spoke again, quieter this time.

“What’s going on?”

Macaque opened his mouth, but the words didn’t come. His mind raced through excuses, half-truths, anything to keep from admitting the real reason he’d called. Finally, he landed on something that felt neutral enough, safe enough.

“I just…” He forced a laugh, dry and unconvincing. “Thought I’d check in. See how you’re doing.”

There was a pause. The kind that stretched long enough to make him wonder if Wukong might hang up.

“Check in?” Wukong said finally, and his voice carried that edge—wry, skeptical, maybe even a little bitter. “After all that?”

Macaque exhaled through his nose, a sound that was meant to be a laugh but came out wrong. “Yeah, well.” He tried to keep his voice light, like the weight of the room wasn’t pressing into his chest and he wasn’t falling in on himself.

“Right,” Wukong said, and the pause that followed was worse than any sharp remark. It was the silence of someone waiting for the truth and tired of pretense. “What do you want?”

Macaque stared at the boxes around him, at the few pieces of his life that were still visible. His throat felt dry. “Nothing,” he said. The lie felt clumsy in his mouth. “Just... wanted to hear your voice.”

There was a sharp inhale on the other end, like Wukong was biting back a response. Macaque braced himself for something harsh, something final. Instead, Wukong’s voice softened, just barely.

“Macaque... what’s going on?”

The question unraveled something inside him. He tried to hold onto his composure, tried to keep his voice steady, but it cracked under the strain. “I... I’m fine,” he said, though the words came out shaky, unconvincing.

Wukong’s tone shifted further, the skepticism giving way to concern. “You don’t sound fine.”

“Nothing,” Macaque said quickly, too quickly. “I just—I thought…” His voice broke, and he clenched his jaw, curling in on himself.

“Macaque,” Wukong said again, this time with more urgency. “Talk to me.”

Macaque closed his eyes, his free hand curling into a fist. He could feel the tears threatening to spill, but he refused to let them. “I—” His voice faltered. He swallowed hard, forcing the words out before they could choke him. “I don’t know what to do.” His voice broke.

He hated the way it sounded, small and pitiful, like admitting it made him even less.

There was no immediate response from Wukong. For a moment, Macaque thought he’d hung up, and the silence hollowed him out. Then, finally, Wukong spoke.

“Where are you?”

The question startled him, not because of the words but because of the steadiness in Wukong’s voice.

“W-What?” Macaque stammered.

“Where. Are. You,” Wukong repeated, each word deliberate, like there was no room for debate. “I’m coming over.”

“You don’t—”

“I’ll be there in three minutes,” Wukong said, cutting him off.

The line went dead. Macaque stared at the phone, the dial tone filling the room. He leaned his head back against the wall, his fingers still clutching the device. He wasn’t sure if the knot in his chest had loosened or if he was simply too tired to notice anymore. Either way, he stayed where he was, surrounded by the mess he’d made.

Wukong arrived quietly. He didn’t knock or call out, just let himself in like he’d always done, like the threshold of Macaque’s life was something he’d crossed too many times to feel hesitant now. The door clicked shut behind him, muffled by the thick stillness of the room, and he stood for a moment, taking in the scene.

The place looked like it had already begun to unravel. Boxes were scattered across the floor, some taped shut, others gaping open like they’d given up halfway. Loose clothes hung limply from a chair. A lamp lay on its side, the bulb unbroken but oddly tilted, as though it, too, had been defeated by the chaos.

And there, at the foot of the couch, Macaque sat curled up on the floor. His knees were drawn to his chest, his arms looped loosely around them, as if holding himself together was the only thing keeping him from falling apart entirely. His head was bowed, and the soft, uneven sound of his breathing filled the silence.

Wukong didn’t say anything at first. He stepped over a pile of books without comment and lowered himself to sit beside Macaque. Not on the couch, but on the floor, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. The faint rustle of fabric as he settled was the only noise in the room.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

“You came,” Macaque said finally, his voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. He didn’t look up.

“Yeah,” Wukong replied quietly.

Macaque exhaled a shaky breath. His fingers idly traced the seam of his pant leg, the movement aimless and nervous. “I didn’t mean to drag you into this,” he said, his voice strained, like the words were sticking in his throat. “I just... didn’t know who else to call.”

Wukong didn’t answer right away, but Macaque felt him shift slightly, leaning closer. “It’s okay,” he said after a moment, and the simplicity of it stung more than any rebuke could have.

“It’s not okay,” Macaque muttered. His hand drifted up to his hair, fingers curling into the strands at his temple. “Nothing’s okay. It’s like... it’s like everything just keeps falling apart, no matter what I do.”

His voice cracked on the last word, and he stopped, teeth clenching against whatever in him that threatened to spill over.

“I don’t even know why I’m still trying,” he said, his hand tightening in his hair. “Feels like the whole world’s against me sometimes, you know? His voice cracked on the last word, but he kept going, faster now, the words tripping over each other. “Every time I think I’ve figured something out, it just—” He broke off, inhaling sharply. His other hand curled into a fist, pressing against his thigh as though grounding himself could keep the panic at bay.

“Hey,” Wukong said softly.

But Macaque wasn’t listening anymore. “I don’t know how to deal with it, okay? I don’t know how to keep going when it’s like—when it’s like this. What’s the point of even trying if—”

He stopped again, his breathing shallow and fast. His hand tugged sharply at his hair, and his body curled inward, as though he could shrink away from the feelings that clawed at him from the inside. 

Wukong reached out, gently catching Macaque’s wrist. “Hey,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “Don’t do that.”

Macaque froze, his breath hitching, and for a moment, neither of them moved.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” Wukong said.

Macaque blinked, his fingers loosening against his scalp. He let Wukong guide his hand down, though he didn’t let go entirely. Wukong’s grip stayed light, a quiet insistence that didn’t ask for anything more than stillness.

For the first time, Macaque turned his head, his eyes flicking toward Wukong. His face was drawn, the kind of tired that didn’t just come from a lack of sleep, and he let out a breath that felt more like a collapse.

“It doesn’t stop,” he said quietly, his voice cracking at the edges. “It just doesn’t stop. No matter what I do, the world keeps piling more and more on top of me, and I’m supposed to just—” He broke off, his breath hitching. “I’m supposed to just deal with it. Like it’s normal to live like this.”

Wukong let go of his wrist but stayed close, his arm brushing lightly against Macaque’s.

“I thought I had it under control,” Macaque continued, his words spilling out faster now, uneven and raw. “I thought I could handle it, but it’s all falling apart. Again. And I’m just—I’m so tired, Wukong.”

His voice caught on the last word, and for a moment, he went still. Then his shoulders shook, the first sob breaking through, sharp and unrestrained.

Wukong’s face softened. “Mac…”

The first sob tore out of Macaque like something he hadn’t meant to let loose, raw and uneven, catching in his throat. His chest jerked with the effort to suppress it, but the attempt only made it worse. The next sob broke through with more force, unraveling the thin thread of control he’d been clutching.

He curled inward, his hands trembling as they pressed against his face, not to hide but to hold himself together. The sound of his crying was jagged, uneven, the kind of noise that came when someone had run out of dignity to spare. His breath hitched in shallow, panicked gasps, each inhale seeming to catch on something sharp before spilling out again in a low, aching wail.

Tears fell unchecked, soaking his hands, his arms, the front of his shirt. His whole body shook, the trembling spreading from his shoulders down to his curled toes, like grief had taken root deep in his bones and was determined to make its way out. He clutched his knees tighter, trying to will himself smaller, as though shrinking might make him less vulnerable to the shitstorm raging in his chest.

After a while, the room was quiet, save for the soft creak of the floorboards when Wukong shifted his weight. Macaque sat with his knees drawn up, arms loosely resting over them. His breathing was steadier now, but the uneven rhythm from earlier lingered faintly, as if his lungs hadn’t quite caught up with the rest of him. He didn’t bother hiding the way his gaze stayed low, fixed on a crumpled piece of packing paper that had fallen to the floor.

Wukong spoke first, breaking the silence without ceremony. “You can stay with me. For as long as you need.”

Macaque’s shoulders stiffened. “I don’t take charity.”

“It’s not charity,” Wukong said, just as firmly. “This is me showing you that I care. That’s not the same thing.”

Macaque stilled. “... Right.”

Wukong watched Macaque, his expression unreadable. “Friends help each other,” he said finally.

Macaque didn’t respond immediately. His fingers curled against his knees, tension building in his hands as he stared at the half-packed boxes around the room. “If I stay,” he said after a long pause, “I’m paying for something. Groceries. Bills. Something. I’m not about to freeload off you.”

Wukong’s laugh startled him. It wasn’t the usual bright sound that made Macaque bristle on instinct.

“You know, this is going to sound bad,” he said, his voice quieter now, “but I have more money than I know what to do with.”

Macaque glanced at him, but Wukong wasn’t looking back. His eyes were somewhere else.

“It’s stupid,” Wukong went on, “how much I have and how little it means most of the time. Groceries, rent, all that—that’s not what I’m worried about. What matters is…” His voice faltered, jaw moving like he was chewing on his words. “I’ve got no one to spend it on.”

Macaque didn’t respond immediately, though his fingers twitched against his knee, curling slightly before going still again.

“And… I’ve been thinking,” Wukong said, his voice careful, almost too even. “About what you said before.”

Macaque didn’t interrupt. Wukong took it as permission to continue.

“You said I show up here like it’s going to fix everything. That it’s not about you—it’s about me. About me running from my own shit.” He exhaled, low and slow, like dragging the words out was taking more effort than it should. “And yeah, you’re right. I-I do that.”

That got a flicker of attention. Macaque’s fingers twitched, his hands resting on his knees, but his gaze remained fixed downward.

Wukong hesitated, staring at the floor as though the words were written there, somewhere in the patterns of the worn carpet. “I don’t like sitting with it. My mess, I mean. It’s like… if I keep moving, keep doing, I don’t have to deal with all the stuff I don’t want to think about. It’s easier to look like I’m helping someone else than to admit I’m scared of my own shadow.”

He laughed again, a quiet, bitter sound that didn’t reach his eyes. “I guess that’s not exactly news to you.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than the words themselves, but Wukong didn’t fill it. He let it hang, waiting to see if Macaque would respond.

When he didn’t, Wukong pressed on, his voice more unsteady now. “And yeah, I’ve been trying to make people stay my whole damn life. Like if I can just do enough, be enough, then maybe—maybe they won’t leave. Maybe I won’t give them a reason to.”

Macaque’s hands curled slightly against his knees, tension rippling through his fingers. He still didn’t look up, but Wukong could feel the weight of his presence, the way he was listening even if he wouldn’t acknowledge it.

“And yeah. I-I latch onto people,” Wukong swallowed, lifting his head to stare ahead. “Because when I’m alone, it—just feels like I’m disappearing. Like if no one’s around to see me, I’ll just… stop existing.”

Macaque watched him. “Wukong…”

“And I know how it sounds,” Wukong said, his voice barely above a whisper now. “Pathetic, right? Trying so hard to keep people close that I don’t even stop to think about why they might not want to stay.” He laughed again, but it was a hollow, shaky sound that faded almost as quickly as it came. He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers catching on the tangles. “And I hate that. I hate how much I need people.”

Macaque shifted slightly, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction, but he still didn’t speak.

Wukong shifted in his seat, his knee bouncing slightly. “I don’t know what to say to make it right,” he said finally, his voice breaking just slightly on the last word. “I’m not good at—” He stopped himself, shaking his head as if brushing the words aside. “I just don’t want you thinking I’m doing this for me. That’s all.”

Wukong’s shoulders sagged slightly, the tension in his body giving way to something more subdued. He glanced at Macaque, his lips parting like he might say more, but nothing came. Instead, he rubbed the back of his neck, the gesture almost boyish in its awkwardness.

Macaque broke the silence first, his voice a little rough at the edges. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll stay.”

Wukong’s head snapped up, surprise flickering in his eyes. He didn’t say anything immediately, as though he didn’t trust the words to hold.

“But just for now,” Macaque added quickly, his tone firm but lacking the usual sharpness. “And I’m paying for something. Don’t argue with me about it.”

A small huff of laughter escaped Wukong, though it didn’t have the same bitter edge as before. “I won’t,” he said softly.

Wukong shifted where he sat, leaning forward as if about to say something else, but then stopped. Instead, he slowly pushed himself up to his feet, brushing off his pants. He stood there for a moment, looking down at Macaque, who hadn’t moved from where he was curled up at the base of the couch.

”Alright,” Wukong said after a beat, his voice calm but resolute. “Let’s get your stuff together.”

Macaque frowned, looking up at him. “What?”

Wukong glanced back at Macaque, his expression steady but his hands restless, brushing against his thighs like he needed something to hold onto. “I said, let’s get your stuff together. You’re coming with me.”

Macaque didn’t speak again right away. He just moved, gathering up his things, each motion deliberate, as if each object he touched held more significance than it really did. Wukong stood off to the side, quiet, watching him without intruding before going over to a corner to put a stack of books into an empty box. The air felt less sharp now, just a low hum that neither of them seemed eager to disrupt.

The rest of the packing didn’t take too long—he’d done most of it in a blind haze hours earlier and the night before, after getting that one text that he had a mere day to get out of his home. Once he was done, Macaque stood there, unmoving, taking in the sight of the room he was leaving behind. His eyes traveled slowly across the packed boxes, each one marked with a thick black marker, labeled with things that felt both distant and personal—books, clothes, the stray objects that had filled the corners of his life here. The space seemed almost too large now, as if the absence of his things made it feel like something more than it was.

He stood for a long moment, staring at the empty wall where a painting once hung, and then at the small stack of items left near the door. His mouth was dry, but the words weren’t coming. He didn’t know what he was looking for—closure? Permission? Or maybe just some kind of acknowledgment that the life he’d built here had meant something, even if it didn’t feel that way now.

Wukong stood by the doorway in complete silence—he wasn’t sure if it was out of respect for the space, or if he simply didn’t want to interrupt whatever it was Macaque was processing. It didn’t matter. Wukong understood the assignment.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Macaque let out a long exhale, his shoulders easing just a little. He didn't turn to face Wukong, but there was something in his posture that softened. “It’s just a room,” he said, almost absently, his voice rougher than usual, but it didn’t seem to be directed at Wukong, just at the air around him.

Wukong’s eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze softening as he crossed his arms. “Doesn’t feel that way, though, does it?”

Macaque didn’t respond immediately. He ran a hand over his face, his eyes flicking back toward the boxes. There was a long moment where he just let the silence sit between them, like he was trying to place the weight of everything into something he could understand.

“Maybe,” Macaque said, his voice low, “maybe it’s not just a room. But… it might as well be.”

The words hung in the air, and Wukong stayed quiet, letting him work through it.

Macaque’s eyes flicked toward the boxes again, his gaze lingering on the things he was leaving behind. “I don’t know what I was hoping for when I packed all this up,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Some kind of... I don’t know. Something to say this was worth it. That all this... time here... it meant something.”

The room was empty now. No Wukong’s drawings on the wall, no old coffee mugs, no half-read books on the shelf. It felt as if the place was shedding its skin—like Macaque was losing pieces of himself along with it.

Wukong shifted, his voice quiet. “You want it to mean something, yeah?”

Macaque looked over at him, his eyes still heavy with something unspoken. He didn’t immediately answer. Instead, he ran his thumb along the edge of the box, watching the cardboard bend slightly under the pressure.

“I’ve been here too long, maybe,” he said. “But even then... I don’t think I ever really belonged here.” He gave a short, dry laugh, but there was no real humor in it. “Doesn’t feel like I’m running away—more like I’m just... leaving stuff behind.”

Wukong didn’t say anything else. He simply stepped out of the way, giving Macaque the space to finish his moment, whatever it was. 

After a long pause, Macaque inhaled a shaky breath. “Alright. Let’s get this over with,” he said quietly, motioning toward the packed boxes.

The move had been a quiet, almost methodical process. Wukong’s place, much bigger than Macaque’s, swallowed the boxes and bags that Macaque had packed, each item landing in a new corner. It felt almost surreal, like shifting the fragments of a life into a space that wasn’t his own. But that was the unspoken agreement they had made—just for now.

Wukong had shown him to the guest room, a place Macaque remembered from that rushed apartment tour that he had been forced into the first time he’d been here. Despite its size, it was relatively empty: a bed with drapes in the middle of the room, and a desk on the side. A desk with a lamp, a closet with a single shelf. Nothing here betrayed its owner; it could belong to anyone.

There was a small Buddhist shrine in the corner. The altar was delicately arranged with offerings of incense, their faint trails of smoke curling upward, leaving the air tinged with sandalwood, like someone had just been there recently (most likely Wukong himself, since in passing he had said he used the guest room to pray sometimes—it was the only room that was soundproofed, apparently). A miniature Bodhisattva figurine sat in serene meditation, flanked by a brass bowl and a string of prayer beads draped neatly on its stand. Near the window, a young Bodhi tree grew in a terracotta pot.

Macaque worked silently as he unpacked the few belongings he’d brought—a small collection of clothes, a couple of books, and scattered items that tethered him to moments when life felt more grounded. Wukong, to his credit, hadn’t asked for explanations, and Macaque hadn’t offered any. Not yet, at least.

“Water?” Wukong’s voice cut through the silence, warm and casual as he stood in the doorway, holding out a glass. The light from the hallway spilled into the room.

Macaque glanced up from the window, where he’d been watching the city dissolve into the evening. “Yeah,” he said, his voice quiet. “Thanks.”

Wukong hesitated at the doorway before crossing the room and setting the glass of water, nearly full, on the nightstand next to the bed. He turned to meet Macaque’s eyes, and they stayed on him for a few, pregnant seconds—before he turned and started to leave.

Macaque’s fingers brushed the cool surface of the glass, his gaze catching on his faint reflection in the water before flicking back to Wukong’s retreating figure.

“Wukong,” Macaque called softly, his voice like it was reaching through layers of something—uncertain but not quite regretful. It wasn’t a question, not exactly, but it was enough to make Wukong stop. 

Macaque didn’t know what he expected to say, but the words came anyway, the words forming clumsily in his mouth before spilling out. “I-I’m sorry, for what I said before. About you. I didn’t—” His voice faltered, but he forced himself to continue. “I didn’t mean it.”

Wukong remained still, his fingers tightening slightly against the wood, as if he were contemplating something that didn’t quite fit in the air. But then, when the silence stretched just a bit too long, he exhaled, a quiet sound that didn’t seem to belong in a room that had grown so heavy.

“… Yeah, you did,” Wukong said, his voice low but unflinching. It wasn’t angry, but it wasn’t soft either. It was just... honest. Macaque’s heart sunk.

His eyes fell to the glass of water cradled in both his hands. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” Macaque said. “It wasn’t about you. It’s—” He stopped himself, swallowing, and looked up to see Wukong watching him.

The words hung in the space between them, suspended for just a beat too long. Wukong didn’t move at first, just stood in the doorway, his back still to the light from the hallway, casting him in shadow but somehow still warm. He could have said something else—anything—but instead, he just nodded once, a small, quiet gesture that seemed to carry more than it should have. When he spoke again, his voice quieter than before, but with an edge that Macaque recognized—a shadow of the words he had said before, the ones that had cut like glass.

“I get it,” Wukong said, his tone still calm but carrying an undertow that made Macaque’s chest tighten. It wasn’t dismissive. It wasn’t harsh. But it felt like Wukong didn’t fully hear him—not the apology, not the meaning beneath it. It was more like Wukong was accepting the apology in the same way someone might nod at a stranger offering an apology they didn’t believe.

Wukong’s fingers flexed against the doorframe, a quiet, subconscious movement that betrayed something inside him. He took a breath. “I know you didn’t mean it that way,” Wukong continued, “But you said it. And you meant it at the time. I’m not stupid, Macaque. Even if you might think I am.”

Macaque felt like he’d been struck. There was a sting there, deep and sharp, a place inside him that had already been scraped raw and now felt like it was being torn open again. He wasn’t sure if he was angrier at himself for letting those words slip out or at Wukong for understanding them too well. Or maybe it was a mix of both. He opened his mouth to respond, to explain, but nothing came.

Wukong turned away fully, one hand resting lightly on the doorframe. “I’ll be across the hall,” he said after a moment. “If you need anything.” Before Macaque could get a single word past his dry throat, he was gone. The door clicked shut behind Wukong, leaving Macaque alone with the quiet.

His gaze drifted, following the faintest movement from the corner of his eye—a sudden flicker of color on the bed. The sheet was still crumpled, the fabric a little too soft, a little too inviting. And there, spread out across it, was the stupid drawing Wukong had made of him that had started this shit in the first place.

He stood by the bed, the world outside fading into quiet darkness, and waited, letting the silence of the room settle over him like a second skin.

—

Wukong padded softly down the hallway, his bare feet pressing lightly against the cool floor, his robe still clinging damply to his skin. The water hadn’t quite dried from his fur—small droplets gathered at the tips of his hair, glistening faintly under the muted light. It clung to the fabric of his robe, the soft, warm material feeling way too heavy as he walked. The steam was in the air, and thick with the scent of his favorite peach body wash.

He moved without purpose at first, just a slow shuffle as he crossed the floor, almost like his feet didn’t have the energy to carry him farther. The bed was still the same, just a little softer, the sheets tucked in too neatly—once he was at the foot of it, he dropped onto the cushions, face first, his knees tucking instinctively to his chest. The coolness of the sheets felt oddly comforting against the warmth in the pit in his body. He exhaled, eyes closing for a moment, and let himself breathe.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. He didn’t need to look at it, but he did anyway. The name blinked at him like a distant echo, a series of messages already lined up. It had come along with a photo of one of Wukong’s old paintings—one of the many, many he had poured all of his heart, soul, and love into, just for the sake of having it returned to him. Teal skin and a beautiful gold mane glared angrily back at him with kind eyes.

Azure: found this while getting ready to move

Azure: miss those drawings

Azure: you were always so talented 

Wukong’s thumb hovered over the screen for a long moment, the tip of his finger just brushing against the option to block. He could end it in an instant, just a tap. No more messages. No more late-night texts that dug at him like dull needles. But his hand didn’t move. Not yet.

Instead, he let the phone rest against his chest, its cool surface grounding him in a way he didn’t expect. The vibrations of the world outside—the hum of traffic, the distant murmur of people still out and about—somehow all filtered in through the window, but it all felt distant, blurry around the edges.

The windows had always been too huge for his bedroom—almost oppressive in how much they let the world inside, as though the city itself had an unwavering claim on his attention. Below, everything stretched in ways that felt almost unreal. The tiny pinpricks of lights blinked out over the expanse of buildings, far enough below to make the chaos of it feel distant and abstract. The city, in all its sharp angles and brilliant bursts of color, seemed almost inconsequential from up here, a tangled mess of lives that couldn’t touch him, even though they were just below the surface.

The roads below, winding and twisting, looked like the veins of the city. The sounds of car horns and faint music filtered in, muffled and distant, like a heartbeat from another room. You could almost forget that there were people living their lives down there, tucked into the corners of the streets, wrapped in their own moments. From up here, they looked more like insects scattering across the ground, moving without purpose or urgency. It felt detached, like he could take a breath and just float away, like his body could leave this place and drift right into the air. There was a disconnect between the world below and the air up here, and for once, he wasn’t sure if that was what he wanted.

He exhaled through his nose, slowly, deliberately. He tried to focus on the way the cool air seeped in through the window, the way his robe pressed against his damp skin, how it felt to breathe—but it was all too much, too little. The phone buzzed again: another text message. He didn’t need to read this one—he knew what it would say.

His fingers trembled slightly, but he didn’t pick up his phone. Instead, he turned his eyes back to the view, the sky growing darker in the distance as the lights of the city twinkled like scattered stars.

It was quieter here than he remembered. Up this high, it felt like there was nothing but the hum of the city, the slow drag of time creeping by with no sense of urgency. Somewhere out there, a train rumbled, like a reminder that the world didn’t stop just because he couldn’t move.

His phone buzzed with another text—this time, Wukong’s eyes flickered to the side to see it as he curled closer around his stomach.

Azure: i think i’ve figured it all out now wukong

Azure: it can all be better

Azure: i promise

Finally, he set the phone down on his chest with a sharp exhale, his breath breaking the stillness of the room. He turned his head toward the window again, the vastness of the city pressing against the glass and closed his eyes, the city below slowly becoming less of a place and more of an idea.

Turning toward the window, he let his eyes trace the fractured geometry of the city below—lines intersecting, lives colliding, everything moving except him. The lights blurred.

He counted to three, and shut his eyes.

Chapter Text

Macaque woke up to a silence so profound it felt alien.

The sun filtered in through the thin curtains of the guest room upstairs, a pale gray light that painted everything in soft, muted tones. He lay still for a moment, staring at the plaster on the ceiling, his mind heavy with the quiet weight of morning confusion. The bed beneath him, a ridiculous king-sized fortress of memory foam and linen sheets, felt both too indulgent and too cold.

He sat up slowly, his body heavy with grogginess. The air carried a faint hint of bergamot and sandalwood, one of Wukong’s signature scents from whatever absurdly priced candles or diffusers he had scattered across the apartment. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his feet meeting the cool floor with a quiet thud. His ears twitched, searching for any sound that might indicate Wukong’s presence. The penthouse was enormous, more space than one person could possibly need, and its emptiness amplified every small sound. But there was nothing—not a single creak of movement.

Macaque slipped out of the guest room, the door clicking shut behind him. The hallway stretched out in muted grays and soft light, lined with abstract art pieces that Wukong had probably bought on a whim. He made his way toward the main living area.

The penthouse was immaculate, as always, but it felt eerily untouched this morning. The open-concept kitchen gleamed under the natural light streaming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows, every surface polished to a shine. The sink was empty except for a single mug—a black one, with “King of Coffee” emblazoned in gold. Macaque picked it up, noting the faint warmth still clinging to the ceramic. He frowned, setting it down carefully.

“Wukong?” His voice felt too small in the vastness of the penthouse, a whisper that seemed to echo and disappear into the corners. The sound of his own name fading into nothingness made him feel more isolated than he had ever felt before in this place.

He moved to the living room, his gaze darting to every corner. The plush sectional sofa, draped in a cashmere throw that cost more than most people’s rent, was empty. The remote sat untouched on the glass coffee table. A few books were stacked on one side—nothing unusual, except for the way they were too neat, like they hadn’t been touched in hours.

“Where the hell are you?” Macaque muttered under his breath, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

His gaze flicked to the hallway, a dark, quiet space that led to the master bedroom. That’s where he found himself next, fingers skimming along the smooth wood of the door before pushing it open. The bedroom, a monument to excess, greeted him with an unsettling kind of stillness. The room smelled like Wukong—faintly sweet, like the lingering trace of his cologne mixed with the musk of someone who didn’t always believe in making the bed. The sheets were half-kicked to one side, and the pillow still bore the faint indent of Wukong’s head.

Up here, it was too quiet.

Macaque’s tail lashed, his ears twitching toward every creak of the building. He returned to the living room, the sharp edge of uncertainty digging deeper. He glanced around, his eyes catching on the arrangement of throw pillows and the somewhat clean glass coffee table.

His chest tightened.

Maybe he should be doing something.

Macaque grabbed the nearest pillow and fluffed it unnecessarily before setting it back down. He moved to the couch, adjusting the cushions and brushing off invisible lint. The movements were jerky at first, but then something clicked into place.

The coffee table came next. A faint smudge caught his eye, and he grabbed the hem of his shirt to wipe it away, muttering under his breath about how Wukong could at least leave a cleaning cloth somewhere.

By the time he noticed the dishes in the sink, his hands were already in the water, scrubbing a plate that didn’t need it. It felt easier this way—busier. The clinking of ceramic against stainless steel broke the suffocating quiet, the water running hotter than necessary against his fingers.

He’d already started tidying the bookshelf when his ears caught it—the faint beep of the elevator and the smooth slide of the front door unlocking.

Macaque’s ears swiveled toward the sound, and he turned just as the door opened. A gust of cool morning air followed Wukong in, along with the faint smell of something floral and sweet. Wukong, hair tied into a messy ponytail, balanced two paper grocery bags in his arms, his golden eyes widening slightly when they landed on Macaque.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Macaque coiled then stepped forward, his voice sharp in the stillness. “Where the hell have you been?”

Wukong raised an eyebrow, setting the bags down by the door with an exaggerated sigh. “Grocery store. You know, that place where food comes from?”

The answer hit him wrong, casual in a way that made Macaque’s teeth clench. “You didn’t think to tell me you were going out?”

Wukong straightened, his expression unreadable. “I didn’t realize I needed your permission to buy greens,” he said, brushing past Macaque into the kitchen.

The hallway suddenly felt too small, the air too sharp. Macaque followed after him, his ears flattening as he bit back the urge to snap. “It’s not about that, and you know it.”

“Do I?” Wukong said over his shoulder, unloading the groceries onto the counter. His movements were slow, like he was giving Macaque just enough time to cool down—or boil over.

Macaque’s ears flattened, his claws curling against his arms. “You could’ve said something,” he muttered, the words cutting through the air like glass.

Wukong turned then, his eyes meeting Macaque’s. His expression was unreadable, but a perfect mask of indifference. “And what would that have changed?”

The question hung in the air, and Macaque’s tail lashed once before going still. He didn’t answer, and Wukong didn’t press him. Instead, Wukong turned back to his groceries, pulling out a loaf of bread and a small jar of expensive-looking honey.

Wukong’s hand paused mid-air, bread in one hand and honey in the other, as his eyes flicked to the sink. He set the items down carefully and walked over, tilting his head as he inspected the spotless basin. His fingers brushed over the rim, where the faint scent of dish soap lingered.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he said, his tone softer now but still laced with something unreadable. He glanced back at Macaque, his golden eyes narrowing slightly. “I was going to get to it.”

Macaque crossed his arms, leaning against the counter but refusing to meet Wukong’s gaze. “It was bothering me,” he said curtly. “This place was a mess.”

“It’s always a mess,” Wukong shot back, but there wasn’t much heat in the words. He leaned against the counter opposite Macaque, the space between them suddenly feeling like a chasm. “Why does it bother you now?”

Macaque’s tail flicked, the tip curling and uncurling. “Maybe because you just up and disappeared this morning without saying a word,” he snapped, his voice rising slightly before he caught himself. He closed his eyes, exhaling sharply. “I wake up, and you’re gone. No note, no text—nothing. I didn’t know if you were coming back or—”

“Or what?” Wukong interrupted, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “What do you think was going to happen, Mac? We’re not a thing. I went to get groceries. End of story.”

Macaque straightened, his ears pinning back. “It’s not just about the groceries. You keep acting like this doesn’t matter.”

Wukong flinched, but his expression didn’t change. Instead, he let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You think I don’t care? That’s rich coming from you.”

Macaque stiffened, his breath catching in his throat. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it means.” Wukong’s voice dropped, quiet but sharp. He stepped away from the counter, turning his back to Macaque as he grabbed the loaf of bread and honey. “But sure, let’s keep pretending this is all about dishes and grocery runs.”

Macaque froze, his mouth opening to respond, but no words came out. The anger drained from his face. “I just...” He took a shaky breath, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. “I just want to know where I stand with you.”

Wukong’s shoulders slumped—for a long moment, the silence returned. Then, he stepped past Macaque, brushing against him as he walked toward the front door.

“You’re standing in a place I can’t stay,” Wukong said quietly, his back to Macaque as he slipped on his jacket. “I’ll be back later.”

—

The club had been loud, chaotic, and numbing—exactly what Wukong needed. The alcohol burned pleasantly as it slid down his throat, drowning out the frustration gnawing at the back of his mind. He leaned heavily on the bar, tail flicking lazily behind him, when he felt it—a hand. Big, heavy, possessive.

“Didn’t peg you for a lightweight, pretty boy,” a deep voice murmured near his ear, the words rumbling like distant thunder.

Wukong turned, already grinning, and came face-to-face with a broad-shouldered man whose smile promised trouble. “Lightweight? You wish,” Wukong fired back, swirling his glass.

The man chuckled, sliding closer, his hand now gripping Wukong’s hip. “How about I test that theory? My place, or yours?”

Wukong leaned into the touch, a playful glint in his eye. “Mine’s closer.”

The club’s entrance spilled them out onto the street, the cool night air sharp against Wukong’s flushed skin. He pulled his phone from his pocket, tapping for a rideshare. The man loomed next to him, lighting a cigarette with one hand while the other found Wukong’s waist again. The touch was firm, rough in a way that Wukong didn’t hate.

“Nice night,” the man said, exhaling smoke into the air.

Wukong glanced up, feigning disinterest. “Sure, if you’re into that whole stars-and-moon thing.”

The guy chuckled, the sound deep and guttural. “You’re a real piece of work, aren’t you?”

Wukong’s grin was sharp. “You have no idea.”

It didn’t take long for them to arrive—they stumbled into Wukong’s apartment, the door slamming shut behind them. The man growled into his mouth through a kiss. “Not bad, pretty boy. Didn’t think you’d live this good.” The man’s hands were everywhere—grabbing at Wukong’s shirt, his arms, pulling him roughly closer. Wukong whimpered, letting himself be half-dragged by the man through the dimly lit space toward his bedroom.

But before they could make it halfway, a voice cut through the haze like a whip crack.

“What the actual fuck is going on here?”

Wukong froze. Standing in the living room doorway was Macaque, arms crossed, his eyes narrowing into slits as he took in the scene.

The larger man’s grip didn’t falter. “Who the hell’s this?” he growled, his tone dripping with irritation.

“None of your business!” Wukong snapped, pulling free and throwing his arms out in mock exasperation. “Why are you even still here, Mac?”

Macaque’s ears flattened. “Why am I still here? You offered to let me stay after our shitfest yesterday, remember? And now you’re bringing some rando into your place like it’s nothing?”

“Hey,” the man barked, stepping forward, “I’m standing right here.”

“Yeah? And you can walk right the fuck out,” Macaque shot back, stepping between him and Wukong.

“Mac, stop!” Wukong’s shout was hoarse, the alcohol slurring his words. “You’re not my goddamn babysitter.”

“And you’re not thinking straight!” Macaque snarled, his tail snapping behind him. “You’re drunk off your ass, bringing some guy into your place like it’s some—what, some hookup motel?”

The man’s patience finally snapped. “I don’t need this shit,” he growled, brushing past both of them and heading for the door. “Call me when you’re not dealing with... whatever this is.” He gestured vaguely between the two of them before slamming the door shut behind him.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Wukong turned on Macaque, his golden eyes blazing. “What the fuck is your problem?” he yelled, voice cracking with anger.

“My problem?” Macaque’s voice rose to match. “You’re acting like a fucking idiot! Do you even care who you bring into your life? What if he tried something?”

Wukong laughed bitterly, throwing his arms wide. “Oh, so now you care? After everything, now you’re suddenly worried about me?”

Macaque’s face darkened, his voice dropping dangerously low. “Don’t twist this on me. I’m not the one throwing my life away for a cheap thrill.”

Wukong’s tail lashed behind him as his voice exploded. “You don’t get to stand there and lecture me like you’re some goddamn saint! You don’t even know what it’s like to be me!”

“And whose fault is that? You keep getting into dangerous situations because you think acting like this is easier than dealing with your shit!”

“Fuck you, Macaque!” Wukong roared, his fists trembling at his sides. “You think you’re so much better than me? You think you’re perfect?”

“Perfect?” Macaque barked a harsh laugh. “I’m the asshole who somehow ends up putting up with you, even when you make it impossible! I don’t even know why I try!”

The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp. Both of them stood there, breathing hard, staring each other down.

Wukong’s chest heaved as he glared at Macaque, his golden eyes blazing, wild and unguarded. The tremble in his fists traveled up his arms, his whole body taut with the tension of barely restrained fury. He took a step forward, closing the space between them, and for a moment, it seemed like he might lash out—at the world, at Macaque, at himself.

“Then don’t fucking try,” Wukong snarled. 

Before Macaque could say another word, Wukong turned on his heel, angrily kicking off his shoes as he stormed toward the hallway. 

“Where the hell are you going?” Macaque shouted after him.

“Away from you,” Wukong shot over his shoulder. He didn’t look back. The sound of his retreating steps echoed through the apartment, followed by the slam of a door—probably his bedroom, though Macaque didn’t care enough to check.

“Fucking asshole,” he muttered under his breath, before busying himself by rearranging the cushions for what felt like the hundredth time.

—

He exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand over his face—sleep wasn’t coming tonight.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Macaque pushed himself up, the floor cool beneath his bare feet. The silence of the place felt heavier as he padded out into the hall, rubbing at the back of his neck.

The hallway was dim as he padded toward the living room, the silence thick but not entirely empty. Not too long after, Macaque found the balcony.

The night air rolled in, sharp and damp, carrying the tang of rain. It curled around the open area, where a glass door stood ajar. A faint chime of glass met Macaque’s ears—steady, deliberate, as if testing how much noise it could make without truly breaking the silence.

He stepped closer, his movements slow, calculated, careful not to disturb the fragile quiet. Wukong stood at the edge of the balcony, his figure painted in moonlight. Barefoot. The knot of his bathrobe hung loose at his hips, the silk draping carelessly over his frame. His shoulders were exposed, the line of his spine cutting a sharp silhouette against the city’s glow. A tall glass of champagne dangled precariously from his fingers.

Macaque leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. His tail flicked once, then twice, but the motion betrayed nothing. “You’re gonna drop that,” he said, voice low but firm enough to carry over the breeze.

The champagne glass stilled from its sway, and Wukong’s head tilted, just slightly, though he didn’t turn. “Wouldn’t that be something?” he murmured, his tone lilting, playful, but with an edge that cut too deeply to be ignored.

Macaque didn’t respond immediately. His eyes traced the slope of Wukong’s neck, the way his hair fell messily against his skin, tangled and wild.

“Could you be any more dramatic?” Macaque said after a beat, stepping onto the balcony. The chill bit at his arms, but he didn’t flinch.

Wukong’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Am I being dramatic?” His grip on the glass shifted, fingers tightening.

Macaque’s gaze flicked to the champagne again, then back to Wukong. “What are you doing out here?”

“Drinking,” Wukong replied simply, finally turning his head. His golden eyes gleamed, unfocused but sharp in their own way. The faint flush on his cheeks betrayed the alcohol on his breath, the way his lips curved lazily into a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thought that was obvious.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

Wukong straightened just enough to rest his elbows against the railing, the silk of his robe slipping further down his arms. “What, you’re worried I’m gonna do something stupid? Jump, or fall—to my death?” He stilled. “Don’t lose sleep over me. I’ve got it handled.”

Macaque took another step forward, his tail flicking again, sharper this time. He didn’t answer right away, watching as Wukong tilted his head back to take a long, languid sip of champagne. The moonlight caught the movement, glinting off the rim of the glass.

Macaque spoke. “Where were you? You’ve been gone all night.”

“Out.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Wukong sighed. “Club. Drinking. Dancing. Looking for a Prince Charming to sweep me off my feet.”

Macaque’s jaw tightened, his tail snapping behind him like a whip. “That’s real fucking mature.”

“Don’t start,” Wukong shot back, his voice rising, his hands spreading wide as if he were about to deliver some grand revelation. “Maybe I just really wanted to be fucked senseless tonight. But we can’t have everything, can we?”

Macaque stilled, before silently joining Wukong at the railing. His gaze followed the restless motion of it all, both distracting and oddly soothing. The skyline was a jagged silhouette against the faint smear of stars, the towering buildings standing as silent witnesses to their conversation.

The wind brushed past, cool and brisk, carrying with it the faint scent of rain and exhaust. It tugged at Wukong’s bathrobe, pulling it further from his shoulders, revealing the curve of his collarbone and the smooth line of his back. His champagne glass tilted dangerously in his loose grip, the liquid within catching the city lights and refracting them like shards of broken glass. From there, Wukong looked like a statue—beautiful and untouchable.

“I really think you’re gonna spill that.”

Wukong’s lips twitched into something. “So what?” he shrugged, raising the glass slightly and watching as the liquid inside rippled. “It’s just champagne. There’s always more.”

Macaque didn’t respond. He turned his attention back to the view, his fingers curling around the cool metal of the railing. The city stretched endlessly, a sea of lights and shadows, and for a moment, he let himself get lost in it.

“Thinking I see a pattern here: is this what you do?” he asked after a long pause, his voice low, almost tentative. “When you’re pissed off at people? Go to clubs, drink yourself stupid, and... whatever else you were planning to do?”

Wukong snorted softly, a bitter sound that didn’t quite match the elegance of his posture. “It’s what I do when I’m me, Mac. There’s no grand scheme here. Just a stupid monkey trying to feel something.”

“And there’s really nothing else?”

The air between them thickened as the silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant hum of the city below. Wukong swirled the remnants of champagne in his glass, the bubbles clinging to the sides like they were desperate to escape. He didn’t look at Macaque, his gaze fixed somewhere past the railing, past the skyline, past the present.

“You don’t get it,” Wukong said finally.

Macaque narrowed his eyes, leaning closer to the railing. “Don’t get what?”

Wukong turned his head just enough for Macaque to catch the profile of his face and the tightness in his jaw. “People expect me to be perfect. Always have. Always will.” He let out a laugh, short and bitter, and tipped the champagne glass lazily to his lips, though he didn’t drink. “Just perfect little Wukong—doesn’t complain, doesn’t say a word, super happy all the time, what a ray of sunshine. Pretty little thing, always such a good slut.”

Macaque stared, not saying anything.

“You?” Wukong continued. “No one’s ever expected shit from you. You get to screw up. You get to be the underdog, the one who surprises everyone when they actually manage to do something right. But me?” He tapped his chest with the rim of the glass. “I’ve been starting at the finish line my whole damn life.”

Macaque bristled and he gripped the railing hard. One hand, the one farther from Wukong, flew to the side of his head to count his ears. “And that’s supposed to make it easier for me? No one taking me seriously? Everyone assuming I’m just going to fail? That I’m not worth a second look?”

Wukong finally turned, setting the glass down on the railing with a hollow clink. His eyes locked onto Macaque’s, sharp and tired and full of something Macaque couldn’t quite name. “At least you got to decide what to prove, Mac. At least you got to do it for you.” He gestured vaguely toward the skyline. “Me? I can’t win.”

“That’s a real convenient excuse,” Macaque said, his voice low but no less biting.

Wukong’s brow furrowed, his golden eyes narrowing. “Excuse?”

“Yeah. Excuse,” Macaque repeated. “An excuse to burn your life to the ground.”

Wukong stared at him, his expression unreadable, the glass still dangling from his fingers. “Burn it down, huh?” he said, voice dropping back into something calmer, though the edge hadn’t softened. “What the hell’s left to burn?”

Macaque stood still, watching the subtle clench of Wukong’s jaw. He didn’t move closer, didn’t try to meet his gaze. “You’re doing it on purpose.”

Wukong’s mouth twitched. “Doing what?”

“Pushing everything. Making it worse.” Macaque’s voice was low but steady. “Don’t pretend you don’t want to watch it all go up in flames.”

Wukong didn’t look at him. He didn’t have to. “You’re not much better, you know.”

Macaque stood there, his mouth half-open, then closed. His tail flicked once behind him, restless, before he finally exhaled. “Maybe not.” 

Wukong let the silence stretch for a while, gaze still fixed on the distant skyline, arms crossed loosely. The words came slowly, almost like he was testing the air between them. “Yeah, okay.”

The city buzzed faintly in the distance, cars and lights painting a backdrop that neither of them seemed to notice. Finally, Macaque exhaled.

“Look,” he started, his voice quieter now, words slower, like he was feeling his way through them. “About yesterday. I meant what I said.” He hesitated, his tail curling around one leg before flicking back out again. “But that doesn’t make it okay that I said it.”

Wukong simply looked at him, the wind nipping at his hair. “You’re really digging into the whole apology thing, huh?”

“I’m serious.” Macaque’s gaze darted away for a moment before locking back onto Wukong’s. “I was pissed, and I said something shitty. That’s on me.”

Wukong studied him for a long moment, his expression softening just enough to betray how exhausted he looked. He shrugged one shoulder, the motion causing his robe to slip even further. Wukong’s phone half-dangled out of his pocket, buzzing slightly before falling back into silence. “It’s fine. Doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” Macaque insisted.

Finally, Wukong sighed, his shoulders slumping. “You should go to bed, Mac.”

“Yeah,” Macaque said, his voice quieter now, the fight draining out of him. “Maybe you should too.”

Wukong shrugged again. “Maybe.” He didn’t move afterward, though.

After a while, Macaque went back inside. In the distance, through the glass door of the balcony, he could see Wukong’s silhouette against the city lights—still standing there, still alone. The glass he’d set on the railing caught the light, shimmering faintly, untouched.

Macaque turned away and went back to bed.

Chapter Text

When Macaque woke up the next day, the apartment was quiet, save for some ‘80s music on the stereo and the pawing on his chest.

It wasn’t heavy, but it wasn’t nothing either. When he glanced down, he was met with the sight of Xiaohei perched squarely on top of him, the cat’s green eyes watching him with a mixture of curiosity and smug satisfaction.

“You’ve got some nerve,” Macaque muttered, his voice hoarse with sleep. He shifted slightly, but Xiaohei didn’t budge, instead letting out a soft, commanding meow.

“Really? You’re just gonna sit there?” Macaque raised an eyebrow, reaching up to scratch behind the cat’s ears. Xiaohei purred in response, leaning into his touch.

Macaque sighed, letting his head fall back against the pillow. “Guess I’m not getting up anytime soon, huh?” The cat kneaded his chest with her tiny paws, a gentle but insistent rhythm that made Macaque chuckle despite himself. “Alright, alright. You win.”

He sat up slowly, careful not to dislodge Xiaohei, who leapt gracefully onto the bed beside him. The little furball stretched and yawned, clearly pleased with herself, before curling up on the blanket like she had accomplished something monumental.

Macaque rubbed the sleep from his eyes, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You’re lucky you’re cute, you know that?”

Xiaohei blinked at him lazily, unbothered, and Macaque swung his legs over the edge of the bed, stretching. The faint smell of whatever Wukong had left in the kitchen wafted through the apartment, but Macaque’s stomach protested for something fresh.

After brushing his teeth in the guest room bathroom, he padded out of the room and into the open space of Wukong’s apartment—the song on the stereo was clearer now, some rendition of Fleet Macwood’s The Chain playing on medium volume. Macaque poked his head into the kitchen, hoping for some sign of life. Nothing, save for an empty plate littered with a half-empty wrapper of small crackers.

“Guess he’s out again,” Macaque muttered, checking the time on his phone. Mid-morning. Wukong’s absence wasn’t surprising, but Macaque had, for some reason, been hoping they could talk.

Xiaohei brushed against his leg, and Macaque crouched to scratch the cat’s head. “What do you think? Should I stick around here and keep you company, or actually go get some real food?” Xiaohei stared at him with an unreadable expression before letting out a quiet trill and darting toward the couch, where she leapt onto a cushion and curled into a loaf.

“Right. Got it. You’re good on your own,” Macaque said, standing up. He grabbed his wallet and keys from the counter, throwing one last glance at Xiaohei. He grabbed his hoodie from the couch and put it on over his shirt. “You’re in charge.”

The cat didn’t even look up, already dozing again as Macaque left through the hall and out the front door.

Macaque stepped out of the building and into the lazy mid-morning sun. The faint buzz of the city wrapped around him, steady and distant. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, squirming a little against the heat, and started walking aimlessly down towards the direction of campus.

His mind flicked through the options as his sneakers scuffed against the pavement. There was that chain café a few blocks down—decent coffee, overpriced pastries, and a predictable crowd of students and freelancers glued to their laptops. A convenience store sat just around the corner, always stocked with cheap instant ramen and an impressive array of sad-looking sandwiches. Quick, cheap, and lonely.

Then there was Pigsy’s Noodles.

He glanced at the café on the corner as he passed, but the thought of sitting alone in a sea of strangers hunched over their screens didn’t appeal to him. And the convenience store? That was just... sad.

Yup. Pigsy’s it was.

The walk wasn’t far, but it gave him too much time to think. Last night bothered him—it bothered him to an extent where he wanted to scratch his own skin off. He still hated the idea of having to live in someone else’s apartment without helping with any payment whatsoever with their cat, and especially as someone seemed to be going through some life crisis—

—that Macaque may have had some part in.

He winced. He really shouldn’t have said that stuff that day.

The neon sign flashed into view. Macaque paused outside the door, hands still in his pockets, and took a breath before stepping in. A little bell above the door chimed as he entered—the place was mostly empty, save for a couple of patrons slurping their noodles at a corner booth. The smell of broth and fresh dumplings filled the air, a very welcome contrast to the sterile emptiness of Wukong’s house.

Pigsy, who was wiping the counter, looked up; surprise flickered over his face before he set the towel aside.

“Well, look who it is,” Pigsy said, his voice gruff but not unkind. “Didn’t expect to see you without the loudmouth or the kid.”

Macaque shrugged, slipping onto a stool at the counter. “Yeah, well, Wukong’s… busy.”

“Figures. That kid’s always running around like he’s got a fire under his ass.” Pigsy grabbed a menu and slid it across the counter. “What’ll it be?”

Macaque didn’t bother looking. “Whatever’s cheapest. And warm.”

Pigsy snorted. “You’re not exactly rolling in cash, huh?”

Macaque stiffened, hoping his face wasn’t too red. “What gave it away?”

“The way you asked,” Pigsy said matter-of-factly, reaching for a bowl. “Relax, kid. I’ve seen worse. You eat yet today?”

Macaque hesitated, then shook his head.

Pigsy sighed. “Figured as much.” He set to work without another word, ladling broth and noodles into a bowl. The rhythmic clatter of utensils filled the silence. An ad played somewhere in the corner of the restaurant.

When the bowl was in front of him, steaming and fragrant, Pigsy leaned against the counter. “Eat. It’s on the house. A friend of MK’s is always welcome here.”

Macaque’s fingers froze above the bowl. He stared down at it for a moment, his chest tightening without warning. “I can’t...” he started, but his voice trailed off, as though it was hard to get the words out. His hand hovered over the noodles, the warm steam rising in a thick, curling cloud. “I can pay. I don’t—”

Pigsy was already shaking his head. “No. You’re here. You need to eat, not argue. MK’s friend, MK’s rules. You don’t owe me anything.”

There was a small, unfamiliar taste in the back of Macaque’s throat as he took the chopsticks in his hand, but the weight of Pigsy’s gaze on him didn’t lift. The quiet guilt tugged at the corner of his mind, making it harder to focus on the bowl in front of him. He was already opening his mouth to protest again when Pigsy spoke again, softer now.

“Listen, you’ve been through enough crap lately, haven’t you?” Pigsy muttered, his tone rough like gravel. “You don’t need to add feeling guilty about this to the list.”

Macaque’s mouth tightened, his grip on the chopsticks firm, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet Pigsy’s eyes. There was an uncomfortable silence between them as the sounds of the kitchen seemed to grow distant.

“I snapped at MK,” Macaque said suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted anyone to hear it. He cleared his throat. “At work. He… he was asking about me and Wukong. Like always. I don’t know, I just… got angry. Told him to mind his own business.”

He looked down at the bowl, but it seemed to blur at the edges, the steam from the noodles clouding his vision. The weight of the words seemed heavier than the bowl itself.

Pigsy didn’t say anything. The sounds of the kitchen had faded completely now, leaving only the soft clink of Macaque’s chopsticks against the bowl.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Macaque continued, though his voice barely carried. “He was just trying to help. I know that. But I got frustrated, and I didn’t know what to say.” He paused, feeling the edges of his words dull, replaced by something more jagged. “I don’t even know what’s going on with Wukong anymore. One minute he’s close, and the next he’s... I don’t know.”

Pigsy leaned back slightly, crossing his arms, watching Macaque with a quiet patience that made the space feel smaller. Finally, he gave a low, thoughtful grunt.

“Yeah, MK can be a bit much sometimes. Always poking around, trying to get you to talk when you’re not ready,” Pigsy said with a shrug, a faint trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But he means well. He’s a good kid. Just… a little too eager, I guess.” He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms, and gave Macaque a knowing look. “He’s not trying to make things worse, you know?”

Macaque shrunk and stuffed more noodles into his mouth before giving a mute nod.

Pigsy gave a low chuckle. “Kid, you don’t gotta explain it to me. Wukong, MK—hell, even you, you’re all just… tangled up in things you can’t sort out. It’s life.” Pigsy’s gaze softened, but there was still that weight behind it, as though he was trying to measure something important in the silence. “But MK, he’s not tryin’ to pry. He’s just trying to understand. You keep your walls up, that’s your choice, but he’s not the enemy here.”

Macaque let the words sink in, but they felt strange in his chest, like trying to breathe through thick fog. “I don’t know how to talk about it,” he muttered, his voice rough. “With Wukong, with MK—with anyone. Every time I try, it feels like I make everything worse.”

Pigsy pushed himself off the counter, moving toward the back of the kitchen. The sound of clattering dishes seemed louder than it had a second ago, and Macaque looked down at his half-empty bowl, feeling like he was waiting for something to break.

When Pigsy came back into view, he met Macaque’s gaze directly, unflinching. “Kid, you can’t fix Wukong, not until he’s ready. And you can’t make MK’s questions fit your timeline. You’re gonna have to figure out where your line is. You wanna push people away? Fine. But you’re gonna be the one stuck in that corner.”

Macaque sat silently, the weight of Pigsy’s words pressing down like a hand on his back. It wasn’t an answer, but maybe it didn’t need to be. Maybe he wasn’t asking for one.

Pigsy gave a brief, almost imperceptible nod, then slapped Macaque on the back, a little too hard, but there was no malice in it. “Eat the food. You’ll figure it out, sooner or later. Don’t let it eat you up, yeah?”

He walked off back to the kitchen to toss noodles, and Macaque took another bite, trying to figure out from what line everything would start to make more sense.

—

Macaque had always found the library (and the theater, but it was closed on Sundays) his refuge—from quite literally everything except librarians and dust bunnies sitting on the shelves.

The public computer, a dusty thing tucked in a corner, had offered no judgment, no probing questions. It was just a machine, humming quietly as he typed out essays and summaries, attempting to quiet the storm of thoughts that had followed him from Pigsy’s to the campus library. It was easier to lose himself in words—there were no messy feelings there, no stupid questions he didn’t have answers for.

Once it was time for him to leave, Macaque pushed through the doors of the library, the cool evening air hitting him like a shock. He wrapped his arms tighter around himself, letting his head nestle against the warmth of his hoodie. His thoughts were clearer now, though not less complicated. He wasn’t sure what he was going back to, but there was no point in dragging his feet any longer. Wukong would still be there, probably caught up in his usual whirlwind of chaotic energy, and Macaque had to face whatever came next.

When he finally reached the apartment, he stood for a moment outside the door, hesitating as he adjusted the keys in his hand. The lock clicked, but instead of the usual quiet that welcomed him back, there was a sound that made him pause.

It was the rhythmic slap of dough against a counter—Macaque beelined his way to the source.

The kitchen was a disaster. Flour streaked across the counters and floors like a haphazard battlefield, and the unmistakable scent of burnt sugar hung in the air. Macaque stopped in the doorway, folding his arms as he leaned against the frame.

Wukong stood at the counter, his back to the door, half-immersed in what could only be described as a hopeless fight with a mound of dough that clung stubbornly to his fingers. Flour was everywhere—on the counter, in streaks across his shirt, even dusting the tips of his hair. A trail of something sticky dripped from the edge of the mixing bowl, pooling near his elbow. His movements were short and aggressive, his hands sinking into the sticky mass as though sheer force would fix the problem.

Macaque cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the silence. “What are you doing?”

Wukong’s shoulders stiffened slightly, but he didn’t turn around. “What does it look like?”

“Looks like you’re trying to strangle that dough,” Macaque said dryly, stepping into the room. “And losing.”

“Go away,” Wukong muttered half-heartedly before giving the mass of dough a hard thump with his fist.

Macaque watched from a considerable distance, eyes on the countertop. “You know, if you keep kneading it like that, you’re gonna end up with a rock, not bread.”

“Then maybe I’ll just throw it at something.” Wukong didn’t look up.

“Alright,” he said, rolling up his sleeves. “Move over before you turn that into a weapon.”

“I said I’ve got it,” Wukong snapped, finally turning to glare at him.

Macaque met his gaze evenly, not backing down. “Clearly, you don’t. So unless you want to eat whatever disaster that’s gonna turn into, let me help.”

For a moment, Wukong didn’t move. His jaw tightened, but then, with a frustrated huff, he stepped aside, wiping his hands on a towel.

“Fine,” he muttered, his voice low. “Do whatever you want.”

Macaque stepped up to the counter, surveying the sticky mess in front of him. “You’ve got too much water in here,” he said, grabbing some flour to sprinkle over the dough. “No wonder it’s clinging to you like that.”

Wukong crossed his arms, leaning against the counter as he watched Macaque’s hands move with precision, folding and pressing the dough with practiced ease.

“You bake?”

“Yes, and you don’t, apparently.”

Wukong huffed in annoyance.

For a few minutes, they worked in silence, the only sounds being the soft rustle of flour and the gentle slap of dough against the counter. Eventually, Wukong shifted closer, peering over Macaque’s shoulder. “You’re actually not bad at this,” he shrugged.

Macaque smirked. “Not bad? I’m saving your ass right now, and that’s all you’ve got to say?”

“That’s an overstatement.”

“Unless you wanted to burn your fancy place down.”

Wukong’s lips twitched. “Alright, fine. You’re decent.”

“Wow, couldn’t have picked a better adjective.”

Before Macaque could react, Wukong grabbed a handful and flicked it toward him, the white powder puffing into the air and landing across his dark shirt. Macaque froze, staring at the mess on his clothes. Slowly, he turned to glare at Wukong, who was already backing away, with that stupid grin on his face.

God, he’d missed that look.

“You’re kidding,” he said flatly.

“Oops,” Wukong shrugged, not looking sorry at all.

Macaque grabbed a handful of dough and lobbed it at Wukong’s chest. The look of mock outrage on his face was almost worth the mess. “Oops,” he echoed. 

Wukong stared down at the lump of dough stuck to his shirt, his mouth hanging open in exaggerated shock. “Oh, you’ve done it now,” he said.

Macaque smirked, already grabbing another handful of flour. “What are you gonna do? Punch more dough?”

“No,” Wukong said, eyes narrowing as he grabbed the mixing bowl. “I’m upgrading.”

Before Macaque could react, a fistful of dough came flying his way, landing squarely on his shoulder. He stood there for a moment, processing the attack, before slowly brushing the sticky lump off and letting it fall to the floor.

“That’s war,” he muttered.

The next few moments were chaos. Flour filled the air like smoke on a battlefield as Macaque hurled a handful straight at Wukong’s face, who ducked and retaliated with a spray of sugar from the counter. Laughter bounced off the walls, and soon both of them were coated head to toe in a fine dusting of white, streaked with splotches of sticky dough.

Macaque darted around the counter, grabbing the small bowl of cocoa powder Wukong had abandoned earlier. “Say goodbye to your shit-eating grin,” he taunted, aiming carefully.

Wukong’s eyes widened, and he backed away, holding his hands up. “Whoa, whoa, let’s talk about this.”

“Oh, now you want to talk?” Macaque laughed. “Too late.”

He flung the cocoa powder—it wasn’t the most accurate shot, but enough landed on Wukong’s hair and shoulders to make him splutter indignantly.

“You’re evil,” Wukong said, brushing futilely at the dark powder streaking his golden hair.

“You’re the one who started it.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d be so ruthless.” Wukong said just as he grabbed a handful of frosting from a nearby bowl.

Macaque barely had time to dodge as Wukong charged, smearing frosting across his cheek in a clumsy swipe. “Wukong!” he shouted, laughing despite himself as he tried to wrestle him away.

Somehow, in the midst of their struggle, they ended up pressed against the counter, Wukong’s back against the edge and Macaque leaning just slightly forward, his arms braced on either side of him. Wukong’s hands, still smeared with frosting, hovered awkwardly midair, unsure of where to go. Wukong’s grin softened, and it was the most genuine thing Macaque had seen from Wukong in a long time.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Macaque’s breath hitched as he felt Wukong’s fingers brush against his cheek, the touch surprisingly gentle as he wiped away a streak of flour. His golden eyes darted across Macaque’s face as he looked for something—what, he wasn’t entirely sure. Maybe some sign that this wasn’t a mistake. “You’ve got something…” Wukong murmured, his voice quieter now.

“So do you,” Macaque replied, gesturing vaguely at the mess on Wukong’s face, but his tone was far less teasing than he’d intended.

“You know,” Macaque said after a beat, brushing flour off his sleeve, “this whole thing started because you were terrible at baking.”

Wukong raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking up again. “Oh, so you’re some master baker?” he shot back.

“Well, I’m not the one who was fighting dough,” Macaque retorted, stepping back and giving Wukong some room, though the sudden space between them felt oddly empty.

Wukong huffed under his breath and was about to push away from the flour-covered counter when Wukong’s phone buzzed in his pocket, slicing through the quiet like a jarring chord. He took it out and glanced at the screen, his expression tight, his gaze lingering a moment longer than necessary.

Without a word, he snatched the phone up with a practiced casualness, as though he hadn't just frozen at the sight of the name. His smile—the one that had barely started to bloom—faded as quickly as it had arrived, leaving only a thin line of impatience in its wake.

“Who is it?” Macaque asked, albeit carefully.

Wukong paused. For a moment, his gaze flickered over Macaque, a flash of something unreadable in his eyes. Then he turned away, his back to Macaque, shoulders slightly hunched as he began walking toward his room. “No one important,” he said, his voice strangely flat, the words hanging in the air before dissipating.

Macaque's lips parted, a million things on the tip of his tongue, but he didn't say them. Instead, he watched Wukong retreat, the quiet thumps of his feet against the floor marking each step, each one pulling Wukong further away from him. The kitchen, now suddenly too large, was suffocating with the remnants of their earlier laughter—flour on the counter, crumbs scattered across the floor, the warm scent of freshly baked dough still hanging in the air like a ghost of something sweet, something fleeting.

Seconds later, he could hear the faint click of the door shutting upstairs, and for the briefest second, it felt like the entire world had just held its breath.

He blinked once, then twice, before his eyes fell to the counter, drawn to the cookbook Wukong had abandoned.

The pages were still open, the slight crease in the middle where the book had been carelessly set down. Macaque leaned closer, the soft rustle of paper filling the silence, and his gaze settled on the word at the top of the page: Bienenstich.

He mouthed it slowly, the word curling on his tongue like the first time he had to say it—that stupid cake slice Wukong had brought over to his apartment, smiles and all in that stupid paper container. 

With a sigh, he rolled up his sleeves, and began to clean.

—

Wukong let the door fall shut behind him with a soft click, letting it stay open just enough for Xiaohei to slip into the room. He stood there, his thumb hovering over the phone, staring at the name on the screen as if willing it to disappear. But it didn’t. It was still there, waiting.

The name made something in his chest tighten. He knew, logically, he should just ignore it—should’ve blocked the number, erased him from his life completely. Against his better judgment, he swiped to answer.

“Wukong,” Azure said his name like it was the opening line to an intimate conversation, smooth and warm, so familiar. “Finally. Thought I’d been blocked for good. You’ve been quiet lately. How are you?”

Wukong sank onto the edge of his bed, his voice clipped. “What do you want?”

Azure’s chuckle came through soft and rich, like he was genuinely amused. “No hello? No, ‘It’s been a while’? Typical. Still as sharp as ever.” He paused for just a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was silk. “I just wanted to catch up. It’s been too long, hasn’t it? You’ve been on my mind.”

Wukong frowned. “You didn’t call just to catch up, Azure. What is it?”

Azure didn’t relent. “How are you doing?”

Wukong rubbed his temple. He hated this. He hated how easily Azure made him feel like he was back in the past, back when every conversation felt like a carefully scripted dance. “I’m fine.” 

“Fine, huh?” Azure chuckled softly, his voice just a little too knowing. “So that’s it? No exciting new stories to tell? No wild nights? I heard you’ve been out a lot lately. Meeting new faces?”

His chest tightened uncomfortably. “I get out,” Wukong said flatly, his hand gripping the phone tighter. “What’s your point?”

“I mean, we were together for years, Wukong. I can’t help but care. It’s quite surprising, though. You were never like this before. Not when we were together.”

Wukong bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, his hand tightening around the phone. “I was like that before I met you, Azure. I just never told you. And people change.”

“Do they?” Azure said softly, his voice deceptively gentle. “Or is this just you running away again?”

The words struck like a whip, and for a moment, Wukong couldn’t breathe. He felt stripped bare, exposed in a way only Azure could make him feel. Oh god, he hated that feeling.

“Why do you even care?” he managed.

“Because I know you,” Azure replied without hesitation. “I know how hard you’re trying. And it hurts to see you like this, even from a distance.”

“Stop acting like you give a shit.”

“But I do care,” Azure said, the charm in his voice sharpening into something more insistent. “I always have. That’s why I ended things the way I did. You were suffocating yourself—suffocating us. Me. I thought giving you space would help you grow. Help you find yourself.”

“Don’t.” Wukong’s voice cracked, the word coming out like a plea. “Don’t pretend breaking me was some kind of favor. You know what you did to me.”

Azure sighed, the sound so soft it sounded sincere. “I didn’t mean to break you, Wukong. I just wanted you to be better. To be happy.”

“Well, congratulations,” Wukong said bitterly. “You got what you wanted.”

Another pause, longer this time. When Azure spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost regretful. “I didn’t mean for it to turn out like this. But you’re stronger now, aren’t you? More confident. You’ve moved on, right? Or… maybe not, if you’re still this angry.”

“I’m not angry,” Wukong lied.

“Sure you’re not,” Azure said, his voice soft and maddeningly calm. “But listen, I just wanted to say… I miss you. And I’m here if you ever want to talk. Or… anything else.”

The words felt like a noose. 

“Do you miss me?”

It felt like a trap. A test. And Wukong, for the first time in a long while, didn’t know how to answer. His mind scrambled for a response, for any words to push back against the tidal wave whatever the fuck he was feeling at the moment, but they wouldn’t come.

“I… don’t know,” Wukong admitted, his voice breaking for just a second before he caught himself. It was a whisper, but it felt loud in his own head.

There was silence on the other end for a moment, and then Azure’s voice returned. “You don’t know? Wukong, that’s not like you. You’ve always been so sure of yourself. But I get it. It’s complicated, isn’t it? We were complicated.”

Wukong swallowed and it hurt.

“You used to tell me everything, remember? Late at night, when the world was quiet and it was just us. I’d say something stupid, and you’d laugh, and suddenly, everything was just better. Don’t you miss that? What I had to offer? The way we used to just... fit?”

Wukong’s grip on the phone tightened. “I don’t... I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Azure chuckled softly. “I’m not asking you to say anything, Wukong. Just think about it. About us. About what we had. I’m not saying it was perfect, but it was real, wasn’t it?”

He closed his eyes, the lump in his throat too big to swallow. “I need to go.”

“You know where to find me.”

The line went dead with a dead click. 

Wukong stood there for a moment after the call ended, his hand still gripping the phone as though it might anchor him to something solid. His chest heaved in shallow breaths, and the emptiness of the room around him pressed in on all sides: what the hell was he doing?

The tears, which he had been pushing down for so long, began to surface. Slowly, hesitantly, they slid down his face, but he couldn't stop them. His fingers trembled as he wiped them away—his throat tightened, and his breath caught in a jagged sob that he swallowed quickly, ashamed.

For a few seconds, the only sound in the room was the rush of his breath, the quiet sniffs, and Xiaohei mewling at his feet. Wukong’s gaze darted to the door, half expecting someone to walk in, but the thought barely crossed his mind before it became real.

Macaque’s figure appeared in the entryway as he opened the door—Wukong quickly turned his head, pressing his face into his sleeve as if he could hide everything in that one motion. He tried to steady his breath, to force the tears back into the depths where they belonged, but it was no use. He couldn’t stop now.

Macaque didn’t say anything else. Instead, he stepped forward slowly, making his way toward Wukong’s side. Then, without a sound, Macaque reached over and scooped up Xiaohei, before sitting down next to Wukong on his bed—from there, he gently handed Wukong the mound of black fur.

Wukong choked on a rather pitiful sob and hugged Xiaohei to his chest—for once, instead of squirming, Xiaohei curled up instinctively into the crook of his arm and started to purr into his shirt. Wukong buried his face in her fur, feeling the soft, silky strands against his cheek, and for a fleeting moment, the world outside his small bubble faded.

He squeezed the cat, a small, almost desperate motion. “Thanks,” he mumbled, talking to Xiaohei. Or Macaque. Or both. Macaque just nodded and continued to sit by.

Both of them forgot to realize that six ears, without their glamours, were out in the open like some kind of minor detail.

Chapter Text

The elevator ride to the penthouse was smooth, almost eerily so, the soft chime of each passing floor a steady countdown to something that made Wukong’s skin buzz with excitement. His grip tightened on the key card in his pocket, heart drumming a rhythm against his ribs.

His place. Their place.

When the door slid open and he walked past the hallway, he barely registered the pristine marble floors or the way the evening sun sprawled golden across the walls, filtered through massive floor-to-ceiling windows. What he did see—what his eyes locked onto instantly—was Azure, standing in the middle of the empty living room, watching the city burn orange in the fading light.

Azure always looked like he belonged in places like this—effortlessly composed, like the world had been carved to fit him. He was dressed casually, dark sleeves rolled up to his elbows, but there was something almost regal about the way he held himself. He turned when Wukong entered—then, like slow honey, his lips curved into a smirk.

“You took your time,” he said, smooth as silk.

Wukong barely managed to drop his bag before he was striding over, arms already moving around Azure’s waist, pressing himself against him with the kind of shameless enthusiasm that would’ve been embarrassing if he had the mind to care.

“We’re moving in together,” Wukong breathed, his grin so wide it ached. His cheek pressed against the fabric of Azure’s chest, warm and solid beneath his touch. “Holy shit, we’re actually moving in together.”

Azure huffed a small, amused sound, one arm looping around Wukong’s shoulders, the other hand settling at his waist. His fingers, always precise, ghosted against the nape of Wukong’s neck in slow, absentminded circles. “That was the plan.”

Wukong pulled back just enough to look at him, but not enough to let go. “I’m gonna wake up next to you. Every morning. We’re gonna make breakfast together, do things together—”

Azure hummed, tilting his head. “Do things, huh?”

Wukong’s grin widened. “Oh, absolutely.”

Azure laughed, a rich, warm sound that settled deep in Wukong’s chest. Then he dipped his head, pressing a kiss to Wukong’s temple, then another, just at the crest of his cheekbone. Wukong practically melted.

“Welcome home, love,” Azure murmured.

And just like that, Wukong felt his ribs squeeze tight, heart pressing against his sternum like it was too much—too much happiness, too much everything.

So he kissed him.

He kissed him like he needed to, like the only way to get the feeling out of his chest was to pour it into Azure’s mouth, into the warmth of his lips, the way they curled just slightly as if he’d expected this.

Azure kissed him back easily, effortlessly, fingers tightening in his hair. Wukong tilted his head, chasing more, sighing against him when Azure pulled away just slightly, only to brush their noses together, teasing, his breath warm against Wukong’s lips. Wukong sighed into it, pressing closer, breath catching when Azure’s teeth grazed—just barely—against his lower lip before soothing over it.

It tasted like heaven.

When Azure finally pulled away completely, Wukong swayed forward, chasing him on instinct with his breath uneven.

“You,” Azure murmured, thumb tracing along his jaw, “are terribly easy to wind up.”

Heat licked up Wukong’s spine, blooming across his face. He groaned, pushing his forehead against Azure’s shoulder. “Shut up.”

Azure gave a small shake of his head, lips barely suppressing a smirk. “Come on,” he murmured, briefly leaning in to gently kiss Wukong’s temple. “We should get our stuff inside.”

Wukong groaned dramatically, burying his face against Azure’s shoulder. “Mmm, can’t we just stay like this a little longer?”

Azure exhaled, fond and exasperated all at once. “If we do, we’ll be unpacking until midnight.”

Wukong huffed but relented, dragging himself away and stretching before grabbing another bag. The penthouse was mostly unfurnished, save for a sleek leather couch and a glass coffee table that Azure had set up beforehand. The windows stretched across nearly the entire wall, offering an uninterrupted view of the city below—skyscrapers glinting under the last light of day, streets alive with moving car headlights, the world shifting into its nighttime rhythm.

“I still can’t believe you found this place,” Wukong mused, setting a box down beside the couch. “It’s so—I dunno. Fancy. Kinda feels like one of those apartments in dramas where rich CEOs live.”

Azure smirked. “You are rich.”

“Yeah, but I don’t act rich.” Wukong shrugged. “I dunno, I always figured I’d be happy anywhere, long as it had a bed and a fridge.”

Azure hummed, setting another box down before stepping closer, hands sliding around Wukong’s waist. “And now?”

Wukong giggled. “Duh. I have you. What else could I possibly want?”

Azure only smiled. Then, without a word, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out something wrapped in delicate brown paper.

“Here,” he said, handing it over. “For you.”

Wukong blinked. He took it carefully, fingers brushing against Azure’s as he unwrapped the paper. The scent hit him first—sweet and floral, but not overpowering. He peeled the last layer away to reveal a bouquet, a mix of deep red amaryllis, soft yellow carnations, and baby’s breath woven between them.

His breath hitched.

“Flowers?” he murmured, voice small.

Azure tilted his head. “You don’t like them?”

“No—I mean—I love them,” Wukong stammered, running his fingers over the petals, careful and reverent. “No one’s ever—” He swallowed, pressing the bouquet closer to his chest. “You know what these mean?”

“Of course.” Azure was gentle, sounding almost amused. He plucked one of the red amaryllis from the bouquet, twirling it between his fingers before tucking it behind Wukong’s ear. “Red amaryllis. Pride. Beauty.” His fingers brushed against Wukong’s cheek before trailing down to his jaw. “Baby’s breath—everlasting love.”

Wukong’s breath hitched. He looked up at Azure, eyes wide, heart pounding so hard it hurt. Love. Love. Love. Azure had never said it outright, but—

His grip on the bouquet tightened, his throat suddenly dry. “Az—”

“And these yellow carnations,” Azure continued, the pad of his thumb dragging over Wukong’s bottom lip, his smile soft. “For disappointment.”

Wukong blinked, laughing a little, thinking he must’ve misheard. “What?”

“You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t make life difficult for yourself.”

His fingers twitched around the stems.

Azure chuckled at his expression, tapping a finger under Wukong’s chin and tilting his face up. “Relax, love. It’s just a joke.”

A joke. Right.

Wukong let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “You’re such a dick.”

Azure’s lips curled as he leaned in, pressing another kiss against Wukong’s mouth—slow and so teasing, something that made Wukong’s knees threaten mutiny.

“And yet,” Azure mumbled against his lips, “you utterly adore me.”

Wukong’s lips twitched against his.

His fingers curled a little less tight around the flowers—it’d be a shame if he'd crushed them.

—

Wukong didn’t bring up the phone call the next morning.

Macaque let him have that.

He had left Wukong’s room after a while. He hadn’t said anything when he stood up, hadn’t asked if Wukong was okay, hadn’t tried to force some neat ending onto the moment. He just got up, stretched, and left the way he came—silent without a word to his own bedroom, forgetting the mess in the kitchen until he remembered it. He left it anyway.

He drifted in and out like that for an hour, maybe two, his mind never quite shutting off, his body never quite resting. Eventually, he gave up when his insomnia finally kicked in, and reached for the book on the nightstand—from there, he started reading under the dim glow of Wukong’s fancy lamp. The words blurred together after a while, their meaning slipping through his fingers like water. He wasn’t really absorbing anything, just looking at the same few pages. That night, it took him a while to focus.

At some point, between flipping a page he didn’t actually register and rubbing his eyes, he had heard soft clicks of footsteps outside the room, down the stairs, the low hum of the kitchen sink running. It was around then when he decided to put the book down and get changed.

The apartment was quiet in the way early mornings often were—filled with just enough sound to keep it from being empty, but not enough to feel truly awake. The air smelled faintly of coffee.

When Macaque found enough damns to leave the guest room, he found Wukong sitting on top of the kitchen island of all places, surrounded by a fair amount of flour and dough that Macaque had forgotten to wipe away that night. He was still in his sleep clothes, a loose off-shoulder shirt hanging off his frame, his hair a mess from whatever restless excuse for sleep he’d gotten (Macaque guessed). His spoon clinked softly against ceramic as he stirred, long after there was nothing left to stir. Macaque found bread on the counter and thought about making toast.

Wukong broke the silence first.

“You want coffee?” His voice was rough and unassuming, like he wasn’t expecting much of an answer.

Macaque glanced at him, hesitating just a fraction before shifting his gaze to the coffee pot on the counter. He considered it.

Then, instead, he asked, “You got tea?”

Wukong didn’t look up. He just lifted his mug slightly and jerked his chin toward the drawer near the sink. “In there.”

Macaque pushed himself up with a sigh, padding over to the cabinet. As he pulled it open, the scent of dried leaves and spices hit him straight in the face. A mix of green, black, and herbal teas stacked haphazardly inside, like Wukong had shoved them in there without a second thought.

“Figures you’d have a mess in here, too,” Macaque muttered, rifling through the selection with his fingers—he skimmed through the fruit ones.

Wukong huffed out a quiet laugh, finally taking a sip of his coffee. “You gonna complain or pick one?”

Macaque shot him a look over his shoulder before grabbing a random packet and shutting the drawer with his hip. He made his way to the kettle, setting it to boil.

“Didn’t take you for a tea guy,” Wukong mused, watching him.

Macaque leaned against the counter, arms loosely crossed. “Didn’t take you for a bienenstich guy,” he countered, glancing toward the cookbook Wukong had left open from the night before.

Wukong paused mid-sip. His ears twitched, but he didn’t say anything right away.

Macaque just shrugged. “Yeah. I saw.”

Wukong held his mug a little closer to his face and shrugged back, the movement small, barely there. “You like ‘em,” he muttered, voice quieter than before. “Figured I’d try making some.”

“…That’s a lot of effort just because I like something.”

Wukong snorted. “Yeah, well. You’re picky.”

Macaque made a show of a half-grin. He let his gaze linger on Wukong, on the way he hunched just slightly over his drink, fingers wrapped tight around the ceramic. The kettle clicked, steam curling into the air. Macaque turned, pouring hot water into his mug, letting the scent of tea rise up with it.

“Next time,” Macaque said, watching the steam curl up from his tea, “just ask if I wanna help.”

He heard Wukong’s breath catch, just barely. Then a beat later—

“Tch. Who says there’s gonna be a next time?”

Macaque let all of those words, those letters, sit for a while. The quiet that sat with them wasn’t uncomfortable, but it stretched—thin and taut, something just waiting to be pulled. He watched Wukong’s fingers drum lightly against his mug, the small, unconscious movement speaking louder than his words—he was stirring his coffee again, without much aim. Macaque turned his gaze back to the tea, letting the quiet exist for a few more moments before finally breaking it.

“So,” Macaque started, voice casual, “you gonna tell me who called last night, or am I supposed to pretend I didn’t hear you losing it in there?”

Wukong’s stirring slowed. He exhaled through his nose, a soundless thing, before tilting his head to the side, eyes flicking toward Macaque. He returned to his coffee a few seconds later. Macaque stayed silent for a good whole two minutes, letting his tea leaves settle at the bottom of his cup—he could wait.

Wukong spoke after a while. “It was my ex.”

Macaque leaned back in his chair. “That ex?”

A small glance in his direction. “You remember?”

“You mentioned him once.” A shrug. “Didn’t say much, though.”

Wukong hummed. The mug sat untouched in his hands now, heat curling faintly against his fingers. “… yeah, well. Not much to say.”

Macaque didn’t react right away. He let the words breathe, let it exist without pouncing on it.

Instead, he took a sip of his tea, letting the warmth settle in his chest before setting the cup down and leaning against the counter.

“What’s his name?”

Wukong answered after a second or two. “Azure.” A sip of coffee.

“Didn’t seem like a fun call.”

Wukong let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, you could say that.” He rubbed a hand over his face, lingering for a second like he could scrub away whatever was still clinging to him. “He’s been texting. Calling. First time I picked up.”

Macaque hummed, neither judgmental nor particularly surprised.

Wukong hesitated, fingers curling loosely against the counter’s edge. Then, as if something inside him gave out, he sighed. “It’s… a lot.”

Macaque arched a brow. “Exes usually are.”

Wukong huffed. “Azure—he’s…” He paused, like he was trying to pluck the right words out of the air. “He’s… nice. Or—was. Is, I guess. I don’t know. He’s—”

“Manipulative?” Macaque offered, voice careful.

Wukong flinched—just barely, but enough that Macaque caught it.

There it was.

Wukong exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Not… on purpose. It’s not entirely his fault.”

Macaque watched. So that’s what this was.

Wukong swallowed, looking down at his coffee, fingers tracing idly over the rim. “I don’t think he realizes when he’s doing it. It’s just—” His lips pressed together. “He’s good at making things make sense. Even when they shouldn’t.” He let out a tired laugh, rubbing at his temple. “He used to say I was too clingy. That breaking up was good for me. Said I needed to ‘stand on my own two feet.’” His jaw tightened slightly before relaxing again. “I guess I believed him.”

Macaque tilted his head, only briefly glancing down to remove the tea bag from the cup. “Did you?”

Wukong’s fingers stilled against the cup. He didn’t answer right away. “… I don’t know,” he admitted, voice quiet.

Macaque let the words settle between them, sitting there like a weight. Then he took another sip of his tea and glanced at Wukong.

“You still in love with him?”

Wukong exhaled, slow. He tipped his head back slightly, staring at the ceiling like the answer might be written there.

“… I don’t know.” Softer, this time.

Macaque just watched him for a moment. “Well. You don’t have to know right now.”

Wukong blinked, like that hadn’t occurred to him. He huffed, shaking his head. “You always do that,” he muttered.

“Do what?”

“Make shit sound simple.”

Macaque let out a quiet, amused breath, blowing on his tea before taking another sip. “That’s ‘cause it is simple,” he said, setting his mug down with a soft clink. “You just like making it complicated.”

Wukong scoffed, shaking his head. “Oh, sure. That’s me. Complicated.” He leaned back against the counter, rolling the mug between his hands. His tail flicked once behind him, restless as always.

Macaque shrugged. “You said it, not me.”

Wukong shot him a dry look, but there was no heat behind it. Just exhaustion, worn into the lines of his face.

A pause. Then—

“How’d you sleep?” Macaque asked, his tone easy, like he was just making conversation.

Wukong didn’t even hesitate. “Fine.”

Macaque gave him a flat look.

Wukong sighed. “Okay, maybe not fine, but it’s not like—”

“You didn’t sleep,” Macaque cut in, because it wasn’t really a question.

Wukong groaned, tilting his head back. “I got some sleep.”

Macaque raised an eyebrow. “How much?”

Wukong went quiet, suddenly very interested in his coffee again.

Macaque sighed, crossing his arms. “That’s what I thought.”

“Look, I’m—”

“Nope.” Macaque pushed off the counter, grabbing Wukong’s mostly empty mug from his hands and setting it aside before Wukong could protest. “You’re gonna go lie down.”

Wukong scowled. “I just got—”

“You’re starting school again soon, dumbass,” Macaque said, cutting him off before he could even start arguing. “You wanna start the new year already half-dead? ‘Cause I don’t think failing all your classes ‘cause you’re too sleep-deprived to function is part of the plan.”

Wukong opened his mouth, then shut it, his face twisting like he really wanted to argue but didn’t have a good reason to.

Macaque just pointed toward Wukong’s room. “Bed. Now.”

Wukong groaned, running a hand down his face. “You are such a pain in the ass.”

“More like a babysitter for a fully grown man,” Macaque mumbled as Wukong started dragging his feet while turning towards the direction of the staircase.

Macaque watched him go for a moment. “I better not hear you sneaking back out in five minutes.”

The only response he got was a polite middle finger before Wukong disappeared behind the corner. So Macaque took his time finishing his tea and then wiping the rest of the countertop free of dough.

The sun had climbed higher by now, its light creeping in through the curtains in golden streaks, spilling onto the countertops and glinting off the edge of Wukong’s abandoned coffee mug. Macaque exhaled through his nose, setting his own mug down with a quiet tap before pushing away from the counter. He wasn’t that tired, not really. Just restless.

And maybe a little bit… something else. He groaned quietly.

His gaze flickered toward the staircase, where Wukong had trudged up not too long ago. He shouldn’t check. It wasn’t necessary. Wukong was fine.

Yeah. He was going to check.

He padded up the stairs on light feet, careful not to let the wood creak beneath him. The hallway was dimmer, but not dark—the sun had found its way through the gaps in the curtains, leaving streaks of soft light along the floorboards. Wukong’s door was slightly ajar, enough that Macaque barely had to nudge it open further to peer inside.

The sight that greeted him made something in his chest go a little strange.

Wukong was curled up in the dead center of the bed, surrounded by a mess of pillows and blankets that looked more like a nest than anything else. One arm was tucked under his head, the other loosely draped over his stomach, fingers slack against the fabric. His hair spilled across the pillow in every direction, catching the morning light in soft, golden strands. He looked smaller like this. Less like the Wukong who snapped back with sharp grins and too-clever remarks, and more like someone who had finally let himself rest.

Macaque’s fingers tightened around the doorframe. He wasn’t sure why.

Just as he was about to step back, something small and dark darted into the room—a blur of sleek fur and quiet paws. Xiaohei leapt onto the bed with effortless grace, landing near Wukong’s feet before stepping carefully over the tangled blankets. She sniffed once, then nestled herself right against Wukong’s side, her small body curling up into the space between an arm and a pillow.

Wukong shifted slightly at the new weight, letting out a quiet, barely-there sigh before settling again. His tail twitched once, then stilled.

With a quiet exhale, Macaque pulled back, easing the door shut as softly as he could.

The morning stretched on, golden and slow.

—

The lull between the breakfast and lunch rush left the diner in a slow, rhythmic hum—clinking dishes, the low murmur of conversation, the occasional scrape of a chair against the worn tile floor. It was quiet enough that Macaque could hear the faint buzz of an old light fixture as he pushed through the front door, the bell overhead letting out a tired jingle.

He was late. Not by much, but enough to feel it in the way he moved—just a little too briskly. He tugged his hoodie off and draped it over one shoulder as he headed straight for the employee room, already reaching for the door handle—

And nearly collided with MK.

The kid practically threw himself in front of the door, hands flying up to block Macaque’s path. His grin was stretched wide, but there was something off about it.

“Hey! Mac! You’re here!” MK’s voice came too bright, too fast. “That’s—uh, that’s great! You—uh—actually don’t need to go in there right now!”

Macaque stopped short, blinking down at him.

MK's stance was too rigid, his arms awkwardly half-outstretched like he couldn’t decide whether to push Macaque back or just form a human barricade. His eyes flicked toward the door, then back at Macaque. His foot shuffled an inch to the side, as if subtly, casually trying to edge the door shut a little more.

Macaque narrowed his eyes.

“Oh?”

“Yeah!” MK gave a forced little laugh, clapping his hands together. “Y’know, nothing much going on in there, just—uh—real boring! Super boring! You wouldn’t even want to go in.”

What the hell?

“Right.” Macaque exhaled, running a hand through his hair before dropping it to his side. “Look, kid, I just need my apron. And also—” His voice shifted, quieter now. “I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

MK blinked. "What?"

“For snapping at you the other day.” Macaque rolled his shoulders, glancing away. “You were just worried, but I was dealing with some really bad stuff, I was stressed out, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. That was on me.”

For a second, MK just stared at him. His hands hovered awkwardly, his mouth half-open like he wasn’t sure how to respond. Then, just as quickly as he’d hesitated, he waved it off too quick.

“Oh, dude, it’s fine! No big deal at all, seriously! Wasn’t even mad, not even a little—”

The door behind him swung open. MK flinched, and Macaque had to peer past his shoulder to see.

The red-haired boy from that mall noodle stand stepped out, rolling his sleeves back down with an air of complete disinterest. His red hair, still a little tousled, caught the light in a way that made it almost smolder. His expression barely shifted as he glanced between them, only pausing long enough to smooth down the hem of his button-up before addressing MK.

“I’ll be out front,” he said, voice crisp and unbothered.

The door clicked shut behind him.

MK sagged, shoulders dropping, breath escaping in a short, defeated hff.

Macaque stared after the guy, then slowly turned back to MK. His lips curled. “Ohhh,” he said, dragging the word out. “So that’s what this was about.”

MK stiffened. “W-what? No, I—”

Macaque crossed his arms over his chest and found a place to lean against the wall. “You were trying to keep me from walking in on you two, huh?” He couldn’t help but grin. “Lemme guess—you dragged him in there to make out with him, or…?”

MK positively choked. “What?”

Macaque lifted his hands, palms up in mock surrender. “Hey, half joke,” he said. “But you’re awfully flustered for someone who wasn’t just making out in the employee room.”

MK’s entire face went red. “We were only talking!”

Macaque hummed. “Mmhmm.”

“We were!”

Macaque gestured broadly with his finger. “But you wanted to?”

MK groaned, hands flying to his face. “Macaaaaqueeee...”

Macaque chuckled. “That’s a yes. Isn’t that the guy from the mall? The hothead who had that whole fight about the spicy noodles?”

MK let out a defeated sigh, dragging his hands down his face before staring down at the grill. “... maybe.”

Macaque snorted. “Alright, then—how’s that going?”

MK rolled his eyes but was unable to bite back the small, giddy grin tugging at his lips. “His name’s Red Son,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s, like, cool, y’know? In that, uh… kind of intense, slightly terrifying, but also in a really cool way?”

Macaque quirked a brow. “Intense and terrifying? Sounds like a catch.”

MK let out a huff, but it wasn’t exactly disagreeing. “He’s just—he’s got this energy. Always looks like he’s three seconds away from lecturing someone into the dirt. And he kinda talks like that, too—like he’s auditioning for a villain monologue half the time.”

Macaque snorted. “And that’s what you’re into?”

MK groaned quietly—there was no real frustration behind it, just the exasperation of someone helplessly smitten. “I dunno, maybe? But then he’ll do something like—like softly correct my posture when I’m sitting weird, o-or offer to carry stuff for me when he thinks I’m too tired, and I just—” MK made an inarticulate noise of frustration.

Macaque was simply delighted. “Ohhhh,” he drawled. “You’re down bad.”

MK scowled. “I hate you.”

“Uh-huh. Say that when you’re not blushing like a lovesick idiot.”

MK fidgeted with his shirt. “Whatever—point is, I finally managed to, y’know, actually ask if he wanted to hang out, a-and we’ve been spending a lot of time together this summer break! I think—I mean, I hope—he’s into me too? He’s hard to read sometimes, but…” He shrugged. “I dunno. I feel like he is.”

Macaque found himself thinking for a few seconds, before he clapped a hand on MK’s shoulder. “Hey, that’s great. Just don’t combust before you get an actual date, alright?”

MK squirmed a little. “I won’t—” He cut himself off. “You’re just as annoying as Wukong said you were.”

Macaque grinned. “Thanks. And thanks, for confiding in me about your crush.”

“It’s not a crush,” MK shot back automatically, face flushed despite it. Macaque just lifted a brow and shuffled past MK into the employee room for his apron where he left it his last shift, and MK sputtered, waving his hands as he walked in after him. “Okay, maybe it’s a crush, but, like—it’s not just that! Red’s…” He hesitated, fingers curling into his sleeves as he tried to put it into words. “I dunno. He’s got this way of making me feel like I matter.”

Maybe it was the way the kid had said it, the way his features softened something great in a way that clung onto Macaque like a vice. His fingers curled slightly against his palm.

You think we’ll be remembered?

Macaque had turned at the question. What, like legends or something?

Yeah, Wukong wasn’t smiling when he asked. Do you think any of this—us—will last? Will matter?

Macaque exhaled. I think it matters to the people we care about. And maybe that’s enough.

Maybe you’re right.

He thought about Wukong. The Wukong before all of this fuckuppery—the Wukong that had somehow made the world bend under his feet. The Wukong that had stood next to him once, laughing like they were untouchable. Wukong swimming in a field of flowers. Wukong as a white rose. The Wukong that had left.

Did Wukong ever feel like he mattered when he was with him?

Did Macaque?

He put on a smile and slipped his apron on. “Good for you, kid.”

MK brightened immediately, and Macaque felt a lot less worse than he had in this stupid diner for the past few weeks. They stood there in the low hum of the diner, the smell of coffee and fryer grease thick in the air. The moment stretched, easy and quiet, before Macaque tipped his head slightly, watching MK out of the corner of his eye.

“So,” Macaque exhaled, “we cool now?”

MK blinked, then grinned. “Yeah,” he said. “We’re cool.”

Macaque nodded, ready to move on, but then MK shifted his weight, rubbing at his neck like he was debating something. His fingers moved down and tightened around the strap of his apron.

“Hey, uh…” He exhaled through his nose, looking at Macaque with something careful. “You doing okay?”

Macaque glanced up from where he’d been absently picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. “Huh?”

MK rubbed the back of his neck, shifting his weight. “It’s just—Mei told me you dropped that animation theater thing. Said you kinda just told her you weren’t up for it anymore and left it at that. And, I dunno…” His lips pressed together for a second. “I’ve just been getting the feeling that something’s up. And, like—I feel bad for prying about you and Wukong earlier if you’ve been dealing with, y’know. Stuff.”

Macaque's fingers curled against his sleeve, then relaxed again.

Something up.

That was one way to put it.

For a second, his mind shuffled through the weight of the past few weeks—through the feeling of silent dread that he hadn’t wanted to look back on. Because Wukong is a mess right now, and you’re handling that. You don’t have time to be falling apart, too.

He hadn’t exactly been ignoring it, but he’d been shoving it away.

Because thinking about why this project suddenly made his stomach twist wasn’t going to get him anywhere. Thinking about the way his usual distractions—his usual outlets, his love for writing, theater—felt dull and frustrating wasn’t going to fix anything. Thinking about how he couldn’t live off of Wukong’s money forever, because it was going to drive him absolutely insane. Thinking about the fact that, outside of Wukong’s problems, he wasn’t sure what the hell he was doing with himself.

Yeah. That wasn’t something he needed to unpack right now.

Macaque breathed out, forcing his shoulders to relax. “I’m fine, kid. Just didn’t feel like committing to it anymore.”

MK frowned, not looking particularly convinced. “You sure?”

It sounded exciting, sure. It was an amazing opportunity. But he had other things to carry—he needed to get back on his feet first.

“Yeah, I’m sure. Maybe some other time.” Macaque dusted nonexistent dust off his arms. “Also, hey, what are you still standing around for? Your Prince Charming is waiting for you.”

MK stiffened. “Wha—huh?” He whipped his head toward the front windows, eyes going wide when he caught sight of Red Son standing near the entrance, arms crossed, tapping his fingers against his bare bicep like he had all the time in the world but was also two seconds from combusting if he had to wait any longer.

MK barely managed to hold in a yelp. “Oh—oh, crap, I gotta—” He spun back around, hesitating just long enough to shoot Macaque a glare. “You suck,” he hissed, his face already going red again.

Macaque grinned, shuffling past MK towards the kitchen. “Uh-huh. Go on, loverboy.”

MK made an unintelligible noise before hurrying for the front, nearly tripping over himself in his rush to get outside. The door swung shut behind him, leaving Macaque standing by the plate racks with the air suddenly a bit too still. He exhaled, pressing his tongue against the back of his teeth.

He let his eyes drift to the front window, watching as MK skidded to a stop in front of Red Son, rubbing the back of his neck and laughing a little too loudly at something the redhead said. Red Son rolled his eyes but didn’t step away. He was listening, and MK was just there.

Macaque busied himself stacking dry dishes.

Chapter Text

The start of the new school term hit like a brick to the face.

One moment, Macaque was adjusting to the lazy rhythm of break—late mornings, spontaneous hangouts with the group, the occasional deep conversation slipping in between. Suddenly, it was gone, and instead the world jerked forward at full speed, yanking Macaque along whether he was ready or not. Campus was very much alive again—a stupid amount of people in the lecture halls and professors jumping straight into coursework like they’d never left. More reading to do. An ungodly number of frats. More theater.

Macaque, for his part, barely had time to breathe. Between a fresh wave of assignments, rehearsals for the new production he’d been roped into (because of course he got roped in; it was him), and his part-time shifts at the diner, his schedule was packed tight. Then, because apparently, that still wasn’t enough, he picked up another job—assistant bartending (or more like serving drinks and picking up after people’s shit) at some local joint, working the late-night shifts for extra cash.

The decision wasn’t exactly impulsive, but it wasn’t entirely thought through either. The idea of living in Wukong’s stupid fancy apartment, eating the food he bought, using the space like it was his own when he still had no idea where he stood with any of this was stressing him out as it was, not counting all the shit that had gone down during the summer. He wasn’t some lost stray Wukong needed to take care of, and the more time passed, the more he needed to prove—to himself, mostly—that he wasn’t just mooching.

So, yeah. If it meant running on less sleep and working himself into the ground, fine. At least he’d be pulling his own weight.

It was late when Macaque finally got back to the apartment, around two and a half in the morning, slipping in through the door with the easy quiet of someone used to coming and going without waking a housemate. He kicked off his shoes, stretched out his sore shoulders, and made a beeline for the kitchen, ready to scavenge for something quick from his personal stash of food before finally crashing for the night.

Then, from the living room, he heard a very frustrated groan. Passing the paintings, he peered around the corner.

Wukong was hunched over the coffee table, his laptop open in front of him, a mess of notes scattered across the surface. His hair was tied back—his fingers were buried in his it, tugging lightly at the strands, eyes locked onto the screen like it had personally wronged him. A deep crease had settled between his brows. His knee bounced restlessly. Every few seconds, he would scribble something down in his notebook, only to cross it out a moment later.

Macaque wandered over, leaning against the back of the couch. “That bad, huh?”

Wukong startled, snapping his head up. His face softened when he saw it was him, but he still kept his frown. “It’s stupid,” he grumbled. “Why does math have to be so stupid? I’m never gonna use this.”

Macaque blinked. “Math?”

“Physics,” Wukong muttered like the word itself was an insult. He pointed at his screen. “I get what’s supposed to happen. But when I try to actually solve it, my brain just—” He threw his hands up. “Nothing. Static. Dead.”

Macaque peered over his shoulder. The problem was written out neatly on the screen—something about launching a projectile at an angle and solving for displacement. The work beside it, however, was… a mess. Half-finished equations, random numbers, completely incorrect calculations—he wasn’t even sure how Wukong had arrived at some of them.

Macaque smirked. “Ohhh. You really don’t get it, huh?”

Wukong shot him a glare. “Do you?”

“Please.” Macaque flopped onto the couch beside him, snatching Wukong’s notebook. “Had to learn all this when I started working on stage lighting. Angles, force, distance, how to not send a spotlight crashing onto the actors—same principles.” He tapped the paper. “Alright. Let’s see where you went wrong.”

“Everywhere, apparently.”

Macaque skimmed the work. “Okay, first off—your components are backwards.”

“My what?”

Macaque sighed and flipped to a blank page. “Look. You launch something at an angle, yeah? It follows a curve.” He sketched a rough parabola. “But the motion isn’t just one thing. You gotta split it up into horizontal and vertical components. That’s where sine and cosine come in.”

Wukong stared at him like he’d just spoken an entirely different language. “I’m gonna be honest, dude. I tuned out at ‘components.’”

Macaque resisted the urge to smack him with the notebook. “Alright, dumbass, pay attention.” He circled the start of the arc. “Your initial velocity? It’s got two parts: one going sideways, one going up.” He wrote out the equations. “Cosine is for the horizontal, sine is for vertical.” He pointed at Wukong’s work. “You tried using cosine to find the height. That’s why your numbers are all jacked.”

Wukong blinked. Then groaned, slumping back against the couch. “I knew something was off.”

“Yeah, yeah. At least you caught it. Now, do it again.”

Wukong sighed, grabbed his pencil, and hesitantly started working through the problem again. Macaque sat back, watching over his shoulder, correcting him when he hesitated. Slowly but surely, Wukong started piecing it together.

“… Wait,” Wukong said after a few minutes, staring at his answer. “Did I actually get it right?”

Macaque checked his work. Correct approach, correct values. He grinned. “Well, well. Looks like you can use your brain.”

Wukong elbowed him. “Shut up.”

Wukong leaned back against the couch, stretching his arms above his head with a groan. “Man, I don’t know how you make this stuff make sense. Every time I try to do it on my own, my brain just—” He made a loud bzzt noise and mimed static crackling from his head. “It’s like, I know what I’m supposed to do, but the second I start, everything just slips right outta my head. Stupid ADHD.”

Macaque glanced at him, taking in the way Wukong’s fingers tapped restlessly against the couch, the way his knee had started bouncing again, the way his eyes flicked from his notes to the laptop screen like he was trying to focus on everything at once and failing.

“Yeah, well,” Macaque said, nudging his arm with the notebook, “no wonder you keep getting lost. Your work’s all over the place.” He flipped to a new page. “Try breaking it down. For the next question, write each step out, don’t skip ahead in your head. Keep your numbers lined up, so you don’t mix them up.” He shot him a look. “And stop rushing. You got time.”

Wukong scrunched his nose. “That’s easy for you to say.”

“Oh, I know it’s not easy,” Macaque said, smirking. “But lucky for you, I’m patient.”

Wukong snorted. “That’s a damn lie.”

Macaque snickered, but Wukong was still staring at the solved problem, almost like he didn’t trust it. And before Macaque could stop himself, the words just slipped out.

“... What if I just tutor you?”

Wukong blinked, turning his head. “Huh?”

Macaque shrugged like it was no big deal. “You clearly need the help. And I am kinda freeloading off your fancy apartment, sooo…” He spun the pencil between his fingers. “Think of it as me paying you back.”

Wukong stared at him for a second, something flickering behind his eyes, too quick to catch. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face. “You? Teaching me physics?”

Macaque grinned. “Along other subjects. What, scared I might actually knock some knowledge into that thick skull of yours?”

Wukong snorted. “Fine. But I swear, if you start getting all smug about this, I’m flunking on purpose just to spite you.”

“Pfft, please. You’d never waste that much effort just to piss me off.”

“… Yeah, okay, fair.” Wukong exhaled hard through his nose as he scribbled out another mistake. “Okay, but real talk—how are you so good at this?” He gave Macaque a squinting look. “You’re a theater major. Shouldn’t you be, like, allergic to numbers or something?”

Macaque leaned back against the couch, rolling his pen between his fingers. “Yeah, well. Turns out, needing to pass math and science classes doesn’t care what major you pick.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you’re actually good at it.” Wukong tapped the page with his pencil. “I mean, this shit makes me wanna throw myself off a building. Meanwhile, you’re out here explaining it like it’s fun.”

Macaque let out a short laugh. “Yeah, well. You learn to get good at things when you have to teach yourself.”

Wukong frowned. “What, school never gave you tutors or anything?”

Macaque huffed a short breath, eyes still on the equations in front of him. “Not really. I mean, sometimes, but foster care’s not exactly known for handing out top-tier education. You get shuffled around enough, people stop keeping track of what you missed.” He twirled his pen between his fingers. “Half the time, I was lucky if the schools even knew what grade I was supposed to be in. Shit slips through the cracks.” He tapped the paper. “You either figure it out, or you get left behind.”

Wukong stilled, fingers pausing their restless tapping. “Ah.”

Macaque shrugged, still not looking at him. “S’whatever. You get used to it.” 

After a second, Wukong swallowed. “That’s a shit thing to get used to.”

Macaque let out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well. It is what it is. Try that next question, it looks relatively easier.”

After another half hour of wrestling with equations and trying to get Wukong to actually show his work instead of just guessing his way through problems, Macaque stretched his arms over his head with a groan. “Alright, we’re taking a break before my brain melts out of my ears.”

Wukong slumped dramatically against the couch. “Finally. I was dying.”

Macaque snorted. “You did, like, three problems.”

“And I hated all of them.”

Rolling his eyes, Macaque got up and wandered toward this one shelf near the TV, rummaging through the collection of board games that he had just discovered. “Okay, I’m picking something that doesn’t require brainpower, since yours is already fried.”

“Hey—rude,” Wukong protested, but he didn’t argue when Macaque pulled out a simple roll-and-move game and plopped it onto the coffee table.

They played for a while, Wukong mostly focused on flicking the dice like he was trying to perform a magic trick, and Macaque getting increasingly irritated every time Wukong almost lost the dice under the couch. The conversation drifted between casual topics—how annoying their classes were, how MK kept getting distracted at work, the latest stupid drama from their classmates—until Wukong leaned back against the couch, tossing his piece across the board like he was already bored of the game.

“I’ve noticed you’ve been going out a lot,” he said, voice kept casual. “Coming back stupid late, too. You got a secret double life I should know about?”

Macaque flicked his own game piece, watching it tumble across the board. “Got myself another job.”

Wukong raised a brow. “Another one? Where?”

“Bar down near the station,” Macaque said, rolling the dice. “Night shifts.”

Wukong blinked, then grinned. “Hold up, you work at a bar? What’s the discount situation looking like?”

Macaque rolled his eyes. “Oh, yeah, totally, let me just risk getting fired so you can get free booze.”

“You would if you loved me,” Wukong teased, grinning wider.

Macaque gave him an unimpressed look. “Yeah, not that much.”

Wukong snickered, but after a moment, his expression softened just a bit. “But seriously,” he said, tapping his fingers against the coffee table, “you okay with that? Like—part-time here, school, now this—that’s a lot.”

Macaque exhaled slowly, leaning back against the couch. “I can handle it.”

“Yeah, but do you want to handle it? ‘Cuz, if this is about money, you don’t really have to.”

Macaque didn’t answer right away. His gaze flickered over the board, then toward the window, where the city lights stretched into the distance. He shifted, stretching his arms behind his head. “I just…” He clicked his tongue. “I dunno, man. Feels weird just living here and not doing anything to earn it.”

Wukong frowned. “You are doing something. You cook, you keep me from failing my classes, you put up with my bullshit—”

Macaque snorted. “Yeah, ‘cause that’s real valuable labor.”

Wukong shrugged. “You don’t have to kill yourself working just to feel like you’re allowed to be here.”

Macaque opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He didn’t know how to answer that, didn’t know how to explain that the idea of not pulling his weight made his skin itch. Instead, he rolled the dice again. The numbers didn’t matter. His mind was already somewhere else.

“It’s not just about that,” he muttered, leaning back against the couch, arms loosely folded over his chest. His voice came out quieter than before, like he was talking more to himself than to Wukong. “It’s just… I don’t know how to not be doing something.”

Wukong tilted his head slightly, like he was studying him. “Yeah?”

Macaque exhaled through his nose, his fingers drumming against his forearm. “I mean, I feel like I always have to move, always have to be doing something, or else…” He hesitated, trying to find the right words, but they felt tangled in his chest. “It’s like—I dunno, like some kind of survival instinct. If I stop, if I let myself just exist without proving I deserve to be here, then… what the hell am I even doing?”

Macaque busied himself with picking at the corner of the board game box, peeling at the cardboard edges.

“I grew up knowing nothing came for free,” he continued after a beat. “You work, you earn your place, or someone else takes it from you. That’s just how it is. You don’t sit still. You don’t waste time. Because if you’re not doing something, then you’re wasting every damn chance you’ve been given.”

After a long moment, Wukong sighed and leaned his chin into his palm. “Y’know, you talk about it like it’s some big universal rule, but have you considered the idea that it might not be?”

Macaque huffed a small, dry laugh. “Maybe. But it’s the only rule I know.”

Wukong watched him for another second before shaking his head. “Man, no wonder you never sleep.”

Macaque grinned a little. “Sleeping is just standing still with extra steps.”

“That’s the worst take I’ve ever heard.” Wukong spun the dice between his fingers before tossing them onto the board. They clattered against the cardboard, landing on an unimpressive number. He groaned.

“Alright, reset. Best two out of three,” Macaque said, already shuffling the pieces back into place.

“You just wanna keep winning,” Wukong accused, narrowing his eyes at him.

“Something made that obvious? I love the look of despair on your face. Suits you.”

They played for a few more minutes, moving pieces, knocking each other back, falling into a quiet rhythm. At some point, Xiaohei decided that Macaque’s lap would make for a good pillow to sleep on. Wukong made a move, then immediately regretted it out loud. He clicked his tongue and leaned back, stretching his arms over his head.

“Still, though,” he said, dropping his hands onto his lap. “You shouldn’t overwork yourself so much. I mean, look at me.”

Macaque raised a brow. “What about you?”

Wukong gestured vaguely at himself. “Dude, I can’t even focus on one thing long enough to get my homework done. You think I’d be able to juggle two jobs? I forget what I was doing five seconds after I start it. The second I get distracted, poof, it’s gone. I wouldn’t last a week.”

Macaque snorted. “That’s just because you have the attention span of a goldfish.”

“Exactly! And I try, but it’s like—” Wukong waved his hands around as if trying to physically grasp a thought. “One second I’m writing a sentence, and then I blink and suddenly I’m halfway across the apartment making toast. And then that reminds me of some dumb thing I saw earlier, and then I’m pacing, and then—”

Macaque shook his head, amused. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. But it’s different for me. That’s not—that’s not how my brain works, okay?”

Wukong scoffed. “Yeah, ‘cause you don’t let yourself stop.” He nudged Macaque’s foot under the table. The game basically sat forgotten between them now, pieces scattered across the board like an afterthought.

“I mean… you say I don’t let myself stop, but look at you.” Macaque tilted his head. “You don’t exactly take it easy, either. You’re pretty wild.”

Wukong huffed a laugh. “Yeah, but my thing is different. You run yourself into the ground trying to earn every inch of space you take up. Me? I throw parties. With good music.” He spread his arms wide, grinning like it was some grand revelation.

Macaque raised a brow. “And what, exactly, does that have to do with anything?”

Wukong let his hands drop. “I mean—I dunno. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.” He tapped his fingers restlessly against his knee. “It’s like… I like having people around. The noise, the mess, the heat of it all. Everyone is having a good time, even if it’s just for a few hours. Because for that little window of time, my place isn’t just mine anymore. It’s full. Like, properly full. It used to feel a lot fuller, y’know. When I had people here.”

“And then the party’s over,” Macaque said, voice quieter.

Wukong gave him a lopsided smile. “Yeah. Then it’s over. Lady Gaga’s songs aren’t that long.” He waved a hand vaguely. “But it’s fine, y’know? I think. Just for a little while. Like hitting pause on whatever shit’s rattling around in my head.”

Macaque sat back, thinking. Wukong wasn’t wrong about him—he didn’t let himself stop. Because if he wasn’t moving, wasn’t doing something, then what was left? Just him. Just the empty spaces no one had ever bothered filling.

He exhaled through his nose, gaze dropping to his own hands. He got it. He really got it. He never bothered with parties, but wasn’t he just as bad? Always running from one thing to the next, as if stopping would make him crumble into dust? Because if he ever slowed down long enough to think—to really think—he might start counting all the times he had been somewhere he wasn’t wanted. He might start remembering all the places he had left behind before anyone could ask him to.

And maybe that was the worst part: Wukong wanted to chase warmth before it disappeared. Macaque had spent his whole life making sure he never needed it in the first place. 

Macaque tapped the game board, flicking one of the pieces. “C’mon. Your turn.”

Wukong sighed and rolled the dice.

—

The bar had settled into its usual rhythm for a weeknight—low chatter rolling through the dim space like the tide, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter or the clink of glass against polished wood. The air was thick with the scent of aged whiskey and citrus peel, undercut by the stale tang of cheap beer lingering in the booths. It was loud, but it wasn’t too loud.

Macaque liked this shift. The steady hum of movement kept his hands occupied without demanding too much of him. Run drinks, wipe tables, keep an eye on the regulars. No cocktails—that was the bartender’s job. Just movement, just work, slipping through the crowd unnoticed. He preferred it that way.

“Oi, Macaque!”

He turned toward the bar, where the owner—Lee, or something like that—leaned against the counter, a rag slung over one shoulder, a half-polished tumbler in his hand. His arms, lean and roped with muscle, bore the faint scars of someone who’d seen a few too many bar fights.

“Table seven,” Lee said, nodding toward a booth in the back. “Guy’s been giving me the stink eye since his glass ran dry.”

Macaque rolled his eyes but grabbed the tray from the counter anyway. “I was getting to it.”

“Yeah? Maybe get to it before he starts acting like I kicked his damn dog.”

Macaque didn’t dignify that with a response. He just lifted a lazy salute and weaved through the tables, dropping off drinks with practiced efficiency, keeping conversation to a minimum. When he returned, Lee was still watching him: this time, more scrutinizing.

“You good tonight?” Lee asked, wiping down the counter.

Macaque arched a brow. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Lee shrugged. “Dunno. You’ve been quieter. Thought maybe some asshole got handsy.”

Macaque huffed. “If they did, you’d have heard ‘em hit the floor.”

Lee huffed out a laugh, short and sharp. “That, I believe.” He set the rag down, nodding toward the entrance. “Just keep your head on straight. Crowd’s shifting tonight.”

Macaque frowned. “Shifting how?”

Lee didn’t answer right away. His gaze flickered toward a group that had just walked in—three of them, slipping into a booth near the bar like they owned the place. The tall one was built like a freight train—thick neck, broad shoulders, big build, almost like a bodyguard. He moved slowly like he knew no one would make him hurry. The leaner guy, a bird-sort-of-demon, had sharp, pointed features and a smirk that made him look permanently amused, like everything was a joke only he understood. He was relatively shorter compared to the other two, but that didn’t stop him from looking like a jerk.

And then there was him.

He didn’t recognize him at first. It wasn’t his face that struck him, although he was very good-looking—it was the way he existed in the room. A strong build, broad-shouldered, mane thick and well-groomed. Effortless, like everything bent around him just slightly, like the air moved differently when he walked through it. He didn’t demand attention. He invited it.

Macaque had seen that before.

In paint.

Lee, ever observant, didn’t miss a thing. “You know ‘em?”

Macaque exhaled slowly through his nose. “Something like that.”

Lee studied him for a beat longer before jerking his chin toward the booth. “Well, lucky you. They’re sitting in your section.”

He forced himself to keep doing his damn job. He grabbed his shit and made a beeline around a couple of loud tables to that one booth in the corner. The lion glanced up, eyes flicking over him with a casual sort of interest like he was cataloging details, filing them away for later. “Well, look at that. Table service. Didn’t expect this place to be so accommodating.”

Macaque ignored that. “You new around here?”

The lion tilted his head slightly, as if weighing the question more carefully than it warranted. “In a way. Moved nearby for uni.”

Macaque didn’t bother hiding his skepticism. “Right. And you wanted to come here?”

The elephant demon, the one with the big build, groaned. “What, this some kind of exclusive joint?”

“No,” Macaque said flatly. “Just doesn’t seem like your kind of scene.”

The lion smiled, all teeth. “And what is my scene?”

Macaque shrugged. “Dunno. But I’m guessing somewhere with a dress code.”

The bird demon choked on his water, snickering into his sleeve. The lion, though, just laughed—deep and sort of genuine, like Macaque had genuinely entertained him. “I like to explore,” he said, tapping a slow rhythm against the table. “No harm in seeing what’s out there.”

Macaque didn’t respond. He just waited.

The lion let the silence stretch a beat longer before sighing through his nose, as if relenting. “Old friends dragged me out,” he admitted, tipping his head toward the other two. “Couldn’t say no, not when I’ve been such a stranger lately.”

“Not my problem,” Macaque said. “You ordering or not?”

The elephant demon leaned forward. “What do you recommend?”

Macaque didn’t even blink. “The drinks that are on the menu.”

The bird demon snickered with a shit-eating grin. “I like him. He’s got bite.”

The lion, though, was still watching him, eyes sharp beneath that lazy amusement. “A bourbon,” he said finally. “And whatever these two want.”

With many ears, Macaque could catch onto distant conversations all at once—sometimes too many at once. Voices bled into each other, a constant undercurrent of chatter that pressed against his skull. He had learned to sift through the noise, to tune out the drunks, the half-hearted flirting, the businessmen running numbers over whiskey. But if he really tried, he could tune most of them out, narrow his focus until he was only listening to one. It was the only thing that made this job tolerable. Well, that, and the fact that Lee wasn’t the worst boss he’d ever had. The pay was decent, the expectations were low, and the gossip? That was just a bonus. People said the most interesting things when they thought no one was listening.

Macaque leaned against the counter, waiting for the bartender to finish making their drinks, letting his mind wander through the murmur of conversations—until something familiar cut through the noise.

Wukong.

His ears twitched, honing in on the sound before he could stop himself.

“I called him a week ago,” the speaker mused. Macaque recognized the voice now—the lion demon. “Just for fun.”

Macaque’s fingers stilled against the tray.

The bird demon let out a sharp scoff. “You called him? Why the hell would you do that?”

The lion made a little clicking sound, amused. “Why not? I was curious. And honestly, Peng, you have to admit—you were curious about how Wukong is doing.”

Peng, apparently the bird demon’s name, wasn’t amused and sounded almost offended. “Curious about what? He’s a trainwreck. Always has been.”

A grunt from another demon. The elephant. “What’d he say?”

The lion hummed. “Oh, you know, the usual. Sounded surprised. Maybe a little eager.” He let the last word hang in the air, dripping with suggestion. “He picked up pretty quickly.”

Peng snorted. “Of course he did.” His voice dropped into something mocking. “Bet he thought it was one of his clients.”

Macaque inhaled sharply.

“I heard he’s been going around like a whore,” Peng added, voice curling with disdain and his words slipping out with lazy contempt. “Real shame. He used to have some standards.”

Something flared hot and ugly in Macaque’s chest, searing through his ribs like a live wire.

“Hey, now,” The lion chided, almost playfully. “That’s not fair. You know Wukong. He’s always been like this. He just needs the attention every once in a while—it’s how he is.”

Peng scoffed. “Yeah, well, looks like he’ll take it from anyone these days.”

The lion sighed, like this was all so unfortunate. “He’s just lost. You can’t blame him. Word out there among the boys is that he’s still got that little fixation, though. On keeping up appearances.”

“Oh?” Peng said, interested.

“You know how he is. He was always so desperate to be perfect. Had to have all eyes on him, had to be wanted. All that. Wouldn’t touch a meal if he thought it’d go straight to his thighs. I tried to tell him, it’s exhausting, keeping up an image like that. No one likes someone too bony, you know?” A pause. “But he never listened.”

Macaque’s jaw clenched.

“He’d rather starve than let himself slip,” He continued. “Still does, from what I can tell. He never could handle feeling out of control.”

Peng snorted. “Figures.”

“But he was always so stubborn,” the lion hummed, tone slipping into something a little more fond, as if he were reminiscing about some charming little quirk. “Once he got something into his head, that was it. The funny thing is,” he exhaled, sounding almost amused. “He really thought it made him better. Like if he was just perfect enough, he wouldn’t end up… well.” He trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid.

Peng let out a derisive noise. “Yeah, and look where that got him.”

Azure chuckled. “Oh, no—don’t get me wrong. He still looks good.”

Macaque’s stomach twisted.

“I’ve seen the pictures he posts,” Azure went on, almost conversationally. “He’s always been photogenic, but lately… well.” A pregnant pause. “He’s been putting in work. He’s been keeping that waist tight. And that pretty little dip at his stomach—”

Peng made a disgusted sound. “Gods, you freak. Get a room.”

A short laugh. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Wukong’s always been good at playing the part. Making sure people see exactly what he wants them to see. But you know what they say, the camera adds ten pounds.” A small, almost gentle sigh. “So I have to wonder—how much has he really lost?”

Peng let out a harsh bark of laughter.

The lion chuckled, low and indulgent. “You know,” he mused, “I still have the tapes.”

Peng groaned at this, whatever the tapes were. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Azure just smirked. “What? Don’t act like you’re not curious. You do remember how he was, don’t you?” He let the words hang, heavy with suggestion. “I watched one the other night, just for fun. God, he was gorgeous. The way he mov—”

“Shut the fuck up, Az,” Peng snapped. “Nobody wants to hear about you getting your dick wet years ago.”

He only laughed in response. “Relax. I’m just reminiscing. But, for the record? He was always a sight to see.” The next words came like some sort of secret. “From what I can tell, he still wants to be.”

Macaque had to force himself to breathe. His head hurt.

Azure sighed, almost wistful. “I wonder if he still makes those little noises when he—”

Peng groaned loudly. “Gods, shut up.”

The elephant demon grunted. “Seriously, man. We get it. You fucked him.”

Macaque tuned himself out from the conversation after that.

By the time he returned with the drinks, they had settled in, conversation flowing, laughing loudly about something Macaque didn’t really want to know. He placed their drinks down—three bourbons, one neat, two on the rocks—just hard enough that the ice clinked loudly in the glasses. Peng jumped and scowled, but the lion demon barely acknowledged him at first, idly picking up his drink, examining it, before setting it down.

“Didn’t expect service to be this fast,” he mused, then gestured vaguely at the bar. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

Macaque set the tray down. “Not mine. I just work here.”

The lion hummed. “Then lucky them, having someone so efficient.”

“Please,” Macaque muttered. “There are better places you could have gone to.”

The lion let out a quiet laugh. “Maybe. But it’s easier this way. I’m interning at my father’s company while I’m here.” He picked up his drink, swirling the liquid. “Have to play the part.”

Of course. That explained everything. The fucking arrogance, the too-polished charm. Macaque had met guys like this before—people who never had to fight for anything, who slithered through life without consequence.

He hated guys like that.

“Well,” Macaque said flatly, “congrats on getting the nepotism gig.”

The lion hummed, and sipped on his drink. “You’re an interesting one.” He leaned forward and rested his chin against his paw. “Have we met before?”

Macaque felt his jaw tighten—this bastard.

Macaque wasn’t stupid. He’d been watching him the whole time, picking apart every reaction. He knew Macaque recognized him, even if he was pretending not to.

“Doubt it,” Macaque muttered, shifting the tray under his arm. “Anything else?”

He hummed, fingers tapping idly against the rim of his glass before he reached into his pocket. “Yes. Let’s settle the bill now.”

Macaque frowned. “We usually—”

A sleek black credit card slid across the table toward him. 

“Indulge me,” the lion said smoothly.

Macaque took the card without looking—just another transaction, just another customer. His fingers moved on instinct, slipping it between his own calloused ones, ready to turn away—

Then his gaze caught on the name.

Azure Lion.

Something in his chest went still, breath locking in place like a stone wedged into a gear. The name gleamed up at him in gold, cleanly pressed into polished plastic, completely ordinary, completely infuriating. His grip on the card tightened—not enough to bend it, but enough that his claws bit into his palm. A second too long passed before he forced his fingers to ease.

Macaque had played this game before—he knew how to keep his mask on, how to let the words and glances roll off his back like rain.

But this was just different.

Because this wasn’t just some rich, smug bastard throwing his weight around in a place he didn’t belong. This wasn’t just another customer Macaque could ignore until they got bored and left.

This was Wukong’s ex, sitting at his table, sipping bourbon like it wasn’t laced with venom.

Azure hummed. “Are you sure we haven’t met?”

Macaque forced himself to keep his expression neutral. “Nah,” he said, shrugging. “Don’t think so.”

The lion tilted his head, watching him too closely. “Huh. Funny. You seem familiar.”

Macaque held his gaze, unflinching. “Guess I’ve just got one of those faces.”

Azure smiled like he wasn’t convinced. But he didn’t push. Instead, he raised his glass in a mock toast. “Well,” his eyes flickered to Macaque’s nametag, “Macaque, it’s been a pleasure.”

Macaque didn’t bother returning the sentiment—he turned on his heel and walked away, fingers curling into fists at his sides. By the time he reached the bar, Lee was already watching him, arms crossed over his chest.

“You good?” he asked, voice low.

Macaque exhaled through his nose. “Yeah.”

Lee didn’t look convinced. “You sure? Because you look like you wanna throw hands.”

Macaque’s grip tightened on the tray. “Not worth it.”

Lee nodded slowly. “Good. Because I don’t feel like bailing you out tonight.”

Macaque huffed, setting the tray down with a little more force than necessary. “Like you could afford my bail.”

Lee snorted. “Fair point.”

His phone buzzed in his pocket just then, and Macaque fished it out one-handed, glancing at the screen—a notification flashed with a name that he had finally managed to change to be an actual name instead of what Wukong had saved on his phone for him.

Sun Wukong 🍑: yo

Another buzz.

Sun Wukong 🍑: u feel like getting takeout tonight

Sun Wukong 🍑: ur shifts over soon right??? i got a feeling. a psychic vision 🙈

Sun Wukong 🍑: or u kind of left ur wallet here so i looked at the little schedule thingy u have in it n actually remembered idk

Macaque felt the corner of his mouth twitch, despite himself.

Sun Wukong 🍑: cmon let me order a stupid amount of dumplings and annoy u by trying to juggle them

Sun Wukong 🍑: u can judge me. u love judging me

It wasn’t like he didn’t want to tell Wukong. The words were there, curling in the back of his throat, itching at his fingers. But every time he tried to imagine sending them, something in his chest twisted up in such an uncomfortable way.

Wukong had been doing better. Actually eating instead of pretending he wasn’t hungry. Sleeping more, or at least not looking like he was running on fumes every time Macaque saw him. He’d been happier. It had been easier to get him to laugh, to trick him into one of those grins that lit up his whole face before he caught himself.

And Macaque had seen what just a phone call from Azure had done to him. How he’d spent the rest of the night moving too little, talking too little, stretching himself thin just to cover whatever had been sinking its claws into him.

That was just a call.

If Wukong knew Azure was here, in the same city, at the same bar Macaque worked at—

No.

He wasn’t doing that to him.

Not now. Not when things were good.

Macaque exhaled sharply, shoving his phone back into his pocket. His jaw felt tight, his grip too stiff where his fingers curled into his palm. Azure wouldn’t be here long. Guys like him didn’t stick around—they passed through, made a mess, and left someone else to clean it up.

Macaque: sure.

Macaque: if you drop them, i’m making you eat off the floor.

It took less than three seconds for Wukong to respond.

Sun Wukong 🍑: oh shit thats kinda hot

Macaque made a strangled sound, shoving his phone back into his pocket.

Lee snorted. “Who you texting?”

Macaque just shrugged before shrugging off his apron. “Sorry boss, I have to leave early, something came up—can Alby take over my shift for tonight?”

—

Macaque set the takeout bag down on the counter, the scent of fried noodles and spice curling into the air. He half-expected Wukong to come bounding in like an overexcited dog, but instead, the idiot was already on the kitchen counter, legs crossed, grinning at him like he’d been waiting all night.

"Finally,” Wukong drawled, snatching the bag before Macaque could protest. He tore it open, dragging out the containers with little regard for the carefully folded paper handles. “I thought I was gonna starve.”

Macaque rolled his eyes as he sat down at the counter, taking his beat-up laptop out of his bag and quickly opening his half-finished docs page. “Dramatic much?”

“Deadly serious.” Wukong ripped the lid off one of the boxes and shoved a bite of noodles into his mouth without ceremony. He barely swallowed before talking again, mouth still full. “You’re a saint. My savior. I should kiss you.”

“You’re a mess.”

Wukong gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “Me? A mess? Babe, I am the picture of grace.”

“You have sauce on your face.”

Wukong blinked, then stuck out his tongue, swiping at the corner of his mouth. “Did I get it?”

Macaque sighed, reaching over before he could think better of it. His thumb brushed against the smudge on Wukong’s lip, wiping it away with a casualness he absolutely did not feel. Wukong froze for half a second, his lips parting slightly—

Then, just as quickly, he grinned. “Aw, you do care.”

Macaque rolled his eyes, retracting his hand. “Shut up.” He hoped his glamours were enough to cover the possible flush on his face. He barely noticed his own share of takeout sitting in front of his nose. His laptop sat open on the kitchen counter beside him, blue light flickering against his face, but he wasn’t reading anything on the screen. His fingers hovered uselessly over the keyboard.

Across from him, Wukong sat cross-legged on the counter, chopsticks clicking together as he scooped up another bite of food, completely at ease. His hair was damp from a quick shower, sticking to the curve of his neck, and his shirt was slipping off one shoulder. He looked soft. Warm.

Macaque hated that he noticed.

Lately, he was eating again. Not just picking at his food like he was afraid of it, not just swallowing down the bare minimum to keep going, but actually eating. Messily, unceremoniously, chopsticks clicking against the plastic takeout container as he stole bites between their conversations.

Lately, he laughed more.

Lately, he seemed happier.

And whenever Macaque was around, that came easier, like it wasn’t something Wukong had to force around, and he was sick of seeing it being forced.

It was stupid how much that mattered to him. How much Wukong seemed to trust him after all that shit he’d piled onto him that one night. He still didn’t know if Wukong remembered what Macaque had said to his face—if he did, he didn’t show it. 

And Macaque?

He wasn’t about to break that trust by telling Wukong that Azure was in town. Not when Wukong was finally, after the roughest summer, was starting to feel like himself again. When Macaque finally felt like he had the reigns in his own life after so, fucking, long.

Wukong paused mid-bite, his chopsticks hovering just above his container, before his gaze flickered to Macaque.

“You gonna eat that,” he asked, nodding toward the still-full takeout container in front of him.

Macaque blinked, snapped out of his thoughts. He looked down at the food—untouched and gone cold. Shit.

“Yeah,” he muttered, forcing himself to pick up his chopsticks. “Just thinking.”

Wukong tilted his head, studying him. “About?”

“Nothing.” Macaque forced a shrug, rolling his shoulders like he could shake it off. “Essay’s just giving me a headache.”

That was technically true—he had his laptop open beside him, the cursor blinking in silent mockery. He wanted to curse at it. But Wukong wasn’t an idiot.

His eyes lingered for a second before he gave a small hum. “Uh-huh.” He reached over, plucking a dumpling from Macaque’s container and popping it into his mouth. “Well, if you’re not gonna eat, I’ll take care of it for you.”

Macaque scoffed, smacking his wrist. “Asshole.”

Wukong grinned, pleased with himself. “Hey, you snooze, you lose, Sunshine.”

Macaque rolled his eyes, finally forcing himself to take a bite. It felt like chewing cardboard.

He could feel Wukong still watching him, though, gaze dipping for a moment—just enough to make Macaque’s skin prickle. His voice came softer this time. “You sure you’re good?”

Macaque swallowed and forced a smirk. “I’m fine, Peaches.”

Wukong perked up immediately. “Peaches?” He cooed. “That’s new?”

Macaque cursed internally. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. He kept his expression neutral, reaching for the laziest excuse he could think of. “If you’re gonna call me Sunshine, then I’m calling you Peaches.” He grabbed a dumpling, pointedly avoiding eye contact. “You like peaches, don’t you?”

Wukong’s grin widened. “Yeah, but you like peaches too.” He leaned in slightly, like he was enjoying this way too much. “C’mon, you can admit it. You just wanted to give me a cute little nickname.”

Macaque scoffed, aiming a halfhearted kick at his shin. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Wukong rolled the word around in his mouth like he was savoring it. He hummed, all bright eyes and mischief, before grinning at Macaque. “Y’know what? I love it.”

Macaque forced himself to keep his expression neutral, even as something unsteady curled in his chest. “Good for you.” He reached for his drink, anything to keep his hands busy, anything to ignore the way Wukong was looking at him now—soft, pleased, like he’d been gifted something precious.

No, not when Macaque had so much shit to give.

Wukong nudged Macaque’s thigh lightly with his foot. “So,” he drawled. “How was work? Anyone give you trouble?”

Macaque stiffened for a split second before forcing himself to relax. Right. This is good. This is normal. He latched onto the question like a lifeline. “Nah, just the usual. Busy, annoying, you know how it is.” A beat. “Some guy knocked over his beer and had the nerve to look at me like I owed him something for it.”

Wukong snorted. “The audacity. Did you slap him?”

“Tempting.” Macaque smirked. “But, unfortunately, I like getting paid.”

“Tragic.”

Macaque chuckled and finally picked up his food. He’d dodged that bullet.

Wukong grinned, kicking his feet absently against the counter before shifting gears. “And school? You surviving?”

Macaque sighed, tilting his head back dramatically. “Barely. Semester’s barely started and I already feel like I’ve been chewed up and spat out.”

Wukong snickered. “That bad?”

Macaque sat back up, rubbing his temple. “I’m in rehearsals almost every night. Blocking, voice work, monologues—my prof is obsessed with getting every damn beat perfect. Then there’s scene study, which is great, except it means running on, like, four hours of sleep because I also have to analyze the text like it’s a damn dissertation.” He gestured at his open laptop. “And then there’s this nightmare—actual academic papers. My acting prof is one of those ‘theory is just as important as practice’ types, so he’s got us writing constantly.”

Wukong winced. “Yikes.”

“Yeah. And that’s on top of my other classes, which are all fine, I guess, but like… why do I need to take Physics of Light and Sound when I’m not a tech major?”

Wukong grinned. “For the vibes?”

Macaque groaned again. “If I hear the phrase ‘inverse square law’ one more time, I’m committing a felony.”

Wukong scoffed, twirling his chopsticks between his fingers. “Yeah, well, you’re gonna be fine, too. You always are.”

Macaque arched an eyebrow. “You say that like I don’t have a mountain of shit to do.”

“You do.” Wukong gestured vaguely at Macaque’s open laptop. “But you’re also, like, a freak of nature when it comes to academics. You always get good grades. Always.”

Macaque rolled his eyes. “I work for those grades, dumbass.”

Wukong grinned. “Yeah, yeah, I know, but still. I could literally set you on fire and you’d still turn in your essay on time. Probably ace it, too.”

Macaque snorted. “At least let me finish it first.”

“No promises.” Wukong smirked, then nudged Macaque’s knee with his foot again. “Point is, you stress yourself out every semester, and every semester you still kill it. You’re, like, annoyingly good at this shit.”

Macaque huffed, shaking his head. “I hate that you’re technically right.”

“Technically?” Wukong feigned offense. “Bitch, I am completely right.”

Macaque hummed. “Whatever. There’s just—a lot, to balance right now.”

Wukong leaned back on his hands, swinging his legs a little where he sat on the counter. “Must be nice,” he said, voice lilting, like he was teasing—but there was something else under it. “To just know you’re gonna make it through.”

Macaque glanced up from his laptop, raising an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Wukong shrugged, tapping his chopsticks against the rim of his takeout box. “Means I’ve never had that. I’ve always barely passed, or—y’know.” He gave a dramatic little shrug. “Failed.”

Macaque snorted. “That’s just because you never study.”

Wukong gasped, clutching his chest. “How dare you!” He dropped the act almost immediately, laughing. “I mean, I love my major, right? Animation’s my shit. I can spend hours working on my projects and actually enjoy it.” His fingers curled around the edge of the counter, knuckles pressing white. “But the other classes? The required ones? I just—” He exhaled, shoulders dropping. “I don’t know, man. I don’t think I’m gonna make it through the semester.” He jabbed at his food with his chopsticks, making a face. “Like, I swear to Buddha, if I have to take one more gen ed math class, I’m throwing myself into the sea.”

Macaque winced. “That’s a little dramatic.”

“No, it’s not,” Wukong insisted, waving his chopsticks at him. “I have three projects due next week, a paper I don’t even know how to start, and I still don’t understand what the hell my math professor is saying half the time. I think I might just die instead. That’s a valid academic strategy, right?”

Macaque chuckled, shaking his head. “I think you’d have better odds if you just—oh, I don’t know—studied.”

Wukong groaned loudly, flopping onto his back on the counter. “Ugh, why would you say something so awful to me?” He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “Pretty sure I’m fucked. Don’t worry, though—I’m an expert at bullshitting my way through things. I’ll figure it out. Who knows, maybe I’ll get lucky.”

Macaque studied him for a moment. “Hey,” he said, voice quieter. Wukong blinked up at him. 

“You’re gonna be fine,” Macaque said, like it was a fact, like it was set in stone. “You love what you do. You’ll figure it out.”

For a second, Wukong just stared at him. His expression was unreadable: something caught between surprise and—

Macaque cleared his throat, looking back at his laptop. “Especially now that you have me as your amazing tutor.”

That did the trick. Wukong snorted. “Oh, so that’s what this was about. You just wanted to flex.”

“I mean, if the shoe fits,” Macaque said with a shrug, taking a bite of his food.

Wukong grinned, leaning forward on his elbows. “So what I’m hearing is: I get to be spoon-fed knowledge by my best friend while he stares longingly into my eyes and tells me I’m brilliant.”

Macaque gave him a deadpan look. “What you’re hearing is that you should start taking notes.”

Wukong tapped his chin. “Damn, guess I should go buy a notebook, huh?”

Macaque rolled his eyes, finally picking up his chopsticks. “Yeah, maybe one with big, bold letters that say listen to Macaque or fail.”

Wukong snickered, watching him for a second too long before he hummed, almost to himself. “You know…”

Macaque glanced up. “What?”

Wukong swung his legs a little where he sat on the counter, a slow, lazy grin tugging at his lips. “I like it when you tell me I’ll be fine. It felt good.”

Macaque pointedly ignored the way his face felt a little too warm and focused very hard on his essay.

Chapter Text

Wukong remembers the first time he ever thought he was in love.

He’s sixteen when it happens (it happens with a kiss), and it crashes into him all at once—fast and brutal—because by then, he’s already made peace with the idea that love isn’t for him. It’s like tipping over the edge of something too high, hitting the bottom before he realizes he’s falling. It’s the best feeling in the world, and then it’s the worst. For weeks, and then months, he thinks this is it—this is what they mean when they talk about love, the overwhelming rush of it all, the high. This is what people mean when their hearts hurt, their heads hurt, and this is it. The thing people so tirelessly write about. The thing that people swoon over, cry over, ruin themselves for. The thing that makes you sick.

His first love leaves him in the backseat of a car—half-dressed, half-awake, pressing a lazy kiss to his jaw and telling him he’s been good to him before vanishing like they were never even there. And Wukong? He stays. He cleans up the mess they left behind, folds the jacket they forgot in the rush, watches the taillights blur into the dark and tells himself that this is all fine. This is normal. He guesses that this is how it works. He knows this by now.

After that, love never stays. Or maybe, it’s just him. Maybe he’s too much, or not enough. Maybe no one ever really loves him back the way he needs.

Then Azure happens. And for a while, he thinks this time it’s different.

Macaque is sprawled out on Wukong’s couch, blanket draped over one shoulder, head tipped back against the armrest, eyes barely open. He looks exhausted. Worn down to the bone. The kind of tired that makes Wukong’s throat feel uncomfortably tighter because Macaque shouldn’t have to be that tired, shouldn’t have to work himself into the ground just to keep his life together, and shouldn’t have to walk around with so much shit on his shoulders.

(But then again, Wukong knows what that’s like. He’s well-aware of the feeling of piling more and more onto what you already have just to keep yourself from thinking about what’s missing. He knows it so well it makes his stomach twist.)

He should probably tell Macaque to go to bed.

Instead, he folds another sad paper crane.

It’s pretty bad—the wings are lopsided and the beak is crooked. It looks incredibly fragile in his hands, something so delicate but doomed all at once. He sets it down on the coffee table, breathes out slow, and picks up another square of paper, smoothing it over his knee before creasing it sharp, folding it in half, and then in half again.

With it, he tries to shape something out of nothing, something neat and tangible and real, something with edges that makes a lot of sense.

The thought that Macaque is here, that thought alone, keeps looping in his head. Macaque is breathing, slow and steady, and Wukong wants to count every inhale, every exhale—he wants to memorize the exact way his ribs move beneath the fabric of his shirt.

His fingers move in spite of himself. He wants to touch. Not to pull, not to take, just to feel. Just to know, without question, that Macaque is real, that he’s not just another presence passing through Wukong’s orbit, or another body leaving before he can figure out how to ask them to stay.

He doesn’t know how to sit with this feeling.

It’s too much and it’s too little all at once, like an itch under his skin he can’t quite reach, like standing at the edge of a drop-off and realizing he wants to fall but not knowing what’s waiting at the bottom. He folds the piece of paper, his fingers moving with the little muscle memory they hold, as if it will somehow quiet the thing twisting in his chest.

“Hey,” he mumbles, voice softer than he means to be.

Macaque makes a questioning noise, half-asleep.

“You wanna make one?” Wukong waves the paper slightly.

Macaque cracks an eye open. “Make what?”

“Origami.” Wukong says. “I got bored.”

Macaque groans and shifts against the couch. “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. What else am I supposed to do on a Saturday night?”

“Sleep.”

Wukong scoffs, albeit quietly. He drops a sheet of paper onto Macaque’s knee. “C’mon. It’s fun.”

Macaque sighs but takes it anyway, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “Alright. What are we making?”

“A fox.”

Macaque raises a brow. “Why?”

“Dunno. Just felt right.”

And so they fold, and the stars outside don’t make any noise.

Wukong isn’t sure when it happened, exactly. When Macaque stopped being just another presence in his periphery and became something else entirely. Maybe it’s the vegan breakfast that Macaque had made for him one time—because Wukong has spent years waking up early, cleaning rooms and fluffing pillows, making breakfast for people who would roll over, glance at him, and say, you didn’t have to do that like they actually meant it. Maybe it’s just Macaque being Macaque, with his sharp mouth and his secret love for pastries and his fucking attitude. Maybe it’s just all of it at once, until it’s something so big and heavy that it becomes just impossible for Wukong to ignore.

He doesn’t realize he’s stopped folding until his fingers are still against the paper, holding the half-formed shape between his hands.

And then, because his brain is traitor, he lets himself imagine—

Mornings in a kitchen that belongs to both of them, cooking food, poking at a pan, wearing a funny apron. Eyes soft with sleep. Messy hair. Barefeet. Mornings where they don’t have to go anywhere, where they can just exist in the same space, where Wukong presses his face into the crook of his neck and breathes him in, arms looping around his waist. Hugs. Kisses that taste like peaches. Months of this. Years. A life that doesn’t ask to be temporary. He knows that this—this is what he wants everyday. 

And just like that, the bottom drops out.

Oh.

Oh.

He’s in love with him.

And the thing is—he’s never been afraid of love. Not really.

But he’s so, so afraid of loving alone.

Macaque finishes his fox and flicks it at Wukong’s arm. “Done.”

Wukong studies it. “Not bad.”

“I’m a natural.” Macaque shifts under the blanket, already half-asleep again.

Without thinking, Wukong reaches forward and gently sets his own paper fox onto Macaque’s chest. Macaque stirs at this, brow furrowing, eyes cracking open just slightly. He blinks down at the fox, then at Wukong, and there’s a quiet noise in the back of his throat.

“Uh.”

“Gift,” Wukong says.

Macaque picks up the little paper fox, twirls it between his fingers, and it’s like his whole heart is sitting right there in his hands. He tucks it into the folds of his blanket like it’s something precious. 

“He’s going to sleep here with me,” Macaque says, voice thick with exhaustion, and Wukong—god. He’s ruined.

Because he knows that he will keep making little paper animals and setting them on Macaque’s chest, again and again, because it’s the closest he can get to folding the truth into something small enough to give.

Wukong reaches for another square of paper, smoothing it over his knee.

And he folds.

—

The day had been long—his idiot boss from the diner breathing down his neck, a client trying to argue over a “wrong” drink like his life depended on it—but at least it was over. Now, all he wanted was to collapse in his room, away from the world, maybe put on some music and pretend he didn’t exist for a while.

When Macaque shut the door behind him and stepped into Wukong’s long hall, the place was quiet, dark save for the candle flickering by the Buddha statue. The air smelled faintly of incense, dust, and something he couldn’t quite place past all that vanilla scent—food, maybe. Wukong was probably off in his room or passed out on the couch like usual. Or at some party again, in some club a drink in one hand and someone’s waist in the other (hopefully not feeling up a guy, although, frankly, that was none of Macaque’s business).

Good. Macaque wasn’t in the mood for conversation. He just wanted to get to bed and—

“Surprise!”

A blur of movement—figures lunging, bright colors, sound slamming into his ears. His instincts flared like a match catching fire. His body moved before thought could catch up. His back hit the wall, arms raised, stance shifting into something defensive, sharp as a blade drawn mid-fight. His breath hitched.

And then—

Macaque blinked. Once. Twice—and then the world finally slowed. His hands trembled at his sides, the rush of adrenaline still burning under his skin, before they rushed up to the side of his head to grab at his ears—one. Wukong, of all people, had the audacity to laugh, hands up in exaggerated surrender.

“Whoa, whoa—easy there, big guy! It’s just us.”

MK stood frozen, wide eyes darting between Macaque’s stance and Wukong’s unbothered grin. “Uh… you okay?”

Mei winced. “Yeah, dude, that was like, some assassin-level reaction time. Kinda cool but also terrifying.”

It took another second for everything to register. A cake sat on the coffee table, candles unlit but standing in place, frosting smoothed over with slightly wobbly lettering. In the corner, a cluster of star-shaped balloons floating lazily in the corner. A small stack of presents—nothing big, just a few, with brightly colored wrapping—sat beside the cake. A banner hung above the couch, with the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY written in bold, blocky letters, probably drawn by MK. Macaque let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, dragging a hand down his face.

“You—” His voice caught. “You threw me a birthday party?”

“Hell yeah, we did!” Mei beamed, waving a confetti popper in the air before yanking the string. A shower of gold and silver bits exploded around them, catching in Wukong’s fur and MK’s hair, who started squirming feverishly to get the confetti bits off. “Tiny scale, don’t worry. We know you’re not into big crowds.”

His chest tightened, something uneasy coiling in his stomach. The whole scene felt surreal.

He had never—

No one had ever—

Not since—

He forced himself to speak past the dryness in his throat. “How… how did you even know it was today?”

MK and Mei immediately turned to Wukong, interest piqued. Wukong, standing closest, rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish smirk. “Well, funny story…”

Macaque narrowed his eyes. “Oh, this’ll be good.”

“So, uh, remember a couple weeks ago when you left your wallet here?”

“Yeah?”

Wukong’s tail flicked behind him, a clear tell. “I might have, y’know, taken a little peek at your driver’s license. Just a tiny bit.”

Macaque stared. “You what?”

Mei snorted. “Dude. Stalker behavior.”

“It’s research!” Wukong defended. “What was I supposed to do, just not find out? Besides, it’s not like you were ever gonna tell me!”

That was true.

That was very, very true.

Still.

“That’s not—ugh, whatever.” Macaque sighed, dragging a hand down his face. His skin still buzzed from the remnants of adrenaline, but his stance had loosened, exhaustion sinking back into his bones. He finally—finally—let himself look at everything again. The cake. The banner. The presents. Those dumb, stupid balloons basically drowning in the corner.

The last time he’d had a birthday party…

No, scratch that. He never had one.

Not in the homes he bounced between as a kid, where birthdays were just another day, or a hassle to the adults who barely wanted him there. Not in the centers, where the closest thing to a “party” was a group activity with store-brand cupcakes and kids he barely knew. Not ever.

Macaque exhaled slowly. The thought made something strange press into his chest.

Mei nudged Macaque’s arm with her elbow with a tiny smile of her own. “C’mon, you don’t hate it, do you?”

Macaque hesitated. His fingers twitched at his sides. He looked over the room again, the flickering candle on the cake, MK shifting his weight like he wasn’t sure if he should say something, Mei watching him expectantly, and Wukong standing there like this was the most natural thing in the world. 

No one had ever—

“Yeah,” he said, softer than he meant to. “Yeah, I—yeah.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“Well, duh,” Wukong scoffed, crossing his arms. “I know you, dude. You’d’ve bolted if there were too many people.” He nudged Macaque’s arm, casual as anything, like this wasn’t a big deal. Like he hadn’t done something that made Macaque’s throat feel tight in a way he didn’t understand. “C’mon, sit. We got cake. MK decorated it himself. It’s, uh… kinda cursed, but still edible.”

“Hey!” MK huffed. “It’s not cursed!”

“It kinda is,” Mei muttered, eyeing the cake.

Moments later, Macaque sat—somewhat stiffly—on the couch, as if his body had yet to decide whether this was a trap or a dream (as if moving too much might shatter the moment, might wake him up somewhere else, somewhere colder). The warmth of the room pressed around him, the glow of fairy lights humming against the dark like the pulse of something alive. MK was already cutting into the cake, tongue poking out in concentration as he tried (and failed) to make even slices. Mei flicked stray confetti from her sleeve, grinning when Wukong shook his fur out like a dog, scattering more onto the floor while he lounged in his usual way like he owned the place (which, fine, he did), one arm flung over the back of the couch.

It was all so normal. Laughing, teasing, the scent of sugar in the air. It was the kind of scene that belonged to other people—people who had families who cared, people who didn’t flinch when someone called their name too suddenly. It had the feeling of something long out of reach, like standing in the glow of a house’s light from the cold outside.

And yet—god, he felt pathetic.

Macaque stared down at his own slice of cake. It was lumpy, the icing uneven, a single candle stuck haphazardly in the center where it had melted slightly into the frosting. He could still see where MK had scraped the letters in, his name tilted slightly off-balance, like the kid had tried too hard to make it perfect and made it worse.

It was stupid. All of it.

Wukong bumped his shoulder. “You gonna eat that, or are we just staring at it for the aesthetic?”

Macaque shot him a look, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “Bold words from someone whose aesthetic is ‘found this in a dumpster.’”

“Hey, that’s called effortless charm.”

“More like effortless garbage.”

MK choked on his cake from laughing, and Wukong grinned like he’d just won something. Mei snorted, flicking a piece of confetti at Macaque. “Wow, you’ve been here five minutes and you’re already roasting him. I like this energy.”

It was easy. It shouldn’t have been.

But the cake was—fine. Sweet, cloying, homemade in the way that meant someone had tried. It stuck to the roof of his mouth, the texture uneven. MK kept sneaking glances at him like he was waiting for a review.

Macaque rolled his eyes. “Not bad, kid.” He pretended not to notice the way MK’s face lit up.

Presents came next. Macaque hadn’t expected them—why would he? This wasn’t supposed to be a real birthday, just an excuse for these three to be their usual overenthusiastic selves. But then Mei shoved something into his hands, and he realized, with a strange hollow feeling, that they’d thought about this.

Mei’s gift was first—a ridiculously flashy pair of sunglasses, the kind with LED rims that glowed in shifting colors. “So you can keep up the mysterious edgelord thing and blind your enemies at the same time,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows.

Macaque turned them over in his hands, the weight of them surprisingly solid. “I have a reputation to maintain, y’know,” he deadpanned.

“Yeah, yeah, just try them on.”

He did. They were atrocious. Mei cackled, clapping her hands.

MK went next, thrusting a wrapped package toward him with all the enthusiasm of a puppy. Inside was a notebook—black, leather-bound, with an embossed crescent moon in the corner. The pages were thick, the kind meant for sketching or ink.

“I figured you might, like, use it for something,” MK said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Y’know. Notes, theater things, doodles, or—uh—just stuff. Like if you wanna write something.”

It was nice. Uncomfortably so. Macaque thanked him for this. Although—

“Hm.” He flicked the cover open, tilting his head. “Maybe I’ll use it for writing down all the dumb things you say.”

MK sputtered. “What—hey!”

“Alright, alright, my turn.” Wukong said, practically vibrating. He plopped something onto Macaque’s lap.

Soft. Squishy. Small.

Macaque picked it up, frowning. His fingers pressed into something plush—round ears, tiny little stitched-on fangs, and—

He deadpanned. “This is a monkey.”

“Not just any monkey,” Wukong said, smug. “You.”

The plush’s expression did look kind of unimpressed.

Macaque held it between two fingers. “This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Wukong leaned in, voice teasing. “You love it.”

“Do not.”

“Bet you’re already naming it.”

“Wukong, I swear—”

The night stretched on, dipping into that easy, thoughtless kind of comfort that Macaque had always assumed was a lie.

The TV played on low in the background—some romcom none of them were paying attention to, except for the occasional sarcastic remark. MK had stretched out on the floor, arms flung wide in exaggerated despair after losing three rounds of a board game, while Mei gloated shamelessly, counting her fake money like a corporate villain. Wukong lounged against the arm of the couch, twirling a game piece between his fingers, grinning like he was waiting for an opportunity to cheat. 

Macaque sat with one knee drawn up, the plush still in his lap, though he hadn’t realized he was holding onto it until now. He told himself he was just resting his arm there. That was all.

His tail flicked idly as he listened to the conversation wash over him.

MK groaned. “I don’t get how you always win.”

Mei tossed her hair over her shoulder. “It’s called strategy, peasant.”

“You made half your money from stealing mine!”

She shot him finger guns. “Exactly.”

MK flopped onto his side, squishing his cheek against the floor. “This game is rigged.”

“Oh, no doubt.” Wukong stretched like a cat. “That’s why I never take it seriously. Y’all are just here to entertain me.”

Macaque scoffed. “So what I’m hearing is, you’re just bad at it.”

Wukong smirked. “Or, I’m playing the long con.”

“Uh-huh. You keep telling yourself that.”

It was stupid. Pointless. Just noise, filling the space between one second and the next. But in this one, Macaque couldn’t remember if there were debts waiting to be paid. 

They moved on from the board game to something even dumber—charades. Mei and MK had teamed up, which should have been an advantage, except neither of them could keep a straight face long enough to get a point across. MK flailed through his turn, knocking over an empty plate in the process, while Mei practically wheezed trying to guess.

“I—I don’t—a fish?”

MK waved his arms more aggressively.

“A dying fish?”

Wukong snorted. “Man’s just having a crisis at this point.”

MK made a strangled noise, pointing desperately at his own face.

Mei smacked her fist into her palm. “Oh! Oh! Roadkill!”

“What?”

The room dissolved into chaos.

Macaque—he didn’t laugh. Not really. But he did feel like he could breathe—and that, for once, felt like something.

Somewhere between charades and the inevitable switch to a movie they’d never finish, Mei had migrated to the floor, propped against MK’s side. Wukong stretched out across the couch, his arm draped behind Macaque, not quite touching. The plush sat in Macaque’s lap, one tiny stitched fang poking out, its little arms limp where his fingers loosely curled around it.

The apartment itself had settled into quiet, muffled by altitude: the kind that only comes after laughter has burned itself out, but in the best possible way. MK and Mei had long since succumbed to the weight of food and exhaustion, curled up in the corner of the couch, faces still streaked with smears of frosting. MK’s head lolled against Mei’s shoulder, mouth slightly open in sleep, while Mei had somehow twisted herself into an impossible position—one foot propped against the armrest, one arm flung dramatically across her face. Xiaohei had stretched herself along the backrest, her tail flicking lazily as she slept.

Macaque watched them for a moment, absently turning the plush over in his hands.

Outside, the city continued its restless hum, but inside—inside, it was peaceful. It was nice.

A quiet voice broke the stillness.

“So.”

He glanced sideways. Wukong was watching him, eyes somehow seeming to glow just a little in the dim light. “You do like the plushie,” He noted quietly.

Macaque frowned, glancing down at the ridiculous thing still sitting in his lap. The tiny stitched-on fangs. The silly little tail. His fingers had been toying with its floppy ears.

“You’ve been holding onto it for a while now. Pretty cuddly for something you called ‘the dumbest thing you’ve ever seen.’”

Macaque scowled. “I’m holding it. Not marrying it.”

“Mm-hmm.” Wukong smirked, propping his chin on one hand. “What’d you name it?”

Macaque turned, leveled him with a glare. “Wukong—”

“Y’know, I was gonna call it ‘Mini Mac’ myself, but—”

Macaque tossed the plush at his face.

Wukong gasped dramatically, barely managing to catch it before it smacked him dead in the nose. “Alright, alright, I get it,” he said, still grinning as he lobbed it back. “No need to get violent.”

Macaque rolled his eyes, catching the plush against his chest. “I will throw you off this balcony.”

“Pfft. Like you could.”

After that, silence stretched out for a second. For a moment, Macaque let himself breathe in the quiet. This felt right.

The truth was—he didn’t hate the stupid plush. And Wukong knew it.

Macaque looked down at it again, at the tiny fanged face, at the way his fingers curled around it just a little tighter than they should. Cute.

And then—something heavy thumped against his lap.

A box.

Macaque blinked, snapping his head up. Wukong was looking at him, eyes alight with some sort of quiet expectation.

“Last one,” he said, voice softer now. “Figured I’d save the best for last.”

Macaque narrowed his eyes, reluctant to move. “You just have this lying around?”

Wukong snorted. “Nope.” He tilted his head, his grin returning. “Go on. It won’t bite.”

Macaque huffed. But something about the weight of the box, the way Wukong was watching him, made his hands move before he could think better of it. He worked the ribbon loose with his thumb, the silk slipping between his fingers like water. The lid came free with the softest whisper of movement, and he was met with folds of deep black fabric, smooth as ink, pooling within the box.

And froze.

Black embroidery. Silk-soft fabric. A familiar pattern curling along the sleeves, delicate but intricate, like shadow pressed into form. The light caught on it—dark blossoms unfurling in thread so fine it almost disappeared into it. He knew this jacket. The one he had tried on at the mall—the one that had fit in a way few things ever did, the one he had let himself like for all of five seconds before dismissing it as too much, too expensive, not something meant for him.

He let his fingers ghost over the fabric, hesitating, something thick rising in his chest. Wukong, for once, didn’t say a word. 

Macaque exhaled sharply through his nose and forced his voice to be steady. “You—” He stopped. Swallowed. “You actually bought this?”

“Yep.”

“You watched me put it back.”

“Yep.”

Macaque clenched his jaw. He should’ve known. He should’ve known.

“… This is expensive,” he muttered, quieter this time.

Wukong shrugged, easy. “So?”

“I can’t take this.”

Wukong made a sound halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “Oh, come on.”

“It’s too much.”

Macaque turned, frowning, but Wukong was already sinking deeper into the couch, legs sprawled, looking obnoxiously pleased with himself. “You’re acting like I just handed you the deed to my house. It’s a jacket.”

“A jacket that costs more than—”

“—Less than what I spend on lunch, Macaque.” Wukong tilted his head toward him, expression softer now, quieter. “And it’s your birthday.”

A pause. A long one.

Macaque stared down at the fabric in his lap, fingers curling against the silk, like if he let go, it would slip away. And without thinking—without filtering himself—he felt his lips move to form stupid words:

“… This is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

A silence followed. Xiaohei mewled a little in her sleep.

Then, Wukong let out a small breath, barely a laugh. He sounded happy. “You really need better people in your life.”

Macaque’s ears burned. “Shit. Forget I said that.”

“Nope.” Wukong grinned. “That one’s mine now.”

Macaque made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, but it was hollow, his grip tightening on the jacket as he looked away.

And then Wukong nudged the box with his foot. “That’s not all of it.”

Macaque blinked. Carefully, he pushed the jacket aside—and something small and silver caught the dim light.

A silver crescent moon.

A pendant, resting in a small velvet pouch, its silver surface catching the low light like a sliver of something stolen from the night itself.

Macaque ran his thumb over it, tracing the delicate shape, slim and curved, edges polished to a muted gleam. It wasn’t overly ornate, just simple and refined, like something made to last. The metal wasn’t cold the way silver usually was. It had been warmed by the room, by the weight of the fabric around it… by something else he didn’t want to think too hard about.

He swallowed. “This is…”

“You, basically,” Wukong said, a little too casually, like he wasn’t paying close attention to Macaque’s reaction. He leaned back, fishing something from the collar of his shirt and pulling it free. “And since I’ve got this—” He held up that sun-shaped pendant that had always so wordlessly hung from his own neck. Macaque now got a better look at it—a simple sun pendant, edges softened by time and wear, hanging from a chain just slightly thicker than the one in Macaque’s hands. It swayed slightly with Wukong’s movement.

Macaque blinked at it.

Wukong shrugged, expression still easy, but something about it didn’t quite match the way he said, “Figured it made sense. You’re the moon. I’m the sun.” A pause, then a tiny smile. “Now we match.”

Macaque fought to swallow the lump in his throat as Wukong shifted forward, reaching out with an expectant look. “C’mere.”

Macaque hesitated. Just for a second—then, wordlessly, he handed over the chain. 

Wukong gently shifted out from under the blankets that had pooled around his lap and moved behind him, and suddenly Macaque was aware of everything—how warm he was, the slow brush of deft fingers against the nape of his neck as Wukong pushed his hair aside, gathering the fine silver chain with an ease that Macaque wasn’t quite used to. 

He could feel things; the momentary warmth of Wukong’s fingertips grazing his skin, a barely-there touch that sent something tense and electric shivering down his spine, the careful way Wukong maneuvered the clasp, the cool slip of metal against the heat pooling at the base of his throat. And maybe Wukong noticed. Maybe he felt the way Macaque's pulse kicked up under his touch—because he hesitated, just for a second, long enough for the moment to stretch. Long enough for Macaque to catch the brief hitch of his breath, the way the faint city glow edged his profile in soft golds and blues.

Then, with the quietest click, the clasp fastened.

Wukong’s fingers didn’t leave him right away. They stayed, just barely, thumb ghosting over the nape of his neck in a touch so light it could’ve been accidental—except it wasn’t. He knew it wasn’t. Not when Wukong’s hand drifted down, grazing his shoulder as he pulled away, leaving a mark so painfully warm on some part of him Macaque couldn’t place.

He exhaled, only then realizing he’d been holding his breath.

Wukong shifted again, moving to sit next to him at an angle where their eyes could meet. He glanced from the pendant, to Macaque, then back. Then back at him before he finally looked up, catching Macaque’s gaze with an almost imperceptible smile.“Yeah,” Wukong said, quiet, more to himself than anything. “Looks good on you.”

He reached out, almost as if he was about to touch Macaque’s face when he caught himself—Wukong’s gaze lingered on Macaque a moment longer, eyes tracing the curve of his face as if committing every detail to memory. The air between them felt thick, like the quiet before a storm, but there was something just so soft and gentle in Wukong’s touch when he finally let his hand fall to his lap, his fingertips brushing just a little too close to Macaque’s wrist. A silent invitation, or maybe just the aftermath of the moment hanging in the space between them.

Macaque could feel that stupid way his body wanted to lean into that warmth. That stupid, damn thing he’d been feeling for a stupid while. But instead, he stayed still, frozen in a way that had nothing to do with fear, but everything to do with how unexpected this was. How delicate.

The quiet was broken by a faint sound—something warm slipping down his cheek, catching at the corner of his mouth, the taste of salt when he inhaled too sharply. It took a second before he realized—before he could fully comprehend it—tears had started to slip down his face, leaving warm trails that blurred his vision.

Oh.

He wiped his eyes quickly, but it didn’t matter—his hands were shaking. His shoulders jerked with a breath that didn’t quite come through all the way, and that’s when Wukong noticed.

“Mac,” Wukong’s voice was soft, more of a whisper than anything else. He pulled back, his gaze sharpening, his hand sliding gently to Macaque’s shoulder as his brow furrowed with something close to worry. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

Macaque tried to answer, but his throat was tight, closing up around something he didn’t have words for. He shook his head, swallowing against the way his chest felt too tight and too full. His hands curled against the fabric of the jacket still in his lap, his fingers pressing into the embroidery like he could steady himself through it. Like it was something solid in the way he suddenly felt like he wasn’t.

The words barely made it past his lips, shaky and raw.

“I’m sorry.”

He wasn’t even sure what for.

The gift. The night. For leaving. For staying away. For the shitty things he had said and let Wukong believe. For being a fuck-up. For the years of bitterness and anger curdling into something ugly than he could hold alone. For now, for this, for the fact that Wukong was looking at him with that face—so soft and so knowing like he’d almost been waiting for this, but never wanted to push. For all the shit in the world that Macaque brought along with him.

For the fact that Macaque had spent so long convincing himself this moment could never happen. That he didn’t deserve it.

Wukong stilled, and for a moment, Macaque thought he was going to say something—to tell him he didn’t need to apologize, or to deflect with some half-hearted joke, something easy to brush it all aside.

Instead, Wukong exhaled, something slow and careful, and then he pulled Macaque into his arms without hesitation.

Macaque tensed. The warmth of Wukong’s body, the way his arms wrapped around him, firm and steady, it was—too much. It shouldn’t feel like this. It shouldn’t feel so easy. His hands curled uselessly at his sides, his whole body going rigid like he should pull away, like this was a mistake—

His hands moved without thinking, gripping the back of Wukong’s shirt, pulling him closer. His face pressed against his shoulder, and fuck, he could feel how damp the fabric was getting, but Wukong didn’t pull away. He just held on tighter, like he wasn’t going anywhere, like he wasn’t going to let Macaque retreat into himself again.

Macaque’s breath stuttered, uneven, and Wukong just let him have it. No empty reassurances, no telling him to stop crying, no forced words to make this moment easier. Just warmth. Just presence. Just the quiet sound of the city beyond the glass, stretching endlessly below them while up here, in this place that was far too nice for someone like him, Macaque let himself be held.

He wasn’t sure what, exactly, he was thanking Wukong for when the words finally slipped past his lips, hoarse and barely audible. But Wukong just squeezed him a little tighter.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “I know.”

—

Wukong was the only one still awake.

He sat on the couch, laptop balanced on his thighs, absently scrolling. News articles, gameplay videos, nonsense headlines, a tab left open to some dumb meme Mei had shown him earlier. Busied himself with a Netflix show for about an hour. Nothing important. Just something to do.

Macaque was curled up against him, dead asleep, head tucked against Wukong’s side like it was the most natural thing in the world. His breathing was steady, deep, the slow rhythm of real sleep. One arm was curled tightly around the small monkey plushie, holding it close, the edge of its fabric ears pressed up against his face.

On the floor, MK and Mei were still sprawled out where they’d crashed, tangled up in each other’s limbs in sleep-heavy exhaustion. At some point, Wukong had taken the time to drape a blanket over them.

The soft ping of an email notification cut through the silence.

Wukong barely reacted at first, glancing down at the screen out of habit. Probably spam. Or some auto-generated nonsense. He was about to ignore it—had already half-swiped it off his screen—when something about the subject line gave him pause.

Subject: Nostalgia’s sake, thought you might like it

His brows furrowed. No name attached to the sender. No context. Just an email with a single video file.

For a second, he debated deleting it outright. But curiosity, or maybe something closer to suspicion, made him click.

The video loaded.

The first thing that hit him was the sound: breathless laughter, a giggle. The screen shook at first, unfocused, shifting wildly before settling onto a familiar bedroom—his bedroom, the one Wukong slept in every night. The lighting was different, pooling over the silk sheets and gold-threaded pillows. The camera wobbled slightly, as if being adjusted, and then—

“You got it?” Came his own voice, warm, teasing. 

“Almost,” The other voice muttered, the image wobbling before clicking into place.

The focus finally came into place, and his breath hitched—the Wukong on-screen was younger, though not by much. He was thinner. The lighting was warm and dim, golden shadows stretching over bare skin. His hair was a little tousled, lips already kiss-bitten, a lazy grin tugging at his mouth.

And Azure was there with him.

Wukong’s pulse kicked up as he watched Azure press into him, all slow, unhurried confidence. It was the way Azure always was—like he knew exactly how this was going to play out, like it was a script he had already memorized. His hands were easy on Wukong’s waist, firm but teasing, a slow drag over bare skin as he pulled Wukong into his lap.

Wukong, on screen, rolled his eyes. “Why are we recording this again?” His voice, younger, lighter, laced with fond exasperation. He barely glanced at the camera.

“Memories, love.” Azure’s voice was smooth like it always had been. His hands were practiced, undoing the zipper of Wukong’s top. “You looked too good tonight. Can’t let it go to waste.”

Wukong’s past self let out a breath of laughter. Didn’t stop him.

Azure chuckled, pressing in closer. “Come on, babe. What’s the occasion?”

Wukong watched himself tilt his head slightly, playing along.

“The gala, obviously.”

“And?”

“And the fact that we look damn good.”

Azure hummed, fingers trailing lower, finally having undone the zipper and gently removing Wukong’s top from his body. His lips ghosted along the curve of Wukong’s neck. “And?”

Wukong exhaled sharply through his nose. He remembered this night now.

The Wukong on screen let his head tip back against Azure’s shoulder, eyes half-lidded, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Our anniversary.”

“There we go.” Azure’s grin was audible. “See? Not so hard, was it?”

On the screen, Azure’s hands slid down, fingertips ghosting along Wukong’s ribs. “You looked so good at dinner tonight,” he mumbled, his voice edged with something low and pleased—his eyes flickered to the camera then back. “Drove me absolutely crazy.”

Wukong in the video hummed, stretching like a cat under the attention. “That why you kept sneaking your hand on my thigh?”

Azure chuckled, dipping down to press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the curve of Wukong’s shoulder.

“I was being subtle.”

“You were not subtle.” Wukong rolled his eyes, but there was laughter in his voice.

Azure’s hands roamed lower, a slow, unhurried drag over Wukong’s bare skin, fingertips ghosting down his ribs, teasing along his waist. He touched like he had all the time in the world, like he knew Wukong would let him.

Wukong, on screen, barely resisted—if anything, he leaned into it, letting his head tip back against Azure’s shoulder, throat bared. His breath hitched slightly as Azure’s lips brushed the curve of his jaw, then his neck, then lower, leaving a slow trail of warmth.

“You should look at yourself right now,” Azure mumbled.

The angle of the camera shifted, catching the way Wukong’s lashes fluttered, his expression softened by something hazy and weightless. His lips were swollen, the flush of heat still clinging to his skin. He looked—fuck. He looked wanted.

Wukong, now, felt his stomach twist at the sight. At how easy it had been, back then. How fucking easy.

“That bad, huh?” On screen, he tried to quip, but his voice was already edged with that telltale rasp—ah, halfway gone.

Azure only hummed in amusement, his hands sliding beneath Wukong’s shirt, tracing idle patterns along the small of his back. “Nah, baby. Just—look.”

And Wukong did.

The camera caught the way he turned his head, dark eyes hazy and unfocused, lips parting slightly as Azure’s thumb traced circles over his hipbone. His hands, unconsciously, curled into the fabric of Azure’s sleeves, as if steadying himself.

“See that?” Azure’s voice dropped lower, a murmur meant just for him. “That’s what I like.”

Wukong, now, swallowed hard. The air in the apartment felt too still, too thick, like something pressing against his lungs.

In the video, Azure leaned in, lips just barely brushing Wukong’s ear. “You get so pretty when you’re like this.”

The past Wukong exhaled slowly, his fingers threading through Azure’s mane like he didn’t know whether to pull him closer or push him away. His breath caught as Azure’s hands slid lower, teasing along the waistband of his shorts, so intentional but unhurried. The way he touched was careful, practiced, as if savoring the moment, drawing it out as long as possible.

Then—

“Say it again, baby.” Azure’s voice was soft, coaxing. The camera caught the way his hands gripped Wukong’s waist, thumbs pressing lightly into his skin.

And Wukong—god, his Wukong, from back then—giggled.

“I love you.”

Such a breathless, teasing, happy thing.

Wukong slammed the laptop shut—it snapped shut with a dull clap, louder in the silence than Wukong had meant it to be. He froze, breath caught in his throat, pulse hammering hard against his ribs as he waited. His breath caught—just for a second, a fraction of hesitation that shouldn’t have even existed. He glanced down. Macaque stirred, the faintest shift, his fingers twitching against the fabric of that dumb little monkey plush he kept curled up against his chest. He made a sound, something close to a sigh, but he didn’t wake.

On the floor, Mei and MK didn’t so much as twitch under the blanket.

They hadn’t heard.

They didn’t know.

Wukong’s shoulders eased—not in relief, not exactly, but in something close enough. The air still felt heavy, like the room had pressed inward around him, the heat of it thick against his skin. The laptop sat in his lap, unopened but still there, weighty against his legs. He could feel it. Like it had left something on him, on his hands.

Like if he looked down, he’d see fingerprints burned into his skin.

His body still felt too hot. His skin still tingled where Azure’s hands had—no. He pushed that thought out of his head immediately. His breath left him slow, too slow, drawn out through his nose in a way that felt forced. He let his head tip back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling, his fingers flexing once against the edge of the laptop before pulling away entirely. His hands settled somewhere near his knees, curling inward just slightly, like they weren’t entirely sure what else to do. He began to flex his fingers, over and over again, acting purely on instinct.

He needed sleep.

That was all.

Some fucking sleep.

Carefully, Wukong shifted, easing Macaque’s weight off him just enough to move without waking him. The couch creaked softly as he pulled his knees up to his chest, arms curling around them, forehead dropping onto his arms. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to focus on the present—the steady hush of Macaque’s breathing, the quiet night air filtering in through the cracked-open window, the distant sound of traffic somewhere far, far away.

He focused on those things.

Tried to.

Failed. Tried again.

Wukong pressed his forehead harder against his arms. The room didn’t disappear behind his eyelids. His own voice didn’t disappear behind his eyelids.

Please.

At some point, he fell asleep.

Chapter Text

The stage lights burned like old sunburns, the kind you don’t feel creeping in until later, when your skin is already tight and peeling. Macaque had been running this scene so many times that his co-star’s voice was starting to sound like static. He knew his own lines by muscle memory now, could feel them in his bones even before they left his mouth.

But that was theater. It didn’t matter how many times he performed it—each moment still had to feel like the first.

Somewhere offstage, the director shifted in his seat, a pen scratching against paper. Cast members murmured lines to themselves. None of it touched him. He was here, in this moment, and everything beyond it might as well have been a world away.

There was a difference between being seen and just being looked at.

Macaque had spent too much of his life experiencing the latter—people glancing past him, through him. The foster system had been full of tired eyes and clipped voices, adults who observed but never noticed. Even now, people saw what they wanted: the quiet one. The broody one in the back with the occasional snarky comment. The guy who didn’t give a shit.

Which, sure. Fine. If people wanted to paint him as some emotionally unavailable asshole, he wasn’t going to waste breath correcting them.

But up here? Here, there were no half-assed glances. People didn’t get to choose how they saw him. They didn’t get to skim past him, to twist his edges into something more convenient. If he stood onstage, if he said something, if he moved—then it landed.

And Macaque knew how to command.

The black-box theater wasn’t anything impressive—just a wide-open space, old wood scuffed from decades of use, cheap foldout chairs lined up in rows that no one was sitting in. The walls had been painted black so many times that the layers were thick enough to peel. The air smelled like old wood, sweat and fabric softener (it was that smell, as weird as it sounded, that Macaque really did love), and the only people present were the director, half-buried in notes, and a few cast members either stretching backstage or muttering lines under their breath. It was that smell, as weird as it sounded, that Macaque really did love.

A stage was comforting, in the way that only a handful of places in his life had ever been. 

His scene partner, some second-year with good instincts but shit timing, shifted on her feet. She was nervous. Which meant he’d have to be the one to push. Fine. He’d carry the damn thing.

Macaque took a slow step forward. Lowered his voice. Let the air go heavy.

“That’s the thing. You talk about fate like it’s already written.” He kept his tone measured. “Like the story was over before it even began.”

Her fingers twitched. She knew her line, but she hesitated. Macaque waited, and her throat finally bobbed. Then, eventually, she breathed out her next line. “Maybe some stories are meant to end.”

Macaque scoffed, shaking his head, like she was saying the dumbest thing he’d ever heard. “That’s not fate,” he murmured, circling just enough to throw off her balance. “That’s you. Giving up before the story even has a chance to change.”

Her breath hitched. A real reaction. Good.

Then—

“Cut!” The director clapped his hands together, rising from his seat. “Macaque, yes! That’s exactly what we need.”

Macaque let the moment break, rolling his shoulders as he stepped back. His scene partner still looked a little stunned. She turned to the director, eyebrows knitting. “Was that—did I—?”

The director scribbled something in his notes, then looked at her. “You’re getting there,” he said, nodding. “But don’t be afraid of the pauses. Let yourself react instead of just waiting for the next line.”

This was his favorite part. The push and pull. The way a moment could tip on a dime, the way tension could be spun from nothing. It was why he threw himself into theater, why he stole hours out of his insane schedule just to stand under these damn lights and breathe. Theater felt right in a way most things didn’t.

The director called a break. Macaque stepped offstage, weaving past scattered props, the soft creak of old floorboards beneath his boots. The moment had passed. The energy had settled. Someone gave him a firm pat on the back and a good job. He muttered a thanks, and looked for his bag amongst the mess of scripts and prop materials balanced on the seats.

For a while, Macaque had felt something close to okay. It wasn’t like life had suddenly become easy—he wasn’t wired like that. Happiness was fleeting, always just out of reach, like an inside joke he wasn’t in on, which was always annoying when he was living off three cups of coffee a day. But contentment? That, he could work with.

Theater was nothing but controlled chaos, and he’d learned to ride the storm years ago. Scripts piling up, endless rehearsals, group members flaking at the worst possible moments—he took it all in stride. Even when things got bad, even when he wanted to scream into the void because a professor tore his monologue to shreds in front of the whole class, he still showed up. He still did the damn work.

Because that’s what you did when you had something to prove. When you weren’t born with gold already sitting in your pocket.

Recently, he’d fallen into a good rhythm. A long shift at work, the scratch of red ink bleeding into his paper, back-to-back rehearsals, a quiet drive with light humming to the apartment where he’d collapse into his space on the couch, exhausted but not alone. Wukong would be there, grumbling about an assignment he hadn’t started or an insufferable “friend” he ran into on campus, and Macaque would roll his eyes, tell him to suck it up, and somehow, between all of that, things would just... settle. Also, sometimes it’d be movies, comics, some old book he just picked up—Wukong’s brain was a mess, and he had the attention span of a caffeinated squirrel, but it was the kind of mess Macaque didn’t mind sorting through.

Somewhere along the way, he’d developed the habit of reaching for the moon pendant at random moments and rolling it between his fingertips—during slow afternoons at work, while waiting for coffee to brew, in the middle of a mind-numbing lecture. It was stupid, really. He wasn’t cheesily sentimental. People got attached to things, that was normal.

But still. For once, things weren’t slipping through his fingers.

So when Wukong started skipping tutoring, Macaque let it slide. At first.

First time: Wukong showed up late, looking like he’d rolled out of bed and sprinted the whole way there. He shoved an overpriced coffee into Macaque’s hands as an apology. Macaque grumbled, but Wukong had those exhausted, please don’t be mad at me eyes, called him Sunshine, all that… so whatever.

Second time: Wukong bailed at the last minute, shooting off some excuse about a missed class. Macaque frowned at his phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard for a second too long before shoving the device in his pocket and went back to shoveling nachos into his mouth. He told himself it wasn’t a big deal. People got busy. Schedules didn’t always line up. Whatever.