Chapter Text
The first thing Macaque noticed was the smell.
Warm, woodsy sandalwood, tinged with a sweetness that reminded him of sun-dried peaches and incense burned too long. It clung to the sheets, to the pillow tucked beneath his head, to the faint warmth curled around the air itself.
The second thing was the softness. The kind that didn’t exist in the shitty futon he remembered passing out on in his old place. The mattress sank beneath his weight like a slow sigh, plush and too inviting. The pillow—god, pillows, plural—cupped his skull like a cloud. Everything felt... wrong. Foreign.
Luxurious.
It hit him all at once. He wasn’t in his own bed.
Before his brain could process that, a voice—tense, familiar—cut through the quiet like a blade.
“No, no, you don’t have to come over, Nezha,” Wukong was whispering from somewhere nearby, pacing in a slow, tight rhythm. “I’ve got it. I mean—I don’t got it, but I will. He’s burning up. What do I do if he doesn’t wake up again?”
Macaque blinked, sluggish and slow, dragging his eyes toward the sound. The light was low—curtains drawn, only the hazy gold of the setting sun filtering in—and there, near the far end of the bed, Wukong stood barefoot in sweatpants and a loose shirt, phone pressed to his ear. His tail twitched in frantic little jerks. His hair was messier than usual, bun half-undone, golden strands hanging in his face.
Macaque coughed, weak and dry.
Wukong froze.
“—wait, he’s up. Hold on.” The phone fumbled as he scrambled toward the bed. “Mac?”
He knelt beside the mattress in an instant, dark eyes wide, too-bright with worry. “Hey, hey—there you are. Shit. You scared the hell outta me.”
Macaque squinted at him, throat scraped raw, head pounding like war drums. “Why the fuck am I in your bed?”
Wukong let out a half-laugh, half-exhale of sheer relief. “Because you collapsed like a sack of bricks in the hallway and I didn’t think you’d survive the couch.”
Macaque groaned, shifting to sit up—then immediately collapsed back down. The room tilted. His stomach churned.
“Easy,” Wukong muttered, one hand hovering like he wanted to touch but wasn’t sure if he should. “You’ve got a fever. Nezha said to keep your temperature down, so I’ve been doing the cold cloth thing and—you don’t remember any of that?”
“Barely remember my name,” Macaque croaked.
Wukong gave him a crooked, tired smile. “It’s Macaque. You’re an asshole. You snore when you’re sick.”
“Fuck you.”
“There he is.”
Macaque let his eyes slip shut, too exhausted to glare.
He could still hear the leftover panic in Wukong’s voice. There was a dampness near his eyes he clearly hadn’t bothered to wipe away, like he had just been crying.
“… You didn’t have to do all this,” he mumbled after a beat.
“I had to.” Wukong’s voice dropped. “You scared me.”
Silence stretched.
The mattress dipped slightly as Wukong sat on the edge, fidgeting with the damp cloth in his hands. He reached forward, brushed Macaque’s bangs from his face with gentle, unsure fingers, and pressed the cloth back to his forehead.
His hands were shaking.
Macaque finally got a better look at him. He had that haggard, pinched look like he hadn’t slept in at least a day and a half. Wukong looked wrecked.
He dipped the cloth in the basin again, gently patting it against Macaque’s brow. “You had me worried.”
“You worry too much,” Macaque muttered, eyes slipping closed again. “It’s a fever, not the end of the world.”
“Yeah, well.” Wukong mumbled. “Hard not to worry when you pass out in my hall half dead.”
The air between them stilled. Macaque cracked one eye open.
He could feel the guilt dripping off Wukong in waves. Like the silence between them was full of all the shit he wasn’t saying. The room was quiet for a long while, save for the occasional rustle of sheets when Macaque shifted or the subtle creak of Wukong’s tail curling and uncurling against the bed frame. The cold cloth clung to his forehead now, soothing the burn in his skin but not the ache growing in his chest.
He kept watching Wukong out of the corner of his eye—how carefully he moved, how hard he was trying to seem fine.
It made his stomach twist. Shit.
“… Hey,” Macaque rasped, voice hoarse.
Wukong looked up instantly, almost too fast. “What? You okay? You need water?”
“No, I—” He swallowed, throat raw. “I gotta tell you something.”
Wukong’s brows knit together, worry etching new lines into his face. “What is it?”
Macaque hesitated.
For a split second, the fever almost gave him an out. He could claim delirium. He could say nothing. Let Wukong keep caring for him, soft and vulnerable and... close.
But that would make him a coward.
“… I saw Azure,” he said.
Wukong blinked. “What?”
Macaque’s jaw tightened. “At the bar. Where I work. He came in.”
The silence that followed was not empty. It rang—sharp, high, like the air itself recoiled.
“You… what?” Wukong’s voice cracked like something splintering. He stood suddenly, pacing a step back from the bed. “You saw him? And you didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t know if it was him at first—”
“How long ago?”
“A week. Maybe two.”
Wukong stared at him, color draining from his face.
And then it hit him all at once.
He spun on his heel, pacing in circles, tail lashing like a whip. His breathing sped up—too fast, too tight. “No. No, no—he’s back? He’s fucking back? Why the fuck didn’t you tell me—Macaque, I—I need to know these things—what if he—fuck.”
“I didn’t tell you because you were doing better,” Macaque snapped, more harshly than he meant. “You’d been… you, again. I didn’t wanna watch you go down that same hole.”
Wukong’s hands fisted at his sides. “So you lied to me?”
“I didn’t lie. I kept it to myself. Because I thought I could handle it.”
Macaque barely had time to process before Wukong wad in front of him, his eyes burning—pissed, furious, barely keeping it together. His hands were shaking at his sides, fingers curling like he wanted to punch something but had no idea where to aim the hit.
“That’s not your fucking call,” Wukong snapped, his voice strained an uncomfortable amount.
Macaque flinched, but he didn’t look away.
“I wasn’t trying to hide it to hurt you.”
Wukong shook his head, his fingers pressing against his temple like he could force the frustration out of his skull. “Hurting is part of the fucking deal, Macaque,”
“You weren’t in the state to handle it.”
“You thought wrong!”
“I know! Believe me—I fucking know,” Macaque bit out, coughing into his elbow. “I passed out from working myself to the bone while carrying your trauma on top of mine, so yeah, clearly I miscalculated.”
Wukong made a choked noise in the back of his throat, halfway between a growl and a sob. He turned, stormed a few steps toward the wall, like he might punch it—but he didn’t. Instead, he just stood there, back rising and falling, one hand tangled in his hair like he was trying to keep his skull from cracking open. Then he sagged. Slowly, his shoulders dropped. His knees buckled as he sunk to the floor beside the bed like the fight had left him entirely.
For a while, and a good while, he didn’t say anything. Macaque lost track of time.
“You’re spiraling again.”
“No I’m not.”
“You’re sitting on the edge of the bed like a kicked dog, Wukong.”
Wukong’s mouth twisted. He looked away.
Macaque sighed, low and rough. “Don’t do this.”
“Do what?” Wukong snapped—then immediately winced, like the volume startled even him. He ran a hand down his face. “Sorry. Just… it’s that. I hate that—that I’m a selfish, pathetic fuck who let you fall apart cleaning up my mess—”
“Stop.”
“You’re lying here, half-dead in my bed, because I couldn’t get my shit together. You haven’t gotten proper rest in in—fuck, I don’t even know how long. You passed out because you were trying to carry me.”
He scoffed, rubbing a hand down his face.
“And I just let you. I let you. I didn’t even notice you were slipping. Didn’t even see it.” His voice was rising now, but it cracked near the end. “Some friend, huh? Couldn’t even take care of the one person who—who fucking stayed.”
Macaque wanted to speak, but the lump in his throat wouldn’t budge.
“I thought—when I got that video from Azure,” Wukong continued, voice quieter now, but still tight, like every syllable was dragging barbed wire out of his chest, “I thought maybe I deserved it. All of it. Him. What he did. What I let him do.” His hands clenched again. “I was already slipping, and then he just—lit the match.”
His fingers curled into his fur, pulling it sharply. “And you were there, trying to help, and I just kept going. Kept pretending I was fine. Pretending I wasn’t ruining you with me.”
Macaque inhaled shakily. “Peaches—”
“I am the reason you’re like this,” Wukong says, biting the words through clenched teeth. “I know you didn’t say it, but I know. You’re sick and overworked and drowning in my bullshit, and it’s my fault. I—I’m fucking poison.”
“Stop.” Macaque rasped, sharp enough to make Wukong shut up. He let the silence hang, heavy, then muttered, “You’re not poison,” Macaque breathes, fighting to sit up more. “You’re in pain. You’re hurting. And yeah, you’ve made mistakes. But you’re not poison. You’re not selfish for breaking.”
“But I make it worse,” Wukong said, eyes locked on his hands. “I dump everything on you. I lean on you too much. You’re always the one dragging me out of the dark, and I just… keep taking. You should hate me for it.”
Macaque blinked at him. His heart thudded unevenly in his chest.
“… You’re really dramatic when you haven’t slept.”
“I’m serious, Mac.”
“Yeah. I know.” He coughed lightly, shifting on the pillow. “You always are when you’re melting down.”
Wukong looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Probably both.
Macaque looked up at the ceiling. The faint outline of light filtering through the curtains painted lazy golden stripes across it.
“I don’t hate you,” he said after a long pause.
Wukong didn’t respond, so he added—gruffer, like it physically hurt to say, “If I did, this’d be a hell of a lot easier.”
“… What would?”
“This.” Macaque’s eyes slid shut. “Caring.”
Silence. Thicker this time. Like Wukong wasn’t sure he’d heard right. Macaque didn’t clarify. He just kept talking.
“I’ve been thinkin’ about it. Between feeling like I’ve been grinded and the other fun fever-dream shit. And I—” He cut off, jaw tightening. “I don’t get it. I don’t want to get it.”
“Mac…”
“Why is it you?” Macaque said, finally turning his head to look at Wukong. His eyes were glassy, skin pale and damp with sweat. “Why do I care more about you than anyone else in the goddamn world?”
The words hit the floor with a quiet thud.
Wukong froze. His whole expression cracked open, slow and painful, like something inside him had just shattered. “Why would you ever say that?” Wukong whispered. “After everything?”
“Because it’s true,” Macaque said. He hated himself for it.
Wukong’s eyes welled up. His throat bobbed, and he stared at Macaque like he was trying to piece him back together just by looking.
“… You shouldn’t,” he said hoarsely. “You shouldn’t. I’m not worth that.”
“You don’t get to decide what I feel.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me about Azure?”
The shift was immediate. Macaque stiffened, caught. His mouth opened. Closed. “What?”
“You said you saw him. You didn’t tell me.”
Macaque’s stomach turned.
“…You’d been doing better,” he muttered. “After everything, after all that shit over the summer—you were laughing again. Sleeping. Talking. I didn’t wanna drag you back down into it. That’s all.”
Wukong looked like he’d been slapped. His eyes burned, shining wet. “You were trying to protect me?”
Macaque looked away. “Don’t make it sound noble. I just… I didn’t wanna see you spiral again.”
Wukong scrubbed a hand over his face, shaking his head. “Fuck. I hate that you thought you had to carry that alone.”
“I didn’t want to. I just didn’t see another option.”
Wukong crouched down beside the bed again, hands trembling, tears slipping freely now even though he was trying—really trying—not to lose it. He clutched a handful of his own fur like it could anchor him.
“I’m gonna end up breaking you,” he said quietly. “That’s what scares me the most.”
“You won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’d already be broken.”
Wukong sat there in silence for a long time, until Macaque, feverish and faint, let out a breath that was almost a whisper.
“… You should talk to someone.”
Wukong turned his head, blinking up at him through damp lashes. “What?”
“You should see a therapist or something.”
Wukong scoffed, instantly shaking his head. “I’m not—I don’t need—”
“You’re dissociating. You throw your guts out when you feel like shit. You look at me like I’m gonna leave you every time I breathe wrong.” Macaque stared down at him, throat dry. “You need help, Wukong.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
Silence again.
“You need help,” Macaque said again, more softly now. “And I’m not saying that because I want to fix you. I’m saying it because I want you to stay. I want you around, Wukong. Not half-here. Not numb and hurting and hiding it. Really here.”
Wukong looked at him for a long time, eyes shining and jaw tight with the effort not to cry again. Then he exhaled, trembled, and leaned in, resting his forehead lightly against Macaque’s arm where it lay against the pillow.
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered.
“Yeah,” Macaque rasped, and after a beat, added, “You really don’t.” He stayed still, not because he was comfortable—he wasn’t; everything ached, his head throbbed, and his chest felt like it was weighed down with bricks—but because there was something unbearably fragile about Wukong in that moment. Like if he shifted even an inch too much, Wukong would shatter.
And maybe—maybe he would.
His gaze lingered on the way Wukong’s shoulders trembled. On the soft way he breathed, trying not to fall apart. On the tension written into his spine, the way his body folded in on itself like someone trying to disappear. He staring at the top of Wukong’s head, watching the way he trembled just to keep himself together—god, he hated seeing him like this.
No. Not hate.
He felt—
Shit.
His chest clenched, tighter than the fever, tighter than the ache.
He felt everything.
He felt like he’d carry Wukong’s guilt on his own goddamn back if it meant he’d stop hurting. He felt like slapping him for ever thinking he was a burden. He felt like pulling him up onto the bed and wrapping his arms around him and never letting go.
And that scared the hell out of him.
Not because Wukong didn’t deserve it. But because… he wanted to do all of it.
Because he—
He didn’t just care.
“… Shit,” Macaque murmured, more to himself than anything.
Wukong stirred faintly, glancing up, eyes rimmed red. “What?”
But Macaque didn’t answer right away. He just stared at him. At the mess of golden fur and broken pieces and soft, scared eyes. And that thing inside his chest twisted one more time before settling into something terrifyingly clear.
I love him.
The words didn’t pass his lips, but they hung there in the air anyway. Macaque, for his part, kept still. He could feel the fever pressing against his skin, hot and slow, like it was seeping into the mattress. His mouth was dry, his vision blurred at the edges, and his body ached with a stubborn, weighty fatigue. He felt like hell.
But he also felt Wukong beside him.
That was harder.
Harder than the fever. Harder than the ache. Because now every brush of fur, every breath between them, every flicker of warmth that passed through the air—it all reminded him of what he’d just realized.
He was in love with him.
And he couldn’t say a damn word about it.
He closed his eyes, pressing his tongue against the roof of his mouth to try and ease the thirst. But it only made it worse.
Finally, Wukong inhaled a shaky breath, and it sounded like it hurt. He wiped the heel of his hand across his face before sitting up, red-eyed and voice rough. “You should’ve told me you weren’t feeling well.”
Macaque gave him a tired, crooked look. “Kind of the pot calling the kettle, don’t you think?”
Wukong exhaled a sharp breath through his nose—half a laugh, half a sigh—and shook his head. He stood slowly, like the weight of his guilt was still dragging at his limbs, and brushed a gentle hand over Macaque’s forehead. His fingers paused there, as if testing for a fever again.
“You’re burning up,” he muttered.
“No shit,” Macaque croaked.
“I’m gonna make you some tea.” Wukong’s voice softened, barely above a whisper. “You can yell at me later.” He padded out of the room like a ghost, but Macaque caught the way his tail drags behind him. He breathed out. Let the silence settle again. The blankets were warm—too warm—but he didn’t kick them off. His limbs felt like they were filled with sand.
The tea didn’t take long. Neither did the soup Wukong insists on heating up, though he cursed himself more than once for not having anything homemade. “All I’ve got is instant,” he mumbled, staring into the pot like it personally insulted him. “You deserve better than that.”
By the time he returned to the bedroom, Macaque’s eyes were barely open. But Wukong was gentle—he set the tray down on the nightstand, helped him sit up with slow, careful hands, and pressed the warm mug into his palms.
“There,” he murmured, kneeling by the bedside again. “Go slow.”
Macaque sipped the tea with difficulty. It scratched its way down, but the heat felt good, anchoring him a little more to the present. Wukong watched him closely, like if he looked away for even a second, Macaque might disappear.
“I really scared you, huh,” Macaque mumbled eventually.
Wukong didn’t look at him.
“You looked like you were dying,” he said after a pause. “You were really pale.”
Macaque swallowed. “Yeah?”
Wukong nodded, pressing his forehead against the bedframe. “You gave and gave and gave and I didn’t notice.”
“You were busy crumbling too.”
Wukong let out a shuddering exhale. He said nothing. Instead, he busied himself fussing with the blanket. Then stood, ran a hand through his hair, and looked like he was about to say something—then changed his mind.
Macaque rasped, voice faint: “You should sit.”
Wukong blinked. “I’m fine.”
“You look like you’re about to combust.”
That got a weak snort out of him. He hesitated, then finally eased himself onto the edge of the bed. Close, but not too close.
For a moment, neither of them said anything. Then Wukong spoke, voice low.
“I meant what I said, you know. Back there.” He didn’t look at Macaque when he said it. “I’m scared I’ll break you.”
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
Macaque stared at the ceiling. “I know what it feels like to be broken. This isn’t it.”
Wukong let out a long breath through his nose. “I just… I’m trying. I don’t know if I’m doing anything right. But I’m trying.”
Macaque looked at him then. Really looked.
And for a split second, he almost said it. Almost reached out, almost closed the distance, almost let the words fall free.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he said: “I know.”
Wukong glanced at him—just a flicker of eye contact—but it was enough. The fever was still buzzing in Macaque’s limbs, making every breath feel like it echoed. His head throbbed dully behind his eyes, but he’d settled into the kind of exhaustion that didn’t hurt as much as it just made everything feel slow—muted. Wukong hadn’t moved from the edge of the bed, though he kept glancing over like he was trying to make sure Macaque was still breathing.
He didn’t speak again for a while.
Then, quietly—so quietly it barely made it past the hum in Macaque’s ears—he asked, “Can I… hug you?”
Macaque blinked, the words slow to register.
Wukong didn’t look at him, as though even the asking had taken something out of him. His voice was tight.
“I—I know you’re not a fan of that kind of thing. But I just… I really need it right now. I feel like my brain’s trying to climb out of my skull and I… I don’t know what to do with myself.”
He was still shaking faintly. Macaque could see it now, the way Wukong’s shoulders tensed and released, how his hands fidgeted with the hem of his shirt like he didn’t know what else to do with them. He wasn’t asking for comfort the way people usually did—wasn’t playing it off with a grin or a joke.
Macaque grunted softly. “You’re clingy when you’re upset.”
Wukong looked at him, surprised.
“You’re gonna overheat me.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“I’m sick. You’re gonna catch it.”
“Worth it.”
Macaque sighed, exaggerated and rough in his throat, like it was a burden—but then he pulled the blanket aside just enough to make room.
“… Fine.”
Wukong blinked once, as if surprised Macaque said yes at all. But the tension drained out of his shoulders almost immediately, and he moved carefully—like if he were too fast, Macaque might take it back. He lay down beside him, close but tentative, not touching just yet.
Macaque reached out first.
He looped an arm weakly around Wukong’s side, tugged him in just enough that their foreheads brushed, and let out a breath that might have passed for a sigh—or something close to it. Wukong responded instantly, curling closer, one arm sliding around Macaque’s waist like it was something he’d done a thousand times.
They fit awkwardly, too warm, Macaque’s tail twitching under the blankets, Wukong’s breath catching once like he was still holding everything back—but they didn’t pull away.
It was quiet.
Macaque’s fever made his head swim. His body was too tired to process anything in order. The room had gone quiet again, save for the soft hum of the bedside fan and the rustle of blankets settling around them. Wukong hadn’t let go—not really—and Macaque hadn’t made him.
It was strange. Or maybe it wasn’t.
Macaque could feel the heat radiating off Wukong’s body, pressed close to his side, and yet it didn’t suffocate. His fever still lingered behind his eyes, muddling things, softening the edges of the world. But Wukong was clear. Too clear.
And then, after a long stretch of silence that felt like something more than silence, Wukong’s voice came, soft and close:
“… Can I kiss you?”
Macaque froze. He didn’t open his eyes.
“Are you—are you serious?”
Wukong didn’t pull away. “Only if you want me to.”
Macaque’s throat was a mess of dry and sore, but somehow he rasped, “I’m sick.”
“I don’t care.”
“You’ll catch it.”
“I said,” Wukong whispered, “I don’t care.”
Macaque exhaled through his nose, a heavy, reluctant sound. His body felt like it was sinking, folding inward on itself—but there was Wukong, warm and solid beside him, asking for nothing but a moment. His body knew what his mouth wouldn’t say. What his mind wouldn’t admit.
He opened his eyes.
And Wukong was looking at him like he was trying to memorize the shape of him—fever-flushed and tangled in pillows, strands of his hair caught awkwardly against his cheek. There was a dampness in Wukong’s golden eyes still, from earlier, from everything—and yet he looked steady now. Fragile, but steady. Like a thread pulled tight, but not yet snapped.
The corners of his eyes were still glassy, rimmed in red, and Macaque hated how beautiful he looked like that. Hated how easy it was to fall into the lines of his face—into the softness beneath the bravado, into the way his expression carried every storm he never spoke aloud.
Even the sadness was beautiful on him. Especially the sadness.
Macaque’s fingers twitched at Wukong’s side.
“I’m not good at this,” he muttered. “You know that, right?”
Wukong gave the ghost of a smile. “Me either.”
And then Macaque leaned in. Or maybe Wukong did. Maybe it was both.
Their lips met—and it was nothing like Macaque expected.
It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t practiced. There was no finesse to it, no rhythm, just the unsteady, searching press of one mouth against another, like neither of them could quite believe it was happening. The kiss was soft, almost too soft—hesitant at first, the edges uncertain, like they were afraid one wrong breath would end it. But it caught, slowly, like kindling taking flame.
Wukong’s lips were warm. Dry from tears, but warm.
And Macaque’s stomach clenched, heat sparking somewhere low and coiled, like a fuse catching light. His fingers twitched in the sheets, instinct fighting through fever haze, the aching pull of want tangling with something deeper—something bone-deep and awful and beautiful all at once.
He hadn’t meant for it to feel like this.
Like coming home to something he didn’t know he’d lost.
The kiss deepened, just a fraction—Wukong tilted his head, angling carefully, gently, and Macaque felt the flutter of eyelashes brush his cheek. His throat tightened. He could feel the careful restraint in Wukong’s touch—one hand cradling the edge of his jaw, the other hovering, unsure, as though if he gripped too hard, Macaque would vanish.
God.
He could feel every inch of Wukong’s breath against his skin. The rise and fall of his chest, the slight tremble in his fingers. He smelled like cedar and smoke and something warm, something like fur in sunlight. His kiss wasn’t needy—it wasn’t about taking—it was something offered. And that was what undid Macaque most.
His body was on fire. Not just with fever, but something else—something blisteringly alive. He felt dizzy, not from sickness, but from how badly he wanted to stay in that moment, to stretch it out into forever. A part of him screamed to pull away. Too close. Too vulnerable. Too real.
But he didn’t. He couldn’t.
He leaned in, just barely, and the corner of Wukong’s mouth curled—not into a smirk, but into something softer. A smile that looked worn, like it had been hidden away for too long and forgot how to show itself. It hit Macaque like a strike to the chest.
Wukong smiled like he didn’t expect to be kissed back. Like it was the best thing that had happened to him in weeks. Months. Maybe longer.
When they finally pulled apart, it was slow. Lingering. Macaque kept his eyes closed a second longer than necessary, because he didn’t want to see how breakable this moment was. But when he opened them, Wukong was already looking at him.
Really looking.
And Macaque didn’t know how he could ever unsee it now—how unfairly beautiful he was up close, even tear-streaked and sleep-deprived. His lashes were still damp, golden eyes red-rimmed, but they shimmered with something unbearably soft. His cheeks flushed from emotion or warmth or maybe just from being close. The tiny nick on his lower lip from biting it earlier had turned a little red. He looked like he’d been through hell.
And still, he looked like sunlight.
Wukong smiled again, smaller this time. Quieter.
“… Shit,” he breathed, voice a little shaky, a little awed. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
Macaque tried to scoff, but it came out weaker than he meant it to. He turned his face into the pillow slightly, hiding the color rising in his cheeks—fever or no.
“… You’re the idiot who asked for it,” he muttered.
“Yeah,” Wukong said, his thumb brushing the corner of Macaque’s mouth before pulling away. “I know.”
He shifted to lie beside him fully then, still not quite touching, like he didn’t want to push his luck—but Macaque, eyes half-lidded, just moved enough to close the gap. Their foreheads bumped gently. No more words.
The silence was full. Peaceful. Scary.
Macaque felt it still—right under the ribs. The panic. The knowing. The terrible clarity of it all. That he loved Wukong. That this wasn’t some fever-dream accident. That he wanted him—god, he wanted him so much it hurt—and that terrified him more than anything.
He swallowed, slow, his mouth still tasting faintly of Wukong—faintly sweet, a little salt, breath warm with the hint of fear and something softer, something closer to want. His chest ached, but not from illness. Not entirely. It was like his ribs were trying to remember how to hold the shape of something they hadn’t carried in a long time.
The silence wrapped around them, soft but close. And all Macaque could think was: What the hell am I doing?
He hadn’t planned for this. Hadn’t wanted this—not really. Wanting Wukong like this was dangerous. Wanting anyone was dangerous. But Wukong wasn’t just anyone, and that was the problem. That had always been the problem.
The way Wukong smiled at him like he was worth something—and Macaque hated it. He hated how easy it was to want to believe him.
Hated the way his stomach clenched when Wukong leaned close. Hated the way his chest had stuttered the second he felt Wukong's lips on his. Hated how somewhere deep down, underneath all the mess and fear and broken pieces, he hadn’t wanted to pull away.
He hadn’t wanted to stop.
Macaque closed his eyes, jaw clenched, trying to breathe past the thudding in his ears. Everything was hot. His body, his thoughts. All of it thick and clouded, like wading through wet smoke. But under all that—beneath the heat and the haze—was the realization he’d been dodging for too long.
You love him.
The words scraped at the inside of his skull. He didn’t dare say them. Not now. Maybe not ever.
He turned his head slightly and opened one eye. Wukong lay curled beside him now, finally still, face inches from his own. The flickering light from the bedside lamp cut across his features—his lashes casting shadows, the faint line between his brows relaxed, lips parted slightly in the breath before sleep. He looked… peaceful. For the first time in a while.
Macaque watched him for a beat longer than he meant to, tracing the lines of a face he’d seen in anger, in laughter, in grief—and now in this strange, tentative quiet.
And for the first time in a long time, just for a second, Macaque let himself want it.