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Somehow, movie night went from a documentary about the construction of modern automobiles to…some drama about a dysfunctional family arguing over an inheritance that none of them truly deserve. A murder mystery, and Macaque uses the term “mystery” lightly; he’s already figured out what really happened and they’re thirty minutes in.
Yet Wukong sits to his left, absolutely engaged, wolfing down his third pint of peach ice cream. He’s got his legs crossed and his elbows rest on his thighs, hands occupied with his treat and a spoon. His eyes don’t leave the television, and the flicker of light from the moving pictures highlights the blood around the golden rings of his eyes in a somewhat eerie way.
Or it would be, if Macaque wasn’t the one looking.
Seeing as how he already knows what’s going to happen, Macaque, somewhat unabashedly, lets his attention drift to more interesting things. The pink short-shorts Wukong insists on wearing even though they hug his thighs too tight. The drops of ice cream that fall from Wukong’s spoon down to his yellow shirt because he’s a mess in every sense of the word. The way he’s hunched forward as he listens to the dialogue on the screen.
Macaque is huddled on his side of the couch with his elbow propped up against the armrest. He kept things simple, seeing as how movie night entails long stretches of time on the couch. He wears a navy T-shirt and a pair of Wukong’s maroon pants. They’re more like capris given the height difference, but they remain comfortable all the same.
He creates unnecessary distance by force of habit, but his eyes linger on the twitch of Wukong’s nose and the furrow of his brow as another clue is revealed in the movie.
“So, who’s the killer?”
Macaque’s gaze relocates to meet Wukong’s eyes, who appears oblivious to the stare that’s been upon his back. He waits expectantly for an answer.
Glancing briefly at the screen, Macaque replies, “There isn’t one.”
Wukong frowns, disappointed. “Are we watchin’ the same movie? I know it was implied to be that lady at first, but I think she was uh…uhm… What’s that fish called?”
Wukong is so lucky that Macaque knows his mind inside and out and can decipher whatever jumbled mess of a thought he’s got going on in his brain. But he sighs as if it takes him some degree of effort. “A red herring?”
“Yeah! I think she was one of those, because this other guy looks like a schemer. He’s up to somethin’.”
Macaque rolls his eyes. “And we know how you feel about schemers.”
“Scum of the earth,” Wukong says, eyeing Macaque with a smile. “Can’t stand ‘em.”
Macaque winks at Wukong in a tease, and the stupid idiot has the audacity to blush. Pink darkens those cheeks and that smile softens into something caring and sweet that Macaque can just barely stomach.
He looks away from Wukong for the first time in ten minutes. He hates how the tips of all six of his ears grow warm.
The family on the screen gets into another argument. Wukong returns his attention to the screen, loving the drama of it, following the quick-paced jabs and witty retorts. He chuckles when someone shuts another up with a swift insult. He frowns when they get too personal. He shoves spoonfuls of ice cream into his mouth between the two reactions.
Naturally, Macaque’s gaze is drawn to Wukong again, as it always has been and how it always will be. He stares at beaming sunlight as the hour outside grows dark.
After a time, his stomach growls at him with a craving that isn’t present on the coffee table. There’s peach chips, peach soda, grape soda, bowls of fruit, and other things, but it’s lacking what Macaque specifically wants.
Earlier in the day, MK brought them a gift of homemade bolo bao as thanks for the great progress in his training. Food is a gift that neither himself nor Wukong can deny, unless it goes against their diets. But MK knows them too well and brought four of the treats for them to share. Wukong already ate his two, and Macaque had one earlier; now it’s time for him to finish them off.
In order to give himself a break from boring holes into the side of Wukong’s face with his unsubtle glances, Macaque decides to get up and get it himself instead of making a shadow portal. He uncrosses his legs and stands, and Wukong looks up at him questioningly.
“You want anything from the kitchen?” Macaque asks, but doesn’t wait to hear a response. He starts to leave, turning to his right and taking three steps.
“No…” Wukong softly answers.
Alright, well. That’s his dumb way of saying he wants a peach because he’s already eaten all the ones on the coffee table. Macaque rolls his eyes and makes a note to grab one on the way back.
He begins to walk around the couch and…stops suddenly. Something’s preventing him from taking another step. It tugs him backward, and Macaque takes a single step back to keep himself from stumbling.
Confused, he looks behind himself. “What the—?”
Oh… He forgot.
Macaque’s tail is tightly tangled together with Wukong’s auburn one. So much so that, if their fur were the same color, it would be difficult to know where one tail started and the other ended. How could he forget that they’d tangled their tails together hours ago? … Just like in the past, it comes naturally to him. If Wukong’s within reach, his tail automatically seeks out cheeky amber and curls around it.
As it stands, Wukong’s curly tail is stark against the obsidian thickness of Macaque’s own, so it’s easy to tell that he’s holding on tighter than Macaque is at the moment.
Macaque feels his cheeks heating. He glares at Wukong. “Hey. Let go.”
Wukong shoves a spoonful of ice cream in his mouth and talks around it. “Not happening.”
“Wukong.”
“Liu’er.”
“I’m trying to go to the kitchen!” Macaque says impatiently. He takes another step forward and tries to tug his tail free. “Let me go!”
“Why didn’t you make a portal?” Wukong asks, looking up at him with a raised brow. “Did you just forget you could do that, or?”
“I didn’t—!” Macaque growls, growing frustrated. He puts his hands on the back of the couch, claws digging into the fabric as he contends with his own embarrassment. At least his marking and skin tone make his blush harder to notice. His saving grace. If he used illusion magic, Wukong would instantly be able to notice. “I didn’t…forget.”
“Okay, so come sit back down and—”
“Can you just let go for a second?!”
Wukong looks at him strangely, eyes narrowed. There’s this hurt and pained determination that Macaque doesn’t understand. It’s not like he’s telling Wukong to never hold his tail again. The refusal to let go comes off as petty and childish to him.
But Wukong thins his lips, reaches for the remote, and pauses the movie. “... I’m not doing that,” he whispers. “So, I guess I’m coming with you.”
What the fuck is he being so ridiculous for? Macaque huffs. “Wukong—”
It’s too late. Wukong’s standing, ice cream pint and spoon in hand, and walking around the couch. He moves past Macaque and enters the kitchen, giving Macaque’s tail a tug to make him hurry along and move.
Macaque, with a hand covering his face, follows after him.
Well, now they’re both in the stupid kitchen, and there’s the last bolo bao in the plastic container on the counter staring back at him.
Macaque doesn’t even look at Wukong as they both move toward the counter. He opens the container to get to his bun and slices it in half with a claw.
And all the while, Wukong stands to his left. He leans against the counter while finishing off his pint of ice cream.
It’s quiet for about…thirteen seconds before Wukong pulls the spoon out of his mouth with a pop! and lolls his head over in Macaque’s direction. “Liu’er, I’m not letting go of you for anything. Not ever.”
Macaque stills. He turns and looks at Wukong with surprise, heart nearly stopping (again) at the breezy way Wukong just dropped that on him.
Wukong doesn’t look away. He stares back with sincerity. “I’m gonna hold onto you for the rest of eternity.”
He says these things so easily. And that immediately puts Macaque on guard. He hardens his heart. In the past, Wukong often tossed out assurances with little regard to the consequences and the impact words can have on a person.
But they… They’re different now. He knows that. He’s seen with his own eyes that if Wukong sets his mind to something, he’s going to see it done regardless of the risk it poses to himself.
However, this promise, or goal or whatever, hinges on a lot of things that are out of his control. Macaque isn’t taking it that literally, but there are inevitably going to be times where they are apart, perhaps for extended amounts of time, and…even then, in those moments, would Wukong hold onto him tightly? Knowing him, he’d find some spell or weird trick to make it so.
Still, to protect himself, Macaque only halfway believes in those words.
Macaque offers a light chuckle and returns to his bun. “So, you’re gonna be there when I take a piss?”
“I’m being serious,” Wukong tells him, shutting that attempt to lighten the subject down. He sets his pint of ice cream and spoon down and inches closer to Macaque. Gently, he rests his head on Macaque’s shoulder and loops his right arm around Macaque’s left. “Don’t want us to be apart anymore. There’s been…too much of that.”
The sadness in Wukong’s voice makes Macaque pause again, his heart suffering that same ache he’s felt in bits and pieces ever since the mirror.
All that time spent hating each other…coming to their own conclusions, making their own stories and lies in order to cope. All that lost time. All the mistakes it led to. The death it led to.
Macaque feels his lips quiver once and he bites his bottom one, angry at himself. It’s hard to put a stop to old habits. It’s difficult to trust Wukong after everything that happened. And at this point, Macaque’s having trouble trusting himself.
But he agreed to this. He said that he’d try. And that’s what he’s been doing…to the best of his ability. It’s hard for him to be vulnerable with the person who took his life. Conversely, Wukong’s the only one he can truly be open with. The dangers of allowing one person to have such a hold on his life and become so many essential things to him is a lesson he’s repeatedly learned throughout this process.
And it’s through that effort that he’s seen how beneficial being honest can be. Not just for their relationship, but for himself. He’s starting to form a better understanding of himself. After being resurrected and learning his truth that he’s touted for over six hundred years is built on a foundation of lies, he’s had to do some soul-searching. Both of them have.
Most days, Macaque feels as if they’re still in that mirror, uncertain of every step they take. But instead of walking this path alone, he has to remind himself that they’re struggling and processing and killing parts of themselves together this time.
Macaque sighs a little…but lets his lips quirk up into a smile. He leans his head on top of Wukong’s, nuzzling his nose into auburn hair and breathing in the smell of the mountain…of home.
Don’t let go, he thinks, closing his eyes. He isn’t ready to say it out loud, but…he feels it strongly.
That must count for something.