Archive of Our Own

Mk was… really starting to hate his job.

Usually, on a normal day, Mk loved his job. He loved the people he met, the places he visited, and the paychecks Pigsy had to cut short because he never used to do his job correctly.

Used to, that is. Nowadays, all he did was stay on task. It was completely out of character for him. But that wasn’t news. Lately, everything’s been out of character for him.

Pigsy said it the other day. Something along the lines of “You haven’t been acting all like yourself lately.”

And yeah, he was right. Mk wasn’t acting like himself. He wasn’t feeling like himself. Not since snake gods and demons had forced things like cycles and pillars down his throat.

Sometimes, Mk wished he could go back and time and undo everything that’s happened to him in the past year. He wished he was still ignorant, like the little delivery boy he used to be. He wished, really, that nothing had changed.

(His peace had been stolen away the moment he picked up the staff.)

But now, especially now, everything around him had changed. From the flying dogs to the very color of his eyes.

(They used to be brown. They were gold now, and they’ve been gold ever since ink stained his soul.)

After the solar system just barely slipped past total annihilation, Mk started picking up shifts again, because he thought that he’d enjoy the normalcy that his job used to bring him. The people, the places, the driving, the joy in being a delivery boy. He liked delivering noodles.

At least, he used to.

Lately, if he had to be completely, utterly, and brutally honest with himself, he’d admit that all the joy and fun had been sucked right out of it. Taking a break from mystics and wonder? Yeah right, delivering food somehow made him even more stressed than he had been prior.

Really, he shouldn’t have been surprised. Fast food? Come on, when wasn’t working in fast food horrible? It didn’t get its reputation for being a piece of cake. Especially now.

“This isn’t what I ordered!” The woman in front of him screeched with a slack jaw, furrowed brows, and a fire in her eyes that could’ve ignited Mk right into flames.

Maybe, if Mk disassociated hard enough,  then her spit was gasoline, her blood was venomous, her fangs were sharp, and she was just another monster of the week from Tang’s old stories. That would’ve arguably been better than what he was dealing with right now. At least he was used to fighting demons. He wasn’t all that used to nasty people.

But no, she wasn’t a monster of the week, and this wasn’t a storybook, and this wasn’t the fantasy adventures he’d become so used to. This was the real world, and the real world made his life harder than it already was.

“Ma’am,” he tried to reason, his voice coming out in an exhausted rasp, because it was 11:03 PM, he limbs felt heavy, his eyes were half lidded, his head was pounding, and there was no way someone had the gawl to complain about their food at this hour. “I’m really sorry about this. Garlic miso noodles is what the order said. If this isn’t what you paid for,” he smiled, the edges of his lips forced and twitching, “I’d be happy to give you a full refund, or—“

The woman’s eyes looked like they were about to pop out of her head. Now she really did look like a venomous demon, with the way her eyes shut into thin slits and her voice came out like a hiss. Steam might aswell had been streaming out of her ears with how red in the face she looked.

“No!” She squawked, much like a furious pigeon flailing its wings around, “You take those right back to yer’ filthy pig pen—“ And wasn’t that just insanely offensive, given that his dad—who was a pig, mind you—poured his blood sweat and tears into that bowl of ramen? “—And get me what I ordered! I spent half’a hour figuring out the orderin’ on that app and paid six dollars for delivery! That’s fifteen minutes at my office, workin’ an actual job that kids like you couldn’t even begin to understand!”

The woman’s eyes narrowed even further at him, like he had personally insulted every person she knew and loved. “Do you know how much money that is? It doesn’t matter anyways, ‘cause inflation is skyrocketing! Why is one bowl of noodles so much god damn money!? You people overprice the hell out of this food!”

“Ma’am,” Mk tried again, sighing the heaviest sigh he think he’s ever had the misfortune of sighing. He’s long since learned how to tune out the bad apples that made his job harder, but he couldn’t deny that some people got to his head.

“Five dollars for delivery! I bet that’s 75% of your paycheck! How would you feel if all of that money was stolen right out of your hands? For delivery, out of all things! Bastards make shipping more than expensive, and it took you a whole half hour to get here!”

Mk chewed on the inside of his cheek. He couldn’t believe people like this actually existed. It wasn’t like he made the rules and set the prices, so why was she yelling at him? She didn’t have to order food. She didn’t have to complain. She didn’t have to do anything. He was just trying to do his job, for celestial’s sake.

Impatient and antsy, he gestured to the bag of noodles in his hands and exhaled deeply. “Listen, lady. I kinda have somewhere to be and these are getting cold. Are you going to take them or ask for a refund?”

“How dare you interrupt me!” Was the response he was rewarded with.

Sweet mother of pearl. He could not do this right now. Not after all that happened.

Instead of trying to fight, (Mk was tired of fighting) he set the noodles down on the front steps, turned, and walked off the porch.

The woman bellowed after him like a tyrant of an empire, demanding execution be the only way Mk atone to the crimes he was pretty sure he did not commit. He just wanted to go home, was that so bad?

He tuned her voice out, raising his headphones and pressing them over his ears as he walked back to his car.

In a world full of mystics, wonder, monsters, demons, magic, and all of that cool stuff that were in the comics Mk read, he couldn’t really understand why a lady in a nightgown could break him into pieces quicker than a literal demon could.

Maybe because a rude customer was a figure of the real world. A normalcy that now felt uncomfortable to him.

Or maybe because he was already broken. Shattered like an antique vase that had been accidentally knocked off a shelf. A fragile thing.

Mk was the Monkie Kid, that was quite literally set in stone, but he was a delivery boy at the end of the day. And he didn’t know how much longer he could stand juggling both.

You’re tired, Pigsy would say.

I’m tired, Mk had to agree.

Dragging himself into the driver’s seat of his delivery car, Mk stared ahead of the side of the road, hands reaching forward and gripping the firm steering wheel.

For a second, he tried to breathe. Feel the wheel under his fingertips. Slow the pounding of his heart. Clear the fogginess in his head.

“I’m tired,” he whispered to the soul in the sky or to himself or to whoever might’ve been listening.

The drive back to Pigsy’s was long. The roads were still busy despite the shortcuts he took. As he drove, he watched the earth slide past him like one smeared painting, the colors of his surroundings whipping by like abstract arrays of paint.

Sometimes, Mk wondered what it would be like to be a painting. To exist solely to be gawked at and admired. He was pretty sure it wasn’t too different from his Monkie Kid persona—the citizens of Megapolis gaped at him like he was some kind of celebrity, anyways.

He didn’t mind it—or, well. He used to. After everything that happened, he couldn’t not mind it.

You’re tired, his thoughts said again.

He had to agree.

After turning on a road, Mk stepped on the breaks before pulling up to Pigsy’s Noodles. The shop’s windows were shut, lights peering through the thin blinds. A large sign hung on the door, reading Closed in big bold letters.

He hopped out of his car. Opened the garage door. Parked his vehicle. Then proceeded to stare at the ground for five minutes before gathering the courage to open the back door.

His body felt like it was on autopilot, movements stiff and thoughtless as he wandered into the back of the restaurant. Where the sad mop sat and the dishwasher brooded.

He stopped and stared at the sad mop propped against the wall.

How much longer can you go on like this?

He didn’t know. He didn’t know and he hated that he didn’t.

But it was fine.

He barely even registered his feet moving. Mk was stumbling nowadays, ever so slightly, but tried not to let it show. Pigsy would only worry. He didn’t want him to worry about him anymore.

He emerged from the back kitchen and shuffled into the dining room. As expected, there was Pigsy, mindlessly humming to himself and scrubbing the counters with a heaviness that only a dad seemed to carry.

Pigsy was closing the shop by himself, Mk concluded. A part of his stomach twisted at the observation.

Unbelievable, that voice in his mind echoed, raspy and far away but very much meant to torment him. Pigsy’s getting older after every life or death situation you put him through, and after everything, you aren’t even there to help him close. Just unbelievable.

Like his dad could hear his thoughts, Pigsy turned around and acknowledged him with a nod. “There you are, kid.” He said in that familiar gruff tone, “Got distracted again, huh? You were supposed to be home an hour ago.”

Distracted? No, that was ridiculous, Mk’s thoughts rumbled like thunder, He didn’t really get distracted. Not anymore. He was just getting slower, like he was trudging through a road of thick mud that went on for miles.

“Sorry,” he apologized, a weak smile on his face. He didn’t deny it—either way, distracted or not, he was sorry. Sorry for everything, really. Pigsy wasn’t getting any younger, and yet he was still doing so much. For the shop, for his family, for Mk. All while he was getting quieter. Sadder. Slower.

“Don’t apologize, kiddo. Just glad you’re home,” Pigsy shook his head, turning, “With that being said, could you take out the ga—“ he cut himself off when he finally looked at Mk—really looked at him, his gaze hardening on him like he was taking a peak behind his eyes.

Mk shuddered at the way Pigsy studied him. “Mk, you look tired. Were the deliveries—“

If there was one thing Mk couldn’t take in the moment, then it was a talk. He couldn’t handle it. He’d probably burst right into tears. That was the last thing he wanted to do.

“They were fine!” He exclaimed instead, because celestial be damned if he let himself shatter into bits, then there wouldn’t be a way to put himself back together. You can’t fix a broken mirror when the pieces are scattered.

His voice cracked with over-enthusiasm. It felt forced, out of place, uncomfortable, but he hated how Pigsy worried. “Just peachy. Everyone was nice, I got every delivery done, I didn’t mess around, everything was great!” Then he rushed out, “Do you need help? I can help.”

Pigsy had that look on his face. That look that everyone’s been giving him lately. “Kid, don’t you think it would be a good idea to rest? I think you should—“

Nope, nope, nope. He didn’t want to do this right now. He couldn’t.

“Pigsy,” Mk rasped, forced grin faltering at the edges. His eyes fell into half-slits because he was trying not to cry, voice a shaky and desperate plea—a silent request to let it go. Please let it go. Please don’t make me talk about it. “I can help. Honest.”

At the confirmation that he wasn’t letting up, Pigsy sighed heavily and shook his head. “Okay,” he gestured to the back, “I know there ain’t no getting past ya, so I won’t even try. Garbage needs to be tossed, a few dishes in the back need’ta be washed, and counters need to be wiped down. I’ve got the rest.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Mk nodded immediately, the words rushed and shaky because he just wanted to get out of Pigsy’s hair and he just wanted to bury himself in more work to ignore his problems and he just wanted to let it go.

He and Pigsy worked in silence that was nothing if not tense, like Pigsy had something to say on the tip of his tongue but never let the words slip. Mk spared him no eye contact, no words, nothing.

The objective was simple. Just get the tasks done, pretend everything was normal and fine and dandy and sweet, and avoid any chance to talk about it. Any of it.

Their closing nights were eerily similar to this ever since Xiangliu had disappeared. Pigsy had offered for Mk to take it easy ever since they survived their encounter with him, but Mk couldn’t afford to give up his job. He couldn’t leave behind the one thing that made life feel normal. Stable. Real.

Even that wish crumbled the second Mk started picking up shifts again. It was like everything he loved about work just… did a backflip and landed on its neck. He didn’t find joy or normalcy in going door to door and delivering food like he used to. The spark was gone.

Your spark is gone, the voice in the dark parts of his mind reminded him.

My spark is gone, he had to agree, because the voice in his head was right. About everything, really.

Everything.

As he was cleaning the dishes, the silence got to him.

A flash of images he wanted to forget replayed in his head. They usually did when things were slower. Any resemblance of peace he seemed to find after everything was plagued by him. His voice.

“What’s the matter, guy?”

Mk bit his tongue hard.

No. He was gone. He wasn’t here anymore.

“Hey, no no, I get it, man! You wanna get back to our monster of the week adventures! Get back to our simple missions with Mei, mastering all of Monkey King’s powers, and delivering noodles for Pigsy, right?”

Stop it. That’s whaṯ̶̱̗̥̤͈́͌̽̾̈́͐̓̊͠͠ǹ̸̡̜̯̰͈͖͖͙̲̲̙͇̈̇̊̌̊̊̑̆ơ̴̮̰̱̰͔̺͔͍̫̘͒͒͆͒͑͐̀̽̈́̋́̚͘͜ʎ̶̥̰̤̤͓̽̓͛̒̇̍̑͂—

No, no. That’s what He wanted. He.

The deafening silence in the back kitchen made his ears ring. His thoughts were too loud. He could hear those voices too clearly.

“But we can’t. Not after all we’ve seen.”

Stop.

“All we know, and all we don’t?”

Stop it.

“You’re not my friend,” Mk whispered, like saying it out loud would make it any more true. “You’re not me.”

“Sure I am! I’m your best friend.”

Inhaling sharply, Mk pressed his eyes shut and tried his best to block that voice out.

He couldn’t do this right now. He didn’t want to do this right now. He couldn’t keep thinking about this. About him.

“Well! Closest, at least. I know more about you than you’ll even admit. To yourself, or to others.”

A hand found his shirt, clinging it desperately as his eyes burned hot.

He couldn’t breathe.

“So where’re you going, guy?”

He couldn’t breathe.

“Mk?”

A startled yelp barreled out of Mk’s mouth as the glass plate he was washing slipped out of his hands, tumbled over the side of the sink, and exploded against the floor.

The crash was loud. The silence that came after that was louder.

Mk’s breath was heavy as every voice in his ears went eerily silent. He could hear his own heartbeat thump. He blankly stared at the pieces of porcelain that were scattered around his feet.

Useless, another voice echoed in his head, but instead of it being his own, it came out more feminine. Dark. Familiar. Mk shuddered at the thought of her.

“Mk.” The voice said again, breaking Mk out of the fog in his head. He turned to see Pigsy in the walkway, eyeing him with an unsettled glint in his eyes. He looked lost in thought before he grimaced, “Don’t move, you might hurt yourself. Let me grab a dustpan.”

Pigsy left. Mk stood there silently, hands falling limply at his sides as he stared at the broken shards around him.

Ridiculous, the feminine voice whispered in his ear. He knew that turning around wouldn’t confirm her absence.

Lady Bone Demon was gone, and she’s been gone for a long, long time.

Even so, her presence lingered like dirt he couldn’t wash off, no matter how much he scrubbed at his skin, no matter how much blood clung under his nails, and no matter how much he wished she was gone.

Rotten, she growled into his ear, her voice a hushed whisper that made the word so simple, and yet so, so terrifying.

Rotten.

He pressed his hands over his ears. They didn’t need to remind him, he knew what he was. What he was capable of. Who he could hurt. He knew, he knew and he was so tired of this. He knew.

His heartbeat was loud as sweat gathered around his pinched eyebrows. His chest was rising faster and faster as his gaze hardened on the shards of glass. He looked at them for a long, long time.

Pick it up, the feminine voice whispered.

He blinked, face twisting into a perplexed stare.

Pick it up.

Mindlessly, like a puppet on strings, he listened. He didn’t remember leaning down and reaching for one before a shard of porcelain was already in his hands. He stared at it, looking it over like sacred treasure in a hidden chest.

Multiple voices were clashing against each other now, the images from the past few months flashing in his mind, his hardships burning behind his eyes.

“Ah, I see. You have begun to suspect what he already knows. That he made the wrong choice. Picked the wrong successor.”

“Are you sure about that? Last I checked, all of this happened because of us. We said it ourselves. We released the Demon Bull King from the Underworld! We gave the Spider Queen the means to dominate the city! And we gave the Lady Bone Demon the opportunity to wreak havoc upon the world!”

“Careful, boy. My patience is not endless.”

“Seriously? You still think we’re just some noodle delivery guy? You can’t remember where we came from, and you got all this power, and you never once thought: Why us?”

“Chaos is your whole purpose. It is why you were made.”

“We’re just like Wukong! A fraud! A trickster! Destructive! Why would our legacy be any different?”

“Actually, no, no. The chaos and destruction that we’ll bring upon the world will make Wukong’s past look like nothing!”

His reflection reflected in the glass shard.

“Harbinger of chaos.”

“I’m back. Watch your step.”

Mk blinked at the shard. He looked up.

Pigsy walked in, broom in hand, and then abruptly stopped. He was staring at him—no, he was staring at the piece of glass in his hand.

“Why do you have that?” His dad asked slowly. Cautiously.

Mk froze. He let the glass slip from his hand. It clattered back on the ground, breaking into tinier little pieces. He immediately felt bad for creating more of a mess.

“Sorry for breaking your plate,” he said instead, because he didn’t know how to explain the sharp object he had in his hand a few seconds prior.

Pigsy stared at him for a little bit longer before something in him snapped back to life. He walked over to him, broom in hand, and swept the glass away from Mk’s feet. Silently.

Mk watched, the fog in his head blocking the clarity out of his eyes.

“You have to be careful next time, Mk. You could’ve seriously hurt yourself,” Pigsy said. Maybe he was referencing the fact that Mk had accidentally dropped something made of glass. Or he was referring to the shard.

Mk wasn’t really sure which one. The words barely registered anyways.

When the glass was swept away, Mk slowly stepped to the side. Looked up. Gestured to the broom with a weak smile. “Pigsy, I made the mess. I can clean it up.”

Pigsy glanced at him with that look in his eyes again. “That’s alright, Mk,” he said, head shaking sadly. “I’ve got it. How about you go get some rest, yeah?”

“Pigsy,” Mk repeated, voice coming out softer and more distressed than before. Pigsy stared at him, his gaze hard and his frown tight. “It’s okay, kid. I’m almost done closing. Please go to sleep.”

“But—“

“Mk. It’s okay. I promise it’s okay.”

It wasn’t. It wasn’t okay. Nothing was okay. He wasn’t okay.

Mk’s eyes were wide and dark, pleas and sobs and apologies woven into his hard stare. But Pigsy’s look countered his own, his irises carrying such tough but soft affirmations and support that Mk could nearly hear them, despite the thick silence.

Pigsy clearly wouldn’t have it. So, giving up, Mk pressed his eyes shut and sucked in a sharp and shaking breath. “Okay,” was all he managed to breathe, and he wordlessly turned on his heel and began towards the back stairs.

Before he reached the stairs, a voice called out from behind him, “Mk, wait a second.”

The boy stopped, his shoulders hiking up and his body tensing.

He was relieved when Pigsy just sighed, “Nevermind. I just want you to know that I love you, and you can talk to me. Okay?”

He couldn’t. Mk couldn’t talk to anyone. They wouldn’t get it. Nobody would get it.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, “Yeah, I know.”

He didn’t wait for Pigsy to respond before he was already walking up the stairs. He was kind of ashamed to note the weight that lifted off his shoulders the moment he was out of Pigsy’s sight.

But something else lingered. And the moment he stepped onto the stairs, it got worse.

Walking up to his apartment door, Mk fumbled with his keys before pushing the door open. The moment he stepped foot into the room, he closed the door and breathed heavily.

The dam finally crumbled.

It was like his breaths were getting cut off short. His lungs weren’t working. His heart was pounding so loud it thudded in his ears.

Rotten.

Rotten.

Sucking in a trembling breath, Mk dragged himself out of his frozen stance and pulled himself to the door of his bathroom. He told his body to just move. Do something, go somewhere, work properly.

Reaching a shaking hand and turning to handle, he yanked the door open and slammed it behind him with enough force to break a wall. His shoulders sagged as he stumbled towards the bathroom counter and gripped the edge of the sink, grasp so tight around the cold porcelain that his knuckles were white.

For a moment, he tried to focus on the cool ceramic underneath his fingertips. Tried to focus on his too heavy breathing, his too fast heart, his hazy vision.

Chaos, his thoughts seethed, all you are is chaos. That’s all you’ll ever be. That’s all you are destined for.

And that’s when panic spiked through his heart like a bullet through the chest.

A choked gasp escaped him, all the dread and fear and whatever else he was feeling rumbling around his chest like thunder and lighting. His breaths tumbled out of him without permission, his heart rammed against his ribcage like it was begging to escape, his vision blurred like a fogged mirror.

He couldn’t do this anymore. He couldn’t. He couldn’t.

Hot tears covered his vision to an extent where he couldn’t see the counter in front of him. The floor swayed beneath his feet as he slid down the side of the counter and sunk onto the ground.

You can’t go on like this for much longer, the voices growled bitterly, think of everything you went through, every foe you’ve fought, every monster who’s taken hits to your peace. Demon Bull King, Spider Queen, Lady Bone Demon, Azure Lion, The Ink Demon, Xiangliu, Nuwa. All of those demons did damage to you, and it is irreversible. You cannot change the hurt they had caused. It is a part of you.

It wasn’t, Mk wanted to believe. He could grow. He could get better. He could fix the damage these people had caused him.

He needed to fix it. Fix himself. He couldn’t go on as a shell of who he used to be.

You will never be the same. Not after what they had told you. Not after what you realized what you are. Not after you saw what you’re capable of.

His shaking hands glitched to a bright gold. Yellow bled through his vision. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t think and he couldn’t go on like this.

“But know this, monkey. You and I are not so different—we both fight for what we think is right. That pursuit only leads to one thing. To pain.”

“The only way the world survives is if you don’t.”

“If he adds himself, the pillar can be reforged.”

The walls were closing in. His vision was fading. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t.

“Leave the world a little better than you found it, right?”

The claws at the end of his fingertips bared fearfully. His hands latched onto the sides of his arms.

“That’s how the world survives. That—that each of you survives—“

They sliced through the fabric of his jacket.

“Is if I don’t.”

The motion was instinctive. He couldn’t even remember it happening before claws were tearing through the fur on his arms. Blood immediately stained the air, metallic and sharp and blinding his senses in a panicked frenzy.

The incisions were deep. They were jagged and ugly and there weren’t enough. He hated the fur on his skin and he wanted it gone.

Chaos, the voices chanted, now loud and overwhelming. Chaos.

White spots dotted his vision like fresh snow. The world spun as pain shocked through his flesh, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care.

C̵͍̎̿͠ḧ̸͚̲́̊͌a̵̪̒̂ó̸͜͝s̸͙̭̋̄.

𐎣𐎮𐎨𐎭𐎦𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂¶̸̛̀̀̕͞͞͠$̵̸̷̸̶̸̨̨̢̛́̀̕̕̕͢͢͢͜͠͠͞͡͠͏̴̷̸̧̛̀̀̀͜͠͡͞№̨͘͟͟͢͝҉@̴̴̶̶̷̸̸̵̵̷̨̨̢̧̨̢̨̀͘̕̕̕͘͝͠͞҉̢́͘͟͢#͏́͡҉̴̷̷̡̨̛̕͜͠͏͡͏̷͞͏̵‽̢͏̸̵̢̨̡̀́̀́̀̕͢͟͟͜͟͜͢͜͡͡͝±̸̨̨̀͘͝∆C̵͍̎̿͠ḧ̸͚̲́̊͌a̵̪̒̂ó̸͜͝s̸͙̭̋̄§̶̷̡̨̡͟¶̸̛̀̀̕͞͞͠$̵̸̷̸̶̸̨̨̢̛́̀̕̕̕͢͢͢͜͠͠͞͡͠͏̴̷̸̧̛̀̀̀͜͠͡͞№̨͘͟͟͢͝҉@̴̴̶̶̷̸̸̵̵̷̨̨̢̧̨̢̨̀͘̕̕̕͘͝͠͞҉̢́͘͟͢#͏́͡҉̴̷̷̡̨̛̕͜͠͏͡͏̷͞͏̵‽̢͏̸̵̢̨̡̀́̀́̀̕͢͟͟͜͟͜͢͜͡͡͝±̸̨̨̀͘͝∆̶̴̡̡̢̢͘͟͠͡҉̴̶̵̧̛̀̕͏̨͟͡҉̛͏̷̸̢́̀͏̸̡̛̀͜͟͝͞҉§̶̷̡̨̡͟¶̸̛̀̀̕͞͞͠$̵̸̷̸̶̸̨̨̢̛́̀̕̕̕͢͢͢͜͠͠͞͡͠͏̴̷̸̧̛̀̀̀͜͠͡͞№̨͘͟͟͢͝҉@̴̴̶̶̷̸̸̵̵̷̨̨̢̧̨̢̨̀͘̕̕̕͘͝͠͞҉̢́͘͟͢#͏́͡҉̴̷̷̡̨̛̕͜͠͏͡͏̷͞͏̵‽̢͏̸̵̢̨̡̀́̀́̀̕͢͟͟͜͟͜͢͜͡͡͝±̸̨̨̀͘͝𒊎𒅬𒀱𒊎𒀱𒅬

𐎣𐎮𐎨𐎭𐎦𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃

Again, desperately, his claws tore through his skin. His flesh cried a bright crimson, the color illuminating through the gold that consumed his vision. Red painted his nails. It stained his fur. It stained the air. It stained his soul.

He slashed at his arms again, nails dragging through the flesh. And again, and again, and again. Over and over.

Drops of red rolled down the side of his forearms in thick, uncontrolled lines, like raindrops on a window. They dripped onto the bathroom tiles, slow at first. Then, gradually, the speed increased, frighteningly dotting the tile as his body spasmed with panic.

This was it. He was going to die.

He was going to die.

He was going to die.

And then a sharp pang in his chest made him jerk, and he was pretty sure he had a heart attack and died.

But then clarity slowly came back.

So no, he realized as he felt the sharp stutter in his chest loosen, he wasn’t dying. It was okay. He was okay.

Oh, he wasn’t breathing. He had to breathe. Breathe.

Slowly, the fog retreated. Slowly, after long and agonizing minutes that felt like hours, the panic tore its claws away from his neck. Slowly, the terror flooded from his body. Slowly, the world stopped spinning.

The spasming in his hands reduced to a soft trembling. In place of the fear that flooded out of his heart, bone crushing exhaustion replaced it. A few blinks led him to realize that his eyes were swollen and smothered with raw tears.

Relief swam over his conscious—what was left of it, anyways. The hard part was over. The scary part was done. He was okay. Everything was okay.

Slumping back against the bathroom door, Mk could make out the bathroom lights in his blurry vision. He couldn’t tell what time it was, how much time had passed, or if time was even a concept anymore.

He was just… tired.

Looking down, everything was… flickering. The gold was lagging in his vision. The hair on his arms kept disappearing. His claws were retracting.

But the red was stubborn.

Scarlet clung into his flesh, the hue unnaturally bright and alarming in his flickering gold vision. The sight of it made something in his conscious roar back to life.

Oh.

His breath hitched. Mk pressed himself further into the bathroom door as his eyes bore into the sight, pupils dilated and wild and blurred with tears.

Oh.

A choked gurgle escaped his throat, the noise unbearably pained and wet. His body had stopped convulsing, but his mind was blaring with alarms and warnings and oh no’s.

Blood. That was a lot of blood.

Oh, that wasn’t good. He needed to stop the bleeding. He needed bandages.

Now with a new objective, Mk weakly propped himself up against the bathroom door, reaching up and gripping the side of the counter in an attempt to stand on his feet.

His body strained against the counter as he flailed around like a fish out of water, hands weakly grabbing for the bathroom cabinet. He tore it open and reached for the roll of bandages that sat messily inside. 

His legs buckled underneath him the moment the roll was in his hands. Like a bag of rocks, he plummeted back onto the tiled floor and struggled to yank off his now-completely shredded jacket. The sleeves were barely intact. It was covered it blood.

Once it was off, his eyes looked over the damage. It was bad.

Shakily, he began wrapping his right arm in the bandages instead of looking at the wounds any closer.

More tears spilled out of his eyes as he struggled immensely. In the moment, he couldn’t really feel much of anything through the panic. Now? The wounds hurt as much as they looked. They were gruesome and ugly and they went from his wrists to his shoulders.

He didn’t make the effort to wipe the frustrated and pained tears that burned in his eyes. He just sat, messily wrapping his arms as saltwater streamed freely down his cheeks.

The work wasn’t good. Hell, he didn’t even know if it would stop the bleeding. But he was tired and everything hurt and he just wanted to be done.

He tied off the bandages on his left arm. He dropped the roll in his lap. He sunk back against the door and stared numbly at the ground. It was covered with blood. Exhaustion swept over his conscious like a thick blanket, heavy and cold.

He wondered if Pigsy would be mortified if he saw him like this.

He wondered if Pigsy would even care.

Of course Pigsy cared, his thoughts scolded, their voices sharp like forks against glass, he just shouldn’t.

Mk grimaced at that voice in his head. Right. He heard that one practically every day. Over and over again.

And it exhausted him.

His eyes falling towards his arms again, Mk studied the mess with a deep frown. Messily wrapped. Stained with red. Shredded like paper.

One thing was pretty clear: He had no idea how he’d hide this. He knew he had to, because he didn’t know what Pigsy or Tang or Sandy or Mei would do if they saw this mess he had created.

He mentally cursed himself for letting his commonsense slip as soon as it did. Was he ignorant or just flat-out stupid? He had training tomorrow. How would Monkey King react?

Actually, he didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to think about anything, actually.

He was tired. He was tired and he didn’t want to be here anymore.

Hands balling up into fists at his sides, the boy pressed the back of his head into the bathroom door and closed his eyes.

Tomorrow, he told himself, inhaling deeply. I’ll figure it out tomorrow.

If tomorrow even came.

——

“You’ve just opened the cage.”

A nightmare startled him right out of unconsciousness with a pained wail.

Ink, gold, voices, faces—memories he didn’t want to think about burned into his mind from the vivid dream. Xiangliu’s bright red and gold eyes lingered in his thoughts like stubborn weeds. He was suffocating, drowning in black liquid, flickering into a golden beast, dying—

Mk’s eyes snapped open.

Tomorrow was today. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

Tears clung to his sticky and wet cheeks. A shaking and flickering gold hand was pulling the front of his shirt desperately, like he was trying to claw the panic right out of his own chest. His lungs weren’t working, he wasn’t breathing, he needed to breathe—

And then? Then it clicked. The first thing he noticed was the searing pain that blossomed through his forearms, and for a moment, he wondered who in Buddha’s name shot a bullet through his skin. Multiple bullets.

That is, until he looked down and stared at the blood on the floor.

Oh. Right.

Mk’s eyes widened as clarity flooded back into his eyes, the feeling strangely similar to being brought back to life.

He was not in his bed, nor was he snuggled up to Mei in a sleeping bag on her bedroom floor, nor was he in Redson’s guest room, nor was he in any other safe and comfortable environment that he’d normally wake up in.

No, not now.

Now, he was sitting against his bathroom door with blood covering his nails.

Oh, his thoughts repeated, Oh wow. This was definitely a first.

Mk wasn’t exactly a stranger to getting himself hurt on purpose; the sacrifice thing was probably enough to prove it. It made sense, though—save the universe from imploding or don’t save the universe and implode. He didn’t really need to flip a coin to pick an option, so the self-destruction thing was never a concern.

But this? This was probably concerning. Maybe a little bit.

Mk stared numbly at his surroundings for a few moments, a bitter and dark emotion crawling up his spine as bile rose in his throat.

The bandages were dried now, but obviously soaked in blood a while ago. So the bleeding must’ve stopped at one point, which meant the wounds couldn’t have been horrid, right? It must’ve been fine. He’d be fine.

Mk took note of how heavy and stiff his body felt. The position he fell asleep in was immensely uncomfortable, but he didn’t have the energy to move. So he sat limp, lifeless, and stared at the ceiling instead of the blood on the floor, hoping for some sliver of sleep to return to him instead of facing the world he did not want to live in.

(The world he wasn’t supposed to live in. He should’ve died.)

Time passed, and sleep did not come. Instead, he felt around his pockets before he weakly pulled out his phone, tapping a shaking thumb against his familiar cracked screen. The time read 4:49 AM.

Cool, so not only was he awake against his will, but the sun wasn’t even up yet. What else was there to be upset about?

Saturday, his phone read in big and bold letters, and panic suddenly spiked in Mk’s veins.

Oh.

Oh, he had training today. Right.

And that realization was somehow enough to get him moving.

Bracing himself, he reached a hand up and propped himself against the bathroom door. Using the counter for support, he hoisted himself up and leaned majority of his body weight onto the porcelain.

His bones were heavy and hurting, but that wasn’t a problem right now. The problem was the blood on his hands, the blood on his floor, and the messily bandaged wounds on his arms.

He dragged himself over to the shower and turned it on. He spent five minutes struggling to undress. He undid the poorly wrapped bandages and let them fall on the floor. He stumbled into the shower and slumped against the wall. The hot water burned, making his wounds scream and sob with pain, the dried blood rinsing from his arms in thick flakes like little rose petals.

He sat in the shower for a long time. Numbly. The red stained water washed down the drain.

When he finally had the willingness to get out, he reached for the nearest towel. It was white.

He ended up staining the entire thing red.

Once he threw on a random pair of red pants and a thin white tanktop, he trudged back to the bathroom and stopped in front of the bathroom mirror. The glass was cracked and painted with water stains.

His reflection stared back at him blankly. He had to blink a few times before he remembered that the person he saw in the glass was himself.

The purple and red blotches that bruised around his eyes left him looking more zombie than human (Or… Monkey). His hair was wet and tangled, falling over his eyes due to the lack of his signature red bandana. His complexion was pale and sickly.

He definitely looked older. Worn out. Tired.

How in the world would Monkey King react to his state?

In the back of his mind, he knew there was an easy solution. Just call off training. Ignore him. Avoid him. Facing Monkey King was getting harder to do lately.

But the reasonable part of his mind noted that avoiding him wasn’t an option anymore. He already cancelled training last week. And the week before. And the week before that.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Mk studied his features as a frustrated noise cracked in the back of his throat. He couldn’t cancel. Monkie King would just worry even more, and then he’d try to call him, and then he’d fail because he didn’t know how to use a cellphone, and then he’d give up and check up on him in person instead, and Mk really didn’t want to see him in person right now because then he’d try to talk and Mk was tired of people talking to him or worrying about him or comforting him or anything.

He just wanted to be left alone. It was better that way. Safer that way.

“Whatever happens, we’ll face it together.” Monkey King had said on the rooftop.

Face it together? That was a whole bunch of bogus. They couldn’t face it together—Not when Nuwa had plans for him. Not when he was dangerous. Not when reality itself almost collapsed because of him.

Mk was a walking terror, and he didn’t know how long it would be before his friends finally saw it.

He was getting good at avoiding them. He talked less when he and Pigsy closed. He declined Mei’s calls. He ignored Redson’s texts. He stopped showing up to Sandy’s painting sessions. He didn’t spare Tang any eye contact. He flat-out lied to Monkey King about being sick multiple times so he wouldn’t have to interact with him.

But avoiding them was getting riskier. Pigsy could sense that something was wrong. Mei was showing up during his shifts to try and talk to him. Redson was calling him frequently now. Sandy kept trying to invite him to things. Tang stared at him thoughtfully whenever he saw him.

And Monkie King? Honestly, Mk didn’t really know how he was holding up. Ever since their bonfire at the Shame Temple—for saving the world again, despite the flying dogs—they’d only been keeping in touch through short texts.

It wasn’t that Monkey King wasn’t reaching out—no, he was trying and he was trying hard. He texted, called, and  showed up to Pigsy’s Noodles a few times a week in an attempt to at least catch him out in the open. But Mk had made it a personal goal to steer clear out of his way.

He couldn’t help it—not when every single time he saw Wukong, all he could hear were his screams. All he saw were his tears. All he knew was his worry. All he thought of was how his mentor was a pillar of the chaos in his life.

Mk didn’t know if he could handle seeing him. Not without having a complete meltdown.

Glancing down, his eyes burned holes through the wounds on his forearms. They had stopped bleeding a while ago, but they were still as gruesome as ever. He didn’t even really clean them. He should probably do that.

Finding the will to move again, he reached over, turning on the faucet and pulling himself onto the counter. He reached into the bathroom cabinet and pulled out another roll of bandages—thicker this time, more sturdy. He sifted around for medical supplies before settling on Neosporin and hydrogen peroxide.

With wound cleaning experience from his bumpy line of work, he wasn’t as horrified or grossed out about the cuts as any normal person probably would’ve been. Inspecting the wounds was not fun, obviously, and he was getting slightly lightheaded, but they wouldn’t treat themselves, so he got to work.

His hands wobbled as they washed some more blood off of the wounds. While the mess on his arms was graphic, he noted that some of the wounds weren’t as deep as he thought. He was lucky he didn’t hit an artery. Then again, that probably wouldn’t have been so bad.

A few of them were on the deeper end, mostly around his forearms, but it probably wasn’t anything to be overly concerned about. He’d be fine. He knew how to handle deep knicks and scratches. This was simple. This was fine.

Bandaging both of his arms was hard—especially in his weakened state. The job was sloppy—he scrubbed as much blood off as he could, disinfected the wounds as best as he could manage, hoped that Neosporin would be enough to prevent them from getting infected, and messily bandaged them in an attempt to hide them out of sight.

The sting they brought was nearly unbearable, like his skin was boiling in a pit of fire, and another round of tears prickled in his eyes as he worked. Ow. Ow, ow, ow.

Eventually, he accepted that he wouldn’t be getting high-grade bandaging work and tied off the material on his arms. He left the mess on his counter (and his floor) and stumbled off the counter.

His eyes found the mirror again. He examined the array of poorly wrapped bandages around his shredded arms. His eyes found their way back to his face.

Dark eyes, hollow cheeks, tight frown.

Hm.

He looked away instead. Out of sight, out of mind. He was getting good at telling himself that.

He walked out of his bathroom. Collapsed onto his bed. And proceeded to stare at his ceiling for the next few hours.

——

Wukong woke up. Turned and twisted on his bed. And proceeded to stare at the ceiling for a few hours.

Eventually, he dragged himself out of his little nest of blankets and pillows and stumbled into the bathroom.

His eyes slowly found their way to the mirror. Cracked and painted with water stains.

Out of instinct, he cringed dramatically (more for show if anything, but he remembered that there was nobody watching) at the sight of himself.

Dark eyes, hollow cheeks, tight frown.

Yikes.

He couldn’t remember the last time he let himself look this bad. Actually, he couldn’t remember the last time he brushed his fur, let alone look bad. He must’ve been really off his game lately.

But it was fine, there wasn’t any need to stress, it wasn’t like his only visitor would judge him based on appearance. Mk was probably the last person to have an opinion on his personal hygiene anyways. Not with the way he’s been looking for the past few months.

Wukong’s eyes slowly traced his disheveled appearance with a strained frown.

Lately, he only seemed to look worse as the days went on. It should’ve surprised him, because he was unbearable and annoying when it came to neglecting his fur, but lately? He just couldn’t seem to even brush it.

He thought that glamours would cover how he wasn’t taking care of himself. He was wrong. Even with them on, his face was sunken in with stress and other unpleasant emotions. His eyes were uncharacteristically dim and milky.

He poked himself in the cheek slowly. No, this wouldn’t do. He wanted to look at least a little presentable. For Mk—well, if he even decided to show up today. With the way he was canceling training, he probably wouldn’t. So there was probably no point. Maybe. 

Wukong usually sent him a text about the schedule. Mk usually followed up with a confirmation or a decline on his arrival. The king wondered if he should even bother offering to train today or if it would be stupid to do so.

He’s avoiding you, his thoughts made sure to let him know. Wukong knew full-well. Mk’s seen it enough times to know the kind of person you are. He knows the awful things you’ve done, the horrible things you’re capable of, the evil you’ve caused.

Oh, right. Appearance first, thoughts later.

Instead of actually taking the time to make himself look presentable, he flicked his hand and sent waves of magic pouring from his fingertips. He wove a few glamours around his drooping expression and covered up the imperfections.

Okay, better. Not great, but it would have to do.

Turning, Wukong stared at his phone sitting on the bathroom counter. He picked it up and struggled with typing in the password (seriously, why was pressing a few small buttons so hard with claws?) before unlocking the device and finding his messages with Mk.

Wukong did not like technology, (Well, most technology. Television was pretty sick. VR was a whole other can of worms) but a mobile device was the easiest way to communicate with his successor, so he kept one around.

And on the screen, surprisingly, was a pretty fresh message.

It took a second (more like ten minutes. He could barely decipher words on paper, let alone decipher Mk’s poor grammar) to read the words, but his eyebrows raised once he finally processed the message.

Kiddo

srry 4 late msg i js woek up like an hour ago

am coming 2 training 2day if thats ok with u

Oh, holy shit. This was news. Wukong didn’t even have to text him first.

Kiddo

ill b over in liek. uh 20 mins??? js left my aparyment

do NOT eat all the blueberres ovwr there

i bought thise 4 u 2 share with ME

Wukong’s expression pretty much immediately brightened.

He wasn’t an expert with technological tone in messages, but he was pretty sure that Mk’s tone wasn’t sluggish or dry like it usually was as of late. In fact, he seemed pretty normal. Happy, if anything.

The relief that softened his muscles did not go unnoticed, but Wukong didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, with a lot of struggle and critical thinking, he managed to reply.

Great Sage

YAY

REELY

O MI GOD

ITD HAPENIG

yoir bloobaries ate alredy gon btw

Yeah, that was about as good as he could get. Mk responded rather quickly.

Kiddo

WHAT

Wukong grinned stupidly at his phone before setting it down. Warmth flooded through his chest, the feeling strangely similar to how hot and cozy his magic felt when it coursed through his bones.

Just the fact that Mk was responding to him, and responding to him normally, and coming to training? It all really melted away a good portion of the stress he was carrying prior to their interaction.

It wasn’t like Mk was just flat out ignoring him as of late, but he certainly wasn’t keeping all in touch either—and apparently, Wukong wasn’t the only one getting the same treatment.

The other day, he had stopped by Pigsy’s noodle shop to check in. Mk had been working, unfortunately, but the horse girl and the glasses guy were there. They were whispering amongst themselves like the conversation wasn’t for all ears.

When Wukong came into the shop, they turned to him. He asked what was up. They then started telling him how… odd Mk’s behavior had been lately. From the way he stood to his mannerisms.

Even before Xiangliu, Mk’s behavior had been changing. Now, though? He could barely look anyone in the eye. He kept to himself. He stayed in his room. He avoided everyone. All he did was work and sleep.

Wukong shouldn’t have felt so personally hurt for being avoided, but it stung. They used to hang out a lot together. Now? He barely saw the kid in person. And it’s been nearly a month since everything happened. 

Sometimes, when Wukong visited the shop, he sought Pigsy out and asked him for any updates. Pigsy always had little to report. Mk was being avoidant. He wouldn’t talk unless he had to. He worked a lot more and messed around a lot less. Stopped laughing all together. Rarely smiled. Was fidgeting anxiously at every given moment.

Just… this new behavior was so unlike Mk. He was so bubbly and bright and happy. This was not him. This was a shell of who Mk used to be.

Pigsy always seemed the most bothered by it. As Mk’s adoptive father, he had every right to be. The pig opened up to him about it a few weeks ago—about how difficult it was to watch Mk’s health and mental state deteriorate. He didn’t know how to help the kid. It was weighing on him.

It made sense. Wukong didn’t know how to help either. After something as traumatic as their run through with Xiangliu, he wasn’t surprised to find out that Mk was refusing to talk about it.

Yeah, what happened was horrible. Wukong can barely talk about it himself. Most nights he still woke up screaming.

But thinking of Mk? The one who actually had to go through the whole thing? The one who saw and heard and felt things he shouldn’t have? The one who sat through god knows what in the Celestial Pagoda? The one who took his own life in means of protecting his loved ones?

Wukong had no doubt that his night terrors were worse. Way worse.

So yeah, it wasn’t surprising that the kid was refusing to talk about any of it. Ignoring it must’ve been the easiest way to keep going.

But Pigsy worried. In turn, Wukong worried.

Mk wasn’t like this. Or, at least, that’s what Wukong wanted to believe. But the truth was that… Mk has been somewhat this was for a long time.

The signs probably started showing up after they defeated the Lady Bone Demon. Ever since then, the kid’s state has been worsening. All he did was get quieter and quieter after every demon they faced. More anxious after every fight. More traumatized after every dance with death.

But maybe… maybe things were finally looking up.

He was coming to training, after all. They haven’t trained together for a month, really.

Maybe this was good.

Wukong offered to keep up training after the big battle with Xiangliu, because Mk used to love training. He always used to ramble about the muscle he was building on his twig arms. He got unreasonably excited when he learned how to backflip for the first time. He found joy in sparring because it made him look badass.

Now? Every Saturday since the offer, Mk would say he couldn’t make it. Or he was sick. That was all.

Truly, Wukong didn’t mind the excuse. He knew that Mk probably wanted to avoid any form of fighting for a while. He was tired and exhausted and probably wanted to detox. And, in a way, he was sick. That was understandable.

It was just the fact that Mk said nothing else.

It was… weird. In a way that was worrying.

And Wukong wasn’t crazy, because everyone was worried. So yeah, something was wrong with Mk. Something’s been wrong for a long, long time.

The kid just hasn’t told anyone what that could be.

A faint buzz brought Wukong’s attention back to his phone.

His ears flicked curiously as he read the open message.

Kiddo

im @ da gates

open up

Oh?

Oh!

Wukong’s flat frown grew into a wide grin as he started towards the bathroom door. Before he left, however, he shot one dark glance back at his reflection. A warning, if he wanted to call it that.

Everything was fine. He was fine. This was fine.

——

“Hi, Monkey King.”

Okay, so this wasn’t fine.

Mk looked a lot… younger. Than he remembered. And at the same time, a lot older than he should’ve been, too.

Wukong stood still in the doorway of the shame temple, studying the kid’s appearance for a few long seconds. Mk’s eyes were not ignited with optimism and sheer-perseverance the same way they used to be.

One look at him made one thing clear—

His spark? Gone. Completely. It was obvious with the lack of his red bandana. The eyebags. His sleeves of the sweater that probably belonged to Pigsy falling far over his hands.

Taking this fleeting second, Mk also seemed to be studying him in depth. Wukong didn’t like that at all, but he didn’t blame him—they hadn’t seen each other or really spoken in well over three weeks. Sure, Wukong’s seen him in passing during his shifts. But every fleeting moment was a reminder that Mk was being avoidant.

Now—right now—was probably the first time they’ve genuinely interacted since their rooftop conversation.

Wukong looked at him. Like, really looked at him.

Something was wrong.

(Something’s been wrong. He was just too scared to confront it earlier that year.)

The words fell out of him before he could catch them, and the same applied to Mk as they both blurted, “You okay?”

Mk shrunk in on himself instantly. The immediate response made Wukong himself feel a little smaller as guilt and frustration panged in his stomach. Idiot! Why would you even ask! You’ll scare the kid off!

Mk recovered far quicker than normal and plastered a grin over his face. Uneasy expression, tense shoulders, hunched back—man, he must’ve been having a rough day.

“Sorry—! Sorry.” The kid apologized, hands raised in defense, “M’good, I-I promise. J’s tired is all. I’m more worried about you right now.”

“Me?” Wukong blinked, suddenly feelings very self-conscious. He smoothed his hand over his fur in response, “Wha—What’s the matter with me?”

The kid gave him a look. “You have more glamours on than usual.”

“No I don’t.”

“I can feel the magic basically radiating off of you, Monkey King. You feel like a camp fire.”

Wukong inhaled sharply, mentally slapping himself in the face for forgetting such a thing. Of course Mk would’ve sensed his glamours, was he dumb?

“Y’dont have to… have ‘em on,” Mk mumbled, shuffling awkwardly on his feet, “For whatever reason you do. Y’know I don’t judge.”

Yeah, because if he did, he would’ve been a hypocrite.

“It’s nothing, Kiddo, don’t worry about it,” Wukong said instead, shoving the vulnerable and exposed feelings down his throat and out of sight. He stepped to the side and gestured for Mk to come in, “Fell on my face and got a nasty bump. Embarrassing, if anything, so don’t stress ‘bout it.”

Mk watched him cautiously as he stepped into the palace, ultimately dropping the subject and steering towards the familiar large lounge room that connected to the kitchen. Wukong followed in-suit, anxiety making his tail twitch.

“So…” he started awkwardly as they walked, “Anything new with you?”

He cringed. Gods, he was bad at this.

Mk shrugged as he entered the lounge and set his bag on the large table in the room. “Not really,” he admitted, “Just… you know. The usual, I guess.”

“The usual,” the king echoed, “Which is?”

Mk glanced his way, looking kind of like a deer in headlights as he fumbled, “Just—I don’t know, work and stuff. V’been taking on more shifts in the shop to kill time.”

Okay, strangely avoidant and vague. Mk wasn’t going to talk about it. Any of it. In fact, Wukong noticed that even looking at Mk for too long was making the kid visibly antsy.

Knowing this, the king inhaled heavily and scratched the back of his neck. “Makes sense. Anyhow, y’wanna just cut to the chase already? Start with meditation?”

Eagerly, Mk nodded, “Yes.”

“Okay, awesome.”

——

It was not awesome.

Sitting outside, Wukong watched half lidded as Mk sat in front of him, eyes skewered shut and his breath heavy with anxiety.

Clearly, even trying to meditate was making him uneasy. So Wukong sighed and shook his head, “Okay, I don’t think this is getting us anywhere—“

“—it’s fine,” Mk cut him off, snapping his eyes opening and giving him the most unnatural stare that Wukong thought he’s ever seen on him, “It’s fine, this is nothing. I can do this.”

The king gave him a soft blink in return. Can you?

The kid nodded, Let it go. Please.

So Wukong let it go.

“If you’re sure,” he said, shifting to where his crossed legs were firmly planted on the grass. Mk reflected this by adjusting his posture and collecting his hitching breath. “Give me five deep breaths. Can you do that?”

“Sure,” His successor’s voice was tight and quiet as he did so, his breath wobbling but deep enough.

“Awesome. Now, clear your mind, keep it blank. Picture nothing. What does nothing look like to you?”

He cracked his eye open to see Mk visibly struggling to even clear his head. His eyebrows were creased with visible frustration and unease as he chewed on the inside of his lip. But Wukong decided to let it go, so he didn’t comment on it.

“Relax your shoulders. Picture a thread pulling your spine into a straight line. Head high, muscles loose, posture straight.”

The kid fixed his atrocious posture with a tight frown. He looked tense. Too tense.

“Wherever the hands fall naturally, embrace that. Let them sit in your lap, or on your knees, or at your sides. Whatever’s comfortable, I guess.”

Mk’s hands twitched. He absentmindedly fidgeted with his pants as his breath stuttered.

“Notice your breath. Take a moment to control it.”

The kid’s breath only seemed to get heavier. Wukong frowned, his tail reaching forward and wrapping around Mk’s right ankle for some sense of security. His successor only seemed to shrink into himself at the physical contact.

“When you’re ready, nice and slow, drop your chin to your chest,” Wukong instructed, doing so himself, “And then, nose up to the sky. Deep breaths.”

Mk was shaking.

“Okay, then side to side. Breathe slowly.”

He didn’t follow along. His breathing just got faster.

Wukong finally opened his eyes and stopped. “Okay, that’s enough.”

He stood up as Mk looked at him, breath heavy and hands shaking. “No, Monkey King, It’s fine—“

Wukong gave him a look, ultimately making the words die on his successor’s tongue. “You’re right, it is fine.” The king hummed simply, “We can move on. I don’t really want to meditate either, and it’s…” he gestured to him vaguely, “Not helping. So let’s do something else.”

Lowering his head in defeat, Mk stumbled onto his feet without a glance to be spared. The king studied him for a second too long.

So this was why Mk wasn’t coming to training. Why he wasn’t talking to anyone, really.

Not because he didn’t want to. Not because he was sick. Not because he disliked it.

He was tired. He was so, so tired.

——

Sparring wasn’t going very well.

Mk was swaying on his feet like he had a concussion. His hands were raised and balled into fists, but his stance was choppy and uncoordinated. He had a bruise or eight from the amount of times he failed to dodge a punch or land a hit.

“You okay?” Wukong asked him, because of course he did. Mk looked like he didn’t quite know where he was before he nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m ready to go. Come at me.”

So Wukong did. He sprang forward, latched onto Mk’s right wrist, and flipped him up and over.

The kid flailed around like a pigeon before surprisingly sticking the landing. The two exchanged a few punches before Wukong accidentally (instinctively) kicked the kid directly in the stomach. Oops.

Mk flew backwards, hitting the ground a few times like a skipping rock before tumbling to a stop. By the looks of it, that kick was rough. A sharp yelp of pain barreled out of his throat as he face planted into the grass.

Wukong cringed. Yikes. That looked like it hurt.

Cautiously, the king stepped over to him. Leaned over. Studied the way Mk was planted into the ground, motionless and curled up into a tight ball. His eyes were squeezed shut. His breathing was erratic.

The kid didn’t move for a while, and the king wondered for a second if he accidentally killed him.

“Bud?” He started, “You doin’ okay?”

Silence stretched between them before Mk nodded slowly. A loud sound of something like frustration in the back of his throat was Wukong’s confirmation that he was alive. Well, kind of.

“Sorry, kid, didn’t mean to hit you so hard,” The king grinned sheepishly, crouching down and hoisting Mk up with his tail. His successor groggily looked up at him with tired eyes.

“S’fine, you just—you just grabbed my arm pretty hard,” he replied, even though fine was an overstatement.

When they used to spar, Mk could stand his ground for a while by sheer determination and will. He got right back up on his feet. He laughed off his slip ups and eagerly took any advice and constructive criticism with his head high.

But now? He was curling in on himself. He couldn’t even look Wukong in the eye. He wasn’t all there.

Wukong poked him with his tail thoughtfully. “‘Kay, it’s only been half an hour and you’re already on the floor. It takes about another hour for you to end up here.”

Mk groaned in response, falling back into the dirt and turning back to the grass.

“I’m just—“ he tried to defend himself, but the words died out as he shrugged into the dirt. “I don’t know, Monkey King. I didn’t… I had a rough sleep, okay? Sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“—I’m not mad, bud,” Wukong said honestly, “I’m just worried. You haven’t been sleeping for a while, have you?”

The question wasn’t really a question at all—an observation was what it was, and with the way Mk tensed, he was right.

“What?” The kid squeaked, turning over in the grass to look him dead in the eyes, “Yes I have—“

“You can say that, but those eyebags tell me otherwise.”

Mk opened his mouth to counter, but Wukong beat him to it, “Listen, kid. You can’t just tell me everything is fine and dandy when you can barely stand without swaying. I know you, and I can tell that you haven’t been taking care of yourse—“

He was about to go on before Mk suddenly inhaled sharply. Something like hurt and shame bloomed across his face as venom coated his words, “Can we not do this right now, Monkey King?”

“No, Mk, you’re—“

“Monkey King.”

Mk sucked in another sharp breath, and Wukong was about to go off on him if it weren’t for the faint shimmer in his successor’s eyes. The king’s thrashing tail immediately lowered, finding its way around Mk’s ankle again. The kid looked near tears, and every alarm in the king’s head blared.

“Just drop it.” Mk breathed weakly, but it was more of a plead. “Please drop it.”

The king stared at him with a tight frown.

His shoulders hiked up to his ears in response, frustration and regret boiling in his stomach. “Fine. Sorry,” he mumbled, offering his successor a hand as some silent form of an apology. Mk stared at the offering before taking his hand and hoisting himself up.

Then Mk winced. Hard. A shaking hand came up and desperately grabbed at his forearm, grip so hard his knuckles were white.

Wukong’s ears flicked immediately. He tore his hands way like he accidentally burnt the kid. “Did something happen to your arm?”

Mk flinched again. “No,” he said quickly, “You—you didn’t do anything. Just—“ he inhaled sharply, and wasn’t that concerning? “I slept on it wrong. Probably.”

Right. Wukong stared at him as his successor forcefully smiled. The corners of his mouth twitched. “I’m fine, Monkey King. Never better.”

He certainly didn’t look fine. With the way he was wincing, Wukong was sure he might’ve landed on his arm wrong. But he didn’t pry, because that was the last thing Mk wanted. “Okay,” he said instead. “Wanna keep going?”

“Yeah.”

Mk staggered into another weak fighting stance. His form was totally off. He stepped forward and threw the weakest punch Wukong’s ever seen. The king dodged it easily, grabbed his wrist, and proceeded to yank him off his feet.

“Ack—“ a pained noise erupted out of the kid as he slumped in Wukong’s grip. He struggled, snarled, and then went limp against Wukong’s shoulder.

“This was a mistake,” he muttered under his breath, “I should… I should go.”

“Go?” Wukong echoed, hoisting him up by the wrist, something disappointed and a little fearful welling up inside his chest. “Kid, is everything okay?”

Mk flinched again. “I’m fine,” he said, attempting to pull his hand out of Wukong’s grip. Wukong didn’t let go. “Mk, come on,” he huffed, “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing!” The kid yanked at his hand again. Wukong still didn’t let go. “It’s not nothing.” The king said, “You’ve been—you’ve been different lately! I’m worried about you!”

Mk let out a strangled noise that sounded more like a shriek. He yanked his hand hard, ripping it out of Wukong’s grip and holding it out. “Well stop! You shouldn’t be!”

Wukong was about to yell back, but he stopped. His gaze turned down.

He stared. He breathed.

Red.

Mk’s sleeve—no, both of his sleeves—were drowning in red.

The color was seeping into his sleeves like it was devouring the fabric. Scarlet pigment trickled down his right wrist from underneath his jacket, pooling down his hand and covering his palm.

Wukong’s ear flicked. All the built up anger he felt at that moment flooded out of his system. A lump formed in his throat.

He stared, unblinking, as every bone in his body went rigid.

Mk’s defensive and angry glare fell when Wukong gave no response. The kid stopped as well, looked down, blinked, and then froze.

“Oh,” the words slipped out of his successors mouth, “Oh.”

Time stopped.

They stared at each other, unblinking. A violent metallic scent stained the air.

Then, “Mk?”

Mk flinched, but now it looked painful.

Wukong couldn’t remember himself speaking before the words were already spoken. “Mk, is that blood?”

He reached out thoughtlessly. The kid abruptly flinched away from him, the reaction morbid and almost violent.

“Uhm—“ he breathed, looking like a cornered animal. Wukong’s senses overloaded with panic. “Mk—“

Mk winced further away from him, looking concerningly in pain as he turned on his heel. “Uhm,” he squeaked anxiously, “Can you—Can you gimme a second, Monkey King? I—“

No. No, something was wrong.

“Kid, hold on. You’re hurt—“

Very wrong.

“It’s fine!” Mk’s voice wavered as he stumbled over his own feet, sloppily waving back at him, “It’s fine, I’m fine, don’t worry! Think I just—“

“Don’t walk away from me, Mk—“

“No! It’s fine! It’s fine, I promise, I’ll take care of it. Think I got a scratch. It’s fine! Be right back!”

And then Mk darted for the palace doors, threw them open, sped through, and slammed them shut.

Wukong stood in the middle of the training deck, his tail curling up and trashing violently between his feet.

The silence burned.

Wrong, the words repeated, getting increasingly faster, Wrong. Something was very wrong.

Reaching up, the king absentmindedly gnawed on his claws as the ground seemed to swallow him whole.

Did… did he do something? Did he accidentally hurt him? That must’ve been the only logical conclusion. Earlier, Mk had said that he grabbed his arm too hard. Did he accidentally knick him through his sleeve?

That had to be it, right?

But—but that amount of blood—

It didn’t make sense. Why were both of his sleeves covered in blood? Why did he bolt? Why was Mk so frightened in the first place?

Then suddenly, Wukong turned back to the palace doors and stared as another thought emerged.

Or maybe… maybe he had nothing to do with it.

Maybe it was something else.

Something else entirely.

——

Mk’s breathing was heavy. Too heavy to regulate, too slippery to grasp, too much for him to handle.

Bad idea. Terrible idea. He shouldn’t have come to training. He shouldn’t have left his room. He shouldn’t be here—wherever here was—he shouldn’t be alive—

His steps were fast as he tore down the long halls of the temple. Room. Bathroom. Anywhere but here. He needed to be anywhere but here. Anywhere without eyes on him. Anywhere without people—without his friends—without people he could hurt—

Looking down, his eyes widened at the red that soaked through his sleeves. With a weak “Crap,” he tore the fabric up both of his arms and cringed at the mess.

The bleeding was arguably worse on the right. Majority of the damage was around his wrist, where Wukong had gripped him. The wounds were delicate and tender and reopened now. The bandages were crumbled and useless. Blood painted his hand like raindrops on a window.

His left wasn’t as severe, but the wounds had reopened across the entire limb—probably from the tumble he took. That wasn’t good. The bandages were stained and falling off. He must’ve done such a bad job patching himself up that they didn’t hold. Shoot.

The wounds were ugly. He couldn’t stand looking at them. Mk’s chest heaved faster as he frantically searched for the nearest room that allowed closure. He needed to hide. He needed to fix this. Whatever this was.

Stumbling now, his eyes caught onto his room—a little guest room that he had claimed after the first few visits to the Shame Temple. He couldn’t remember the last time he was in there. It would have to do. It was fine. he’d be fine—

He limped over to the door. Gripped the handle with iron-like force. Threw it open and staggered inside.

His legs were giving out on him, the panic overheating his system like he was a computer that was about to blow up. The moment Mk closed the door behind him, he slammed his body weight against it, keeping his legs propped up and working properly, for once.

His thoughts were scattered and vague, too fast to comprehend and too much to grasp. This was really bad—like, really bad! Was Monkey King pissed because of the wounds? Would he tell Pigsy? What would Pigsy say? Would he stop giving him shifts? God, Mk needed those shifts. He needed normalcy like he needed oxygen. He couldn’t live without it. He couldn’t—actually, he wasn’t breathing at the moment—

His forearm smelled of blood and hate and everything in between that he was tired of feeling. He didn’t want to do this again. He didn’t want to keep feeling this way and this was a really bad time to be doing so.

He stood trembling against the door like a rat in a trap. Time flickered by without his knowledge. He couldn’t think.

Then—

A knock erupted from the other side of the door.

Every bone in Mk’s body immediately went stiff.

“Bud?” Wukong’s familiar warm voice started uncertainly from behind the thick wood. Even hearing his voice caused tears to prick into the corners of Mk’s eyes.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t do this right now. He couldn’t handle this.

“Mk, please open the door. I know you’re in there. Your door is never closed.”

His legs buckled underneath him. Weakly, Mk slid down the side of the door and dragged his knees into his chest. Tears collected on his eyelashes before escaping down his cheeks in choppy streams.

“Mk, please. Please talk to me. I don’t—“ Wukong paused for a second too long, the silence almost unbearable and singlehandedly causing more tears to flow from his eyes, “I don’t know what’s wrong, but—Well, I know what’s been wrong. Kind of. You’ve told me a little bit about… the stuff you’ve been through. On the rooftop a few weeks ago. I don’t know what’s happening now, but—“

He stopped again. For a long time. Then, “I’m sorry. I’m not—I’m not good at this. I just, I—I want to help. I don’t want you to handle this alone. Whatever’s going on right now. Whatever’s been going on.”

Mk had to cup a wobbling hand over his mouth to keep a choked sob back. He had to. Alone was the only way. It had to be. It was. It was.

From behind the door, a soft thunk echoed throughout the quiet hallway. Weight shifted against the door. Mk’s eyes fell down to see Wukong’s shadow peaking from underneath the crack that separated the door from the floor.

“Mk.”

The word was gentle. Softer than Mk was used to hearing. It was tinged with something that weighed heavily on Wukong’s shoulders—something that’s probably been there for a long, long time.

“Please,” his mentor whispered weakly, his voice leveled with Mk’s ears. He wondered if Wukong was also sitting on the floor with him. “Please don’t shut me out.”

The silence was interrupted by a very audible and choked noise the broke out of Mk’s throat.

Wukong must’ve heard it, given the way his voice cracked in response, “I don’t—I don’t want, I—“ he was struggling, badly, “I don’t want you to have to just… feel like you have to—to hide this, or to go through it by yourself. It only makes it worse.”

He couldn’t respond. He couldn’t. He couldn’t do this.

“Mk, please.”

Another stifled sob escaped his lips without permission.

Silence stretched through the room before finally, Mk raised a hand (a hand that had blood on it. His blood on it.) and weakly tapped a knuckle against the side of the door. Faint, heavy, slow, but an acknowledgment.

Silence.

Then, from the other side of the door, a similar sounding knock tapped against the door. Faint, heavy, slow, but comforting. For some reason, it eased something deep within Mk that couldn’t seem to calm down.

His breaths were still choppy, but he managed to knock on the door again with his knuckles, twice this time. To let his mentor know he was listening.

Wukong responded with two knocks a few seconds after.

Two knocks. One, and two. Mk focused on those, mind lingering on the vibrations they sent through the door. Focus solely on the sound that echoed from the simple motion.

He raised his hand again, letting it linger on the wood as he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He tried his best to settle his panic, calm his nerves, slow down the choked cries he was trying to swallow down. His knuckles tapped against the wood again, three times. Urgently.

He earned three more knocks in response. One, two, three.

They were slow, slower than his breath, so he tried to match the pace. In and out, as Sandy encouraged. Sandy was good at breathing. He did the weird box methods and the butterfly tap things.

Oh, his thoughts reminded him, Butterfly tapping. That helped. Sandy taught him that one.

Trying his best to stay as mentally coherent as possible, Mk settled both hands on the opposite sides of his chest, crossed over each other, left to right and right to left. His wobbling fingers slowly tapped against his thick jacket, the motion settling something deep within his chest.

In and out. In and out. This was fine. Everything was fine.

“Are you okay?”

Mk’s eyes opened.

He looked back down to his blood-stained arms and swallowed thickly.

He opened his mouth and closed it a few times, unsure how to use his vocal cords. Uncertain how to respond.

“I—“ the word fell out of him before he clamped a hand over his mouth again. He didn’t know. He didn’t know what to do or what to say or what to think and he was scared, he was scared and he was always scared, and he wanted to stop feeling this way—

“No.”

Quiet. Cracking. Broken. He said it without a second thought. Like he hadn’t meant to.

“No,” he tried again, a little louder this time, “I-I’m no—not.”

Silence. Then, carefully, Wukong responded, “Can I come in?”

No. No, he didn’t want to see people. He didn’t want to look at anyone. He didn’t want to be near people he could hurt—

“Mhm.”

With a hand gripping the door handle for support, Mk shakily hoisted himself up to his feet and breathed. Breathed, and breathed some more. His grip was so tight around the handle that his knuckles were going white.

Slowly, he opened the door. Just a crack.

He peeked through to see Wukong standing there patiently, slightly backed away, his shoulders hunched and his tail flicking behind him anxiously. He looked like he was purposefully trying to create space between them, like Mk was a threatened cat that he didn’t want to scare off.

Wukong’s eyes were fixed on him carefully, and at the moment, he looked more animal like than usual. Stiff, cautious, anxious, careful.

They stared at one another through the cracked open door.

Then his mentor looked past him, eyeing his bloodied hand that was definitely in view. He paled.

“You’re bleeding.”

Mk swallowed thickly, his grip on the door tightening.

“Ye—yeah.”

They stared at each other. Then, Wukong gestured to his hand. He was holding a thick white case. A first-aid kit.

“Can I help you?” The king asked slowly. “Please.”

Mk stared at him. Then nodded.

He pushed himself off the doorway, stumbling back into the room with a haziness that hadn’t been there before. He positioned himself against the wall next to the door and slumped against it. His legs wobbled, taking him back down to the floor.

His shaking hadn’t stopped. His heart was still racing. The pain was still intense. But his breathing was softer, and that was all that mattered.

Wukong stepped into the room cautiously, eyeing him on the ground before walking over and crouching down himself. He set the kit down next to him and opened it.

Mk watched just how slowly this moment was passing by. He clutched his arms and hugged himself tightly, hiding the wounds self-consciously, for fear that if Wukong looked at them too close, he’d get… angry.

He screwed his eyes shut. This was real. This was real and he hated it.

A heavy breath. Mk opened his eyes to see Wukong frozen in time, staring at his wounds like they were terrifying.

“Oh,” the word slipped from his mentor’s mouth—probably on accident given the way he immediately clamped his mouth shut. Mk took that in the worst way possible.

It was pretty obvious that the wounds were in no way an accident. They were jagged like thorny flowers, long like snaking vines, deep like red rivers. They were very obviously self inflicted. Very obviously claw marks.

Wukong looked pale. Then something in his eyes sparked back to life, like he suddenly remembered why he was there in the first place. He gestured for Mk’s left arm. Hesitantly, Mk gave it to him, his throat tight and his heart pounding against his chest.

The king said little to nothing as he took the supplies next to him and began tending to the re-opened wounds on his left arm.

Mk watched him work silently. There was this… this sort of gentleness that Monkey King was radiating—something that he rarely showed. He only let this softer side of his show when it was just the two of them. Especially when Mk was distressed.

It was appreciated.

Monkey King’s hands worked through cleaning the stained blood across his arm and bandaging the cuts with such careful and concentrated precision that it was almost appalling.

The process was long. Eventually, the king moved onto the right arm. He stared at Mk’s wrist for a long time—painted with re-opened wounds and blood. That was the wrist Wukong had captured only twenty minutes earlier. He looked almost… guilty.

He began cleaning and bandaging those wounds too. Even though some of the injuries higher up the arm weren’t open, he took care of those as well. Neither of them said anything throughout the procedure.

Then, as Wukong tied off the set of bandages around the angry and inflamed claw marks, he turned his head up and opened his mouth before shutting it again. He did this a few times before turning away and glaring at the ground with frustration.

Quietly, Mk looked away as well and answered the unsaid question, “Yesterday. They’re from yesterday.”

Wukong nodded, his eyes looking much too glassy to be considered normal. He looked back up again and stared at Mk with a look that was unnerving.

“You…?”

“Yeah,” Mk managed to choke out, “I… changed again. I tried scratching all the hair off my arms. It didn’t work.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

“What happened?” The king asked after a moment, with layers of hesitance and confusion.

“I just told you.”

“No, like—“ Wukong sucked in sharp breath. He was visibly struggling. “What’s been happening? Before these scratches.”

Mk didn’t know how to respond. He gestured to himself uselessly. “What happened was,” he sucked in a breath, “The Lady Bone Demon. Azure. Nuwa.” Then he looked away. “You. Me.”

The memories flashed past his mind. Of bright golden chains yanking his wrists to the ground. Wukong tackling him off his feet in front of the beam of pure light. His mentor begging him to not dive headfirst into the pillar of death, of the sheer betrayal and hurt and distrust that blossomed out of their final moments together.

“I’m sorry. It has to be me.”

Wukong understood. He looked away and swallowed. “Right.”

Helplessly, Mk gestured to his mentor and shook his head. “Sorry,” he admitted weakly, eyes burning unnaturally, “M’just… everything’s changing. I’m changing. You’re changing. And I can’t…”

He swallowed before hiding his face in one of his hands, “I feel like I can’t catch up.”

He let a tear slip. Then another, then another, and eventually he just let the waterworks fall. They were silent, much like his unsteady breath, but his emotions were so loud he could hear them swirling around in his heart.

His chest stuttered as he hid his face in his hands, feeling too exposed to look Wukong in the eye and too helpless to speak another word.

On top of his stress, his problems, his considered attempt to cease existing if that meant saving the universe a few times over, this was a problem. This has been a problem—this pattern of self destruction that sprouted, grew, and bloomed over time—and it’s been a problem for a long time.

His sobs were ugly and loud and so painfully real that he didn’t know what to do except cry harder. He was a wreck, and it took all of his willpower to admit it out loud. To put his sorrow and pain on display for such an important person of his life to see. It felt so bizarre, uncomfortable, intimate, close to his heart—

Strong arms wrapped around him.

MK immediately tensed, choking on a heavy sound of defeat and despair as he registered Wukong’s arms around his body, sturdy and protective yet warm and gentle, like Mk was a piece of porcelain he was afraid to break.

For a moment, Wukong just held him like that, squeezing him a little closer and tighter as each sob tore out of Mk’s throat.

Eventually, after fighting with himself, Mk let himself melt into his mentor’s safe arms. He just needed to be held and he needed it desperately—he needed to just sit in warmth and light after shaking alone in the darkness for so long.

Neither of them spoke.

His hands snaked around Wukong’s back as he sobbed into his chest openly, grabbing the back of his mentor’s hoodie like a lifeline as he buried his tears away from the king’s heavy eyes.

He didn’t want to look at the clear display of distraught in Wukong’s eyes. He didn’t want to look at him. He just wanted to hide.

A hand came up and stroked his hair. It somehow making him weep even harder.

“S’okay, bud. Just get it all out,” Wukong said in a hushed voice, words soft as clouds, “S’okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

Mk tried to nod, tried to respond, tried to say something, but it came out as a violent shake and an incoherent hiccup. He went completely limp against his mentor’s embrace as he tried rambling out apologies or explanations or something. None of them could be heard under his tears.

They sat like that for who knows how long. Mk’s tears flowed freely until there was nothing left to cry. Eventually, he let the silence consume him.

He lay lifeless against Wukong’s hold and tried to find his breath. His eyes were sore. He’d burned his throat raw from the wails that had torn out of his lungs. He didn’t even know he was capable of crying so hard.

The silence was long. Wukong’s claws combed through his hair. Mk felt himself relax in the embrace instead of trying to fight it.

He was tired of fighting.

Eventually, he peered up. His eyes were red and puffy. His face was smothered in Wukong’s hoodie. His cheeks were stained with salty tears that made his skin feel itchy.

He opened his mouth and closed it a few times. Unsure with how to word it. Afraid of what he could even say.

Wukong’s eyes met his as he glanced down aswell, irises milky and pale like his conscious had dipped out of reality. His expression held something so quiet and tender, and yet so humane and real that Mk felt a little too vulnerable to even speak.

Wukong, mirroring his behavior, opened his mouth and closed it a few times before finally settling with a deep breath.

“You hurt yourself,” he acknowledged, not unkindly. “On purpose.”

Mk swallowed.

He physically forced the words out. “M’sorry. M’real sorry. I know. ‘Know s’bad—“

“It’s okay,” Wukong rushed, “I promise it’s okay.”

“It’s not.” Now Mk really started sounding helpless and now he was getting hysterical and he hated this, he hated this so much, he didn’t want to talk about every near-death experience he put his family through that was his fault.

“It’s not, Monkey King, I—everything is different, everything is changing, and it’s because of me, it’s all my fault, I—“

Wukong combed his fingers through his bangs.

“Bud.” He said.

Mk whimpered, the sound so violently small and shameful that it made him shake.

“It’s not your fault. None of this has been your fault. It never has been.”

“It is,” a broken attempt at a breath escaped Mk’s lungs, “It is.”

“Who told you that?”

That took a little bit of time to think, because really, who told him that? Many people, surely. It was written in his Destiny after all, and it’s been spelled out for him many, many times.

“That we’re… not what? Some monkey demon thing destined to bring chaos upon the world?”

Right. That’s what he was.

“Embrace it. Embrace your destiny.”

Chaos.

“You aren’t what they say you are,” Wukong said, voice carrying that familiar wiseness that only an ancient immortal monkey seemed to carry. “No, they’re wrong.”

How could they possibly be wrong? How could he be anything but a monster?

“Mk. You’re a gift.”

Mk choked on another sob.

“You’re the best thing to have possibly come out of humanity itself,” Wukong said smoothly, voice soft as spring grass and touch warm and comforting. Mk still tried to fight it though, because of course he did. “Monkey King—“

“You’re kind.” Wukong wouldn’t let him fall further into that black hole of despair, apparently, “One of the kindest that I’ve ever met. You’re selfless. You’re brave. Compassionate. Loyal—“

“Monkey King—“

“You’re honest. Most of the time. You’re endearing. You’re funny. God, you’re funny.” Wukong huffed out a laugh. “You’re dumb, in a good way. Smart in an… odd way. You’re odd. You’re really odd, and that’s what makes you so special.”

Mk gripped the back of his hoodie tighter as the king leaned forward, chin resting in his brown hair. “You’re like a star, Mk. Don’t let them dull your shine. You’ve worked so hard to get so bright.”

And, even though he had cried himself bone-dry, even though he felt wrung out like a towel, even though his eyes burned and his cheeks were stained, one last tear managed to slip past his eyelashes.

He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to. The silence was enough of an answer.

Wukong sat up, tucked his armsunder his legs, and scooped him up in a way that a four year-old might pick up a kitten. Mk was hoisted into the air and slowly carried to the door. The king nudged the door open with his tail and made a beeline right for the living room.

Eventually, he stopped in front of the couch and gently laid Mk on the red cushions. Then he walked away. Mk stared after him.

And stared. And stared . . .

Then the king was back, and with stuff. A large hand-stitched blanket. The first aid kid. A small container of blueberries.

Mk stared at him as he set the kit down on the table and stood there for a moment, caught in a thought.

“The… the medical kit?”

Wukong shrugged, “just in case. Don’t want to nudge you too hard and re-open any scratches.”

“Oh.”

The king’s ear flicked as he stuffed his right hand in the pocket of his hoodie, taking out Mk’s phone, cracked screen and everything.“Found your phone in your bag, by the way. Let’s watch something.” He tossed it over. Mk caught it.

Wukong must’ve been thinking out loud, because he grabbed his tail in his right hand and started absentmindedly swinging it around like a rope. “You like those Avengers movies, right? Who’s your favorite again? The guy with the red and blue suit? White eyes? Spider webs and stuff?”

Mk blinked.

Monkey King must’ve been talking about Spider Man, because who else would be related to ‘spider webs and stuff?’ It was pretty self explanatory. (He gave Monkey King the benefit of the doubt. The only movies his mentor bothered to watch were movies about himself.)

But films weren’t really on Mk’s mind.

“What… what about training?” He asked, wincing at how quiet and strained his voice was.

Wukong looked at him. Then he raised an eyebrow.

“Forget about training. We’re taking a nap.” Then he turned back to the table, ear flicking again. “You need one.”

Monkey King had never been so right. Mk needed a nap terribly.

The king tossed the blanket his way, then plopped himself right on the couch and turned to him, blueberries held out expectantly. “When’s the last time you’ve eaten?”

Mk had no idea, so he shrugged, taking the carton and slowly nestling right against his mentor’s side. Wukong gave him a long look before leaning against him in turn.

“What’dya wanna watch?” He asked, reaching over and grabbing Mk’s phone out of his lap. Mk thought for a moment. “Spiderman,” he said, because that was his favorite superhero.

“Far From Home?”

“Yeah. S’my favorite.”

Wukong typed in the passcode, claws clicking against the cracked screen, and he had a bit of trouble trying to figure out exactly where to find said movie. (Because of course he did.) He figured it out eventually.

The movie started with Ixtenco, Mexico.

“Nick, this was a tragedy, but it’s not why we’re here. What, are we fighting the weather now?”

“This is fine.” Mk said suddenly.

Wukong glanced at him. He smiled, then leaned over, resting his head right against Mk’s. “Yeah. It is fine.”

It would all be fine. They’d be fine