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The two stand at the edge of Flower Fruit Mountains forest. The rest of the Monkie Kid Gang have run off elsewhere, leaving the two celestial primates to their own devices. The two beings stare at each other, one unbelievably exhausted— wanting nothing more than for this all to be over and rest— the other more full of regret than anyone has ever been. “I’m sorry,” Wukong whispers. A shameful secret that tastes bitter on his tongue, a word to tear his pride apart and leave nothing for even the most starving of maggots to feast upon and find remotely fulfilling.
“Okay,” Macaque responds. Voice heavy and carrying a certain exhaustion to it. It's a dismissal, resignation. The bags under his eyes lay heavy and dark, emotional walls up so high, so impervious, and he's not listening. Six whole ears and Macaque can’t bother to entertain the thoughts of what Wukong’s saying— what it means for them.
“No, Macaque, you- you don't understand,” the god stresses, sounding beyond desperate. His voice is choked with something and all he knows is that the demon needs to understand. “I’m sorry, I- what I did that day is,” he stumbles, bidding and pleading for the others' rapt attention. Hoping Macaque will soak up every last word and know, know so well that the knowledge will seep into his skin and taint his very being. “Out of everything I've ever done— ever will do— it is my biggest regret. I- I’m sorry,” he pleads. Breath shaky as the god looks down at the demon frantically, ripping apart the shadows expression with a fevered zeal; Wukong needs to see Macaque understand. To see the widened eyes and slack jaw, lips parted to reveal a pearly white fang as he gapes in shock— as he realizes how messed up everything is and how much Wukong yearns to fix it.
The king scrambles for the forsaken warrior's hand, holding onto it so tenderly— so dearly. It’s limp in his hold, the action unreciprocated. Too much pressure and the bones will splinter, skin will rupture into splotchy little ribbons, and muscle will turn to a thick crimson paste; the immortal’s keenly aware of the mortal's weaknesses. He's already broken so much beyond repair he refuses to ruin this one any more than he already has— he's only just got him back. Wukong can't lose Macaque, not again. Trying to will his emotions through fingertips and into the others blood stream, imprinting the wisdom of his turmoil so deep into the others mind that he'll forever know the way in which Wukong grieves even as he stands before him— alive and breathing.
But his face stays sagged and impassive, unmoved. “I know Wukong,” he says, assuaging. Even though he doesn't. He doesn't, he really truly doesn't. Macaque stands unfazed. No recognition for how the god lays his biggest sin at the feet of his victim and begs the other to see how awful he feels— how detestable he is. But how can Wukong express that depth? How can he tell the other how deep the ache goes, how he never expects forgiveness because he can never forgive himself?
He can't. In the most simple terms, Wukong can not. No strings of letters in any existing, or preexisting, language will ever properly communicate the endless expanse of his guilt and remorse.
But Wukong isn't the Intelligent Stone Monkey, The Monkey King, Sun Wukong, and The Great Sage Equal to Heaven for nothing. He doesn't give up— refuses to. Especially in this, this is much too important. Wracking the brain that has failed him so many times before, he begs it to answer him, he prays for Guanyin to give him one last mercy— one last piece of advice. Anything and everything, all possibilities yet only one sticks out; Wukong is a god, a prideful being. His greed for power was what toppled their connection in the first place. Even now, standing before the tainted warrior lies a power imbalance— effortlessly shown in the way the king towers over him by a scant few inches; a metaphor for a centuries-old wound so deeply gouged within them that he can't even dream to wholly evict it.
And so he bows his head, the moon's breath hitches and his eyes twitch wider to reveal more of his amber sclera. The god drops to a kneel, tail limp as his hands reluctantly part from Macaque’s. “Wukong,” he chokes. Voice strangled as he stumbles back a step in shock. Rough calloused palms that have seen more than their fair share of bloodshed, hands which have seamlessly taken lives, mercilessly flattened armies, indiscriminately terraformed mountains and valleys; those same palms fall gracelessly to floor. Dirtying the divinity of them, a god soiling himself— his body, his own temple that, in the face of his everything, he defiles without hesitation.
Wukong’s scarred forehead brushes against blades of wet grass, still damp from the morning dew. “What are you doing?!” Macaque hisses. Feet shuffling under himself uncomfortably as he stares down at the god kowtowing before him. Such a subservient stance unbefitting of a man with titles such as Wukong’s— an immortal god, a hero that shines brighter than the sun, bowed before a mortal demon, a warrior reduced to a meager shadow— a moon who can not shine by its lonesome.
“Nothing I can ever say or do will ever make up for what I have done,” Wukong states, voice trembling. The first full truth in a long queue of lies, he’s unsure how to feel in the face of that— the first sentence without a breath of deceit in it after centuries, the first to beat his long streak and break its predecessor's patterns, is an admission of hopeless guilt. Water meets his cheek, trailing over the well earned bumps and aged wrinkles, past his soft peach facial marking, and he knows it's not a product of the misty grass gently swaying in the wind— green gently grazes his creased forehead, pinkened cheeks, and the tip of his sniffling red nose.
“I have done you a great disservice,” he croaks tearfully— voice thick with unsaid emotion. Macaque’s breath trembles from above him, tail quivering behind his form while his red cape sways in the breeze. “And I will never stop apologizing. As long as I live, for as many lifetimes as I take up, I will suffer for the one I robbed you of,” he articulates. Words tumbling messily from quaking lips as his chin scrunches up in an ugly fashion, puffy eyes closing to grant the thick globs of tears still clinging to his waterline and clumping his eyelashes together in clusters to fall. Tumbling down to disappear into the grass, blending in with the crystal droplets already freckling the blades. “I’m so, so sorry Liu’er Mihou,” Wukong chokes out, scarcely biting back full out sobs.
“Wukong,” Macaque falters, voice trembling through bitten lips. Paws tightening from where they have wrapped around himself, inky black tail flicking uneasily. “Don’t- don’t kneel,” he says, sounding wrong footed and uncertain. Clearing his throat he carefully crouches in front of the kowtowing king, arms unwinding as he seats himself on his knees. “C’mon,” he ushers. Awkward, plush palms find sturdy, knotted shoulders and tug. “Get up,” he continues to press. And Wukong complies, weak to the wants of his most valued treasure, he lifts his head to look up and meet the other’s bashful gaze.
Macaque no longer looks impassive or tired, is the first thing Wukong notices and he can't help but feel some relief; that cool balm is quickly soaked away when he realizes that there are tears threatening the others gorgeous amber eyes as well. “I- I know, okay? You don't have to…” the moon stutters, words trailing off. Inhale fumbling on the way in as Macaque reminisces on the recent events, even his lungs seem to have a struggle processing all that's happened.
Hearing those words make Wukong feel as if he just swallowed hot, golden honey. Viscous and pleasant as it glides down his esophagus to coat his innards like liquid gold, warming him up from the inside out and providing much-needed relief when his muscles lose tension and finally relax. Like a fissured dam giving into the pressure and weight of the gallons upon gallons of water it's been holding back, he bursts into an infinite amount of tiny pebbles. Rough, broken wails escape their imprisonment, climbing up his mouth to jump off his tongue.
Wrapping his arms around Macaque he latches on like his life depends on it. Wukong feels like a baby monkey crying and screaming for comfort, a far cry from the godly image he's been expected to uphold for too long. Yet Macaque doesn't seem to mind, dragging the king up so they can sit knees to knees, the moon begins to gently rock them back and forth. Humming a recognizable, comforting tune under his breath as he haphazardly purrs sounds vaguely resembling the lyrics. Voice silkier than heaven's finest textiles and more intoxicating than the immortal wine— it's no wonder how fast Wukong finds himself getting lost in it.
Like a sailor to a siren, he falls further than he thought possible.
Despite feeling lower than low— having been reduced to a pleading king, a debased god, and an immature cub— he feels lighter and grander than he has in centuries. And so, selfishly, he clings. Grappling past the red scarf he knows the other is fond of as he sinks his claws into the back of his moon's shirt, careful to not snag his body but uncaring if the fabric begins to chaff and fray. Wukong was born from the greed to live his life free from worries and to steal whatever his heart desires. So he knows that the second he got his zealous claws into Macaque again that he'd never let go, he'd run to preserve his greatest treasure someplace impregnable. For it has slipped from him once before— he will not let it happen twice.
And his war worn warrior knows this, the king knows he knows this. Yet Macaque remains. He dropped down before him and let the greedy king encapture him into his grasp, knowing escape was inconceivable. Tawny hands squeeze around Wukong tight, a comforting press even as the others claws dig into his clothes as well; it was then that Wukong realized Macaque isn’t the only one to be caught this day. That maybe the sun isn't the only one with fantastical, selfish cravings; perhaps the moon can want and yearn just as much as he can.
Burying his face into the junction of his Macaque’s neck, Wukong eagerly scents him— planning to engrave his smell into his mind for the rest of eternity. Dragging his cheek against Macaque’s he noses the single ear, an unspoken request which he is gracefully granted. Three stunning appendages unfurl like flowers in bloom, flaring outwards and pulsing with a magically induced bioluminescence— the top a soft, plump scarlet, the middle a cool, light cerulean, and the bottom a lively, spring verdant.
Smiling something small, Wukong places doting, chaste kisses to the base of each one, leaving a lingering press to his everything's temple in a non-verbal thank you. Always better with actions than words. A heated maroon lights Macaque’s face, the vibrancy of the color peaking on the apples of his cheeks and Wukong smiles wider. Breathing out in content he nuzzles Macaque. “Stay?” he asks. Puffs of air tickling the sensitive cartilage and causing the ears to wiggle at the disruption.
Macaque hums calmly, leaning further into what he's trying to learn is his equal, not his greater. “Wasn't leaving.”