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When feet traipse the old wood of Wukong’s flooring, Tawny follows. Dismally leaving Macaque’s hunched figure. Taking in the way Mk speaks with a feverish hush, swatting his hand near his face. Flushed.
Wukong swallows back the words he cannot proclaim. Fingers pinching the smooth metallic of a spoon that is cold between his thumb and pointer. Brushing the edge of his treat until it indents. Safely scooping the remains until it's a cluster of savory flavors roaming his buds. Salvo he is. Moaning. Relief treads over lightly.
The only sound aside from Mk’s chatter is the whirring of a shuddering fan. Its thick propellers spin endlessly. Gifting the three with a heavenly flow from the sides of bulky ice chips. The bowl held condensation over its sides. Never quite matching the moistness of its party.
Wukong swoops in for another bite. It was divine. Dulcet. Peach lingering before it goes. Staining him with its residue. Fleeting glances are thrown his way. Cryptic. But he knows better. The curiosity sitting between them. Not stifling. But hidden. Scornful.
Macaque nurses his own bowl. Chilled bottom sitting on the flat of the floor. His struggles of indulging led to this. Forks not quite reaching his lips. The awkward grasp of chopsticks. Quaffing when given warm beverages. Taking each ounce unless it spills onto his lap. Clumsy like a newborn.
Macaque had rejected the notion of eating ice cream. Wukong couldn't hold it against him. Wouldn’t blame the guy. Lactose wasn’t something monkeys could just have willy-nilly. They don’t get into it that much. To anyone's surprise. Mk will. Because he doesn’t clock in the implications. Stuck, wedged between the dirt. Unable to move. Exhausted by every means. Stripped from the joys of chewing and satiation. Left with an empty stomach.
It was probably sensitive.
But Mk is the one who pins the first conversation about it. The thought trails before it stalks Wukong’s mind. Questions that bring shame to the front. Heated cheeks, inquiring what brought the fixation. He, in fact, did not need to know if Macaque used the bathroom anymore. After being dead for so long. Honestly. Wukong doesn’t care to know where. He’s sure Mk could glue the concepts together. Monkeys. They are monkeys.
But compromise was found. The pulp of degutted mango freshly scraped. Thrown in a bowl with pebbles of ice. A shredding and shaving. Wukong hadn’t bothered poking fun at Macaque for his languid fluctuations. The droplets lining the back of his neck prevent a rouse of riposte. Drollery backchat. Ceasing his speech. Leaving him with an aftertaste of sweetness that went bitter.
“Kid, if you break my fan...” Wukong cautions, resting with his thighs parted, back heavy on the couch while wondering why, of all days, Mk was so spry. When his attention draws back to his captivator, he’s left breathless.
Gold.
“What?” Wukong exclaims.
“I didn’t say anything, idiot. You’ve got ice cream dripping down your chin.”
The back of Wukong’s palm drags over the skin, fur neatly hiding the evidence of his meal. His tongue pokes out, swiping across his lips. Unintentional. But Wukong follows that sharp gaze. Knowing it's lowered. There is a disgusting silence that grows out of bounds. The fan isn’t cooling Wukong down from where he is sitting. The wooden couch threatens to melt him too.
Mk’s chopsticks dip into another bowl Wukong had laid out for himself. Swiftly snatching the warm rice with pale brown pinchers, caught medially before he looms in for his bite. Macaque is the first to react with his own laugh, and Wukong is the second to react with a gasp and holler. Grunting.
Mk’s hands were held within the gap of their damp forms. A mockery of defense. It was a simple victory for either. To come out alive. To put Mk in his place. A stepping stone for all to reach that top. Surrendering to the aggression. Wukong tastes the cream on his tongue. And he tastes the sweetness that lingers on his teeth. He’s sure Mk would be no different. Deliciously mellow, sapping a vicious desire like no other.
“You can have a bite, but only a bite— no more, no less, kid. I mean it. That was just made for me,” Wukong does that thing where he observes quietly. And unlike Mk, he’s taking his sweet time. He always will. Mk’s digging out a bite-size of rice. Wukong’s staring. Jaw heavy, becoming faintly slack. His shoulders are easing.
Seeing how when Mk isn’t elated, Mk’s expression smooths out. Eyelids resting low as if weighted. Heavy. Drooping, yet so full. Wukong notes. Uncharted sockets, begging for those eyes to squeeze and roll in that damn skull. Wukong shouldn’t be flared up like this. Deeply burrowed in the dirt where the heat resides in his bones.
“Someone’s upset.”
Wukong wasn’t fatigued. Neither frustrated any longer. His feelings were brought down to the floor with him. Like the rest, he sits on his hardwood now; he couldn’t be apart from the other any longer. But Wukong will say he only came down to prevent his bowl of rice from being a shell.
“Really? He is? Listen, we’ve been training on the Nimbus all day–” The words don’t really register in Wukong. They won’t fit through the holes of his ears. The gap stretched between them. Smooth lips in constant motion, glimmering lifelessly from sugary saliva. Wukong’s blunt nails dig into the soft skin of Mk’s ankle. Tugging until the guy gets the memo. Letting his moist leg draw out for Wukong. “---the rice is good. That's all I know, Macaque.”
Frail hairs are held down, damp from sweat. So when Mk breaks eye contact with Macaque to gaze over at Wukong, he’s already smiling. Finally given the go-ahead somehow. Seeing the look of mild approval before he’s eagerly settling on his elbows. It's easier to eat on the tummy. Mk could simply eat over the bowl. Chopsticks clacking on the floor, rolling from momentum, fingers sifting through the bowl of warm grains. Who really needed utensils to eat?
Macaque hums, “I’ve got to say, having you around is an advantage. Pigsy can cook rice. Better than that time I got served mushy rice.”
“Mushy?”
“Yeah kid, mushy. Soft-soaked rice. Wukong never knew how to cook. He’d steal food before ever using a kitchen. And ya know, things were different.”
“Guh. Okay but, not once?..”
Wukong was slotted by Mk, his fur brushing overheated skin. Looming over Mk who held his head down, stuffing bits of rice into his mouth, fingers in the bowl. Eyes falling back to the food. Wukong let his finger weave through the strains. He’s sure he hears a no. But Mk’s hair is damp, grazing his fingertips, making him tug them apart, separating the lavish hair. Peeling back the coverage to witness the damp roots.
Wukong wonders if Mk stayed sat on the floorboards long enough if his back would ache terribly. Leading to a canceled training session.
“We never really ate food like mortals do? Look at the source Mk,” Macaque leans back against the couch, head tilting, a second before it's gone. Swept within the sea of small gestures Mk doesn’t quite understand. Like the growling, or when Macaque nips at him during a tumble and fight.
“The first time I tried it was when I was traveling, this beautiful lady, clad robe that was pale like a baby blue sky. She hosted me..” Macaque pauses for a moment, and speaks again, “Afterwards I tried to follow her steps at another place I stayed at. It wasn’t my kitchen. So they refused. We didn’t have our own kitchen.. So when Wukong appeared and settled with me, I had him try to make it. It was watery.”
A low hum leaves Mk as Wukong gives him a tug, plucking out air from a finely held strain. “Thats like the time Tang made noodles for dinner! He can taste, and give you directions, but he doesn’t know how to do things to taste. But that's because he doesn’t pay attention. I wish I had grace like him. Pigsy always tells me, ‘If you have time to lean, you’ve got time to clean!’.” the motions are simple, but do no good when there isn’t anything to flick away. To chew.
It's a little hard keeping a steady sight when Mk keeps kicking his feet up and down, his head subtly bobbing from the antsy movements.
Wukong assumes there won’t be any bugs in Mk’s hair again, much to his assurance, though remarkably the news won’t alleviate the ginger. So he hopes the gestures bring solace. Wukong believes he’ll get lucky with something, roaming, anything that is ambulatory to seize halfway with his nails.
Suddenly a blur of cream fills his senses. A hum vibrates within the space of Wukong’s throat. His teeth barred at the little guy. Watching as it began to dance with giddy delight at seeing Wukong. Wukong’s tail was quick to snap at the air, pulling the little guy to his chest, drawing his knees to his chest. No longer giving attention to the chattering Mk.
Nose rubbing against the nape until he looked through the fur. A few lip smacks. Fingers dragged, the task at hand more complicated. Agitation when fur seems dirty. Clearly, the troop hasn’t sat down to do anything yet. He suspects all of them are too shaken up to do that from prior events. He lets out a huff when it moves. He’s pent-up. Nipping with canines that don’t break skin if careful. Wanting to make it stop squirming.
“--stream, kid. Lard was the only thing they ever had. You don’t know your history, huh.”
A screech is thrown Wukong’s way, a hand shoving the Monkey King away and eyes that remain on the floor. The little guy bouncing onto the hardwood and sitting with a hand running over its wrist. Bottom lifted to him somewhat.
Wukong sighs, head leaning like it's filled with tears and heavy thoughts. Weighing it down. Making it unbalanced as he tilts his head. A lip-smack. Fingers plucking a beetle and chewing it. The little guy is already on his shoulder, speaking to him before it's sneaking off to the next thing in the corner, where a few younger subjects nap.
Traveling. Moving back. His eyes glare at those egg yolks. And the casted glamor that is just like his is felt in the air. Before he can taunt, a ball of white is in his vision. Again. Another one is seen nibbling on the chunky pulp before there is a recoil and squeak.
It does no good, welcoming other little drowsy eyes that light up when the dark simian is around. It's their fault for putting random things into their mouths. Wukong will have to warn Mk to be careful with unattended bowls of food when at Mount Huaguo.
He wonders how his subjects would react to snow.
Instantly the attention of the room shifts to the tiny little guys doing their little dances. A greets of sorts. Happily clinging to Macaque with such bravado. One of them inspecting Mk. Looking into his ear. Mk’s smile forms over the lips of his face. Dimples in smooth skin. Eyes scrunching, a squeak. The noise has both Macaque and Wukong tensing up. Mk had just made a vocalization. A new noise. Just for a moment that is. Macaque and Wukong don’t comment on it.
They instantly scatter away when Wukong makes a noise. Likely to go play somewhere else in the house. He hopes not the roof. They keep tweaking at the nails of the house corners. Wukong clicked his tongue, tsking. Eyes drinking in the shaking of metal. The fan rolling and twisting until his eyes droop. Wukong has no energy to call Nimbus over. So he rests against the couch. The hard floor would be fine for his back.
“Who knew monkeys could nap so much.”
“Yeah kid, they do that a lot. Hence why that peach-head does it so much.”
“Oh shuddup. You’re just jealous that I get to sleep easily.” Wukong stuffs back the awful words he could toss over.
“I’m not that envious.”
“Totally are! Look at you.” Wukong off-handedly comments. Palm swaying. Lids drooping. The heat was getting to him. And in the sweaty embrace of it all, he shaves off the need to be alert. “Look at you..mm. All jelly. Jelly monkey..” his eyes close, his body slowly becoming slack.
Macaque joins the duo. Sat upright on the floorboards. Mk sits up, swept over, palms open, planted on wood. Subtle sway. Propped. Sat on his knees. Soaked nape, inching further into orbit. The range between Macaque and Mk now is crackling with something new. Fresh. The distance fickles when Mk talks, “So can you talk to the monkeys? Can I learn?”
Macaque’s eyes narrowed, tail paused with its momentum, saffron peaking under wary lids. There is an essence that coasts past him due to their shared proximity, an elixir of sorts. Vanilla with those brownies. Macaque consumes the treat for himself, just a taste as he couldn’t enjoy it himself. Macaque doesn’t miss the dislodged hair strains that curl and poke out in Mk’s halo. Wukong’s creation, making the hair drape over damp shoulders.
Macaque swallows.
“There is none. We don’t talk in an actual language. It's like body cues, kid. If I seem uncomfortable or agitated. You’d know; right? That's how it is.”
“Oh!”
“You speak with them pretty well anyway,” Macaque tells Mk. To his thrill.
Mk sucked at his teeth, savoring his tongue for a second, he was vulnerable, seeking simple resolve to his questioning mind. Any frustration mounted on him was a blemish. Gone and deflated until it pops. He was transparent. Macaque could easily read it all. Read the way Mk would glow from a compliment. The ebony simian speaks, “Pal, you’ve gotta understand. You do it naturally in your monkey form.”
Mk’s face became a rainbow, hands coiled up with a shake in his arms, teeth on display, “Really? You think so? How? What do I say? I’ve never been able to communicate with them one on one! Didn’t realize I was even doin’ that!” he’s squirming around. Mk’s knees will end up hurting by nightfall.
“You aren’t exactly talking. Get that outta your mind, Mk. Through body language and actions. Like when me and Wukong get at it, your tail lowers. Or how the monkeys groom you. It's all with meaning. And the meaning isn’t lost on them or you. You just haven’t keyed it in.”
Mk whines. Wukong stirs. Macaque flourishes under the attention. Eager to see Wukong in unrest. Troubled. But he doesn’t awake. So now Macaque has to rope up all his attention to the other. Mk webbed his own fingers through his collapsing bangs, trying to keep them from cementing to the slick flesh of his forehead. Least he’d enjoy frizzy hair that would need to be doused soon. Macaque thinks he’ll suffocate somehow.
“That's not helpful..” Mk’s arms fold over his chest, that look of agitation spread thin like a sheet of parchment. Sat back on his hinds. “So..Monkey King is asleep..” he starts, his hard stare steams, causing vapors and revealing hidden motives, his dinky grin telling Macaque that he’d say something terribly stupid. “We should go in that misty area around the house..I’ve never seen what's past it! I don’t even understand the waterfall layout ..”
“If you want. But. I’ll let you know, Wukong uses the bathroom over there.”
“Oh!” Mk had a sheepish grin, his excitement faltering. But differing from his usual boasts of embarrassment. One that screamed for questions that Macaque wouldn’t enjoy answering. For how dense Mk would be at times. He had lucid questions. Ones that make Macaque study the noodle-delivery boy. A ploy.
“Yeah. Aint really for exploring, kid.”
Did Mk forget they were melting like popsicles?
“But the entire island is so large and big! I don’t understand how you know your way. You’ve barely been here.”
“Kid. I’ve been here longer than both you and that ginger idiot. And..Is that why you’re always so late to our training sessions? Making us push it until sunset? Dang kid, thought you’d have more manners. Back in my da-”
“I don’t care.”
They both blinked blankly at each other.
“Oh, so Mk does have a lil’ bite to him, huh?”
“Always had. Nobody notices it.” Mk’s crossed arms were rooted back onto the floor. His weight shifts as his drippy legs unravel for a stretch before crossing and interlinking.
“Fair point, but I do. Maybe not your friends. Mm. You’re lucky we train ya kid.”
Mk slumps, pouting, “Stop it. Not in that way! You know what I meant. What is it with you and Wukong monolonging so much? I don’t want to waste your time. But gee, your old age is showing when you say, ‘back in my day..’ and -..wait. How old are you both?”
“What a question. We monologue too much but here you are. Yappin’.”
“Am not! And woah, you’re using modern slang again, properly! ..Now answer me!” Mk tilts his head. Hair brisked by the blow of the fan.
“Uhuh-”
“please?”
“I’ll accept the shade this time. But when we’re beating your ass, I refuse to let you have a snack break. But you need to figure it out yourself. So think.”
“Whatever, so mean, you know I’m no good with numbers-”
“Uhuh. Now guess.”
Mk sputters, “What? I don’t wanna do that’ Just tell me, man! C'monn! You both look pretty good. Or well..as good as a monkey could? Hey, your monkey tails are cool. But seriously. How long do monkeys live for anyways? Twenty-something years..probably not! I know Wukong is old. Like mega, mega old. Super old! Older than Pigsy! Older than-..Older than-...I think he is older than the Earth? Wait, I don't remember, is he older than the earth? I'm so confused, I can't think straight. So, how old are you?"
Macaque was not amused. "Old." is all that he offers. But it's not enough. Not enough for Mk’s needy mind.
Mk soft eyes move to the side for a moment until he makes eye contact again, "C'mmon. Give me a real number, dude." he urges. Pleads. Fluttering lashes are being batted over at Macaque, eyes peeking under those lids to look down at Macaque.
"Don't really care, kiddo. If you can’t figure it out, we both can’t. You seriously think I pay attention to my age?”
"Yes. You’re being impossible! I hate that about you, Macaque. You're so mysterious, like an edge lord."
Offense. Than resolve. "I don't know what that is. But thanks kiddo. Can agree I hate things about you too. I hate your mouth," Macaque says, poking Mk's forehead. "You never stop talking, ever. It's always about that idiot, it's always about those stupid ‘video’ games, and you're too naive. Too caught up in your heroism. Heroes don't turn out to be heroes for long. They die as one, or their pacifist sunshine rainbow shades get them killed."
"Wow. That was..so mean. But it was also very nice of you. Is that like, the evil bad guy side of praise? I know you’re somewhat good now. Even when you tried to kill us..but! That's better! Improvement!”
"Oh, my gods.. What part of that was a compliment to you? No." Macaque recoils mentally in distaste. But the glimmer within those dirty browns makes him ponder. “If it were a compliment, I wouldn’t have said that.”
"Mostly Wukong just praises me-”
“You’re fucking with me.”
“-Says I did a good job. Critiques m-”
“Kid-”
“So uh. Thanks mentor! Thanks my beautiful grunge brocken monkey!”
"Ugh, stop it. Don't make this weird. I don't do that sentimental mushy stuff. Makes me sick," Macaque's head tilts, flustered, tail stagnant, lost in the meaning. " Macaque hated when Mk did that voice. The one in the cartoon shows. And he did all those weird expressions that made Macaque internally and outwardly cringe. The slang and joking words don’t make sense to Macaque. He doesn’t get it. And using that annoying impression only served to make Macaque uncomfortable.
"You're like emo. You should change up your style."
"What? What makes me emo? Just I enjoy dramatic-”
“Recall what I said earlier? The monologuing. But unlike a cool hype-up speech. You’re like..all haha mwahaha look what I’m gonna do to ya’ which feels a little..edgy..” Mk states.
“First off. I’m not letting that slide again. Secondly, no. Thirdly, not a monologue. Why are you even getting on me about that, misery boy? Wukong is the real edge lord here. He's weird. Your mentor Wukong is an edge lord. Weird. Whatever the hell ya’ call it kid. That baboon. I don’t do monologues. I make statements. Good fashioned ones."
“Is that racist?”
“What?”
Mk furrows his brows, nibbles on his bottom lip, his blunt nails tap his knee, “Well..what you just said..the baboon..”
“Does it matter?”
“..uh-”
“What..? What? No? No, it wasn’t. No. I’m a monkey- you..DBK used to call Wukong that. It's like a playful insult cus’ he hates being mislabeled as another species of monkey. Quit looking into everything I say. You and Mei. All I’m saying is he’s the one livin’ all alone on some mountain with his subjects. Alone.. He’s edgy. Emo. Whatever.”
"Low blow. But no, I have to correct you ‘Oh great wise one’ it's the fur too."
"Fur?"
"Yes. Monkey King is not emo. You are!"
Macaque gave him a look. Unsure. It was as if trying to figure the kid out. Macaque hadn’t always understood the things Mk would allude to. Or say with his own words. The letters weren’t old. But modern. And held different meanings at times. But Macaque soon relaxed when he realized Mk hadn't really thought much about that comment. It wasn’t implying anything else. Didn’t those edge lord characters wear all black and were..depressed? Grumpy? That must’ve been the connection. "What's that su-"
"Speaking of fur! Me and Tang have an entire book of questions for you and Wukong! Like, where is the kitchen? And- and why were you born if you aren't a stone monkey? Why is it that you and Wukong are literally the only ones who can think like humans? When did you learn Chinese?"
"Kid.." Macaque’s tail waves in the air, stiff while he grunts. Arms crossing.
"Is Wukong still considered a young adult? Like Red Son would be for you guys? Is Wukong single? Can Wukong have female clones? Could Wukong get one of his hair clones? Why haven't you guys had kids? Or is that being hidden?! Can you guys actually have kids? You’re like ancient. Weren't you guys big on marrying and having children back then? I mean things are different..wait, do you still think women-"
“Yeah okay, shut up.” The words are tossed before Mk felt his lungs empty out, the movement from Macaque ruffling strains of Mk’s hair that framed his face, Mk winced, his arms being forced against his chest. Something knocked over. Ankles kicking bone making Macaque shudder. Mk’s back felt cool on the floorboards. The two are on the floor. Like weight pressing onto bones and skin. Gravity squashing the two.
“You ask too many questions.”
“I have a lot of questions!” Mk pipes.
“Yeah. So shut up. Too many.”
The familiarity of the moment was embedded in their shared stares. But Macaque was the first to move. That was a sign. And his eyes weren’t on Mk. That was a sign. It was Mk’s fault of course. Strong hands gripping his damp shirt, Mk could tell Wukong was uncomfortable now. Raging. Fuming like a screeching kettle.
Mk had called off limits for him and Wukong. Well. Not exactly. Mentally that is. Wukong was rough. Aggressive with each tug and shove. As if something deeply rooted in his system wanted to come out. A dog with fleas. That's what Mk felt like when they got at it. Dirt in his hair. A scraping of nails accidentally nicked his tender skin. Of course, Mk pursues it.
Ventures beyond that clearing. He could feel the spring sun, his stomach barred and ready to be gutted. Mk hated wrestling with Wukong. And from what Tang said. He really isn’t sure if it's a subconscious hierarchy thing. Or Wukong is literally being too invested in it.
Mk isn’t sure why Wukong was so pent up as of late. He’d ssk. He has. But the tugging of his shirt had him wincing. It wasn’t like the TV shows. No. Not where they clutch the fabric and tug you in. The creases of where his weight was being held from ached and he was much like a sack of potatoes. Yanked up, forced down with a huff.
“Mk! Could you quit that? Your gettin’ sweat on my floor!” Wukong’s voice was in his ears, tail flicking wild, “Gee. I close my eyes for a second and you two manage to knock over my bowl. And you woke me up!”
“Someone is crabby.”
“It's hot! The house is hot! And you aren’t helping Mac!”
“Macaque.” Macaque squints, grunting before he’s freefalling into a shadow. Energy and presence elsewhere. But close. Likely outside from the sudden fizzle by the house. The spot is vacant. Macaque’s bowl is empty. While Wukong’s bowl and spoon were tilted on its side. Bits of leftover rice on the floor. But it didn't really matter. Wukong was snatching his hair out. As if it were the most normal thing to do. Blowing it.
Mk tries to get back to the conversation. But it felt more like an endless tangent that he’d never retain. His memory is shit. He’s sat on his heels now from being lifted out of his previous spot, feeling them dig into his back thighs. His body melts, and there are now two Wukong going back and forth about something.
Macaque’s giving him that look. Slotting his body next to Mk’s. Again. But never quite touching. Whispering into his ear, the chill of his words made the hairs of Mk’s forearms rise. “I’ll get you a drink, kay misery kid? And him one too, before you really piss him off.”
“uh..yeah,” Mk can’t help his smile, seeing Macaque swoop into his own shadow again. Mk finally glanced back at the festering mentor of his. Mk wants to shrink into himself. He isn’t sure if Wukong is glaring or staring. Monkeys were hard. Sometimes Wukong would grimace with his teeth. Rarely. But he never seemed agitated. Just confused. Discomforted.
“Sorry for knocking over your bowl of rice, Monkey King. Though you weren’t really eating it. Unless you were doing that thing where you save it. You don’t have a fridge though. And ya’ did say I could have it..”
Wukong runs his palms over his face. Cranky. Pent up. Tense. On edge. “The heat is gettin’ to me, kid. Sorry.” Wukong confesses wiping the glistening wetness from his soft cheeks. The poof of hair makes both of them flinch. The rice is cleaned up. Gone. But the glossy bowl remains.
Wukong turns his face, lowers his head, and lowly grunts. Mk can’t be sure if Wukong grumbled anything. But Wukong looks whipped. “Don’t worry about it. Look. Today is just a long hot day, yeah? Don’t take any of that to heart.” Wukong feels his skin itch from how grotty his fur feels from the sweat. And maybe from the mental image of Macaque all over Mk. Wukong knew the other wouldn’t do anything insane. Nothing violent. But Wukong hadn’t wanted Mk hurt.
“Oh. Okay.” For once the gold eyes don't betray his thoughts. Gazing back at Mk. Yet another reminder that his boy has a heart. Wukong might as well be standing and pointing at his pupil yelling. So he eases up. Slumping, giving Mk that look. The one that says no hard feelings.
“Macaque is older than me by the way. “