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Macaque has never been one to settle, it just wasn’t in his nature.
From the moment the winds swept him onto dry land, he’d been running, carried by their currents. He could never just be, because being him was considered an affront to nature. He wasn’t cared for by any like him because there was no one like him, and there never would be. He was alone in blood and shape, reeking of magic that made others revolt at the mere stench of it.
The world, he found, was a big place. It seemed like it’d never end, and he thought he could spend an eternity running and never find a place to rest. He was never meant for that kind of life, though. The whole world was his to call home, but he knew it would never be one, not the way he yearned for.
See, it wasn’t in his nature to settle, but it was still something he wondered about. It was a foreign concept to him; a place a person could claim as theirs and never leave. He never had that, no one would allow it, but the idea seemed novel. He had little to his name by this point, and he’d seen so much by then, so the appeal of finding something worth staying for was a puzzle he felt compelled to solve.
He had hundreds of years under his name, a name he claimed all his own; the Six-Eared Macaque. It was a name whispered among demons and mortal men alike, the fear and awe and mystery brought by his mere mention was intoxicating, he’ll admit. To be acknowledged was something he’d longed for since his birth, and the impact it brought to others made something in him start to wake, something starved for it.
He'd fluttered through others like easy as a cresting shadow, casting things in a new light and leaving others spooked, often getting what he came for on his way out. None could ever tie him down to their clan, whether wanting his magic and his bite for themselves, or wanting his head on a pike. He was as his magic made him, shifty as shadows and as obtainable as the winds that pass. He was untouchable. Untamable. He was free.
The first time he’d come across Flower Fruit Mountain, it’d been by accident. He’d been wandering as he had for decades, wanderlust worn and searching for something different, something fresh. What he found was a troop of monkeys led by a king of his kind, playing with them like every other until he caught sight of Macaque.
There had been hostility, then calm, then pure wonderment. This king, this demon had looked at him and said, “You’re like me,” as if he’d found something he never knew he’d been looking for.
Macaque had sunken into his own shadow at that; the echo of the other monkey’s heart beat stuck in his head for weeks.
When he returned months later, it’d been curiosity that had dragged him back, despite his better judgement. He’d found him in the trees, alone with fruit in hand, and Macaque watched him since. He’d stuck to the others shadows for days, watching and waiting, waiting for what, he didn’t know. But he waited and waited, the king prone to talking to himself for hours on end about nothing of real interest. And yet, Macaque listened, rapt in the stories of mighty feats as much as the squabbles of his troops that morning.
One day, resting in the crook of a tree, looking out at the shore’s gentle laps at white sand, Wukong said aloud, “You know, you’re a pretty good listener.” Macaque hadn’t responded, but Wukong only smiled, leaning back to be more comfortable. “I can talk for both of us, if you’re shy, but I’d listen too, if you let me.”
In was only later, when the sun dipped into the waters deep, and the moon softened the kings shadow that Macaque emerged, quiet as the breeze. Wukong didn’t turn, just laying still as if resting, the only sign he was not being the uptick of his heart at Macaques presence. Macaque ignored his own hearts pace as he spoke for the first time in month, maybe years.
“They call me Macaque.”
That smile pulls, just a little, and Wukong responds with, “Well, they call me Sun Wukong.” Finally moving, Wukong turns to face him, a sigh in chest at seeing him there, really there. “But you could call me a friend?”
It’s a request, soft and gentle as it’s eased into him, and for the first time in his life, Macaque says, “I’d like to be friends, too.”
And thus, the world keeps spinning, the waves rise and fall, and Macaque keeps coming back.
He can’t ever bring himself to stay for long, so used to being light footed and quick to escape that the appeal of staying anywhere for any amount of time has him anxious. He always comes back, though, and he thinks Wukong doesn’t mind too much. The other is immortal, and he plans to become more so when he gets the chance, and reassures Macaque he always has a place at his island. His home.
In time, Macaque returns and stays longer and longer, working a groove into this little place in a big wide world and finding the rest of the world to be lacking. It starts like with Wukong, like most things in his life, and everything else starts to fall into place with him. The monkeys learn to leave him space to settle in, learning their language, to groom in their company, to sleep in the trees and trust the others will watch while he finally rests. Their little hands hold him and keep him close, and Macaque struggles each time to pull away each time he leaves them.
He’s never found comfort nor safety in others, reliant of himself and the magic he draws in. The closest has been the shadows, but those are everywhere and only really for escape, to leave the rest and be forced to return. But the shadows here are softer, lighter without the usual denseness that being buried in black always has on him. He doesn’t feel the need to escape anymore, not into the darkness, not when he can come here and stay as long as he is deemed too.
One day, under the shade with peaches shared, Wukong offers him eternity. He’s already given him so much; food and fun and safe and so much more. Now, he offers him a home, a real one, as much as it feels like a fantasy. He says yes, because he’s greedy for it, having tasted the peaches of this place and its king and become sick with this foreign wanting. He wants it all so badly, to be here and never have to not be, and it’s all been promised by the one who can make it happen.
So, he says yes, because it’s all he’s ever really wanted.
And thus, the heavens rage, the mountains shake, and Macaque doesn’t come back.
No, he finds home in something cold and eternal, warmed by rotten peaches in his stomach and revenge in his heart. He festers and floats and fights every second of it, never one to be tied down. Only when the ceiling breaks and a deal is struck does he find his footing, carried by the winds like a second birth.
He runs and he runs and he runs until he’s run himself into the ground, kneeling at the presence of a god and his friend and murderer all over again. He runs, heart hot and burning, and runs himself in circles over and over and over again until…
Until he just… stops. Stops running, stops chasing, stops holding onto all the heavy things trying to bury him back into his grave. He slows his steps, lets his muscles loosen, his breaths evening, until he finally stops.
The world is so different, yet exactly like it’s always been, now that he takes the time to see it all again.
And thus, the world keeps spinning, the waves rise and fall, and Macaque comes home.
But nothings ever that easy, not for people like him. As much as he’s wanted to return to those white shores like he once did as easy breathing, he knew he was unwanted. But as much as he knew he’d never have that feeling of home, he was selfish, and he was lonely. And most of all, he was tired.
For weeks, he crept in the shadows, molded into dark corners and tucked into the shade, watching and waiting and wanting. He was always wanting, these days. Wanting revenge, wanting escape, wanting a place to just rest. But as the heat of hate cooled and his feet grew tired, he knew he could never have it all. Not when everything had already been his and he lost it. He lost everything, but he still had this, even if it’d never be his again.
So, he watched, he waited, and he wanted to go home.
One day, like any other, he’s slotted in Wukongs shadow, watching the shores reach and recede on those white shores. He doesn’t talk aloud as much as he used to, not since Macaque’s death, and he wonders if it’s because he’d know he wouldn’t be there to listen.
To no one in particular, Wukong says, “You know, you’d think I’d have something clever to say by now.” Silence, and he sighs, palming a fallen peach and raising it out to be taken. “So, I’ll stick to the basics. Heya, they called me Sun Wukong, but you could call me a friend. If you want.”
Silence, and when the peach stays in his grasp, Wukong sighs louder, pressing it to his mouth. Before his teeth can bite into its flesh, a hand comes out to take it, and Wukong laughs at the sight of Macaque beside him, not quite touching, peach held to his chest like it was his all along.
“They call me Macaque, and you have something I want.”
“Oh? And what is that?” Wukong teases, leading Macaque into his trap and intent to get what he wants.
Macaque stops, holding himself a breath away from being pressed into the others side, and instead of outright answering, he asks, “Is there any room for me?”
Wukong smiles, eyes swirling with something just wanting as him. “Always.”
So, Macaque eases himself in, pressed into the space and resting there, staying for however long he’s allowed.