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The sun is high on the horizon, marking the end of Wukong’s latest adventure. He’s soaring through the sky on his nimbus, relishing in the way the winds ruffle his fur and try their hardest to rob him of his leafy crown.
It’s the one item from his previous wardrobe that he kept after discovering cloth—and what a wonder it is. Cloth. He has to hand it to the humans. Despite all their shortcomings, they sure know how to make life comfortable. He happily tossed the rest of his leaf-based clothes away, but couldn’t bring himself to part with the band of leaves pronouncing him king. He has an image to uphold after all.
After losing it a bunch of times while doing somersaults, though, he resorted to simply glueing it to his head. A bit of a rash decision, sure; One that Mihou wasn’t all too happy about. But hey, it works like a charm, so it isn’t all bad.
He flies relatively low, scouring the land beneath for anything odd or intriguing. Rolling green hills greet him, littered with bubbling streams and paths forged through hundreds of footsteps. A mesmerising sight, but ultimately ordinary.
A large bag leans against his back, stuffed full throughout the past week. It’s been a very productive venture indeed, packed with action and so many novelties. He chuckles, thinking back to the previous night. The pure fury on the face of those demons when they realised they’d been tricked. It was a sight only topped by the feeling of beating their collective asses.
And they’d put up a good fight too. He can still feel the phantom pain of an axe slicing his shoulder. Though it was all worth it for the treasure he got in the end.
He’s ripped from his musings by the sound of distant chatter. A small village lies nestled between two hills, buzzing with activity. It’s a considerable distance away, though that wouldn’t be a problem if it wasn’t also off course.
Which too wouldn’t be a problem, if Wukong wasn’t on a schedule.
Now, Wukong typically doesn't do schedules. Too confining, and rules-y, and on somebody else’s terms. But after the last time he got carried away and came home days late to teary, frazzled subjects – seeing the worry on their faces as they swarmed him to check for injuries – well, he promised not to do it again.
Still. It’s not like anything could really hurt him anyway! Have some faith in your king, will you?
Judging by the sun he still has some time left. An hour at the very least. And he can fly really fast if he has to so … yeah he’ll manage. A short detour it is.
He lowers his nimbus further, concealing himself in the canopy of a flowering cherry tree. There are more around him – an orchard perhaps – sprinkling petals like fresh-fallen snow. Which is another cool thing Mainland has to offer! Snow. It takes some time to get used to, but boy does it open so many opportunities for play.
Sometimes Wukong wishes it snowed on Flower Fruit Mountain. His subjects would love it.
He peers through the branches, careful not to give himself away. Beneath him two humans hurry by; Girls with matching hair clips.
The first one – sharp-eyed with long silky hair – leads the way with quick, decisive steps. The other stumbles behind her, only just keeping up due to their linked hands. She clings to a brown satchel slung over her shoulder, a few shades lighter than her large doe eyes.
They settle underneath the tree to his right, smoothing the fabric of their dresses. The second gets to work on the first one’s hair, skilful hands bending strands into silky braids.
They stay like that for a while, chatting about everything and nothing at all. Mundane happenings and village rumours. Which, while nice, aren’t what Wukong’s searching for. He needs compelling and intrigue – something he can share – or else he’ll have to call this whole thing a waste of time.
Finally, Brown – as he decides to call her – finishes her braiding and reaches for the satchel discarded by her feet. The other – newly dubbed Silk – brightens considerably at the sight.
“Right!” she says, turning to face Brown fully. “You said you wanted to show me something?”
Brown nods distractedly, rummaging through the bag. Wukong supposes she finds what she’s searching for when she smiles and pulls out a soft pink flower. She presents it proudly, though there’s an obvious gentleness to her hold.
Silk takes one look at it and laughs, a tinkling sound. “I know what an aster is silly! We’ve got a row in our gardens at home.”
Brown pouts, cheeks matching the flower in her hands. “Oh I know that. I’ve seen it. But the flower itself isn’t what I wanted to show you!” She readjusts her hold, wrapping the stem in one hand. “It’s a game from overseas. You need a flower to play it.”
Silk leans in, intrigue clear on her face. “Oh? Well, do tell then! What’s it about?
Yes! Do tell, Wukong thinks, shifting in his seat. His subjects love it when he teaches them games, and they have loads of flowers back on Flower Fruit. They’re even in the name!
“Well,” Brown begins, taking a deep breath. “First you pick a flower – any flower you wish – and think of your intended. So he or she-”
“He then.” Silk buts in. “Obviously.”
“Yeah… obviously.” The smile on Brown’s lips dims a smidge. “So 'he loves me', and you pluck a petal.” She demonstrates, letting the petal fall. “Then you pluck another, only this time you say ‘he loves me not’. Repeat and repeat until there’s no more left. The last one holds true.”
“Oh how wonderful! We simply have to try it.” Silk leans even closer, trying to reach the satchel lying behind Brown. “Did you bring one for me as well?”
“I-I did.” Brown stammers, turning around to retrieve it. The flower she hands Silk is the same as hers, only red instead of pink.
Silk accepts it gratefully and settles back on the white-sprinkled grass. She picks a petal, closes her eyes and blows on it. Then off they go, chanting in tandem.
“He loves me.”
“Loves me.”
“He loves me not.”
“Loves me not.”
And again and again, until they finish as one.
“...loves me.”
“Not.” Whispers Brown, staring at the petal still left on her stem. Though Silk doesn't seem to hear over the sound of her squealing.
“My mother’s been trying to convince me for ages that the blacksmith’s son only wants me for the family business.” Silk positively glows. “Why, I was almost starting to believe her! Come, we must tell her this and make her change her mind!”
“Yeah…” Brown says and gathers up her things, slipping the satchel over her shoulder. “Okay.”
She stands, brushes off her dress, and glances mournfully at the almost bare flower stem lying on the ground. Then she smiles and turns towards Silk. They leave together, hand in hand.
Welp. Wukong sighs and plops himself down, watching as a cherry blossom lands beside him. This was a waste of time.
Not only are you required to speak to play it — the core concept of the game is stupid. So you like someone. Big deal. Want to know if they like you too. Can’t you just ask? Or give them gifts and see how they respond if you’re such a wuss about it.
Once again, humans make things needlessly complicated.
A ray of sunlight hits his eyes, snaking through the tree branches. Wukong turns away. Stupid sun. Shining at odd angles just to annoy him. It isn’t even supposed to be that low yet.
Wait.
He shoots up, peering at the horizon. Sure enough, the sun hangs dangerously low. He may have gotten a bit distracted again. Oops.
Course set for Flower Fruit Mountain, he shoots off, leaving nothing behind but a swirling cloud of cherry blossoms.
The mountain’s hulking silhouette appears on the horizon in no time, though it sorta feels like an eternity up against the pace of his heartbeat. He’s not panicking or anything – don’t get him wrong – just still coming down from the high of all the battles he won recently. And a tad startled, that’s all.
It slows considerably once his kingdom’s in view, then races again with chipper anticipation. Home sweet home, as they say. And it’s true too — none of his adventures ever bear fruits as sweet as his wild orchards. No sunrise quite as bright.
He nears the cliffs – the usual meeting spot the troop never officially settled for but somehow all agree on – before thinking better of it and flies in a wide arc towards the opposite, lower part of the island. He makes sure not to be spotted as he does so, though he shouldn’t worry much. His field of vision is far greater than your average monkey’s, so he’s little more than a splotch in the sky to any potential subject he’d see in plain view.
And he’s not really avoiding them either. He just… well, he still hasn’t decided on what he’ll do for the show this evening, and long walks tend to clear his head. Surely he’ll come up with something by the three-hundredth step. He’s still got time too, so his subjects won’t miss him much.
He dispels his nimbus as he lands, feet burying into the soft sands of the beach. Behind him waves lap at the shore, gentle and steady. Large ones never make it this far in, broken up as soon as they reach the jagged volcanic ring. He can hear their booming from here if he focuses some. Rushing forward and up and then down again. Familiar as the rest.
Some ways away a tree grows amidst a jungle of flowers. Ancient as the soil it hails from. It’s one he knows and loves well, shimmering with memories of sunny afternoons and whispered promises. It’s also just a great spot to rest, bathed half in shade and half in sunlight.
Before he knows it he’s walked over, and he’s running a hand over the worn bark. Up and across and down again. Then the tree ends, and his hands meet soft petals and a generous amount of leaf. His fingers parse through as he walks, until there’s the barest hint of resistance and a single petal stays in his hand.
He brings it up to his face and twirls it between two fingers, watching the evening sunlight glint off its yellow-orange surface. Then he loses interest and lets the wind take it, marching on as it flutters away somewhere behind him.
He’s supposed to be thinking right now. Not looking at flowers. Dwelling on flowers is exactly what got him into his current predicament.
And so up he goes, following the path trudged into the jungle. It’s familiar too, one he’d taken countless times. Both alone and in company and sometimes both at different parts.
Most notable are the times he and his troop ventured down to the beach to play — or rest in the shade in the case of the elders and exhausted mothers. And one particular shade-loving individual — though he and Wukong both could technically be considered elders at this point.
Not that many would agree.
They’d spent whole days down on the sands, salting roots they collected and splashing each other. Never straying far from the shallows. …Well, Mihou did once — just to prove he could. But the idea was shut down quickly after some daring teenagers tried to follow his example and got themselves swept up by a current.
Mihou got them all back safe of course, but didn’t feel much like swimming anymore after either. And well, if Wukong felt up a complicated emotional mess over the whole ordeal it was his business and his business alone.
He shakes his head hard enough for strands of fur to whip his cheeks. Reminiscing again. He’s had enough of that already. He’s supposed to think now. Think think think.
He ends up chanting the word instead. Up until roughly the halfway point of his trek.
A hoot startles him from his ‘thoughts’, sending him tumbling back and bracing with his tail to keep balance with one leg up in the air. He rights himself in a moment, hands on his hips and thinking ‘So much for that’.
Then he actually catches sight of his not-really-attacker and can’t help but smile. A ball of white sits perched in a tree, with lines of mud on her cheeks and a rolled-up leaf in hand. Several hoots answer her call, and soon he can hear a stampede rapidly approaching his location.
He’s been spotted then. Home sweet home indeed.
They surround him in moments, pulling and pushing and otherwise fussing over him. He’s pretty sure one or two of them are braiding flowers and other trinkets into his fur, and he feels his smile stretch wider.
If anything, he missed this.
He feels small hands tugging at the bag on his back and turns, rumbling. Usually, a small flash of teeth is enough to make troublemakers back off, but they need to learn. No peeking until after dinner — they’ve been over this!
And somehow, through all the chittering and jostling he still catches the familiar sound of a shadow portal. He’d like to attribute the fact to his superior senses, but really, after all those spars and games of hide and seek this noise in particular is practically ingrained in his brain.
Sure enough, he spots a head of black amidst the white sea, standing off by the edge of the path. He grins and waves Mihou over, and the monkeys part to let him through.
Once close enough, he pulls him in for a quick hug. “How’ve you been? The little suns cause you any trouble?"
Mihou sighs, though it comes out fond through the upturn of his lips. "No more than usual. Though they did turn over the fruit baskets we gathered for today’s dinner in their excitement to get to you. And the stack of yet-to-be-approved trinkets they’ve collected for your vault. And the leaf piles we’ve been tidying all morning.” He shifts, rolling his eyes. “Point is, they’re happy to see you.”
Wukong feels his eyes go soft, looking over his subject who seem to have collectively decided it’s time to go, pushing vaguely in the direction of the palace instead of every direction under the sun. “Awh. ‘Course they are.”
He sinks to a knee, close enough to let them butt heads in greeting. It’s one of the many affectionate gestures of their troop - and most practical in a hurry. Most move on after a second or two, but some don’t seem to yet grasp the concept of holding up a line. Namely, the various infants who cling to him with tiny fingers, only to be gently but firmly removed by their more socially suave mothers.
As the crowd thins, Wukong feels a pull within him grow. It’s the same one that took the rest of the troop — sculpted into their very bones by the force of repetition.
Dinner time.
It’s an almost ritualistic affair, sitting all together at a designated time to enjoy the fruits of their work and each other's company. Made even grander after longer periods of their king’s absence — as a celebration for his safe return. Though Wukong supposes they’re more eager for the show that comes after, these days. He’s never brought them a gift they didn’t like before.
He tries not to let it get to his head.
After a while, the last group of monkeys passes by, and it’s just Mihou and him standing on the dusty path. He gets up, dusts himself off, and makes his way over to where they’re close enough to sling an arm over his shoulder.
“You did good,” he says, because everything’s still up and running, and his subjects are all in one piece, and really, he can’t imagine a better person to entrust his kingdom to. Well, that, and because compliments usually make Mihou lock up for a second or two, and he needs every advantage he can get.
Then he’s off with a shout of “Race ya!” and the distant indignant “Wukong!” in his ears that makes his face split and his chest warm.
Dinner goes well. So does the rest, and soon he finds himself standing in the middle of the dining hall, table lined with trinkets and an empty bag lying by his feet. He takes a deep, steadying breath to say ‘and finally…’, or something equally as grand …and lets it go.
He never did manage to figure something out.
So he dons his best smile and bows – just for show – and the hall erupts into cheers and hoots and the occasional clap. His subjects rush in, eager to take a closer look at the shiny display. And everything is fine. Everyone is happy.
Wukong should be happy. After a successful week such as this. After being home again.
And he is. He is. But he also feels… off-centre, somehow. Like you feel in that moment when you dive off a cliff, with nothing but air beneath your feet; in that uncertainty just before gravity takes hold. In that millisecond when you think it might not.
And he… He needs a minute.
So he makes his way across the hall, then out onto a balcony. It’s a rectangular thing, carved from dark rock and subtly overgrown by various climbing plants. With a view all the way to the shore — courtesy of the window carved into the cave wall. Adjacent to the hall, with a heavy curtain over the doorway dampening the noise.
It’s a beautiful evening – like evenings on his island tend to be – with the sun not quite yet setting. It hovers over the horizon, kissing the ocean waves and painting the clouds in shades of ripe fruit.
Wukong leans onto the railing and closes his eyes, feeling the cooling air seep into his fur. Without sight, other senses sharpen, picking up on the smooth stone underneath his hands and the slight breeze blowing through the jungle. The gentle buzzing of cicadas and the quiet footsteps behind him.
He glances back to the sight of Mihou halfway through the doorway, one hand raised above his head to move the curtain out of the way. He moves in that graceful way he always does, gliding across the floor – for lack of a better term – and comes to rest an arm’s length or two from Wukong’s own perch.
“Tired already?” One of Mihou’s brows is slightly raised, as is one corner of his lips.
“Nah.” Wukong waves the notion away and turns back towards the sea. “Just wanted a breath of fresh air. I’ll be back inside partying in no time.”
Mihou leans back, the small of his back against the railing. He’s got his arms crossed over his chest and legs extended at an angle, the picture of content. “Hey, it’s alright if you are. You just got back after all, they’ll understand.”
Wukong hums. Non-committal. “And you? Come to congratulate me on my stellar performance?”
Mihou snorts, his close-lipped smile tearing apart and flashing teeth. A distinctly human gesture – if not meant as a threat – though Wukong’s well learned to tell the difference.
“I mean, I could. You were pretty amazing back there. But…” He trails off, hesitating. Looking at the palace wall like he can see through it, into the distance beyond. His irises twitch once – left, then right – and then he’s pushing off the liana-covered railing, making for the exit with long, fluid steps. “Forget it. You coming in or do I tell the others you retired for the night?”
Wukong bristles. Oh no you don’t.
Before either of them can blink he’s standing before Mihou, blocking the doorway with outstretched arms. Wearing something close to a pout – if not for the fact pouting isn’t something kings do. “You can’t just ‘forget it’ me and expect me to actually forget.”
It's a strategy that might work on some, but not him. No, Wukong has a great attention span.
The not-pout doesn’t seem to particularly move his adversary — who expertly counters by glancing away – so Wukong employs something that will.
Big, golden eyes, with a slight downward tilt of the head to maximize the damage. Gazing up through fair eyelashes and the occasional stray hair fallen onto his forehead. “C’moon Mihou. Tell your king what’s on your mind.”
Mihou’s eye twitches, and just like that he’s won. Another eye-roll (to keep up appearances, Wukong knows), before he shifts to a stance that suggests he won’t try and bolt at any given moment. “Fine. But it really was nothing. Just… you didn't do that flourish you usually do to finish things off? And it's fine, I don't think the others noticed, but you looked miffed about it.”
He… noticed?
Well, of course he noticed, he’s Mihou. But still. Having his shortcomings pointed out like this…
“Aaand you still do.” Mihou hoists himself up to sit, effortlessly elegant. “Did something happen?”
Did something happen?
“Nah, more like something didn’t happen. Went the whole trip without finding anything special enough, then when I thought I did it turned out to be just this pointless game that makes no sense! Honestly! Who would ever even…”
He looks up from his rambling to find Mihou listening attentively, the faint outline of his six ears visible through their glamour.
“Actually… ever heard of the petal picking game?”
Mihou’s left ears twitch, head tilting just the barest hint. “Can't say I have. What is it?”
“Well-” And so he too climbs onto the railing, takes a deep breath, and explains.
By the time he finishes they’re sitting close together, Mihou leaning forward with his hands on his knees and ears swirling at seemingly random intervals. And he’s got this expression on his face — contemplation mixed with another feeling or two Wukong couldn't name.
Silence settles between them for a moment, a weighted blanket suspended in time. Wukong’s hands hover still in the air, raised from his passionate gesturing. A moment, before he folds them in his lap. Then Mihou breaks from his trance, brow furrowing and nose scrunching up.
“Couldn’t you just… ask?”
Right? Wukong’s arms fly up so fast he nearly goes careening, and he has to scramble to correct lest he falls off into the jungle below. “That's what I thought!” Then he catches sight of Mihou – sporting mirth-crinkled eyes and a sharp grin – and turns away, hiding flaming cheeks behind an elbow and cough. “So yeah, as I said, pointless.”
Go ahead then. Laugh it up. Gods forbid a guy gets excited from time to time.
A yawn crawls its way from his throat, wide enough for his jaw to pop. Accompanied by a sudden wave of tiredness, pressing down on his muscles and settling in his bones. He hops off the railing and stretches, back cracking with the motion. He’s been sitting way too much today.
“Y’know what? Maybe I will go. Gotta check the borders still anyway, you know how it is. Kingly duties and all.” Another yawn. “Of course, if anything did happen I’m sure you’d have caught it already but-”
“Let me.”
Wukong stops short, halfway across the balcony. “Hm?”
Mihou’s stood up, one hand still on the railing. The setting sun paints him in shades of orange and scarlet. “Let me do the rounds. You rest. Gods know you deserve it.”
Well… getting off early does sound nice. But. “It’ll be dark soon.”
A scoff. “And? C’mon now Wukong, you know I’m more than capable of holding my own. ‘Sides, you said it yourself - I'd have heard any threat a mile away.” A beat of silence. “Just this once?”
He hesitates. Mihou has a point – several actually – and Wukong himself knows his fears are baseless. But he’d just so loathe to see anything happen to him, especially now he’s close enough to prevent it.
“Fine. But if anything happens… let me know, ‘kay?”
He gets a smile in response, and a sweepy mock bow. Pretentiously extravagant and so typically Mihou it makes him fond as much as it annoys him. “Your wish is my command.”
With that, Wukong turns back towards the sea, watching sunlight glint off the waves. Feeling the cool evening breeze. Noting the cicadas have stopped buzzing, and the quiet footsteps behind him.
“Mihou?”
The footsteps stop.
“Yes, your majesty?”
He turns to see Mihou halfway through the doorway again, curtain draped over his side. “Thanks.”
Mihou nods – a firm, quick gesture – and then he’s gone; the curtain sweeping closed behind him.
The walk to his chambers isn’t particularly noteworthy, minus the sheer familiarity of the halls and the continuing sense of warmth the fact brings. He isn’t really attached to the walls themselves either – nor the chambers he often forgoes for soft grass and his troop’s company – but the memories painting every corner make up for it tenfold.
It seems every few steps lies a reminder of his people, be it a pile of trinkets here, or a scorch mark there. Bright paints scaling the walls and muddy trails across stone and hardwood floors. They dwindle with distance from the main area, all but disappearing as he reaches his door.
Inside, the room is as he left it — heaps of items in disarray, crumpled bedding, and a basket of peach pits by the foot of his bed. He’d believe it completely untouched, if not for the lack of staleness in the air suggesting otherwise.
That, and a new addition to the clutter on his table. A ceramic vase of fresh sunflowers, dotted with fingerprints and crooked in a way that screams homemade. For this reason, it’s instantly better than the majority of the ones Wukong brought in.
Home sweet home, again.
He crawls across the sheets, settling into the still vaguely him-shaped outline in their midst. Sleep's embrace is welcoming and warm, tethering just on the edge of consciousness. So easy it'd be, to let the darkness take hold.
And yet.
Stray thoughts flitter about in his head. Twin clips glinting in the sun. Whispered nothings. Twitching ears. Each obtrusive and bold, pushing the edge just a bit farther.
He grumbles a muted protest, curling up tighter in the slowly warming fabric.
It should be easy to clear his mind. Practically second nature by now — what with all the mediation he had to endure in the name of immortality.
And yet.
Soft sands beneath his feet. Petals twirling in the wind. Sunflowers.
…
Sunflowers.
Hesitantly, he cracks an eye.
There they are, sitting innocently on his table. Still visible, even with half his face buried.
How… convenient.
To have it be flowers. After today. After everything.
It's a lot of work for simple coincidence. It's grating. Almost personal. Almost like… a challenge.
Instantly, the haze lifts from his mind. He scooches over to the bed’s edge, peering at the bouquet with newfound intensity.
Sure, the game’s stupid — but it’s still a game. One that can be won. And really, is there any joy greater than beating what’s bothering you?
…Of course, winning isn’t a guarantee, but for someone as lovable as him?
Yea, he’s got this.
So.
First step: Pick a flower.
He looks down at the sunflower held in his hand, fuzzy stem tickling oddly at his palm.
Flower acquired.
And then…
“-and think of your intended. So he or she-”
…Right.
He shifts, leaning back to sit more comfortably. Braced on the hand not holding a flower and staring dejectedly at the wall.
Figures the game’s rigged at the very second step. Like, c’mon — nobody actually has someone in mind at all times. He can't even imagine it. Just- living life, thinking about someone. All the time. And doing absolutely nothing about it.
At least… he wouldn't.
No, if the great Monkey King ever for any reason found himself stooping down to such lows as enamoured people tend to do (at least from what he's observed), he would profess his love boldly and spectacularly like this hypothetical person worthy of his affections deserves.
He'd shower them with gifts, and share his peaches. And they'd watch the sun rise from some special spot carved just for them, and maybe they'd even hold hands.
Wukong pulls a face at the thought, then shakes his head and carries on.
They'd go on adventures together. See the sights and win fights against all odds. And, after, they'd tell him how awesome he is (because, well, he is), and he'd say it right back because if he loves them they're surely just as great.
His… partner.
His equal.
So no. He doesn’t have anyone in mind. And even if he did, he wouldn't consult some random flower about it.
(A glance down spies the sunflower still held in his hand, its yellow petals orange in the dim light of dusk. A sight at which he can only sigh.)
And yet here he is.
But. All is not lost yet. Because – see – he's not actually playing the game for its intended purpose. He's not attempting to get anything out of it other than a win and maybe some sort of closure (or whatever will get his mind to let him sleep).
So because he’s technically not playing the game right anyway, he doesn’t actually have to pick anyone he actually likes. Or likes-likes at least.
He can simply pick… whoever.
Diyu, it doesn't even have to be someone he tolerates! For all intents and purposes, he'd be just fine choosing the Jade Emperor.
But, well… that would feel kinda weird.
So maybe not the Jade Emperor.
And not any of his suns either. That would just be plain icky.
But not any stranger either because the idea also feels weird.
…And as awesome and charming as he is, he's kinda still working on his social web. So low on the ally department as well.
…
This game sucks.
He’s just about to call the whole thing off (in a more or less explosive fit that might or might not result in a bit of redecorating) when an image rises unbidden in his mind.
Of attentive eyes and a proud grin. And dark fur glinting in the afternoon sun.
Mihou.
And… he's not the Jade Emperor. Despite their closeness, not one of his suns. Not a stranger, and an ally to boot.
It could work.
He waits a moment, for that inevitable surge of wrongness to proclaim it's a bad idea. But it… doesn't come.
Sure, it's kinda weird — but he also finds he doesn't really mind that much. All things considered, Mihou’s actually a pretty great choice.
…hypothetically of course. But still.
And now, for the great finale.
The sunflower is light in his hand (but so are most things when you're used to twirling roughly eight thousand kilos) as he reaches slowly for its crown. A petal plucks clean with minimal resistance, thicker and smoother between his fingers than the one he held before.
He loves me.
It flutters to the ground, landing softly in the basket amidst peach pits.
Then another.
He loves me not.
The idea feels… offensive somehow. Mihou not loving him. Impossible, with their memories and shared status of best friend.
An itch builds behind his eyes as he glares at the little petal proclaiming such nonsense, and before he knows it, lasers coat the basket's contents in a fine layer of ash.
…serves it right.
Then again and again and again and again, ashes and petals amidst peach pits.
He loves me.
He loves me not.
He loves me.
He loves me not.
He loves me.
He loves me…
His hand grasps blindly for something to hold onto, circling the flower's brown centre. And yet… he finds it barren.
His eyes snap downward, wide to prove it untrue. But no. The sunflower is as naked as surviving branches after a forest fire.
Which means-
Mihou …loves him?
He stares at the stem. Then at the petals by his feet, and the stem again.
Well… it only makes sense, right?
…yeah. Yeah!
Of course Mihou loves him. Who doesn't?
And who doesn't love their best friend? What subject not their awesome king?
So yeah. Of course he does.
In fact, Wukong knew all along he'd win. How could he not, with all his charm and power and wits?
Take that stupid game! He’s beat you fair and square. You shall bug him no longer.
With little fanfare, he drops the stem down to join the rest of it; then crawls back amidst the sheets. Burrowing into his nest until he’s settled just so.
He goes out like a light.
oOo
The sun is two-thirds submerged and rapidly drowning, the moon already bright on the horizon. A lone figure makes its way from the jungle, trading coarse dirt for fine sand. Silent at sundown.
It stops for a while, eyes closed. Listening.
The cool evening air betrays nothing, swirling gently past its ears. Low waves lap at the sea's edge, steady in their rhythm. The figure is alone.
It moves again, fluid yet hesitant in its steps. Presses a palm against the smooth bark of a lone ancient tree. Looks, for a moment, up towards the stars. Then at the sea of red blooming before it.
Chrysanthemums, growing in heaps.
Hundreds of flowering crowns, deep in shades of blood. And amidst them, an intruder. A single yellow specimen.
Perhaps a mutation. An early bloom, first of its batch. Or perhaps a remnant of a variety now gone.
The figure reaches for this bloom and plucks it with deft hands. Brings it to its face to smell, a hair's breadth from its lips.
Then it slips down, resting on the tree's wide roots. It closes its eyes, brow scrunching like the stem clenched in its hands. One low, long exhale.
In the quiet of the night, petals start to fall.
It's methodic, the way the figure works. Layer by layer in circles. The biggest, outer petals first, then tighter and smaller towards its middle.
One after the other.
Hopefulness and heartbreak.
Minutes pass by, carried off like petals on the breeze. Like everything, the game comes to an end.
A single petal remains in the figure’s hand.
The figure stares, blankly, at the small thing. So fragile, like the hope it seeks to break, held between sharp claws. It crumbles like the figure’s expression.
"Stupid."
A whisper spat into the night. A reprimand for the audience of none.
The figure rises, unsteady on its legs dazed with inertia. It staggers, as though wounded or laden, before righting itself once more.
Blind for the stars. Deaf for the wind and steady waves. The night is quiet and dark.
The figure disappears, melding into the jungle from which it came.
Behind it, a petal sails in on the cool evening breeze. Yellow-gold in the dim moonlight.
It lands without a sound.