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Camping. A simple, stupid concept that vegetation starved mortals had invented once the modern world ate up the majority of natural land, leaving them homesick for greenery and peace.
Wukong thought it was stupid. When Mk had described the concept of camping to him, he had laughed.
That was just regular life back in the day, cooking food over a fire and sleeping under the stars! Mk had insisted it was different. Something about the novelty of the tent and the marshmallows, toasted gently over a handmade flame. Wukong had shrugged, but Macaque wanted to go. Wukong had crumbled, the tentative idea of spending time with them again still new and precious in the forefront of his mind. They had only just built their relationship back to what it had been before he left flower fruit mountain. Cautious, flirtatious gestures coupled with such a familiar comfort that it almost felt normal. It felt good, and they had both missed it.
So, with a bundle of useless mortal crap shoved in the back of Mk’s little four wheeler (a birthday present from Mei and Red Son), the two celestial monkeys made the slow, winding journey through the tame forest a few miles from the city limits, the radio up and the windows down as they knocked back sugary drinks and plastic packs of jerky.
They arrived at their destination, a small clearing surrounded by soft spoken plants and ancient, towering pines. It took them a good two hours to figure out the tent, but eventually they did.
Wukong flopped backward into the flimsy structure, knocking Macaque’s sleeping bag out of their hand.
“Watch it, fatass.”
Wukong rolled over and blew a raspberry at them. Macaque pulled his tail.
After a brief tussle they finished setting up their sleeping bags and sat, rather proud of themselves, back on their heels.
“You sleep over there,” Macaque slid the bag across the tent. “so that I don’t have to listen to you snore in my ear all night.”
Wukong gasped indignantly. “I don’t snore!”
Macaque raised their eyebrows. Wukong tackled them again.
When they resolved the argument (Macaque sat atop Wukong’s back, bending their arm backwards until he begged for mercy), the two left the tent and went to set up the fire.
Wukong held the lighter below the little stick structure he’d built, and the wood caught on fire with a sickeningly familiar crackle. Macaque gasped and opened a portal below it, sucking out the oxygen and extinguishing the fire. Wukong, instead of scolding them, grabbed their hand without thinking. They both stood silently, staring at the empty fire pit.
“Sorry, it just…” Macaque trailed off, squeezing Wukong’s hand.
Wukong squeezed back, pulling them close and tilting their chin upwards.
“Hey! Don’t sweat it. We don’t actually need a fire. There are other ways to keep warm~” he winked, and Macaque rolled their eyes and huffed, grinning at Wukong’s awkward attempt at comfort.
Wukong slid an arm around their shoulders, burying his face in their hair. Macaque wrapped their arm around his waist in return. They were both tentative, red faced and holding their breath. Was this allowed? Were they crossing the line?
Macaque’s heart still beat quickly from the ugly reminder of Erlang’s massacre. They held Wukong closer now, reassuring themself that he was here, and they were safe.
“We still have to cook the food.”
Wukong grimaced.
“Oh, yeah.”
They ended up eating cold hotdogs, washed down with chocolate milk that was supposed to be hot chocolate.
They eyed the marshmallows with mild distaste, clearly uninterested. Mei would probably eat them if they brought them back.
Macaque looked at Wukong, arms resting in the scratchy camping chair.
Wukong hesitated, thinking. He grinned.
“C’mere.”
He nodded towards the car, and both of them clambered onto the roof, where they lay side by side, looking up at the sky, where the moon was trading places with the sun, bringing with it the unassuming pin pricks of stars.
“It’s so clear.”
Wukong sighed. “Remember when the sky seemed so big? Like another world to explore and conquer.”
They had both viewed it that way, once. Now it was a familiar landscape for the both of them; Wukong saw it as a field of empty promises and plastic beauty, rigid and flawed and ultimately fake. Macaque saw it as vicious, unending and hungry, always ready to take more should it decide.
Wukong sighed.
Macaque looked at him, the gentle slope of his nose and the near white silhouette of his eyelashes.
“I miss those days.”
When they used to lay atop the mountain, surrounded by friends and family, looking up at the star with fingers entwined.
Wukong rolled over, examining them.
“Are you okay? Tired?”
Macaque gave a weary smirk.
“Tired of you? Peaches, I could never.”
Wukong wrinkled his nose at the nickname.
“I’m cold.”
Macaque tilted their head towards the tent and Wukong nodded.
They settled into their sleeping bags quietly, laying in silence until time stretched and broke; listening to the gentle sounds of nature outside.
Macaque shifted, the sound of rustling fabric amplified by the silence.
“I’m still cold.”
Sometimes, when their negative emotions spiked, an insistent chill filled their limbs (particularly on their right side), and refused to leave.
Wukong unzipped his sleeping bag and motioned them forward.
Macaque slipped through the dark expertly, climbing into Wukong’s pocket of warmth with pink cheeks.
It was tight, but they were used to sharing, and Wukong was naturally warm.
“Thanks.” Macaque whispered.
“Don’t mention it.” Wukong replied.
They were quiet again, breath slow and controlled.
“Wukong.” Macaque shifted, arm slotting naturally around Wukong’s waist. Wukong hummed.
“This isn’t very platonic.”
Wukong was quiet for an uncomfortably long moment before he laughed, loudly and heartily, wrapping both arms around Macaque and squeezing them tightly, burying his face in their neck. Macaque squeaked.
“We’re terrible at this.” His words were muffled, ticklish against Macaque’s neck.
They stroked his hair, chest starting to rumble with little chirps and purrs.
Wukong felt the purr and his own roared to life in response, practically shaking the whole tent. Macaque couldn’t help but laugh. Wukong’s tail wagged, or tried to anyway, batting back and forth within the confines of the sleeping bag. He was starting to glow gold, something he’d done when they were younger, when he was so filled with positive emotions that his magic filtered them through his radiant skin.
“You’re such a dork.” Macaque laughed between the purring, their voice hitched and raspy.
Wukong beamed brighter, a honey-soft light that filled the tent.
“Wukong cut it out, you're blinding me.” They buried their face in his hair.
Wukong wiggled out of the bag, bringing Macaque (who was still wrapped firmly in his arms) with him. “Let’s go look at the stars again! I can’t sleep.”
Macaque backed off of him with an embarrassed self-awareness, clearing their throat until the purring stopped.
Wukong’s light dimmed.
“Is something wrong?”
“No, sorry,” Macaque looked up, rubbing the back of their neck. “I just…” they peered at him through their good eye, the other closed. “I don’t wanna move too fast.”
Wukong’s tail curled around his leg, and he smiled sheepishly, cheeks still red.
“Ah, right.” He drummed his fingers atop his ankle. “Sorry.”
Macaque grabbed his hand, squeezing lightly. “I don’t want to lose this again.” Their eyes were twin lamps, a soft purple that cast stark shadows on their face.
Wukong laced their fingers together, his smile sappy as all hell. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Macaque closed both of their eyes. “Heh, I’ve heard that one before.”
Wukong breathed in sharply, guilt flooding his body until his glow stopped completely. He scooted forward, wrapping his arms around Macaque in a way that was apologetic, not flirtatious.
“I’m sorry.”
Macaque hugged him back.
“I know.”
They ended up unzipping Macaque’s sleeping bag and laying it across the ground as a sort of mat, which they lay on top of, using Wukong’s unzipped sleeping bag as a blanket.
They fell asleep with their fingers still entwined.