A Spoonful of Sugar

by poetoutofthebeast

Summary:

Winter isn't kind, she revels in the leaves she strips from trees and the flora snuffed out. Some can find hope in even the coldest of times. Some don't. Some cannot.

Or, two warriors, and the warmth they can find in each other.

Notes:

WAAAH IM SO SORRY I HAVEN'T POSTED IN LIKE 2 MONTHS !!! I would never abandon you guys... （￣︶￣）↗　I'm here now with my new oneshot! I mean... *checks notes* ok so the oneshot got so long i had to split it into chapters sorry yall 〒▽〒 but thats besides the point!!

(Shout out to my beta reader Mac ur the best \(￣︶￣*\))

Chapter 1: The Dark, It's Not So Bad

The windows were cracked, little spiderweb fractures running from the sill to the pane. Decorated by the soft kiss of winter’s exhale, the frozen over lumps where you could run your hand over, banish back to a muddied clear. These windows were the only source of light still left, whoever used to live here took all their electricity bills with them. And the money too, there wasn’t even a coin slipped in between the dusty old couch, or a note flattened under the ripped up welcome mat. There was a lightbulb dangling from the ceiling, useless, and not for a lack of trying either. Not even the swelling of magic could breathe life into it better than the spark of a live wire. 

Dark. Dark and frankly miserable. From the remains of the floorboards, ripped up and thrown to the side, to the mould-encrusted walls. It could take days to scrape the black mould off, to toss it aside and have a clean shelter for once in a borrowed lifetime. But the stench of decay was as comforting as a warm hug, as clear as clarity, the familiarity of the sun rising over the horizon, then falling once it wished. The cycle of life, fragile in its status, and how it remained to the bitter, cold end. 

Humid air filled his nose, the cold sweep of oxygen clearing out his lungs of hope. The season was nearing, and he knew it with the increasing taste of rain in the clouds. And the taste was indescribable, against his taste buds it was fog and dread. Not unlike the sensation of a mouth full of blood, iron dribbling down the back of one’s throat. And all there was to do was accept it. That, and rummage through the shelter you’ve taken for a single, silver lining. 

Boxes had been upturned, everything the previous tenant decided they wouldn’t miss. Not even a blanket, the one thing he found himself fantasising over. Scratchy, thinning, or infested with bugs, flaws didn’t matter. He found himself blindsided by the idea of something to drape over his shoulders, to replace the scarf that no longer settled around his neck. The need that would not satiate by will alone, just as all others had. 

There were cupboards, but those had already been ransacked. What was left of sustenance had been pilfered months ago, without any concern for rationing out ‘til winter’s morn. Now, it was fast approaching, the moisture in the air a tell-tale sign of what's to come. And it’s not as if this season is foreign to him, and it’s never been an easy one to traverse. Through wake and fitful repose, there’s no escaping how it chills him through to the bone. How it enraptures every last organ until all that’s left is stains in place of muscle. 

Before winter has time to fully sink her roots, he has to come to the jagged, unkind mercy that nothing is going to come save him. Not a single feather off a dove’s wing will drop through the holes in the ceiling. All this time, he couldn’t have scavenged for a better shelter. There wasn’t enough time. In between the constant destruction the city faced, and the noise from constant repairs. Dripping taps, bricks aligned back in place, potholes filled over and remade in a new image. It was all too much, despite being nothing at all. Yet he could hear it all, every last step from the beginning to the end. 

He found the house while half-prisoned in his own mind. Vision blurry, could barely remember putting one foot in front of the other. There was no concrete to be found under his feet, only the slipping sensation of being only halfway alive. All around him, the constant stream of sound that not even being dipped under water could drown out, only muffle. And right here, right now, there was not even a puddle to melt away the noises with. His face felt too hot, body too cold, and everything felt a wrong sort of spiral. An ache lived deep in his stomach, one he wasn’t even close to ready to acknowledge. And yet, and yet, and yet. 

Shoes, untied and smeared with week-old mud, found their way to the doors of a house lost to time. The tin roof, gleaming in the cloud-addled sun, shone dimly. Parts of it were missing, the distinct mark of rodent bite marks that just happened to get smoothened over with the shake and twirl of his vision. Something there in the way the doorknob almost fell off from one touch. That was when he knew, this was the only mouth that would welcome him in, everyone else had lips tight sealed and teeth to match. 

He hadn’t remembered laying down, but once he woke up come dawn, there were creases of floorboards etched into every inch of skin they could dig into. A draft had breezed through the openings and gaps in the house, and only then did he properly survey the room boxing him in. It was less of a house than an abandoned shack. Nothing about it, from the torn curtains to the broken chunks of the walls, appeared lived in. 

It was a miracle of no small measure that a house like this was still around in the urban daydream that was Megapolis. And yet, despite the fact he could hear the bugs crawling about the foundation, it was a paradise, a utopia by everything but name. There was nothing left of comfortability, nothing more than the extension of hell’s cells to the mortal plane. He could put his hands flat against the ground and feel the lick of flames just underneath, but the warmth wouldn’t touch him, only burn. 

At the very least, it was shelter. Uninhabited homes were hard to come by, and he could only take so much of hiding in the shadows of an elderly mortal’s house for so long. They talked to themselves sometimes, words he couldn’t drown out. And he’d be moving through the darkness, feeling more spectre than alive, listening to grey-haired people ask the walls what sins they committed and what graves they dug for them to be lying there, all alone. If he was someone who had the compassion to care, he would have cried. But tears won’t come for him any longer, the well has dried up. Or perhaps, the dam had grown so refined, so strong, that barely a leak could make its way out. 

This house was different. The squatter sat within its walls and knew deeply that this was nothing. This house was nothing, from the mice that scampered away, knowing not a crumb was saved, to the stowaway sleeping in its rooms, there was nothing. It harboured nothing, a husk, a seed hollowed out. Darkness infested from the corners to the long stretches on the walls. There were tears there, signs of a struggle, perhaps. The last living thing fighting tooth and nail for a dead house.

He could almost hear the clamour and rage of the souls trapped within. There was a child in the fridge, and a man in the wires, and a woman standing over the bright square in the upper room, wondering where her bed had gone.

This house, it hosted the dead. And for this winter, it opened its doors to Macaque.

Every sound a story, creaks playing on loop, and wails trapped within spiderwebs. This place was overgrown and ready to finally accept its fate as rubble. The paint that smothered the walls unevenly would find a place in the dump, as would everything else. He doubts the cycle of life and rebirth would find this place kindly and willing. Nothing but ash, a betrayal of order. 

Something hit the window. The window Macaque found himself staring out, like the faint reflection may reveal something his inhibited eyes may find dazzling. Instead, it was but a weave of ice and water. A small one at that.

Winter was unkind. She wasn't always this way, and not to everyone. Macaque knew some people accepted her presence with a grace he could ill afford. Some ran hot, molten lava in their vein and fire in their blood. And sometimes, winter's name was the only one they responded to. Some donned the thickest robes and the warmest accessories. Some found solace in the cold sunset, even as snow piled around them.

And some people, well, they were winter's least favourite. They were the ones scrambling through a city that isn't home, never was, for a place to rest weary bones. It left them scrambling for any scrap of warmth, even if it leaves them with burns that never, never fade. 

If it got any colder, Macaque was considering setting the house on fire. But that would leave him stranded, and the fire only breathed for so long. It would rob him of breath, then leave him blind. A dull acceptance was all he could use, a knowledge that this was how he would have to stake out for the months that followed. In his immortal second life, the seasons were something he had to dim himself to. The reality that summer comes and goes with the wind, the sun will hide behind his clouds and refuse any audience. Standing on the highest rooftop, the tallest building, and asking for its face even for a moment. 

But Winter is here, and she has sunk in deep. She’s there in the soil, the roots, and twisting her body through the walls. And she watches, her eyes are crystals and they’re frozen to the touch. In the air, she is there. Winter is cruel, and she knows as much, accepting her place in the food chain and all that comes with it. Continues to traverse the land, even as trees wilt and fauna turn to ribs and skin. It’s what’s good, as you can’t have a rainbow without rain, and you can’t have diamonds without pain. 

Doesn’t make it hurt any less. Doesn’t clog the wound or make the house any warmer. The fickle consolation that pain is the inseparable half to kindness does not knit together a blanket, thick enough to ward off the shivers. 

The shadows peeled themselves off the walls, lumps bubbling up to the surface and splitting out without delay. Half-formed monsters, things that shouldn’t even exist, in the shape of a monkey who shouldn’t even be alive. They surrounded their creator, the ringmaster, with silent padding feet. Some leaned down to place a gentle, phantom hand against Macaque’s face. The shadows couldn’t feel the cold, as the absence of light, the leftovers of the sun, they were nothing but the ice left to melt away. But they could recognise, in a heart they did not have, that he was cold. More than just that, in a way their mindlessness could not yet comprehend, it felt like the single claw of death. The final leaf clung to a deciduous tree, begging not to let go, for it shall never return. And when the tree reblooms come spring, it will not be in the same form. The blossoms will shed the pollen as usual, the leaves will regrow, and fruit will splatter on the sidewalks, but the leaves shed and gone will be nothing but particles in the wind. 

The house became a playground. Small, purple-wreathed shadows leaping from one end to the other, all with one goal in mind. Their feeble minded nature concentrated into ripping up the floors until something to soothe their creator could be scrounged up. 

One shadow found home in cupboards. There were tins in there, empty and hollowed out. The skeleton of a rodent, small and meek, lived curled up inside one. With tentative hands, it grasped the sides and gave it a shake. Nothing gave, nothing happened but the soft sound of bone against tin. Another shake, this time with more force behind it. The faint sound of music, or something close. Death’s macabre tune. 

Another finds themself in the basement the house forgot it had. Tiptoeing over the eggshells of long forgotten spider webs and hoping not to get caught. It didn’t have the scope of why it should be afraid of incorporeal legs getting tangled up in silk, but it recognised the animalistic trill of danger in its mind and followed that alone. Something there in the way the boards creaked under him, even as light as a lofty feather. It groaned with the weight of years on its rusty shoulders, and the newly borne shadow crept upon it with naught but a clue. 

It rested upon a box, the only one left untouched and untapped in the years it's been wasting away. There was a claw mark, jagged, right there down the middle of curling brown tape. The insides, organs of the box, were still coated with thick dust. It reached its little, grabby hands inside and tore through. A lot of different textures soared under the pads of its hands. Vases, though it knew it not. Moulded by hand, by one of the owners of this house that passed on with the gales. Underneath that though, the dolls and toys of a pet. The shadow held them between two hands, giving an experimental squeeze, earning a squeak in return. Ears pricking up, it squeezed again, and again. 

Now, these wouldn’t exactly be a balm to the ails of his creator, but a sound as invigorating as this should be cherished. From upstairs, Macaque twisted to his side, listening to the faint strangle of a dog toy as if it were next to him. 

Another clone clambered up the stairs, higher and higher until the tallest peak. Past the thick and dark halls, poking a head into the shade. Dense sable swirled through the rooms it stared into. The light was nothing but a faint memory, one the shadow itself didn’t know of, only the faintest recollection from a memory that wasn’t its own. 

It kept its nose high, and senses even higher. Even the void of darkness had something to offer, if only you looked far enough. Even the absence of life had death, and if it didn’t have that, then what a sight it must be. But nevertheless, not much was to be found in the desolate rooms of the upper floor. At the very least, they were the least affected by the decay. It stunk the least of retched mould, and the air was flush with something far crisper than the stuffy oxygen down below. 

The clone padded through, silently and swiftly. Until it found the bedroom, or what could have once been one. There was an empty frame where a king sized bed might have once stood proud, now not even the springs of the mattress remained.  They hadn’t left a single blanket behind, not even ones covered in pet fur, well-loved and worn. 

Stains painted themselves across the walls. Some brown, others a more orange tinge. It could range from anything, fruit juice to blood. The shadow crept closer, dragging a tiny, purple tongue over the smudge. Memory, it tasted like memories. It tasted like fuzzy recollections of summers you only half-remembered, of the days you first crawled, to the photos of you walking. Tasted like a home. And that was such a foreign sensation to the shadow, it chirped in something confused. It wondered, if only for a second, if its creator heard the cry and would go running. But there wasn’t a footstep, the only inched Macaque moved was to shiver again. 

The shadows gathered back in the living room around fifteen minutes later. All of them fumbled over themselves with empty hands and hollow eyes. Chittering in a language only the darkness could speak, they each explained their journeys. Their tongues, feeble and incompetent, failed to truly express anything other than nothing at all. A deep, soulful sigh tumbled from Macaque’s darkening lips. His eyes, lidded and pooling with the winter air, slowly closed back down, lashes brushing his flushed cheeks. 

“‘S okay,” he mumbled, “did your best.” The shadows didn’t understand. They eclipsed their creator as he curled back up, a ball of disorderly fur and rags. One step at a time, they honed in. A paw placed over the other, the shade tried to console the dark side of the moon. Eyes, violet and shaking, stared at them. A hand lifted, trembling but no less powerful, shooed them off. 

“D–don’t touch, just– go back. Away.” A firm hand wavered through the immovable lump of dusk. Eyebrows furrowing, Macaque retreated further inwards. “Don’t need you anymore…” A hiss and a bodily shiver, “don’t need anyone.”

Shadows hissed with the memories they had been afforded. If they were to have it all, every single clarity Macaque himself had, they might want to live too. They cherry picked the strongest memories, the ones sour and sweet. All of them walked together, sifting into the darkness the house offered an abundance of. They remembered the sun; hot, fuzzy days; and eating sticky fruit under the shade of a tree. They seemed so far away, so distant. When did the soft, plush grass turn to floorboards that yielded no love? When did the embrace of the sun turn to nothing but ash? They couldn’t remember, they weren’t allowed to. Those memories, well, they were kept close to his heart. Left to fester, left to rot. 

A shame, a pleasure. 

The darkness doesn’t look back when it returns to whence it came. For once, Macaque doesn’t seek their gaze, he allows himself to stay small and unnoticed. The blistering wound of a cold, lonesome night his alone to bear witness to. The way he shakes, falls apart, that’s his. There’s something there, in how he could scream, perhaps cry tears he lost years ago, and no one was there to frown at him. No one was there to grab him by the roots and laugh, or maybe yell. Chastise and belittle. No, only Macaque could do that. Only he could grab at himself and whisper to stop being so pathetic, such a useless thing. All the words, they were his to speak. 

There wasn’t much to say about his predicament. It was a simple thing. One day, he had shelter, and the next he did not. A vagabond to the very end, an unheeded wanderer who danced the darkness and hid from the light. An old warrior with nowhere to rest his staff, not like another could so easily commit to. The world still demanded him to unsheathe his fangs, and even the most comfortable of vacant homes wouldn’t stay safe forever. Safety, the word almost tasted sour on his tongue. Something he found he would never say again and say it without feeling bile burn his throat raw. Nothing more than a falsehood, safety was. When you live on borrowed bones, there’s no one place you can stay that offers you the luxury of closed eyes. Macaque slept with one eye open, the only one that still afforded him vision at all. 

And now, in the season he despised the most, he was a shark in oil-infested water. Had to keep moving, had to keep his blood flowing, but all he wanted to do was sink. His tail came up to brush against his nose, could barely feel anything besides the faint recognition that the trembling of his body was working overtime to keep at least one crevice of him warm. There wasn’t much he could do. No chance of death, but it was always a close encounter. There had been times, of course, that he fell asleep only to wake up weeks later with a pounding headache and a weak stomach. 

In all honesty, the weakest part of his brain won over in times like this. The desperate, selfish wants overpowered the scrapings of survival. Foolish, to desire anything other than sleeping off the cold seasons, alone and frozen in a house but never a home. Flashes of images he didn’t want to see, couldn’t look at. Hands, mostly. A lot of hands, but always specific. If he imagined enough, he could perhaps even feel them, every callous and every line that made up the palm and fingerprints. A line was blurred between memory and imagination at some point. Macaque shuddered, but not from the cold. 

Folded in half, the bleak emptiness of his organs sung their cacophony. Macaque’s hand inched lower and lower until it grasped the skin of his stomach, digging in until claws pricked through thick fur. The stomach cried, and it tried to feast on itself, painting everything inside an array of pain. He hissed through his teeth, squeezing and squeezing as if it might banish the feeling.

There had been much opportune to steal from dim-minded mortals the past week. But Macaque gave a mere glance, eyes gazing from one consumable to the next. And yet, despite the furious growl of his insides, he felt nothing but a bleak weariness. 

Instead of the pain that’s followed him like an uncollared mutt, Macaque’s resigned down to a familiar ache. There were spiderwebs inside, and the spiders, how they crawled along the walls of mucus until consumed whole by the gaping yearning inside. The webs were hung up like a welcome mat for loneliness, and a constant reminder of the void within. It taunted him with the sensation of being filled, if only by the roar of starvation, or the crease where the stomach eats itself whole.

Fingers dig into the flesh around it, one by one they beg to set it free. It’s a useless organ, but it continues its burden on him. Continues to churn and flip, reminding him of its pitiful existence for as long as the moon shines and sun dims. It would be so easy to shred through fur and skin like paper, to turn it all to ribbons and feel himself break apart again and again. The stomach was hidden, bubbling with acid deep inside, but an hour of searching would yield it to him. There was no need for it, he’d squish the organ until it almost burst, rip it out wriggling and coiling. 

And finally, once it was nothing but a rotten pink stain on his floor, the pain would no longer be his. 

But that wouldn’t be enough, he was even emptier than before. And it still wasn’t over. He was already gaping and open, nothing but torn flesh and broken dreams. His hand dug back in, it searched and eventually found the chain link of intestines. They curled around each other like snakes hibernating around eggs. He’d pull them out bit by bit, allowing the rope leading to the void inside to curl up on the broken floor. The small intestines were the hardest, they tangled around each other, a parade of fleshy pink. The large ones gave no such battle, held in his hand like a dead cobra, flopping over his exposed bones like a final plea. 

And now, the redundant organs were finished. Macaque was simply a thing bleeding out on the floor of a house he didn’t even own. But perhaps the urge to gorge would stick with him, the phantom sensation of an aching existence stretched wide inside. Had to go further, there was more work to be done. 

A claw scraped against his neck. It felt around the soft depression and grasped his windpipe. Just one claw was all it took, and the skin split open. There inside was his throat, and by extension, the oesophagus. Pulling and pulling, he would rid himself of it. And soon he would be nothing more than a corpse again, voiceless and empty on the ground. It almost, for a second, hurt. But he’d never felt cleaner before. 

His hand twitched, and that was all the movement it was allowed. A faraway dream, in the end, he couldn’t bring himself to rid the worst parts of himself. A plague that keeps on giving and will never perish until he does. A parasite of ravenous want. He could find himself thinking the words like a mantra, or the cure to the poison purging him whole. I don’t want it – I don't want to want anymore. 

Macaque wondered if the pooling of blood would allow for warmth, if even for a second, he could be washed in the heat death of his own universe. It was as cold as death had been, alone in the centre of a shelter that refused to be. Chained by the frigidity that swarmed him, kept him feeble and curled up until the last drop of warmth could be squeezed out. A blizzard wracking from the walls he couldn’t see, the floor he couldn’t touch. But at least in death, the pain was far away. There’s nothing here for him to dig his claws into except for his own self. Would it help? He contemplated it, alone and catatonic. No, he decided in the end. Not yet. Maybe later, when he needed a sharp reminder of how far the chains will dig. 

A sharp exhale choked its way out his throat. No matter how much the void within called for him, it would not answer. Jaded and left raw, Macaque continued to lay splayed out and unmoving. In an hour or two, he’d scour up the energy to move. Right now though, he closed his eyes and pretended to rot away in the shallow grave Wukong had once carved out for him. There wasn’t much to remember about it, other than the familiar fingerprints that seared against his own when scrambling out, still etched deep in the crumbling soil. He rose like a worm to the surface, gasping out a first breath as the first spit of rain washed grime off his skin. Clutched tight in one hand was the key, the one he couldn’t even remember the appearance of anymore. 

The day he was revived was a day he regretted more than the day he died. 

Bugs crawled deep within his skin, forcing bumps like bubbles to the surface as they scavenged him for anything decaying they can feast on. They would find nothing here, but they would continue to bite anyway. Macaque squeezed at his wrist, even as he lay on floor and not dirt, just to remind the insects he was not a home. The roof he built over four, steel reinforced walls was leaking. Water pooled behind the dam of his eyelids, and everything about him began to crumble away like expired food left out to dry.

From somewhere in the house, a draft stuttered through a broken window. Those same windows he previously spent hours staring out of, staring at the outside world looking in. A clay figure inside a slowly shaking snow globe. Only a gentle tap could be afforded against it, just to feel what life may be like under his clutches.

It was light taps, that’s all they were. Just the press of fingertips against a frosty glass, staring out with a longing and yearning he only reserved for these moments of true solitude. Perhaps it was the wistful glance that shattered it, or the unadulterated want to be one with the world that cracked it open. Either way, fault of the gods or of the soul, a breeze whispered in. 

First it crept through the upper story, filling itself into every nook and cranny. The breath of death made itself known wherever it happened to fit, and wherever it did not. The barriers pitched into place over time gave way for the gust of pure cold air. The kind that cuts your throat on the way down, ballooning up in your lungs, making it feel too full and too empty all at once. And slowly, yet too fast all the same, it clambered down the aching steps to the mass of fur on the ground.

At times, Macaque wished for a kindness. It was a feeble, small thing he kept cupped behind his ribs. A blanket, he would like just one blanket. It didn’t even have to be nice, or warm, or soft. It could be made of nails, or shards of broken glass and unwanted teeth. The blanket didn’t even have to be that, it could be a rug. It could be one old and worn, scratchy on one side and thick and unforgiving on the other. He’d curl up on it, like a pompous house pet. Or he might have even draped it over his shoulders, like a snail retreating back into its shell. 

All those imaginations of a gentle mercy are ripped away with the cruelty of a mother tearing a beloved toy from a child’s hands. Tossed to the fireplace, or deep in the smelly bin. A place unattainable, you can’t stick your arm in there without being hurt. Even if you retrieve that kindness, hold it in both hands, you’ve burnt yourself, and you smell. Burnt and gross, no one wants to be your friend now. Well, they never did, but doesn’t this just rub salt right into the open wound? 

Macaque doesn’t look twice when the lashing winds sweep over his shaking frame, he just closes his eyes. He curls up into a ball, a perfect spiral. Bones crushed and organs winded to allow himself to squeeze in just a little tighter, melt into the ground a bit farther. The wind shook him, grabbed him by the roots of his hair and pulled. Winter did not like him, Winter told him not to show his face. He had no choice but to bury himself deeper within his knees, claws ripping through the threadbare fabric of his clothes. 

The wind wailed from where it found its way in. Every slap of sharp air was another smack, another punishment for living so weak. It begged him the question, why even live as you are? He found himself dumb for an answer. 

Some memories he had of the cold were pleasant, but they had been littered with poison ivy, and he kept his hands to himself. There was no use reminiscing over better times, not when the only thing that made it bearable is gone now. Long gone. Small mercies, tiny blessings… (Is there even anything left for him now? Why not just accept that this is all life will be, wasn’t it so much more calm down there–)

“Fuck,” he hissed between clenched, chattering teeth. His tail curled around his ankle, squeezing as he felt all sensation drain from it. Fingers curled and claws sunk in, sinking through skin and into the rivers of blood like an anchor through the sea. 

“Fuck, fuck, I’m so tired…” his words broke and stuttered, tongue going limp from cold. The droplets of blood dripped onto the floor like a faucet. It just kept going, washing over his hands in thin streams and forming a small, cloudy pool beneath him. 

A shiver, and what came next was a sniffle, but it sounded more like a suffocated sob. 

“I wanna– wanna take a bath. Want to– have a blanket. Or– or a jacket. I want my scarf back. Should have never lost it. Stupid, stupid.” The first tear rolled down his face, shaking with the incessant trembling of Macaque’s body. The salty drop fell into his quivering mouth, the tear was warm. He hid further within himself. Really, what he wanted most of all, was to not have to see this weak degradation of a once-warrior. There’re some competitors, but right now he’s never felt so low, babbling to himself on the floor like an infant. 

Another sniffle, the last attempt and holding back more cries. 

“I want… I want some food, just a little.” A heaving sigh, “yeah, just a little.”

The shadows watched as their orchestrator shuffled to his feet. The faintest of hands reaching out to grab the back of a tattered shirt. At the very least, inside these crumbling walls, through the wind that screamed her own name, and the frost that never relented for a second, the full brunt of the damage was lost and vain against thin and thick barriers. Once the door was open, the wild, whipping gales only grew. The first shuttering step out the door had brought with it the first few sprinkles of dry, tiny droplets. 

Macaque kept his feet at the dirtied welcome mat. It had been run down over time, probably hasn’t been replaced since the first owner set it down. The bristles scraped the bottom of his shoes, and if he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine it was just dead grass beneath him, and not concrete for as far as one eye could see. And the winds, if even for a moment, were just the mountains whipping weathers, and none of concern. Behind him, with these closed eyes of his, was the cavern he used to hide out in, listening only to the drip of salty water off the stalactites. He was just heading to the warmth of the shack deep within the waterfall, where the light had spent all day sleeping after collecting the rest of the fruit the mountain had to offer. 

Just had to pretend it was that he was returning to, one foot in front of the other, just pretend. Even as snowflakes danced around him, some breaking their fall in his matted fur, just pretend. Even as his legs grew stiff from the cold, each limb and organ grew slow and cumbersome. Just… just pretend.  

Out here, the cold grew far crueller. The fickle beginnings of frostnip bit at his skin, making each inhale cut down his throat.  It only made that deep empty feeling within feel that much more thin. It was stretching out, further and further and infecting everything it could reach. There wasn’t an inch of escape from the nothing within. It filled his lungs with smoke and rids him of common thought. 

His ears twitched to every living sound, the dead ones too. The fogged breath of couples stranded at bus stops, the barking of dogs who noticed every unnatural bend of the shadows, and the snips of conversation from very intoxicated mortals. The noises were jagged and no friend of his. But even so, he walked among them. He gritted his teeth and bared it as ever, even when the pipes deep, deep below the city creaked and groaned. Even when the sound of laughter from far off turned to screams. 

Even when the snow began to pile on the floor. His steps grew weary and sluggish, scraping against the floor and leaving short trails in his wake. Macaque’s eyelashes fluttered around the snowflakes, tangling thick, dark hair with white peppers of snow. A shudder, his body never stopped shivering to admire the view, nor the melting of the sunset. It quivered like a taut bow, ready to shoot, ready to drop to the floor. It was already appearing so inviting, to curl up amidst the violent stirring of the winds and shield his face with bone and flesh. 

A twig left discarded on the sidewalk was suddenly a log he had to dodge. And the trees lining the streets, boxed in and careful, became obstacles he had to physically push past. His eyes drooped, and it called him to rest. Sleep, right here, on the fluffy white blanket of fastly building snow. But he kept his sights forward, onwards and up 

At this time in the night, a lot of stores might still be open. He could listen in to the incessant back and forth between cashier and customer, growling under his breath all the while. But no, there were risk factors involved with getting food. He’d spent a good few hundred years mastering the craft of becoming unnoticeable, invisible. But his powers at the moment… They weren’t exactly to be trusted. 

It would have to go the old fashioned way, then.

Macaque pulled up the collar of his top with shaking hands, burying his nose in it. The things he would do to find his scarf right about now… It was dumb to lose it, and even dumber when he remembered over and over again how it happened. Spying, Macaque had been spying. Keeping a watchful little eye on the kid and also his every move. Slipping up wasn’t something he did, so he’d blame it on the cold weather. Leaning out a portal, and staring down smugly, his plan was to pinch a hair from the kid’s scalp. Maybe after that, take it home, or try and make a clone just to see what would happen. But MK beat him to the punch, leaning over to meet his shade, and tugging at Macaque.

After a few sleepless nights of careful contemplation, Macaque still wasn’t sure if he was trying to tear him out to beat him into the ground, or just to get him stuck. Either way, he felt the all too familiar tug of a hand creasing near his neck. It had been a split second decision to fling the scarf off, but he wished it had been more purposeful. If it was as cautiously calculated as every step Macaque used to take, he might have had time to memorise how it felt under his hands. He would have run his thumbs over the bite marks that refused to give way, and where the threads poke out, and the smell of comfort that helped him sleep on nights that weren’t gentle. None of that remained. 

Stopping dead in his tracks, Macaque sniffled. He wasn’t going to cry, not tear up like some lost kitten left in a cardboard box to starve. But the freezing air was slicing up his nose, making it even harder to sniff out the fresher food around the place. A city as populated as this? Well, it has a lot to waste. So through the growing bitter weather, he may have to resort to muscle memory to find a quick meal. 

Everything grew faintly blurry the longer he kept on walking. His arms came to cup around his elbows, rubbing incessantly until his hands grew numb. Each breath felt like the expelling of fog, only making the world grow further grey and lacklustre. A strangled couch forced itself out his throat, sounding more like a gag.

His stomach growled, not now… Just wait.

Eyelids turned to impassable stone walls, smoothened over with nowhere to grab. His legs barely managed to make it over a lump of snow. And what was worse was the growing wetness dripping to his eyelashes. Eyes fluttering, the endless, swirling snow ravished his vision. Everywhere one could look, it was the pummelling of endless, fluffy white. He was drowning in it, and each step grew harder than the last. Snow soaked the bottom of his pants, staining the rich red a damper shade. 

All he could do was keep moving. Though his breath hitched on each inhale, and filled his mouth with smoke on the exhale, and his arms were starting to shake so much he felt himself becoming inept at just the slightest twitches. It was as if the chains of hell shackled themselves to him once more, slowly dragging him down, back deep down into the sea of nothingness. Macaque closed his eyes, inhaled shakily to keep the tears at bay. Just a few moments standing here, the streets were growing wider, the lingering smell of food stamped into the sidewalk.

A dim, orange light illuminated the way. Warmth poured from the building, which was still thankfully intact, a miracle with how much destruction this city sees on a daily basis, mind you. He knew it wasn’t the sun, but his heart tugged after it anyway. The dark stretches of the pavement were where his steps resided, so that’s where they landed. From just inside, or miles away, he could hear the faintness of a shrill bell, and the softness of conversation by the crackle of fire. Just hearing that made him shiver for warmth that much more. Each step shuddered, and if one were to look closely, they would see the cracks and ripples in the cast shadows. 

Macaque dipped to the side before the light could fully reach him, the dapples of it spread across the ground, arching away to avoid him. The withering darkness made everything feel that much colder, and lonesome. Not even the moon was out tonight, she’d slunk behind the clouds and left the few stars out to wilt. It left him alone with the thick stench of rot.

He sank to his knees, fall cushioned by the fastly piling thickets of snow. Pants soaked through with ice, he could feel the growing moisture dancing through thin fabric to mingle against his fur and flesh. His hands clasped around firm plastic, it was wet and greasy under his hands and made his skin tingle with the utter sense of everything being wrong. His insides squirmed and ripped themselves open, punching a gasp out his mouth. Saliva pooled into his open jaw, slipping out from between fangs and streaking down his chin. A single plop landed on the lid before he could wipe it away fast enough with shaking, numb hands. 

It begged. His insides begged and they wanted. The selfish suffering that comes with an equally as selfish desire. Mind running amok, playing out the different ways punishment shall surely be delivered, by his own hand or another’s. Maybe the heavens will strike him down, for taking what he did not and will never deserve. The tiny kindnesses he’d grown used to not requiring. Nothing kind for him, this world turned its back on him from the moment he was born, tasting the sweet sensation of death on the aftertaste of life. 

The lid slammed open, shaking the very foundation of his being. This wasn’t anything he wasn’t used to, even as the winds grew louder, the snow more obsessive, it was all the same old song and dance. His hands slipped inside like they were made to be there, grooves filled out with gunk parting ways like the red sea. 

The first to be fished out was an empty box, the stink of food had been long wiped out. Macaque tossed it to the side, it stained the pure white snow a nasty, faded orange. He dug around further, even as grime stained itself to his arms, and his skin reeled away from his bones, he kept on going. The longer it went on, the less desirable it seemed. Perhaps there was something beautiful in the emptiness, this was just meant to be… His stomach roared, and he couldn’t tell what it meant, he almost believed it was in praise.  

But his arms operated on their own accord, he couldn’t even acknowledge the sensation of them robotically sifting around. The tickle of fur being traversed through let Macaque know a bug was climbing up him, but his mind was fast set on the motherload in front of him. 

At last, he sought out a box, still half full. His hands trembled around it, and if it was still warm, he couldn’t tell. There were no utensils in the trash, so Macaque scooped his fingers inside and grabbed up the noodles. He didn’t care about the taste, or the faint scent of mould, the emptiness was finally quieting. Each and every bite made his jaw ache and throat burn, but it made the buzzing in his mind silent. 

It was peaceful… And hey, he even stopped shivering. 

 

---

 

A mixture of thoughts jumbled about in his mind all at once. 

First of all, it was quite dark outside. He was sure it had been light when he left. The sun was still dancing with the telephone lines and fading neon signs. Every step was guided by an orange drawl, licking up against the pavement and bathing the world in a golden light. He’d spent many a day staring at the sunset, just because he could, and today went no different. Stuck in place, just watching as the sun swept the world up in one last hurrah before darkness slunk into place. It was truly something to admire, particularly when looking off the deck, watching as it paints the curve of waves. 

Second of all, it was oddly quiet inside. Well, that wasn’t a bad thing, never was. He could enjoy the quiet, though he was never really used to it. Life continued to sweep him up with noise, from the desperate mewls of the cats flooding his home, to the constant rustle of wind and sea. Life was never still, and it was beautiful like that. A never ending play and dance, the fluttering of birds and the scattering of animals, people, and demons alike. But right here, right now, it was quiet. Apart from the soft bubbling of whatever Pigsy was cooking over the stove’s fire, and the faint sounds of MK shuffling upstairs.

Thirdly, and the most important, he hadn’t seen MK at all. He walked all the way from the docks to the shop, counting each step on the way. There were cats at home, ripping up the mended fabric of his couch, and bristling at his absence. Not a fault of MK’s, of course, Pigsy said he was busy. Those late night orders were taking a lot out of him, added on with the cities near daily destruction by a few opportunistic demons, and that was a lot for one growing boy. 

He had a box of tea nestled between his hands, and every so often he’d run a rough thumb over the box’s edge, feel how the corner bent under him. A hum lilted out his lips, tilting his head up to face the glare of the ceiling light. From behind the counter, Pigsy sighed.

“We’re packin’ up soon, sorry old friend.” Though, by the exhausted tone, it was obvious he wasn’t all that sorry for kicking him out. 

A glance was given to the door, the glass giving way to the old night outside.

“Is it okay if I just stay for… a little longer?” He wanted to gift the tea to MK personally, by hand was far more genuine, in his opinion at least. 

He was responded to by a soft, resigned groan. “Alright, alright. But the kid ain’t good, when he’s out of it like this, he’s out for at least an hour.”

“Still having trouble sleeping?” a mutter, turning the box over and over again.

Pigsy shrugged, it barely showed through his rumpled uniform. “It’s staying asleep that’s his problem…” A sidelong glance, the first time he turned away from his cooking food since he got there. “But it’d be helpful anyway. Thanks, Sandy.”

He continued to run the box through his hands like a rubix cube with no answer. There were shuffles upstairs, the sound of MK moving about his room in a jaded daze as he was heard fumbling for, and spilling, his glass of water. Pigsy sighed, it sounded more endeared than anything.

“That kid…”  a fond chuckle came to follow, “I dunno where he gets it.” He continued stirring the pot, and Sandy listened idly to the boil and pop of the broth.

They existed in silence for a while longer, listening to the whirl and wail of the wind outside. 

“Sounds like there’s gonna be a blizzard,” Pigsy muttered, bringing the wooden spoon to his mouth. “Sorry for keepin’ ya so long, kid’s been so restless he was bound to collapse eventually. Just didn't expect it to be today.”

But Sandy waved him off, “Don’t worry about it, a little snowstorm is nothing!” He placed the box down into his lap, as gently as he possibly could, then ran his hands through his beard. Sandy caught on a few tangles, but none he couldn’t brush out. 

It was only because he was worried about MK, a growing boy-god should be taking care of himself and getting the recommended hours in. Saving the world was tough work, and taking care of Atlas with earth on his shoulders was even tougher. And even if he were to wait through a storm, it would be worth it to have dropped this box off… Even though he really should think about going home before it’s too late. 

Sandy inspected the box one more time, worn at the edges from the hours of restless fidgeting. He sighed, just loud enough for Pigsy’s ears to prick up from the kitchen. Leaning away from the boiling pot of broth, Pigsy gave him a sideways smile.

“...Thanks for bringing this here for the kid, you can just leave it if you want to go. I’ll make sure to tell him it’s from you.”

“Ah, it’s really no problem. I have a lot of tea just sitting around. If it works and you’d like some more, don’t hesitate to ask!” Sandy stood up cautiously, like any creak the floorboards may produce would disturb the peace within the shop. 

The box was placed gently on the countertop, positioned right where it wouldn’t be in a customer’s way, or knocking over the spices Pigsy kept haphazardly lined up. Pigsy kept listlessly stirring the pot, the handle of the spoon hitting against the sides. Sandy couldn’t keep his eyes off the photos pinned up along the walls. Pictures of Pigsy, Tang, and himself younger, some of them with a lot more hair. Even after all these years, he kept them. And they weren’t inconspicuous, hidden away and scarce. They were right there, glaring at his bleary eyes every morning. 

“You know, pal,” Pigsy’s gruff voice muttered with too much gentleness to really be considered his own speech, “you really have changed.” Sandy couldn’t resist his eyes being dragged down to his friend, the one he’d shared war with. But those scars, jagged and sore, had rested against softer skin. He found himself smiling, despite the heavy ache weighing down his heart. 

“I’m sorry,” and for once, he wasn’t sure why he was apologising. Sandy knew they should be used sparingly, spoken from the heart so they mean all the more when one is in order. But right now, he can only look in those old, wistful eyes and apologise for becoming someone unrecognisable. 

Pigsy’s expression fell, glancing and searching him for something. Whatever it was Pigsy was looking for, he didn’t find it, that much was clear but the frown growing along his lips like ravaging vines. He sighed again, but it was crossed with a groan that was dead on arrival.

“I shouldn’t have expected you to stay the same,” he murmured, and Sandy almost strained to hear it. “You seem happy, I can’t say that ‘bout the past.” Silence stretched on, leading to Sandy hesitantly pulling out a stool for himself. He stared at the box, still waiting to be received, then back at Pigsy. 

“Everyone can change, my therapist taught me that,” was what he chose to inject the open air with when it felt like something had to be said. But once the words were out, they felt thick, like expired milk. He cringed, face pulling in a way he wasn’t familiar with any longer. But instead of huffing, changing the subject and smoking out all the vulnerability from the air, Pigsy chuckled. It wasn’t unkind, it was everything but.

“I could learn a lot from them…” he trailed off, then continued stirring, but much slower. “Of course, I’ve changed too, as does everybody.”

And suddenly, the smell permeating the building seemed less like a staple of it, than a symbol. That savoury scent of food made over and over again, never lacking in consistency. These weren’t the same hand of a soldier, because despite the rough edges, they smoothened over with the click of the clock, and the fresh new bloom of seasons changing, leaves turning. 

“You seem happier now too! Er, sometimes.” Sandy watches as Pigsy’s face crumples into a laugh, crows feet scampering across his pink skin.

“Heh, you should know more than anyway I’m always this grumpy, old pal. But you’re right, never been this content through rage before.”

Sandy felt a smile creep up his face, couldn’t bite down the mirth bubbling up inside like a shaken soda can. 

“Cooking and making tea are really good alternatives to fighting, I’ll say.” 

Pigsy snorted at that, “Yeah, yeah. Now, do you want to be my taste-tester? Just don’t tell Tang, he’ll throw a fit.” He offered the spoon pooling with golden broth to him. Sandy could feel his mouth flooding with drool, and by the time he managed to swallow it down and move to nod eagerly, there was a crash.

A loud, ugly crash that had Pigsy jumping back. The boiling soup splattered down his apron and across the floor. 

“Damn it,” he hissed, shoving the spoon back into the pot and brushing himself down.

Sandy raised an eyebrow, head tilting to try and find the origin. “What’s wrong?”

Pigsy groaned, long and drawn out. “Fuckin’ rats again. I tell MK everytime, go take the trash out and make sure that the dumpster is tightly shut. Rodents love my food as much as every other creature, but damn I don’t need health inspectors on my ass right now.”

There was a moment of pause, only the ragged breathing of Pigsy as he stood there, clutching onto the spoon. Sandy could almost feel him glancing at the broom knocked over in the corner. A deep sigh as his head ushered from the pot to the corner. And now, Sandy could almost see the frown, even with his back turned. 

“Can you–”
“I can–”

The words spoken in unison ended in an even more awkward silence. Sandy shuffled about in the stool, forcibly reminded that he is much too big for this establishment. Pigsy doesn’t say anything, just wearily stirred as the trash outside continued to thump about. And abruptly, Sandy stood, nearly knocking the stool backwards. 

“I’ll go handle the mice,” it came out softer, more unsure than he was prepared for. Hopefully, Pigsy still wasn’t secretly holding onto the seasoned fighter he once was, because right now he’d be sorely disappointed. 

Pigsy finally turned to face him, one eyebrow raised.

“Really?” his eyes trailed off to the broom but remembered their place back at Sandy. “That would… That would be a big help, thank you.” That was all the confirmation he needed, placing the stool back right where he left it, abandoning the tea on the countertop, and rushing for the broom. He grappled for the splintering handle, realising that it might be a tad small for him, being almost engulfed in one fist. It didn’t matter though, what did matter is that he had a rodent problem to deal with. 

Sandy glanced back, as if looking for a last moment’s reassurance. He watched simply as Pigsy dipped the seasoned spoon back inside, then brought it to his lips with a smack. 

“Needs more salt,” he murmured to himself, already reaching out for the cabinets. And in barely even seconds, the thought of rodents chewing through his discarded waste was out of sight, and out of mind. Sandy turned to the door, to the whistling storm outside, and brandished the broom like it was a weapon. If he kept his mind sharp, and feet firmly to the ground, brushing away some hungry, scrawny mice would barely even be effort. 

The second his hand came to grip the doorknob, the sharp, nipping cold bit at his hand. The floor groaned as he scrambled back, cradling his stinging hand. It turns out going into a blizzard with only pants on was probably not the best idea. So, the broom and door were abandoned for now, in favour of grappling for his magenta sweater, matching with the scarf and gloves he put away in his bag just in case the cold got colder. And that it did. He had to struggle to get the scarf and collar over the bead necklace, but the fight didn’t take long. 

Before Pigsy could even begin to question what the holdup was, Sandy was out the door, broom in hand. The wind seemed even angrier out here, where he was unprotected by the safety of closed walls and glass panes. Now, here was Winter’s lament in her full glory, a thing Sandy oddly felt compelled to bow to. But, he didn’t.

The cold was never his greatest enemy, it was a friend as much as the other seasons were. Though he preferred the times that came with Summer. The blooming fruits and flowers lining every tree after spending the months of Spring is a flowering stasis. The air was thick with pollen and sweat, the sea alive and boiling. The earth turned a shade greener, and it was something he appreciated for its scarcity as much as he loved its presence. And right now, Sandy was wishing the ground he carefully trod upon was just a smidge warmer. The indulgence of the noodle shop beckoned him back inside, but the grip held tight to the broom held him closer. 

Rounding the corner, Sandy stared blankly into the permeating darkness of the alleyway. Sometimes cats would roam here, hardened and scarred cats. The ones with nicks in their ears and kinks in their tail. There wasn’t a glint of kindness in their sharp eyes, or a morsel in their bellies. Sandy has made home for many cats who believed their whole life would be scouring the streets. But tonight… the thought didn’t settle right for him. Truly, he hoped it was a rat with big teeth, gnawing through the dumpster and freeing the slime of garbage out onto the snow. Sandy wasn’t sure his heart could take seeing a shivering, unnaturally thin cat wallowing around the trash.

His steps crunched through the thickening snow, reaching up the bottom of his calves and still growing. Snowflakes soared through ripping and roaring squall. Sandy reached an arm up to cover his face, to shield it from the flying specks of dirt and the chunks of what wished to be hail. And eventually, slowly but surely, he found his way to the dumpster. 

The first survey of the area yielded no result. Staring down at his feet, perhaps it was how fast the snowpacks had grown, but there were no tracks of any animal. Hitting the dumpster with the broom a few times didn’t shake any rodents out, and Sandy felt the first prickles of sweat slide down his neck at the resounding silence. It was almost comical, in a sense, how he stood there, shaking with a broom like a sword, waiting for a mouse, or even a raccoon, to jump out of the dark. But there was simply just… nothing. Tapping the handle of the broom against the trash, hearing the dross inside ruffle about. But the hard sound of something alive thudding against the metal made his skin crawl. 

Something was in there, far bigger than any rodent. 

Sandy placed a hand on the lid, feeling the slime cling to his skin, a liquid that stunk to the high heavens… Pigsy would never allow even his trash to get this messy, and he could still starkly remember a time MK had to plead not to get fired for accidentally spilling junk onto the lid. This… this set of his alarms even louder, flags flying even faster in hues of crimson and rose. With the broom still ready to swipe at anything that tried to launch itself out, fangs frothing, and claws bared. 

The lid fell open with a near deafening thunk. The darkness outside the shop seemed to swell and deepen, coating everything around him in a thick, untouchable black. Opening the dumpster came with it only the smell of effluvium. Deep inside there, the shadows convulsed. Something was in there, something that didn’t want to be seen. 

There was a flashlight in his back pocket, but it felt almost intrusive to shine it upon the lump of shade. Yet, the dripping, harnessed light shone over the form inside anyway, all the while Sandy whispered apologies he only half meant. 

The first thing he noticed was the snow. It had drifted in clumps, hugging the body shivering within. Sludge and sleet melted into the trash, a stark reminder it didn’t belong there. But it wasn’t just that, there was someone inside, something that breathed, though faint. And Sandy didn’t even think, didn’t even consider a thing, just stuck his hand inside, feeling ice under his fingers. But right there, right under the frost, was a pulse as weak as watered down tea. It was barely there, barely even a thrum. And Sandy continued to let his heart pilot his arms, ripping the trash away before it could sink this living thing down any further. 

Even as the smell stung his eyes, making them water like the rippling of waves, Sandy didn’t let up for even a second. He dropped the broom to be claimed by the snow, hooking one arm under the person’s back, the other under their knees. Three things made themselves clear at that moment, they were thin, limp, and so small in his clutches. His hand shook as he raised the motionless, chilled person out of the trash. 

Something slapped against the rim of the dumpster as he removed the person out. A rotting banana peel that has stuck itself to their hair, and a box of takeout grasped tight in a white-knuckle grip. It was days old, and half eaten, some remnants stuck on their lip. Sandy adjusted his hold, cradling them with one hand to relax the grip, allowing the box to slip away. At the resounding clash, Sandy watched their expression scrunch up, and the faintest, withering little noise was choked out of them. After that, well, he held on a little tighter.

But it was only when standing out front of the noodle shop, the light from inside glowing out, that Sandy got a good look at the person’s face. He was expecting a child, rough around the edges and stealing to fill the void of hunger… But it wasn’t. He recognised that face, even if it were only in contexts that turned his nightmares to reality. Well, Sandy wasn’t there for most of it, but he heard stories. A demon of shadows, manipulator with a sharp, silver tongue.

After all of the memories he had told back to him, he wasn’t expecting to meet Macaque again like this. A sluggish block of ice in his hold, eyes pinched shut and hands quaking at his sides. He didn’t really plan on meeting the demon he heard about through hushed conversation, like he might just appear should you raise your voice, clinging onto dead food from Pigsy’s trash like a lifeline. Most of all, he hadn’t expected to be so worried at the utter lack of response. A gentle nudge, and he didn’t even shiver.

Macaque made a strangled noise of unrestrained agony at being shifted around, catching Sandy’s heart in his throat. The organ pulsed against his neck as he hurriedly fumbled for the doorknob. The snow was building up quickly. The door creaked open, swinging ajar. Sandy shoved his foot through the space, leaning his head in and keeping Macaque held close to his sweater.

“Pigsy? Can you help me out here?”

 

---

 

After a bit of back and forth commotion, Sandy and Pigsy stood against each other, both peering down at the lump on the floor. A soft hum filled the open air.

“Definitely hypothermia,” Pigsy nudged the demon’s face with his foot, watching the complete neutrality in his expression with a raised brow. 

Sandy murmured to himself, “Must have been out there in the cold for a while. Not shivering anymore, he’s not regulating any heat.”

Pigsy sighed, his shoulders drooping than straightening again. “You really have changed, Sandy ol’ pal. Definitely more so than me, would never have let this scummy demon into my restaurant if it weren’t for you, ya’ know, you.” 

With that, he sauntered off. The broth was off the stove now, and just sitting on the counter aimlessly, getting colder as the moments ticked by. Sandy kneeled down to where Macaque was placed on the stained floorboards. Every minute shift of Sandy’s hold punched another tiny, near inaudible whimper of pain. This was their only option, unless they wanted to drag him upstairs to MK’s own room… But they weren’t about to interrupt his rest like that.

So now they were stuck at a stalemate, having Macaque, their rodent, inside, but not having confirmed what to do with him. Sandy picked at the fabric of his scarf, winding it down and around, then back over his neck. He watched Pigsy out the corner of his eye, just staring with creased eye bags. Neither of them moved, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to actually happen. Macaque didn’t move, but he groaned gutterally. There wasn’t even a flick of life from his tail to his frostbitten ears. An elephant small and unobtrusive, but no less easy to bring up. Sandy finally unravelled the scarf, holding it in two hands still numb through the gloves from just how cold Macaque had been. Like holding Winter’s core in the palm of his hand, or the crystal teardrops of snow and hail. And now he was curled up like a foetus on the floor, unmoving, just groaning like every breath was a calamity. 

“Were you…” he glanced back at Pigsy, staring listlessly into the pot. “Were you planning on making something tonight or–”

Pigsy’s head dropped between his shoulders, chef’s hat threatening to slip right into the cooling broth. “Fine,” he muttered, “fine. I hate this guy’s guts, but I know that you and the kid will whine my ear off if I don’ agree to help ya.’” He turned to face Sandy, running a hand down his face, stretching out the skin. 

But Sandy just stood there, curling hands around the scarf and squeezing until the fabric was all he could comprehend. Pigsy just glanced at him lamely, expecting some sort of response that he wasn’t getting.

“Come on, you know about these kinda illnesses, right? What’s first?” And that sentence whirred him to action, like Pigsy simply just speaking shot the stationary gears back into place.

“Right, right. It’s uh, a case of hypothermia, like you said. I can see some signs of frostbite too… Uh, do you have any spare blankets?”

Pigsy perked up, “Should have a few stored away, I’ll go get ‘em.”

The second he had started moving, Sandy was in action. It came as simply to him as breathing, the days of trenches where fellow warriors fell down and refused to get up, the cats sulking around the deck, not even resting to warm their bellies in the full sun. Each and every time a tender touch and knowing mind got them back on their feet, brushing up against him like the sunflower to the beams. Well, the cats did. The soldiers not so much. 

Sandy knew this kitchen, he’d watched Pigsy sort through it for days on end at this point. It wasn’t a difficult feat to find the bowl, or the washcloths. He placed both in the sink, turning the hot water tap until it came streaming out, filling the kitchen with a faint mist. But the second the hot water came screeching out, he was already back at Macaque’s side. He felt along the dilapidated fabric, feeling the moisture from the snow and grime. 

As gently as was humanly possible, Sandy started to pull the wet clothes off Macaque. The pants were easy, and his tail finally flickered to life to lay across his legs. But his top was a challenge, one that was expected. The second he tried to pull it up, Macaque’s shoulders strained, resulting in a warbled, hissing yelp. Macaque’s eyes still didn’t open. Sandy gently ran his thumb over his eyelids, just to test if they had been frozen shut. Ice glinted off his eyelashes, and despite the struggle, his eyes did flutter open. What he did see of Macaque’s eyes were glazed over and unseeing. At least he knew he could open them now, that was good… Sandy moved down to his mouth, barely open, with no spurts of breath to be found. As delicately as he could manage, Sandy pried his lips open just to see if they still could. The skin underneath his hand trembled but gave way. 

Now it was just getting the rest of the clothes off him, the snow having soaked through until wet and sticky. Sandy had to leave his side, trying to keep a peripheral eye on each finger twitching, and every absent twirl of the tail. Rifling around the cabinets for a few moments revealed the scissors Pigsy kept stowed away, he was more of a knife kind of guy, if you could believe that. 

The faucet overflowed the bowl, spilling into the drain, but Sandy was already back at Macaque’s side. Without moving him as much as possible, Sandy began to snip away at the fabric. The threads came apart with ease to his removal, spilling and unravelling to the floor. At the last careful incision, it fell away underneath him. Fur infused with unmelting snow was all he could see, along with the frail rise and fall of Macaque’s chest. 

Below the dips of his ribs sat a small, almost innocuous patch. At first glance, Sandy assumed it was a bandage. But the skin around it wasn’t red, no sign of damage. He pressed against it gently, and there was no winded sound of pain that he expected. Something in his mind told him to just rip it off, but his hands hesitated at the fraying sides. No… he would leave it be. 

For now, Sandy unwound his scarf again, gently fitting it around Macaque’s neck. He tore off his sweater too, left only in his white undershirt. Sandy slipped the massive pink sweater over his scarred chest, not bothering to even fit in the arm holes. It basically swallowed Macaque whole. His tail flicked in response but continued to lay limp on the ground. 

Pigsy stumbled back in, arms wrapped around a tower of blankets. His face could barely peek over the side of them.

“Uh, Sandy? My tap is overflowing, I don’t want to pay more of a water bill than I already am.”

“Oops! Sorry, sorry.” Running over, he almost broke the tap with how fast he turned it off. It creaked under his hand, only a screech of smoke and water left behind. He poured a bit of the hot water out of the bowl and wrung out the washcloths. By the time he was back, Pigsy was already layering on and straightening out the blankets onto Macaque’s body, with the precision and care of a father who’s taken endless nights dealing with a fever-ridden child. 

As gently as he could, Sandy lifted one frostbitten hand to rest inside the hot water, while dabbing the warm washcloth along his ears and nose before resting them there. Macaque’s face screwed up, and his hand twitched and rippled the water. 

“A few minutes of that should be able to help. Will probably blister though,” Sandy fretted, patting around his face. 

Pigsy waved him off, “He’ll be fine, don’t worry so much.” And Sandy had to bite back any instinctual fears raring to claw up his throat. Just stared down, adjusting the blankets to reach up to his chin. A shiver wracked through the skin and fur underneath. 

“There we go,” he placed a finger to Macaque’s neck, feeling the icy fur shiver and thump with life. “There’s a pulse there, and he’s definitely shivering again, he’s getting better.” A soft smile wound up his face, not quite meeting his eyes, but still present. 

Pigsy sighed, placing both hands on his knees before standing up.

“Yer not gonna let this go, are you?” A million unspoken sentences on the bottom of his lip. The fact that Sandy would stay by Macaque’s side until the blizzard turned to wistful air, and what ailed him was nothing but memory. He turned down to the demon’s face, watching as lips parted to sharply inhale air, and breathe out a grunt of pain. Sandy couldn’t resist rubbing circles into his cheek with his thumb, watching as Macaque tilted his head to meet his hand. 

“He’s hurt,” Sandy whispered, resting his palm against a cold face. “I found him inside the dumpster, covered in snow and holding onto a mouldy noodle takeout box for dear life. And I just couldn’t…” He swallowed thickly, staring desperately at Pigsy.

A sigh, “I’ll finish up those noodles I was making, there’s enough for both of them.”

Sandy didn’t look back after that, they were with their backs to each other. He knelt on the floor, hand to a pulse point, watching intently for any rise and fall, all the while Pigsy continued to stir and serve. A ceramic bowl clattered against the counter far too loudly, there was a shake upstairs. 

“I’ll go give this to MK, he’s probably awake by now anyway…” Without even looking back at them, Pigsy clutched the bowl in two hands and stormed up the stairs. Sandy ran a hand through his hair, feeling it almost come undone.

He sat there, listening only to Macaque’s shallow breathing. Even though the noodle shop was warm with a constant fire, he continued to tremble and quake like the earth beneath him was splitting apart. And he wondered, if only for even a moment, what his reaction would be upon returning to the living world. He’s dealt with cats that scratch, cats that bite and hiss and fluff themselves out.

When Macaque opened his eyes, he didn’t expect that blank expression. A silent stare that bore right through him. He shouldn’t even be awake so soon, at this point Sandy couldn’t tell if this was promising or not.

A shuffle, a word, “Wukong?” Sandy placed a hand on his forehead, the temperature conflicted between ice cold and growing warm. “No… you’re not…” he sniffled, “where-?” His glazed eyes searched the empty room, scrutinising every corner. “This isn’t… huh.”

Sandy felt the twinge of panic course through Macaque’s veins before he saw it. Despite the shriek of protest, he swaddled him into his arms, holding him tight through the oncoming confusion. Macaque knocked the bowl of warm water onto its side while struggling, crying out for someone who wasn’t there. 

“Shhh, relax, relax. You’re okay.” He ran a gentle hand through the thick, neglected fur on Macaque’s head. He stilled instantly, back to catatonic with unseeing eyes and a gaping mouth. It wasn’t relaxation, but at least he wasn’t fighting anymore. 

“That’s it, just breathe.” Sandy adjusted him until Macaque was curled up on his lap, head resting listlessly against his chest. He grabbed the spilled bowl, clutching the unsoaked wrist as gently as possible to manoeuvre it inside. Resting that on his knee, he grabbed the fallen washcloths and pressed them back to his flushed nose and ears. Macaque made a garbled little sound but didn’t resist. He breathed heavily against Sandy, body twitching through incessant trembling. 

Pigsy climbed down the stairs, his weight sinking into each step. He watched from the bottom step as Sandy held Macaque tight, whispering affirmation words and running his hands through the mess of fur on him. He grunted, earning barely an acknowledgment from his friend.

“You know, you shouldn’t coddle him like that,” Pigsy huffed. Sandy said something in response, but it wasn’t to be heard over the sound of broth being poured on top of thick, long noodles. Sandy peered at him from over his shoulder, continuing the soothing ministrations whenever Macaque started to whine again. 

“‘S he awake?” Pigsy asked, tone surprisingly soft. 

Sandy glanced back down, as if he’d been caught. “A little, not all there.”

A sigh, maybe a groan, maybe neither or both or all. Pigsy shuffled around for the chopsticks. “This is a recipe my mother used to make when I was sick. And though that was never, because a true chef never takes a sick day… It was useful when raising MK, so, y’know, it stuck with me.” The bowl full of noodles was placed on the customer’s table, steam wafting from the top. Sandy nudged Macaque until his eyes opened back up, and all that happened in response was Macaque weakly grabbing onto Sandy’s beard. His eyes narrowed, seeing something no-one else really could. 

“You’re not… not him…” the words were raspy, like he’d gone years without saying a word. They always described him as the monologuing type. “Is… Is he okay–?” Pigsy shot him a lost glance, Sandy only shrugged.

“Macaque, do you know where you are right now?” he tried.

A smack of the lips and a scrunch of the nose from Macaque, and then, “Warm… Am I home?”

Pigsy snorted, “Not quite.” Sandy pressed his hand against Macaque’s back, sitting him up properly. The layers and layers of blankets crowded his shoulders, staring down wearily at his lap.

“C’mon, let’s sit up and you can have something to eat, how’s that sound?” When it appeared Macaque wouldn’t be making those steps himself, Sandy held his other arm under his knees, lifting him up. Pigsy stepped back, allowing Sandy to seat him properly. 

Macaque’s head hung between his shoulders, and he stared at the bowl of food before him like he hadn’t eaten a day in his life. The rumble of starvation sent through the building was so palpable Sandy’s stomach ached. 

“I… what?” the elegant words to slide off Macaque’s tongue. He glanced at Pigsy, then at Sandy, only really half seeing them. “I’m not…”

“Just eat it, you rat!” Pigsy growled, pushing it further but making no move otherwise. 

His eyes sharpened at that, but it seemed as though his sight became even blurrier. “No… You’re supposed to be–” Macaque pressed a hand to his face. “I don’t– shit.” He blinked furiously, then stared down at the noodles. “Is this for someone? You… expecting visitors?” As he glanced around, Sandy wondered how these stories about Macaque were true. The overbearing presence of a shadow, the quick words and tongue that slices you down to the soft meat. But here he was, blinking at them, confused and lost. For guidance, for knowledge. A demon should never remind Sandy of the cats he had back home.

“It’s for you,” Sandy explained before Pigsy could snap. Macaque stared at the noodles, now refusing to blink for even a moment. He choked out air for a few seconds before responding.

“Don’t got cash. No– uh, none.” A shrug that only lifted at one shoulder, threatening to send the blankets pooling down around his lap. “None.”

Pigsy rubbed at the bridge of his nose, “Didn’t think you’d be one to be so damn concerned about that. Now hurry up, it’s getting cold and I'm not making you another!”

“But… no, c’n’t pay for it. You can– uh, you can eat it.”

The room is blanketed in a heavy silence, that felt too fragile all the same. Macaque glared at the bowl like it owed him something, then stared back up at them with nothing but raw confusion. 

“It’s alright, you need a warm meal. You got hypothermia, shouldn’t have been out in the snow like that.” Sandy couldn’t restrain himself from patting Macaque on the head, but thankfully the only reaction that garnered was a slow and purposeful blink. 

“I already ate…”

This time, Pigsy didn’t hold himself back. He slammed fists down on the table so hard the bowl shook, broth spilling over the edges. “Yeah! Out my trash! You know how many diseases there could be in there?”

His face softened, if only for a moment. Ears coming to rest against his skull and greasy fur. Hands twisted together under the table, only half numb.

“I know.” Macaque didn’t lift his head. He tried to fit his fingers together in some sort of a fidget, but they didn’t obey. They just sat there, uselessly, stiff and unyielding. 

“Then why–” Pigsy cut himself off, words strangled down his throat. Macaque visibly gulped, pawing now at the blankets slipping off his shoulders. He didn’t look at them now, ears drawn down and shivering harder, hands trembling. 

“You don’t have to… feed me. ‘Ts not worth it.”

Sandy and Pigsy shared a look, both cutting and softening. Pigsy groaned from the back of his throat, a sound that churned from within. Sandy gestured vaguely, mostly just half-baked shrugs and gestures at Macaque, who wasn’t looking at anything at all. 

“He’d rather eat my trash, mouldy and disgusting. I think he’s just trying to spite me.” Folded arms and folded hearts. Sandy sighed, moving to kneel by the table. Macaque didn’t look up, he didn’t even move. 

“Warm food and drinks help a lot when you have hypothermia, helps to warm you up from the inside.” Sandy stared down at the bowl of noodles, making a move for the chopsticks at the side. Macaque shrugged, barely even a movement.

“I don’t need your poison,” a pause, “nor your pity.” A strong shiver wracked his body, he folded in half and squeezed at his sides. 

Sandy picked the chopsticks up, twirling one noodle out and letting the broth drip right off it. “This meal is just for you, if you don’t eat it. It’s gonna go to waste.”

And then, Macaque looked up. His mop of tangled and grease ridden hair fell in clumps over his face, near blocking out his eyes. “You’re really backing me into a corner, huh?” A chuckle, wheezing and ragged. Sandy’s lips curled at the edges, feeling just a tad lighter.

“It’ll make you feel better.”

Macaque’s expression soured again instantaneously, “What do you care about that?” A veil of distrust shielded his eyes, shadowed over his throat. 

Instead of responding right away, Sandy drummed his fingers against the table. Pigsy was seething all the while, tail curling and springing out in pure rage. Hopefully he’d calm down before he blew a hole in the ceiling. 

“You’re a sneaky guy, aren’t you? You could have stolen out of any restaurant's trash… but Pigsy’s?” Macaque screwed his face up at this, but his ears merely flicked. His eyes dashed from the bowl to Sandy, but he made no effort to move. “Do you like the food?”

“It’s… alright.” Pigsy could have killed him right then and there. Macaque folded his arms over his chest, looking more like he was hugging himself. “The noodles are passable. But I… I wasn’t going to take food someone was going to eat.”

Sandy softened his expression until the creases faded and the droops of skin made themselves clear. “Well, this one is just for you. No one else wants it.”

The chopsticks rattled against the table, not quite rolling. Macaque eyed them with something close to displeasure, but finally picked them up. 

“If this is poisoned, I'm going to haunt you from hell.” He gave that comment a thoughtful pause, “or I’ll just come back again, then I’ll deal with you.” Sandy chose not to reply to that. Instead, just choosing to give Pigsy a glance when Macaque took the first bite, chewing meticulously. It was as if every swallow was calculated, planned before every action. He sniffed each noodle with a twitching and frost nipped nose before allowing himself to indulge. 

“Tastes better without the mould,” Macaque mumbled, poking around the bowl. He glared at them, but there was no heat behind it, slowly slurping up another noodle. “Only a little, though.” Sandy had to physically restrain Pigsy from whacking him over the head and making even more issues than already present.

Macaque stared out the window, eyes seeing past what was physically possible. Always one plane further out. He didn’t see the wistful churn of snow, more so the rage present in each and every snowflake. Every bite was thick down his throat, playing the line of becoming unbearable. The other two were talking, but he barely recognised their faces, he was flooded by the thin recognition of a life that felt so far away now. Just a few minutes ago, he was one with the agonising ordeal of the blizzard, which whipped around quite uselessly now. Macaque watched the snow build up at the front door with a resigned apathy. Just hours ago, he was curled amongst the whispering shadows and the draft. 

What now? He glanced to where the two creatures were talking, one big and one small. He popped another noodle into his mouth, thick with steamy, bubbling broth. It was definitely an improvement from the sample he had earlier, feeling it swirl around his stomach and fight against the acid trying to creep back up his throat and send it back out. So he pursed his lips and swallowed bile down. Not today. 

With each new bite swallowed down, Macaque gained enough consciousness to discuss with himself rationing and liability. This whole bowl could probably last him another two weeks, three even! He savoured every slimy morsel like a starving, kicked dog. Ribs thrummed against his chest. Everything felt so fuzzy and bright, like what he had only imagined heaven to be like. The worries were still present, as they always were, speaking incessantly the worst case scenarios and the consequences he was such a glutton for.

Three weeks, the words exploded through his skull like jubilant fireworks. This would keep the void happy for three whole weeks. Even four if he played his cards right. Not even a fleck of poison on his lips, Macaque wondered if he truly was dead. All he remembered was the ridge of the dumpster cutting into his stomach, then his head grew heavy, so heavy. Sleep beckoned. Sleep was a young girl across the road calling for the stray cat to come rub up against her hand. And her hand was so soft, welcoming and mortal. But she knew not to handle a cat, pulling its tail and twisting her fingers in its whiskers. She motioned for him to sit in the shed her father kept in the backyard, filled with garden tools gathering dust. And then, when she kept the door closed, he would meet her older brother, Death. 

But the door opened again, just a slit of light against the ground. Macaque was a speck in the wind, allowing himself to be carried wherever it allowed. So when a strong hand held him, he just sighed internally and allowed this change in the sails. It was soft and almost reminded him of better times, softer times, weaker times. A fly all tangled in the bright red web, uselessly suckling at the diseases on the trash, finding only use under the spider’s fangs. Born from suffering, it shall find an origin and end in it too. 

A shiver passed through, and while it wasn’t unusual, he found it odd how everything continued to feel like a neverending chill. Like Winter herself had made a home in the hollow parts of his body, feeding off his beating heart and wrinkling lungs. She made herself welcome in his stomach, intertwining her fingers with the chewed up noodles he feasted on. Suddenly, Macaque placed the chopsticks down. He glared at the bowl like it might speak, mock, giggle, anything that gave him a justification to throw it halfway across the room. They conspired against him, but he would not stand for it. He pouted like a child, though it must look as foolish as it felt, and let Winter starve inside him. 

He was still being watched, he wondered if that was all they took him in here for. To watch, observe. Was this a test, was he a plaything? No, that didn’t quite make sense. Everything was familiar, much too familiar, and it didn’t sit well (but that might have just been the expired food.) Upstairs, yes, right there upstairs, there was a scent he knew very well. It wasn’t safety, but it was something close. And these two, they carried that aroma with them. There was no safety in this second life, not since carving his way from the grave to the light. But this was a close thing, not a sure, steady one, but so, so close. 

A mind that was awake knew not to trust, but his had yet to thaw out. Everything was so cold, and the embrace that dared to hold him was so warm. A fickle touch that immediately sparked fires inside his gut, swallowed down to evaporate into smoke. Macaque let go of the bowl entirely, instead busying his hands with the fabric of the blankets swallowing him. They carried that same smell, and it wasn’t quite clicking together in his mind, but it didn’t need to. No urgency as he threaded out the small, black hairs that weren’t his from out the fabrics. 

Macaque looked to them again, eyes flitting from one to the other. They seemed to be trying to gauge his reactions like a test subject, which one he looked at the most, stretching each word spoken against a wall. He stared at the tall one, which carried an air of intimidation that breezed right over his head. Those arms weren’t just muscle, they were cushions, and Macaque contemplated reaching out. But that was silly, even like this, he knew that need was silly. He wasn’t a child, he had never been one, and only children needed to be held. Foolish thoughts for equally as foolish demons. Macaque would chastise himself if he thought he could do it unnoticed, they watched him like a hawk. 

“Is there s’mthing on my face?” he asked dumbly, punctuated by helium-filled giggles. But the taller one nodded, kneeling down with this conflicted look on his face. His hand reached out and Macaque knew he should be flinching, running, kicking and biting and whatever it was he did. But his mind was so melted all he could acknowledge was the idea to simply sink into that big, soft palm and spoil himself with the sensation of a thumb brushing around his cheek and mouth.

“Just a bit of food, nothing much.” he said. Once drawn away, Macaque licked around his lips, the taste of noodles still clung to skin. He couldn’t stifle the hysterical laughter at that. 

He really must be dead. And if so, this was far better than being alive.

The swift overlapping sensation of feathers brushing over his eyes weighed him back down. He was anchored to rest, unnaturally tethered to the false sense of security these two dragged him into. His body was out back, mussed up with snow and dreck, cold and grey. There was barely a flicker of life left in there, that corpse waiting to be disposed of. It would be drained of its blood, left to fester and rot once more. This time, barely even a grave. He remembered there was a grave the first time, the one he dragged out of kicking and screaming like a birth. But this time, he didn’t even feel it. 

He asked them then, ‘what are you going to do with the body?’ but he could barely remember the words out his mouth. Perhaps they came out disjointed and sloppy, vomit all down his chin. Because they looked at him as if he spoke in tongues, backwards and sideways.  

“What do you mean?” the smaller one asked. Macaque giggled; he spoke with a ball of cotton lodged down his throat. Everything was tilting, like the city had burst in half and everything was sliding into the crevice. 

“The body… the dumpster. I’m still in there.” He gazed at the wall, where he knew his corpse was lying just inside. He tried to picture it, grotesque and clammy, eyes wide open and unseeing. The two others looked at each other, like words were pouring out through their eyes. Macaque wondered what the words were, what language they were inscribed in that he wasn’t allowed to read. Maybe if he reached out, he could grab it, and in ink it would be smeared against his hands.

The words that came next were foggy, spoken like soup, or bubbles. His ears popped, pop, pop, pop, and his mind spun around like an unravelling spool. Yarn was laid everywhere, across the table, the food, wrapping tight around the two friends who saved him. Was friends the right term? Macaque didn’t think so, but no other words were coming to him. They spoke, but none of it really made sense.

“Do you want to check the–”

“Yeah, I’ll be back.” the short-stack burst out the door, and the wind howled her displeasure. Macaque’s ears folded over, settling themselves under the thickness of his fur. They were somewhat protected down there, all the while Macaque mumbled his confusion at the sudden disappearance. They must be ridding the corpse, finally allowing him to move on.

“But I don’t wanna leave yet,” he mustered up the tongue to say. “Nice here…”

The blue one, might have been blue, perhaps an odd shade of violet, stared at him. So many eyes, they locked on him like a feral animal, waiting for one wrong move. And one wrong move was all it would take. 

“We can leave when the storm passes, but I’m not going to make you go out in the cold.” Macaque pulled his knees up, burying his face in them. 

“No,” he hissed like a child. And shame would reach him, if anything could. “I don’t want to go.” Life is cruel, death is crueller. He never thought he’d find such sanctuary in purgatory, if he did, he would have died so much sooner. 

A sigh, “Well, you can’t stay here forever. Pigsy wouldn’t appreciate that.” That name, he recognised it, but it didn’t quite make sense. It should be so safe, but why did it feel like a knife to the chest, ripping and tearing at what tender parts remained. It was fear, if he’d allow himself the consolation to admit it. 

“They’re gonna chain me up again,” Macaque muttered, more angry at the predicament than anything now. “And no– no angel gonna save me this time. It’s worse than being alive. But I don’t want to… don’t wanna move on so quick. I finally…” A deep inhale, perhaps even a yawn. “I feel free…” he giggled, “is that dumb? Sounds kinda dumb, now that I think about it.” He yawned again, fangs stretching free from his lips then returning back to hiding. 

The other guy didn’t say anything, and maybe he’d already left. Maybe any moment, this would all fade away, just like everything did. And he’d be alone, Macaque would once again end up where he was destined to be. The failure, the scraps, and the runt that no-one wanted. Yet he tried to be larger than life, tried to be the whole sky. Blackholes to eat the light whole so for maybe a second, he could consider himself worthy of standing next to the Sun. And a rodent that never learned, scurrying through the darkness and foolishly hoping that the next time he dropped a glass, this time it just wouldn’t break. 

A hand settled on his shoulder, encompassing like the weight of the Earth, and the entire solar system pressing down as a reminder upon him. Macaque couldn’t help but lean into it, he felt not like Atlas, the man who crawled along on his knees, but one embraced by the beauty Earth gave her people. There wasn’t much of that left for him. And something soft was spoken to him, barely parsed by fluttering, failing ears. But it sounded like comfort, and that was when he decided, once and for all, that this death was sweeter than any life he ever tasted. 

Everything was growing darker. His vision grew fluffy, spiralling away from him, out of reach and mind. It was nice, and perhaps he said something. But again, it must have been of incomprehensible language, for that hand faltered and the galaxy was ripped away once more. Macaque found he was too cold, and the room too warm, for him to spare a care. His hands shook around reality, ready to swallow back the bubbles of falseness. 

And like that, he fell to sleep in Sandy’s arms.

Every moment and movement were another thing for his eyes to be drawn to. How Macaque muttered to himself, slurred sentences that seemed to be of feigned importance. When Pigsy returned, he shook off the snow now clinging to pink skin and the tiniest of hairs.

“There’s no body in the dumpster, but I didn’t put it past to him to have killed someone.” He was already making off with the (mostly) consumed bowl. There was a petulant sigh at having to pour the last quarter out into the trash, but no one else wanted to share lips with it. 

“He’s out,” Sandy announced needlessly. He cushioned the blankets around his body, holding him closer and closer still. “Can we…” the words trailed off thinly into the open air. For a moment, another moment, a stalemate was dug into the ground. 

Pigsy gestured to the couch pulled out in the far corner.

“Just for tonight,” he grunted. The faucet sprung to life, and the sound of it spraying against the dirty dishes filled the growing silence. Sandy set Macaque down, adjusting and pulling until there was naught even a bump under his back. 

“I think he was disorientated,” Sandy said, mostly to himself. At this point, he doubted Pigsy was really listening. “I thought maybe, being a demon, he just recovered a lot quicker than people.” He placed one finger against the pulse point on his wrist, feeling the faint jump of a beating heart’s song. 

Pigsy huffed, the sound of a sponge squeaking against the bowls he cleaned meticulously. “You really know how to pick ‘em. Just…” there’s not a glance this time, but Pigsys’s shoulders still and Sandy doesn’t look away. “Don’t let yourself get hurt, okay?”

Sandy just shrugged, redirecting his attention to the growling, sobbing snowstorm just outside. He chewed his bottom lip, watching it, just watching. 

“I won’t. You know I won’t.”

And he could almost hear the smile, “Some things never change.”

 

---

 

MK trotted downstairs to the smell of freshly made noodles. The sound of flour and dough smacking the countertops echoed as it always did, and sometimes it made its way into his dreams. He rubbed his eyes until the room cleared up. Some customers were already in the building, sitting hazily around a table and sipping lethargically on their morning brew of coffee. Down on the couch, reserved for those more casual customers, were overlapping blankets and speckles of fur. There were wet patches along the floor, long dried through the night, but still noticeable. 

When MK started Pigsy down, he saw the purple bags bruised underneath his wrinkled eyes. His face creased in concern, taking one step forward and two steps back with each groan of the floorboards and shift in Pigsy’s expression. One more noise, it might crack. But despite the precaution, his eyes landed on MK, nonetheless. There wasn’t anger there, not like there normally was. The heat had simmered down over the years regardless, and a hardened man who swore to never take in a stray, was heaped with a child that had never known parents.

There’s not a greeting, not except for the nudge of his head.

“Sandy left that for you, said it would help you sleep better.” MK drummed his fingers against the counter, there’s flour stained on it. It collected in groups along the pads of his fingers. And there is sat, a slightly worn and weary looking box. It’s full to the brim with tea bags, all knocking down on top of each other.  

“Awe sick, I love these ones!” And once more, he wiped the sleep out his eyes and made off with the whole box. “Let me just put these up in my room!” To which Pigsy motioned him to get lost, with a smile playing across his face.

The stairs continued to creak, creak and whine with age. But each step played another note of music, and soon, he was traversing a portal from work to home, the stress easing off his shoulders the second he was back upstairs. The box found a space nestled between some unsorted shirts and a packet of food Mei left over that was definitely, definitely stale at this point. 

Back down stairs, work clothes hung off his shoulders, the remnants of something he couldn’t quite place grew impossible to ignore. Blankets were still strewn around the room like children had a tug of war with them, and there was a faint stetch like rotting food from out the bins, and trust him, he knows that smell. 

“Did you have any uh- late visitors?” He glanced back and forth, watching as Pigsy stilled and the obvious remains of something happening continued to be there. There was a soft snicker from the side, and MK had to wonder if he died, or woke up in the calabash again.

“Just– just Sandy. He uh, found somethin’ out back and made it my problem. You know how he is, taking all those feral cats in and making ‘em plump housepets in no time.”

MK's nose wrinkled to the smell of garbage, the customers hadn’t seemed to pick it up just yet, but he knew it would only grow.

“Did that something happen to be picking around our trash again?”

Pigsy stilled, “He’s done that before?”

MK raised an eyebrow, “He? Are we not talking about rats?”

Pigsy huffed again, busying himself with the noodles, “Looked like a rat.”

He didn’t need to investigate the black furs peppering the couch to understand what happened. Well, it only made half sense in his mind, perhaps this was just another fever dream? 

“I guess I’ll go get the vacuum?” he muttered, already making the trudge into the laundry room.

“And make it quick! He tracked all that hair in here, woulda neva’ allowed this if it weren’t Sandy.” But he couldn’t deny the softened edges to his voice, a sort of resigned silence in the face of screaming. Everything continued as usual, every cog still in its place. People hummed along with the sips of their brewed drinks, and the signature smell of perfect broth and noodles being sorted into their places. 

It was almost like the snow piled outside the door had never been disturbed. Everything was in its place, flawless and pure. Almost as if the rodent hadn’t crawled out from its hole, wholly and fully indulging in the bitter taste of trash. Almost as if no-one had bothered to check the sound of falling outside, not a single soul had the heart to rip that beast from out amongst the trash. And maybe, if you checked, their frozen bones would be there, feasted on by maggots of marrow. Then, there would be nothing left. The world played on as if those events were predetermined. But the rat hat scurried, and the cat had held it gently by the scruff. Life finds ways to surprise you. 

MK pushed the vacuum out the laundry room with his foot, the wire tangled up his leg. He clutched fabric, worn and red, around his wrist.

“Hey, if you see Sandy around,” MK waved it about, “tell him to give this to Macaque.”

Chapter 2: Honey and Hands

Summary:

Macaque and sandy get closer, and Macaque gets to finally be clean

The storm stopped sometime during dawn. Just when the sun began its ascent over the city, peering through the clouds with a gentle gaze, the howling winds turned to a mere whisper. The snow, how it pelted against the ground, turned static and melted to sleet against the floor. Come morning, it was like nothing had happened, no blizzard screeching through the streets like a dog off its leash. It was the calm after the storm, shaking the snow off its wires and roofs. 

And at the first peek of sunlight, the very moment and minute the snow turned to something stationary against the floor, Sandy packed up and left. He took some blankets, putting them in his bag just to borrow, promising sweetly how he’d wash and give them back. But Pigsy was just looking at the damp stains of snow and scowling, perhaps even a mutter under his breath. A nervous chuckle strangled out his throat, so Sandy scooped Macaque up, and took his leave.

The outside air was biting and frigid. Despite still draped up in thick blankets, covered in Sandy’s oversized sweater and scarf, Macaque was quaking in the cold. Sandy held onto him tighter, arms almost completely eclipsing him. Each breath was punctuated with a puff of frozen mist, spiralling through air like smoke. 

Approaching the docks was slower than normal. Every step had to be lifted higher to traverse through the thick ground. Every movement monumental, as if he carried one made of pure glass in his arms, one squeeze would shatter. And all he’d be left with were the shards at the end. Some people were leaving their houses, stumbling through snow towards stores and markets, umbrella catching rainfall and snowflakes. They would be the lone witnesses. 

But years of cultivating violence has taught him gentleness. There was such an obscene kindness running through his veins, flexed like a muscle. And though his arms were scratched with scarring from years he’d rather not remember, the sandpaper tongues of cats had smoothened over the rough edges. Now the proof was stuck in the mirror and every puddle. Violence faded, he carved himself a place that no longer fit.

Used to be a warrior, and Pigsy remembered that. And he remembered more than anyone else did. Even the bloodshed was seared into his pupils, a red ink in his irises. Perhaps that bent the eye, the mind. But it was too late now. The past cannot be scratched over, recarved or made in a new image. It can be told from tongue to ear with not a single utterance honoured, but that doesn’t undo it, simply painting over a canvas that can never be undone.

And perhaps, that was why seeing Macaque in the dumpster pulled a heartstring or two. Evil can fall so far and hit the ground so hard. And Sandy supposed he knew what it was like, to live on the razor’s edge of destruction and chaos, it becomes you, consumes you whole. And it cuts deeper, and deeper, and it becomes your blood; poisonous and thick. Knows what it's like to be known for what you’ve done, and what you haven’t. The sneers, glares that slice through souls, and hands that remember each cut through flesh. The stains never quite wash off. And at some point, that’s a reputation you can’t shake off like the sins on your back. 

It hurts when violence is all you know, even at your lowest. Shivering, cold beyond the bones with mouldy food still halfway stuffed down your throat. Sandy tried to talk to Macaque before he was dead asleep on the couch. He grabbed his hand, right at the palm, just to feel the pulse of life gently stirring through. Those eyes, half-lidded and barely seeing, appeared to look through Sandy, like he was barely an obstacle to seeing the wall behind him.

“Where do you live, Macaque?” he whispered, but Macaque flinched anyway. One hand came up to rub his ears, and under his breath he hissed about sounds Sandy couldn’t hear. When prompted about living arrangements, Sandy was met only by the response of a blank stare that seemed almost purposefully ignorant. 

It all came to a head with a sleepy yawn, Macaque’s jaw stretching wide open and fangs popping out. His limbs stiffened, attempting to sprawl out to no success. 

“D’ya think I eat out the trash because I have a home to go back to?” It ended with a roll of the eyes, and in the seconds later, he was fast asleep and snoring lightly. He sat with that for a long, long time. Just thinking, not letting go of the hand in his grasp. 

Who is it that cares for the wicked? 

The boats came into view, towering machines that blocked the sun out. His stood out amongst the rest, demanding your attention with every meticulously placed brushstroke against the metal surface. Cargo and rooms stacked upon each other, now all covered in a thick layer of snow that slowly dripped off the edges. Boarding it wasn’t the hard part, but the conscious weight of an unconscious demon in his arms was. The constant thrumming of thoughts through Sandy’s head, and yet he held on, nonetheless. 

There was fear there, right under the surface. That once awoken, Macaque would turn from lost to rabid. And unlike the cats he’s fostered under his wing, Sandy wasn’t confident he could subdue him, not by a long shot. He still remembered what it was like to be anchored down to the earth by a mech, crushing him despite his size. He knew what it felt like to be absorbed by shadow, corporeal form fleeing into the light. If he contemplated it too long, it would haunt him forever. Just itching at the back of his brain alongside the memories of wars he couldn’t remember the endings to. 

And yet, he continued his way onto the deck anyway. Shovelling snow around with his sneakers, feeling it soak through but not touching the cold in a way that mattered. Macaque was still tucked away in his arms, held close to his chest and one big, beating heart. He wondered if he could hear it, if it soothed him through sleep like a lullaby. The night was long, the day even longer, and Sandy’s eyes begged for sleep. It prayed in a language innate. Rest, now.

Inside the boat, the main house, the cats all perked to his entry. Some were rummaging around, searching for the bags of dry food, others paused mid-stretch and scratch. All those eyes, shining in the light flickering to life, stared into his soul. Almost immediately, fur-ridden bodies were rubbing up against his leg. Their noses scrunched at the scent of a newcomer, the more acclimated to the foster kittens gave it a sniff then paraded off, but the newer of the cohort gave a confused glare his way. 

Mo was lounging on the couch, right where Sandy knew he would be. Mo licked at his paw, rubbing up against his mohawk and letting it shimmer. 

“Hey, Mo! Did you miss me?” Sandy’s voice broke into a giggle, something close to unfiltered joy through the rainclouds of worry. Mo only meowed in response, a raspy little sound that was a balm to the nerves. He shifted his weight around, moving to hold Macaque’s body in one hand, freeing up the other to give his cat some well-deserved chin scratches. 

When nothing out of the ordinary seemed broken, picture frames in their places, no shatters and spillages on the floor, and no new threads torn loose by opportunistic cats. When the atmosphere smoothened over, cats delicately passing through the rooms like schools of fish, Sandy moved to get everything in order. He placed Macaque down on the couch, making sure to keep the blankets and clothes snug around him. For a brief moment, Macaque stirred. His face scrunched up, almost painfully, and lips drew back in a snarl. Sandy pressed a hand to his side, trying to feel for injury or ailment, but on contact Macaque relaxed again. His face went slack, body limp, and leant fully into the flighty touch. 

After pulling away, Macaque’s brows furrowed, pained even in repose. Sandy ran hands through his beard, moving through the motions he repeated every day. Filling out the numerous cat bowls until overflowing with pellets and making sure the water bowls were clean and full. Then there were the litter trays, which we won’t go into extraneous detail over. And finally, Sandy let the kettle whistle as he went over his mental checklist. Tending to the cats was done, but he was quite unsure about handling Macaque. 

He could hear him toss and groan in his sleep. From just the other room, laid carefully on his soft, claw-torn couch, Macaque sounded like he was being ripped open from inside. It was a painful, guttural sound that Sandy knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep listening to. So, while the water boiled, filling the air with a sound so familiar it was an old friend, Sandy rummaged through his things. Boxes, fitted together like cargo, just in the other room. They were filled with cat toys, the ones worn down over the years and new ones waiting, like lambs to the slaughter. 

There was something there, a little beaten up, but hopefully still as useful from the day it was bought. A weighted cat plushie, beads filling it from the bottom. Its head hung limply between its cotton shoulders, and Sandy thought of the nights he was kept up. The wind was howling, and it sounded just like the screams of his men. Waves breaking in the darkness were bones shattering. The only thing to lull him was the cat, held close to his chest, weighing him back to reality. 

When he returned to the couch, Macaque’s face was entirely creased out of pain. His tail was lashing beneath the covers, threatening to send them crumpling to the floor. An arm reached out, peeking out from the blankets, it was outstretched, searching for something. Sandy held out a hand for him to grab onto it, Macaque latched like a mosquito to blood. The hold wasn’t tight, but he could tell it was meant to be. 

In place of his arm, Sandy slipped in the plush. He hoped, in the degradation of Macaque’s ill mind, it wouldn’t tell the difference from being held to holding. And thankfully, the pained kicks of sound ceased once wrapped around the cat. He watched from over the back of the couch as he nuzzled his face into it, curling up tighter and tighter around it. A sigh escaped, but it was watered down by the smile on Sandy’s lips.

The kettle dinged with completion – the tea was ready. And he went through the steps, the dance he’s done many, many times before. And a potion for easy rest was cupped between warm hands. Sandy brought it up to sip, and felt it wash the scratching anxiety out. It was still there, howling for attention, but now a mere, faint buzz. This wasn’t his problem anymore, he decided whilst walking to his room. In the morning, he would deal with it, or it would deal with itself.

For now, he was content to wrap himself up in the thick duvets of his expansive bed. The mattress welcomed him, and the pillows softened the fall into sleep. Even though the cats were milling about, ready to start randomly running, beginning petty fights, or better, the exhaustion overtook him. 

 

---

 

It wasn’t morning when he woke up, but around evening. The sky wasn’t dulled by the early rise of the sun, nor bathed in orange hues. A few cats had found their way to his bed, curling up or stretching themselves out. Sandy tiredly ran a hand over their heads and bellies, mind soothed by the sound of rumbling. 

But the illusion of peace was naught but for a few moments. Though the curtains waved with the winds as they always did, and the windows were fogged over in the late winter day, the sense of calm was only temporary. And it broke with the first shatter, the first sound of something hitting the ground. And in an instant his mind was playing over reels of the worst-case scenarios. The most horrible outcomes, some leading to bloodshed he hoped to never witness again. 

So, suffice to say, Sandy was up in seconds. He hadn’t even bothered to make himself presentable, hair mussed and clothes askew across his body. The door was thrown open with such force it dented the wall again, paint peeling and fracturing like spiderwebs. There wasn’t anger stewing in his gut, he had to remember that. It was pure fear, adrenaline that pumped through his veins. And with each step forward, the dread washing over him like cold, cold water became harder and harder to ignore. 

Some cats were lingering in the hallways and peeking from behind doors. Their backs were arched and fur on end, eyes wide and straining to Sandy’s every move. He would pause to stroke all their fur until it was flat and perfect against their lithe bodies, but he didn’t have the time, not when his hands were shaking. Pigsy told him not to get hurt, and he knew the risks he ran when bringing a ‘bad guy’ back to his abode. But what else was he supposed to do? He looked to those eyes, lined with gunk and pain, and couldn’t help but stare his past right in the face. And he knew above everything, when fighting ate his life whole, he would have wanted someone to rip him from the metaphorical trash and hold him close. Show him a life that was much safer, even when it was as unfamiliar as it was. 

When he made it to the living room, the first thing he noticed was the blanket pulled over the arm of the couch, as if thrown in a frenzy. The cats were all lined at the walls like armies into war. Their fur stood on end, all eyes on the growing pool of shadow in the middle of the room. It lapped at the floor, the walls, decorations all like the hungry, ravenous sea. It stirred angrily, no, that wasn’t quite right.

There was no rage in the darkness, just how there is no spite in Winter. It’s fear, at the best; sadness at the worst. There’s something deep and aching in how it tries to split the world apart, to fester in destruction. It’s all it has left. But it holds on to the softest of kindnesses, rocking through its own storm while holding the lifeline near and dear.

There’s a silhouette in the shadow, so small amidst the eager spreading of the shade. Just the outline of the body he hauled out the burial of garbage. And through it, he can still see him holding onto the plush cat. It’s flush against his chest, as he sits there on his knees and stares blankly at something that doesn’t exist. A faint mumbling can be heard, but Sandy doesn’t strain to listen to the dark rambles. 

Shadow has a feeling, a texture, that was something Sandy learnt today. He bent over, resting on one knee to pick at the darkness splayed across his floor. It climbed up the walls like crawling ivy, trying to reach the very top and refusing to stop. Sandy picked it up between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed. It felt like rubber one second, silk the next. He pressed a tentative hand to it, but it didn't give way. If he felt around hard enough, he could even feel the carpet underneath, just underneath. It was a thin spread of darkness, flimsy. 

He took the plunge into the shadow; his feet didn’t sink like a rock into quicksand like expected. The air was still, if a little stale, but everything was right where it needed to be. And through the desperate, quick mutters of words he couldn’t decipher, Sandy could hear the wheezing, the shallow breaths. In a second, everything seemed to fit into place. Leaning forward towards the one wreathed in darkness didn’t seem quite as daunting, offering out a hand like a lightbulb offered the endless light. 

Purple eyes stared through his soul, poring over it with disillusioned scepticism. Macaque held the plush closer and closer to his chest, almost appearing to absorb it within himself. Distrust was palpable from his shadowed face alone, and Sandy felt an ache deep in his stomach, for reasons he couldn’t quite get himself to name. Those eyes, thin slits of pupils, scanned over his hand. It searched every line in his palm like a fortune teller, and he begged the question of where it would go from here.

“You’re safe,” he promised to the open air. There wasn’t a lie to be found, sour on his tongue. But Macaque continued to regard him with a thinly masked fear. He sat himself in the eye of the storm, chewing himself whole and spitting it back out. 

“It’s me, Sandy. I’m uh– one of MK’s friends! But I promise I’m not going to hurt you, I just–” 

The shadow began to recede, slinking back towards an origin. It wrapped around Macaque’s body, stitching over the worn sweater and scarf, licking at the plushie as if trying to investigate what it was. The darkness ignores it, eventually. Instead, recalling back to their sorcerer, wisping away into the chambers of his heart. It fluttered away, giving life to the light like butterfly wings. 

He was met by a scowl that didn’t at all appear out of place on his countenance. Yet it was so unlike the expression of fear and confusion from the night before, something stuck between longing and abstinence of comfort. All of that is lost now, all rough edges and cutting lines. The way his brows pull in, eyes search his face, it’s all a purposeful threat. 

“Oh, really?” he begins, voice a rasp. “Well, how nice of you.” Each word is spat out like something disgusting onto the ground. Sandy faltered, glancing from Macaque’s face to his outstretched hand. It wasn’t taken, only stared at. 

Despite the chagrined expression staining his face, Macaque didn’t once relent hold of the plush doll. Neither did he flee. It was yet another stalemate where both sides struggled to find their footing. But in the end, Sandy retracted his hand with a heavy sigh.

“I’m sorry, you must be really confused right now.” He expected Macaque to snap at him, fight, something. But there was just silence, he waited with a raised eyebrow and a faintly curious look for him to continue. Sandy steadied his breathing before it was dashed across the rocks, like sea to the shore. “I don’t know how much you remember… You were pretty out of it– but last night I found you inside Pigsy’s dumpster and- and you were covered in snow and obviously not doing well. I couldn’t just leave you there, so I took you inside to warm you up since I’m pretty sure you had hypothermia and frostbite… You– you uh, seem better now! But I think… I think you didn’t have anywhere to stay, so I took you back here to keep you safe… from the cold.”

And still, barely even an acknowledgement save from the very slow, meticulous blink. Macaque’s nose scrunched up, and his eyes flitted to meet the door. 

“I just– I know you probably don’t like me, and that’s fine. I just wanted to make sure you were okay before I let you off. And after that I won’t bother you again, I swear.”

Macaque considered over his words as if it were a flavour to taste. His face screwed up, sour. And yet, he doesn’t dare reply. Sandy began to feel like his words were for naught, spewed up and spat a brick wall which relented nothing back. He sighed, listening to the soft patter of the cats attempting to approach. And through the haziness of Macaque’s expression, he turned to glare at the cats, but it was lacking contempt. It was more reminiscent of the scared being he fished out the trash last night, that’s where he’d seen that look before. 

“You don’t have to stay… but, at least let me give you a look over first. I-i’m also fixing up your clothes still, I’m sorry, they were waterlogged from the snow and–”

Macaque sneezed. His face scrunched up like a cat who sucked on a lemon, and then he sneezed. The sound was so small that not a single cat in the room flinched from it, and some of them were notorious for going running after just hearing a tissue being ripped from the box. Sandy stared while Macaque just looked lamely to the side, giving a soft sniffle and not much else. 

“Do you–”

“I’m good,” Macaque’s voice was hoarse as he sniffled once again. A lethargic hand came up to rub at his nose, wincing slightly. His face burnt crimson around the edges, and if Sandy gave it a look from the right lighting, it appeared far too clammy too. His eyes fluttered, mouth pulling into a grimace as he turned to face Sandy.

“So, uh, Sandy, right? Well, uh. Thanks for um, you know, not kicking a dude when he’s down. Just– just don’t tell anyone this happened, and we won’t have any problems, kay?”

He stood up and Sandy had to resist the urge to reach out, he was right there. The scarf and sweater still hung off his frame limply, threatening to slip off and leave him bare. And yet he was still making a move to leave. It was obvious in each twitch he gave, there was nothing that could change his mind. There was a sense of mourning there, if only for a second. But Sandy knew that sometimes a kindness is something others would readily accept, especially not the enemy. Even after the fights that proved him something close to otherwise, he still stayed firm that this was where the line between them was drawn. Good guys and bad guys. The wicked and the weak. 

Sandy was ready to watch him leave, so say goodbye to his sweater forever. That, decidedly, did not happen. From the very first step, Macaque’s legs buckled. He swayed backwards into the coffee table, feeling around it like just noticing it was there. He huffed a laugh through his teeth, gritted into a smile, but sweat was pouring down in streams. There was a half mutter to come out his mouth, something to brush the incident off and sweep it down under the rug. 

That didn’t happen, though. Macaque took one more step forward and slipped. It went so quickly and so slow, both at the same time. Sandy didn’t wait to see if Macaque would fall towards the coffee table or the hard floors, both scenarios lead to the distinct sound of something breaking, and just the mere summoning of such a thought was enough to haunt his nightmares. So it wasn’t hard to swoop him up, even though Sandy was still knelt to the ground like a knight awaiting ceremony. Sandy barely even let him struggle in the air, just hauled him right down, steady against the floor. 

At that point, Sandy expected a fight. He’s ashamed to admit he held on a little tighter, squeezed until he felt Macaque’s ribs threaten to give, because it was the last thing he wanted. A struggle was sure, but violence was… He’s spiralled enough times to know that sort of stuff, so close and so eager, can leave him staring at the wall for days on end, waiting for the blood to start spilling from the ceiling. So, so much blood. But the second he was down against the ground, wrapped up by two arms that held on so tight it dared to wring him dry of oxygen, Macaque went limp. 

Against his chest, Sandy could feel the pathetic, wispy breath echo out Macaque’s mouth. That was when he let up a little, but there still wasn’t even a kick to be given. Just silence, completely surrender. Faintly, he could hear another sneeze. And less faint, he could feel that shaking that was all too familiar now. 

“Why don’t you just lie down, and we can figure this out?” he murmured against the top of Macaque’s head. His chin felt the slight nod, and his body felt the heaviness as he began to relax on top of Sandy. For a moment, or even two, he considered staying like this. Macaque wasn’t making any keen effort to move, despite how the front of the couch was digging into his back, it wasn’t wholly problematic to stay here longer. But the wheeze of his exhale, the sniffles he tried so hard to muffle, were all ringing through his ears. It was the throaty cough that became Sandy’s breaking point. 

With arms still trapping him in place, Sandy hauled Macaque up, keeping him sturdy against his chest. He glanced down, looking for any indicator he was making a wrong decision here. Macaque’s eyes were half-lidded, that signature glaze over them from last night. His tail writhed but gently and slowly from where it hung down, it gave a pat against his thigh, but it wasn’t particularly vicious. 

The cats watched, uneasy but no-less curious, as Sandy began to carry him through the hallways. The boat gave a tender shake, lulling through the walls and the floor beneath him. It sang praises in language not spoken, and Sandy’s heart had never felt less dragged down with doubt. Entering his bedroom again, it was dark. The curtains, decorated with ships lonely in the night, and stars against a pale blue backdrop, blocked off the light from seeping in. The blankets were a wreck, revealing the pit in the mattress where Sandy chose to sleep. 

He held Macaque in one arm, letting his legs threaten to dangle over. The demon seemed hardly bothered, perhaps even a little unaware of his surroundings. All the while Sandy fussed about the bed one-handed, fluffing up the pillows and pushing into the mattress, straightening out the blankets and duvet and comforter until it looked like something out of a furniture magazine. And then, oh so gently, as if one wrong move might shatter this illusion, leaving the world out of place and out of order, he lowered Macaque to the bed. 

The second the back of his head touched the pillow, those fluttering eyes shot wide open. Hands dug into Sandy’s arm, shaking with an effort to draw blood. Sandy froze, torn between continuing to lower and lifting him back up. Macaque scrambled with all the fight he was anticipating earlier, scratching until red welts perused up Sandy’s arms, screeching and snapping fangs, legs kicking out for purchase. Sandy hissed through his teeth, biting back the urge to just drop him. Slowly, slowly and deliberately, he sank Macaque onto his bed. His back arched away once flat against the sheets, but his limbs gave no such battle. He didn’t run, didn’t even try. 

Eyes, purple like floral tea, stared up wide at the ceiling. Claws threatened holes into the blankets, all the while his chest heaved up and down. Macaque’s lower lip trembled before he spoke, 

“What… what is this?” a choked plea, a suffocating inhale. His body fought against it, hissing and wincing like the pillows cushioning his head were poisoning him slowly. 

“It’s– it’s my bed,” Sandy paused when Macaque shot him a wary glare. “Do you not like it…?”

Hands curled up into the fabric, fur mussed up against the surface. Macaque took a deep breath, ballooning up his stomach then hollowing out.

“Why is it so soft?” he queried in a voice so small, Sandy wouldn’t think it came out of him. His breathing was punched out, sweat dripping and body visibly quaking. “It shouldn’t be.”

Sandy had his arms up near his chest, drawing in, smaller. “It’s just my bed. It’s not that soft, it's– should be about normal. Normal soft. Yeah.”

Macaque opened his mouth, as if to speak, but decided against it. He rolled swiftly to his side, hands kneading against the blankets, heel of his palm pressing firmly into it. 

“Huh…” he whispered, almost astonished. “Well–” a cough, or the clearing of one’s throat, it wasn’t certain, “uh, thank you?” Macaque shook his head, turning onto his back and giving Sandy a half-confused glare, but no punch behind it. “Don’t really need it though.”

Sandy hummed, “You don’t seem to be holding up so well, Mr. Macaque. Why don’t you just let me–”

And just like that, as if a switch was flipped, his expression darkened. The gentle lacings of confusion and hesitant near-trust shattered in an instant. Macaque shot up, giving himself a few moments to cradle a bowed head in his arms before continuing to scowl. 

“I’m doing fine, I don’t know what you– what you saw last night but it wasn’t,” he growled, “that didn’t mean anything! I’m taking care of myself just fine. I don’t–” he choked on a cough, “I dun’ need you, and your– your stupid, soft bed. And! And stop lookin’ at me like that.” He paused to choke on a coughing fit, wheezing out the next few syllables. “I know you, you’re the one who refuses to fight. You think that makes you better than me, huh? Because you’re so- so nice?” Macaque choked, and if Sandy didn’t know any better, he believed it to be a sob.

Macaque turned away this time, and he coated the bed in a sea of shadow. In the fight, Macaque neglected to hold onto the plushie he clung to so dearly just before. It slipped and fell to the floor in a heap. But all Sandy could do was watch the shadowy figure sit in the middle of his bed, frame convulsing every so often, but every sound muffled. 

He took a step back. A boat at sea has nothing to guide it but the sails, but what if the wind is to lead him astray? Then it shall be the waves who lead the way. But what then, when a storm erupts and gurgles, strumming the sky to his command and stirring a hand through the waters. What then, when the boat is stranded by all it once knew to be calm. But Sandy isn’t that anymore, he is not an unanchored ship off the docks, and even when stability turns against him, there is no peace more kind than the one which comes from within. Mei would call him corny for that, but it was true!

So, when he turned to leave, that was his choice. He left the blanketed darkness, making a beeline for the kitchen. Some cats followed him, nipping at his heels and meowing for a chance at a third breakfast. Through the storm, his mind circled around one thing he knew that was true. There was nothing a good cup of tea couldn’t fix. 

Brewing soothed the mind for a bit, just watching until the light flickered off, and the water stopped bubbling as if trying to escape its confines. There was a sense of peace there, always had been. It was all a part of the process, placing the tea bag into the mug. Then, when the kettle clicked, the steam stopped billowing and the water came back undisturbed, he would pour. It would splash around a bit, but never too much with his gentle moves. And while placing the cat-shaped kettle back in its rightful place, he allowed the tea bag to steep, for the boiling water to darken. 

He considered the fact he hadn’t even the slightest clue how Macaque preferred his beverages. Perhaps he’d only give a splash of milk, and a generous helping of sugar. But his mind wouldn’t stray from the pot of honey. Just a spoonful wouldn’t hurt, and Sandy was leaning towards the idea Macaque would barely even touch it anyway. Just one little bit wouldn’t matter. You attract more flies with honey than vinegar, at the very least.

Some of the cats watched him as he walked it back to his room. One hand held the bottom, as to not spill even a drop on the floor. They watched, round and slitted eyes, as he moved through the wide hallway to the door. It was still open ajar, no light streaming out. Sandy half expected the entire room to be dripping with darkness, coated by shade. But it was just the bed, slinking around the origin and dribbling off in clumps to the floor. He didn’t try to bother with it this time, simply resting the mug on the bedside table and watching. The lump in the middle writhed as if in pain, the swallowed down sound of a sneeze and a cough. All the while warbling like cries tried to break through the barrier of shadow. 

It paused then, and Macaque lowered at him. Even though the only parts visible were the cuts of his eyes, Sandy could still see how they shook, watery. 

“Go away,” he mumbled. “I don’t need you.”

“I brought you some tea,” Sandy mentioned lamely. Macaque stared at it and gave a stiff nod. 

“I’m not taking any more of your poison; you haven’t got the best of me.” His voice was thick and congested, like walls of mucus were stretched down his throat. 

Sandy’s eyes drifted to the floor, where tangles and vines of shadow tried to reach and find a place among the carpet. But maybe it wasn’t just exploration, it padded about as if trying to feel for something more. He bent down and felt the soft fur of the weighted cat plush. Turning it over in his hands, Sandy watched as Macaque’s eyes scrutinised from the walls to the closed off windows. 

The cat plushie is soft in his hands, and it's light. It’s not nearly the heavy anchor it used to be for him. A glance is offered to Macaque, still hiding away in his shadows. Those eyes latch onto him, narrowed, yet making no move. Sandy plops the cat down onto the bed, it sinks under the weight. It’s no longer heavy to him, not like the weight of those around him is, keeping him rooted to the ground. But Macaque darted to grab it so quickly, all Sandy could see were the leftover ripples of shade. 

Shadow swallowed the figure and the plush whole. Macaque was on his side again, eclipsed over the cat, arms keeping it flush to his chest. Sandy could hear erratic breathing and chose not to overstay his welcome. He left, one foot out the door, but not before looking to the darkness one more time. It was receding, thinning out around the edges and rapidly racing back to Macaque. He smiled, a soft thing hidden behind his beard, then shut the door. 

He’d find the mug empty tomorrow morning. 

 

---

 

It felt as if he had been dunked underwater.

Macaque awoke to the sensation of his skull splitting apart, the unrelenting cold digging her fingers into the curves and spirals of his brain matter and finding home in it. He could barely bite back a scream as she rummaged further within, sparking memory upon memory until reality was a faraway concept he just couldn’t bring himself to grasp. Though he could feel his hands, they tensed then released like an insect choking on bug spray. 

Something warm and wet slid down his face, and he thought it blood. But it trickled into his mouth, into his twitching lips and against a dry tongue. It tasted salty. Macaque wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

His eyes scrunched up against the bright light, the back of his eyelids a deep red. A hiss fizzled out his teeth, but it came out more like a whimper of pain. Macaque wanted to suffocate himself then, not to relieve this obvious torment, but anything to stop the humiliation of his body involuntarily displaying it. Because he knew at once, from the foreign, nigh uncomfortable feeling of angelic cloud beneath him, he was not at his shelter anymore. He breathed hard through his nose, trying to force his lips shut but his mouth disobeyed, making an instinctual chitter of agony. Wow, did that make Macaque want to slam his head through a wall. 

There was a weight on his chest, threatening his ribs and sinking down into the hollow of his stomach. It didn’t feel like a threat, like everything else did. In fact, it smelt faintly of lavender and nearly soothed him back to sleep… Just yield to the darkness whispering in his ears, overtaking him with feelings of safety.

His arm reeled back to throw the damned thing at the wall. Finally, finally his body obeyed him. The trap was gone, lying on its side on the floor. Good riddance, he wasn’t about to be tempted to his demise again by more false, saccharine promises. Hands found purchase among blankets, he gives them a faint squeeze, just in case they suddenly fail underneath his palms, turn to dust or snakes. None of that happens, not even after vigorous prodding. Everything is still beneath him, not moving. 

The pain slowly faded, head feeling as if it were stuffed with cotton. Macaque could barely think. He lifted a hand to rub at his eyes, feeling it sting even though it shouldn’t. Limbs felt heavy, felt chained down to the bed…

Chained.

Macaque wheezed, lungs cinching tight and oxygen suddenly all too thin. He kicks about uselessly, a more sound part of his brain feeling quite silly. But it was as if the bed was reclaiming him the grave of soil and wilted roses once did. He could feel the worms, the maggots, all wriggling about under him. And his limbs were lead against him. Useless and aching. It’s barely a thought to stop himself from biting through his cheeks and lower lip until blood spurts out in rivers. There’s a faint need to not stain the sheets, to keep everything as it was left, save for a few sheds of fur. 

In a moment, he could be gone, and nothing would change. The winds wouldn’t stop, the waves would continue to churn beneath them. And Sandy, that big idiot, would be none the wiser. Macaque was selfish enough to believe he might be missed for a few minutes but couldn’t extend that to an hour in his mind. But it was still so, so cold. And he’d have to walk across sleet for hours to find his shelter. It was so warm here, so inviting… If Sandy wasn’t going to take the opportunity to run him out the place, then he might as well sink into it indulgently. Shield himself in these layers of falsity until his mind stitches itself back together, and the chains are swallowed back up by the darkest recesses of his mind. 

All he could do, or all he could convince himself to do, was hold on just a little tighter. The weight against his chest, he felt around and could feel four limbs and a tail, didn’t feel like it was trying to pull him down, return him to the ground. In fact, it drew him simply to sleep. Though his head felt full and dripping, body tired and ready to die, falling asleep to the faint scent of tea and lavender.

He didn’t dream that day, or that night, time was lost on him. Simply, he found himself stranded in the middle of the sea. And at some point, he was awoken by a hand dwarfing his face, fingers brushing sweat-streaked hair off his forehead, resting against the skin. Lethargically, he found himself leaning bodily into it, chasing the warmth it emitted. The hand lead away, but Macaque followed it in turn. Why was it leaving? It fled, and a sound wormed its way out his throat like bile. 

An archaic sound from before he discovered the endless wonders of language. Something crossed between a trill and a whine, maybe even angry as it gurgled his vocal cords. The presence near him paused, waiting, as if deciding the next move. Macaque didn’t wait for that to happen, reaching out with tired, waterlogged arms and wrapping tightly around that arm. Claws pricked at the skin, thick and tough like oddly soft leather. He pulled it in closer, pressing his face against it. So warm, it was like being doused in silk. He wanted to feel it forever, feel like vanilla bean and the soft waft of cocoa. Macaque nuzzled his face into the palm on instinct, a rumble tearing through his chest when fingers lightly scratched at his scalp. 

The sound grew louder, and louder. Tail thumping on the blankets, sound muffled but no less there. This was the closest to bliss he could ever find. It reminded him, just faintly, of sun-soaked days and cloudy fog. Of a boy, rambunctious and loud, who took him by the hand and the tail, and showed him what life truly held. 

The rumble rattling his chest petered out, leading into a throaty cough that had Macaque doubling over. His mind paused the images of a lifetime so lost to him now, and instead painted scenes filled with shades of red and betrayal. He winced, and the hand paused momentarily. Macaque let it go, it was foolish to believe any of these mercies would so readily accept him. He curled up over the blankets, feeling around for the fabric imitation of a cat and continuing to hold on. The hand shall not take it back from him. 

At that point, the looming figure must have said something. But Macaque wasn’t listening, already covering the bed he laid on with shadows, every inch was devoured. Safe, safe under here. No eyes could pick him apart, and no pities could be shared. No-one would see a once warrior and see a mess. An ugly, brittle mistake.

 

---

 

The next time Macaque woke up, Sandy wasn’t there to witness it. 

Albeit the first time after being relocated to the bed, it had been all too scary to go through. Listening to the violent toss and turn of the demon, trying desperately to sweat out the fever, then being latched onto like a last resort. And faintly, he could even hear purring. Abruptly, it all stopped. As if remembering himself, Macaque turned back over and hid back under the darkness. 

Apart from what Sandy could only liken to feverish mood swings, there was the massive problem of Macaque smelling awful. He carried the faint stench of rot around with him, slowly putrefying in the bed. But the whole… cleaning process, would require him to be awake. 

Every so often, he’d check in and find the shadows gone. It would just be Macaque, curled up into the fetal position. And other times, the entire room would be a void of black ink, and two slits of violet eyes closed in sleep. It had only been a few days of hosting him so far, but Sandy was growing increasingly worried. Hypothermia was one thing, but it seemed recovering from it was another. He was kept awake, lounging on the couch, by the sound of sniffles and wet coughs. Once, while checking in, he found a small puddle of blood next to Macaque’s head, red dripping off his lip. He cleaned it off as best as he could manage, but found it left a light brown stain, nevertheless.

Today, though. On the dawn of the fourth day, Macaque was awake. 

Sandy was sipping on freshly brewed tea when he nudged the door open, stopping abruptly when he saw Macaque. He was sat up, head leaning against the bed frame, and staring blankly ahead. His eyes drifted lower, and lower, and finally stopped to stare right through Sandy. There was a flush on his face, spreading from his cheeks to his ears, and he looked absolutely gone. He blinked slowly, tilting his head to the side. 

A word, a mumble. None of it comprehensible.

“...Are you hungry?” the only thing he could possibly think of to say. Macaque’s ears wiggled, as if trying to absorb the frequencies of his voice. Glancing around, Macaque’s face morphed into one of confusion.

“Where are we?” he muttered. 

“My house, you’re in my bed.” Macaque glowered, his fur pricking up on its ends. “You’re sick.”

He huffed, “Am not.” Snot was running down his nose. He sniffed. 

Eyes narrowed, taking in everything around him like every item was an object deserving scrutiny.

“How long have I been here? Creepy as hell for you to kidnap me like this.”

Sandy wrung his hands, “I found you passed out in a dumpster. I couldn’t leave you, you almost died of hypothermia… But you’re still sick, and I wasn’t going to leave you on the streets while ill.” Somehow, this repeated explanation did nothing to soothe Macaque, who glared at him, frustrated.

“I don’t need your help. I don’t need anyo–” he broke off with a horrific cough, leading into a gag. Hands came to clutch at his chest, wheezing through the blockage. Sandy rushed forward, swiftly yet gently hitting a hand against his chest until Macaque choked up a lump of mucus. 

Macaque panted, hands cupping around the slime that crawled out his throat. He swallowed dryly.

“Did you– did you fucking poison me?”

Sandy flinched, “No! No, I promise I wouldn’t. I don’t- I don’t even have poison!”

Macaque scowled; his teeth brought back in a snarl. “What the fuck… Why did you bring me here.” It didn’t sound like a question, not enough inflection. It wasn’t helped by how raw and rough his voice was.

“You’re sick… You’re sick and you need to recover.”

The room went dark, dancing with shadow. And once more the only thing visible were those eyes. Those eyes that told him tales of death, destruction even he couldn’t fathom. One flickered, it turned a ghostly white. Macaque didn’t even appear to know it had happened. Just continued to stare. 

“That’s it, isn’t it, you think I’m weak. I’ll have you know I’ve survived so much worse. This is nothing. This is how I’ve been going about my life for fucking centuries. Do you think I can’t handle myself; do you not understand what I’m capable of?” Each threat was spewed out with a ragged, worn throat. His voice cracked mid-sentence, and he growled, hissed, under his breath. 

“I understand plenty! I don’t think you’re weak!” Sandy pleaded, stepping away until his back hit the door. His hands trembled around the cup of tea he forgot he was holding, the scalding heat of it nothing against his hands. The world was fading away fast with the shadow. It bubbled around the edges.

“Then why? If you didn’t think me weak, you wouldn’t treat me like I’m just some– some stupid thing that needs your help!” Each passing syllable was wavering harder, the shadows flickered with effort. Sandy worried the inside of his cheek with his teeth before shuffling forward. Macaque hacked and gagged like something thick was blocking his airways. His next words were close to a scream, “I’m fine on my own! Why would it have even mattered to you if I died out there! It’s not like–” he retched dryly, the next inhale sounding shallow and pained, voice growing quiet. “It’s not like anyone cared before.”

He broke off into a coughing fit, the shadows waned then wisped away to nothing. Macaque was doubled over, one hand clutching his chest, the other wringing his neck. A trail of blood gargled out like bile from his throat, dribbling down his chin and splatting in droplets onto the borrowed sweater. Sandy didn’t even register when he moved, but in the time it took to blink, he had one arm wrapped around Macaque’s chest. He squeezed lightly, listening intently for sounds of distress or pain. But it was all the same choked cries. 

More blood dislodged, soiling the sweater and scarf, staining the sheets below. Macaque gasped for air, both hands now at his throat, scratching at it furiously as if such an action will relieve the itch. Sandy moved to grab his arms, move them down and away. Before a complaint could surface, he placed the rim of his mug against Macaque’s mouth.

“Drink, it will help you feel better.” Without a fight, he did. He chugged back the entire cup of hot tea. A cough followed when empty, but it didn’t sound like it was ripping through the soft flesh of his throat like it used to. 

Sandy pulled away as Macaque collapsed against the bed. His chest stuttered with breaths, finally turning over to curl into himself. Placing the cup aside, Sandy knelt down to put a hand on Macaque’s back. His breathing hitched, and Sandy felt his entire body shudder under the feeling.

A frown pulled at his face. “You’ve been alone for so long, haven’t you?”

Macaque glared up at him with no heat, and a near smile playing on his lips. “Oh, you don’t know the half of it.”

 

---

 

On day five, Macaque was at least convinced to lay underneath the blankets. 

He sat right in the middle, barely a lump in the bed. The duvet was tucked up to his nose, and Macaque was too tired to really adjust it. In fact, he’d barely moved since yesterday. He stewed in his own decay and mumbled incoherently when Sandy offered to at least clean up the bed. From just yesterday, his temperature got even worse. Sweating while wracked with quaking shivers. 

The only real thought Sandy had when entering the room was Macaque looked tiny, like one of the cats making a home along his blankets. He didn’t take up very much room, on purpose or not. Simply staring at him out of the corner of his eye.

“Whaddya want?” he grumbled; voice no less hoarse.

Sandy tried not to feel intimidated. He had experience with cats, left out on the streets and surviving by licking rotten meat off bones. They didn’t take too kindly to being let in, didn’t sit by the fireplace with other cats when the nights grew cold; they curled up by open windows just to feel the draft. There’s a comfort in the familiar, and a fear in the unknown. And as it is, Macaque is staring smack in the middle of the most confusing situation he’s ever been in. So Sandy no longer took it to heart when he lashed out, when he snarled and turned away and buried himself in shadows. A stray cat is going to bite, but they’ll learn to lick the wound after, they always do. 

“I’m making lunch, would you like some?” Sandy watched his face morph. It went from what he could categorise as frustration, perhaps anger, to something more vulnerably confused. But it was smoothed over in an instant. These expressions, cracks in the facade, grew increasingly more difficult to counteract while sick as he is. 

“I–”

Sandy didn’t let him finish, “I’ll make enough for us both.”

Macaque stared off blankly. Sometimes, he wondered where those eyes of his went. Because they were farther than the ocean, taller than the sky, yet never seeming to really truly focus. What was so captivating, that it completely robbed Macaque’s sight?

“...Sure.” 

That was all the acknowledgement he needed. 

The kitchen at this time in the day was crowded with cats scoffing down their fill of dry food. Pellets scattered across the tiles as Sandy swiftly dodged to make some food. He had a few instant noodle packets stored away in his cupboards, not nearly as high quality as Pigsy’s cooking, not by a long shot, but still quite delicious. Especially on an empty stomach… Only a few minutes of sitting in boiling water until the meal was ready, finished off with the flavouring and a few baozi buns added for Macaque. He waited, waited until it was warm enough to serve. The cats looped between his legs, and they looked up at him with round, concerned eyes. Their noses twitched to the scent of illness that flooded the entire boat. He could only scratch just under their chin in unsure reassurance. It never made them any less worried.

Sandy hauled the instant noodles and buns to the bedroom, where Macaque appeared to be napping. As soon as the door was nudged back open, his eyes were wide open. Sandy gave a curt nod, sweat trailing down his neck at the non-stop glare Macaque never took off him. At some point, even when his razor shop tongue softened down, Sandy realised that glare never faded. Perhaps, it was just how he looked. But the crease between his eyebrows didn’t seem all too pleasant to deal with. 

One bowl was set on the table, along with the buns, and Sandy held onto his own. Macaque watched with unveiled caution as Sandy took a seat at the end of the bed. There must have been miles between them, thousands. An unsteady boat holding onto another, but the string was stretched so thin, they couldn’t even see each other in the dark. All they had to do was hope they could lead each other to calmer waters. 

Using chopsticks, Sandy took his first bite of the noodles. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Macaque, who in turn observed him. It became this endless game of simply perceiving each other with various levels of subtlety. After a few bites, and a satisfied hum, Macaque finally made a move for his own bowl. He took smaller bites, chewing slowly, almost as though savouring it. But the look on his face, of something conflicted, well, it never drew away. He never seemed to relax unless too sick to think straight. 

A feeling of shame washed over Sandy when he realised, he’d almost prefer it if Macaque was too addled to continue thinking. That way at least, he might eat without having to watch Sandy first. Might drink without having to be alone or dying from a coughing fit. Perhaps, even sleep calmly without waking up fitfully. 

Macaque slowly but surely made his way through the bowl, a few times almost choking on the baozi. But with drooping, bruised eyes he made it through.

“...Thanks,” he muttered, “food’s good.” The chopsticks stabbed through another bun, pork filling pooling out like blood. Macaque gave a tentative glance upwards, watching for something.

“If you’re hungry, just let me know. I have enough food, for both of us, that is.”

Macaque screwed up his face, “I don’ need that much food to keep me going. You just keep it, big guy.”

Sandy paused, still holding the bowl. It was so small in his hands, so breakable. And yet, there wasn't even a chip in the porcelain. He can handle the fragile with the gentleness it deserves.

“You deserve to eat too,” he whispered. The confidence in his tone fading, fading. Then it was silent, Sandy was starting to dread it. Sitting there, nothing but his hands, and waiting for a response not guaranteed to come. Instead of a reply, at first there was just a laugh of disbelief.

“You’re a weird guy,” Macaque rasped. He brought the bowl up to sip at the tiny broth bubbling at the bottom. It didn’t taste as good as the soup basking at the bottom of Pigsy’s, but he slurped it up like liquid gold anyway. “You say a lotta stuff.”

“I only say what I mean,” Sandy countered. There it was again, that moment of stillness. Feeling himself a soldier trapped in a trench, while the other side does much the same. They don’t know the grenades on either side, so they huddle up so neither sees a hair.

Macaque sighed, placing the bowl down, staring into it like one would tea leaves. 

“What do you want from me?” he sighed it out, like a sentence he tired of repeating. A sunken sense of resignation, a cycle unbroken and a chain still fettered. The air around them turned stale, unbreathable.

“Huh?” Sandy gasped out, feeling all too uncertain if his lungs still worked. 

Macaque’s expression went tight. “You wouldn’t be doing all this if you didn’t need something from me.” A glance up, searching him. “You know who I am. I don’t know if you need an assassin or a warrior, or someone to scoop your cats’ litter trays, but I’m not about to be indebted to anyone again.” Hands tightened until they were shaking, sweat poured and stained his stolen clothes. “Not again…”

A hand hesitated on its destination, but it settled on taking back the bowl, stacking it atop his own. Sandy stared into the remains, practically licked clean. 

“Would you believe me if I said I didn’t need or want anything from you?” Sandy tried. Those narrow, deeply untrustful eyes glowered.

“No.”

He leaned over to pick the plate of now-demolished baozi buns up, balancing them together. “Then how about this, I’m doing all this because I want you to rest and get better.”

Macaque nearly growled, “That’s not– what do you even get out of that? You’re a damn liar.”

Sandy hummed, “I might get a friend, that’s good enough for me.”

He moved out to put the dishes away, a smile creeping up his face at Macaque's dumbfounded look. 

 

---

 

On the eighth day of cohabitation, Macaque finally moved.

It wasn’t for a lack of trying, or protest, or grumbling. Sandy couldn’t have forced him into bedrest harder unless he physically chained him down, which, you know, he wasn’t going to do. He wasn’t holding Macaque hostage or anything (though that was a running theory he had while restless with delirium).

Macaque wasn’t dumb to his own smell, for a few days he was, but the whole room had begun to smell like a garbage disposal, tipped on one side and festering. Sleep began to evade him, slinking away always at the last second. It was that stench, that constant, gnawing knowledge of uncleanliness. The grime clung to him like a pest, and all Macaque could do was will to forget the feeling. The fact he is unclean, and Sandy is probably gritting his teeth every night, wherever it is he sleeps, that Macaque is soiling everything around him. Like a parasite of mercy. He should be kicked out by now, why isn’t he?

His hands scrunched up in the blankets, feeling dried blood under palms. Why was he still here?  

A tired sigh was lodged within his throat, and his head felt like it was one strong gust of wind away from toppling off, making home amidst the void. Speaking of, that inevitable darkness etched a gaping hole within him once more. And it grew every time Sandy was to leave, to clean up his messes or tend to responsibilities that weren’t this burden, stored away in the room he was meant to be resting in every night. 

Macaque dug his hands in deeper, wishing instead he had the courage to spill blood openly into Sandy’s room, painting it a deep, deep red. It would be a suiting pain, just to crease claws into his arms. But then it would soak and stain Sandy’s sheets. He knew, so acutely aware, how much blood he’d already puked up. 

There has to be something he wants. Something he desires from Macaque, a servant, a punching bag, a trophy? He didn’t… didn’t seem like the kind of guy, but people will surprise you. Macaque chewed at his lip, hands coming to tangle through the scarf. It wasn’t his, very obviously not, but the weight of it around his shoulders was comforting enough to let him sleep at night. It had been a struggle in recent times, laying there on the broken floors of his chosen shelter, feeling the wind course over his neck. It felt so… Vul– 

The door was pushed over again, as per routine, Sandy meekly ducked his head into the gap. His face brightened to see Macaque sitting up a little taller, but his face was no less flushed. Over the past few days, he’d been checking in more frequently. It was either to put a wet towel delicately over his forehead, instructing not to move an inch, or just asking if he needed anything. It was absurd, to say the least. He was given a bed, no expectations other than rest, and fed on a whim! What else could he possibly need? 

A few times, he came in with tea, or plastic cups of water. 

“No glasses?” he had said, only half a question.

Sandy had just shrugged, “The cats like to knock things over.” Macaque hummed, holding the cup in two hands. There were claw marks in it, just faintly, and chips around the rim There were stories there. Maybe not words, but stories, nonetheless. 

Other times when he came in, Sandy said nothing. Those were usually the times where Macaque was captured in purgatory between being awake and asleep. The world around him was fuzzy, formless and so, so far away. Sometimes, he’d stand at the door. Either his head would rest on the doorframe, or he’d stand with his back to the wall. Either way, the secondary presence was almost… comforting. On the worse moments, however, Macaque would feel rather than see the bed dip under him. A weight at his side, the closest thing to an anchor the lost ship could manage. 

When it got bad, when the wind churned too hard for him to hear, a hand would card through his hair. His thick, greasy, untouchable hair. That was the weird thing about Sandy, despite the thorns, he always goes in to pick the rose. The signs of his neglect must be obvious, tales as clear as the marks in cups, and the glue in the porcelain mugs. But they weren’t nearly as beautiful. 

This time when he comes in, he adopts the typical habit of pressing his back against the door. This time, his shirt is off. He’d been wearing the same white undershirt for a few days, it never seemed to smell. Sandy was just perfect like that, he supposed. Didn’t tear through dumpsters for his next meal, or punch just to feel another person's warmth, or argue just to talk to someone, or hide like a child under the shadows when everything got too much. 

And he probably didn’t need to hold a cat doll to sleep at night. No, definitely not. 

He watched Sandy, eyes half-lidded, and Sandy watches him back. They’re stuck as it is, words clogged in their throat. And an elephant gallivants about the room like it damn well owns the place. Macaque shimmied further under the blankets, always keeping his one working eye on Sandy. At this point, he doubts he’d try anything, but one can never be too cautious, maybe. 

“Do you need anything?” he asked once again, a rehearsed line. Spoken timidly, like Macaque was sure to bite if he spoke up. Or perhaps, he was just so considerate, he figured out Macaque’s dislike of noise without even having to ask. 

Macaque’s nose screwed up.

“I smell like shit, don’t I?”

Sandy hummed, giving a so-so gesture, “You could say that.” 

So that was it then. Sandy stood between him and the door but made no effort to move. He was just waiting, counting down the seconds until Macaque got out of his face. There was a sigh, somewhere caught in his throat, but Macaque knew he had no right to mourn. So instead, he braced himself for the winds outside. It would be ruthless, but nothing he hadn’t experienced before. A week wasn’t enough to coddle him from the ways of a wayfaring warrior. 

With arms that shook, he pushed himself up and out of the bed. His fur, sweat-soaked and disgusting, clung to the sheets but let go in an instant. Feeling like nothing but the grime scraped off the dumpster, he slumped towards the door. Standing here now, two feet on the ground, he actively realised just how much taller Sandy was, craning his neck back to see his face. 

“Oh, are you ready now?” he asked, glancing back towards the door and kicking it open. 

Macaque frowned and tried not to let that feeling bubbling up within bear fruit. 

“I guess,” he muttered, kicking at the ground. “I suppose I should thank you though.”

Sandy laughed, deep and timber, it sounded like honey. And he rubbed the back of his neck, shifting the magenta beads, they clacked against each other. A symphony of sound, all created in one fell swoop. 

“Ah, thank me for what? A bath is nothing, really.”

Macaque paused.

“A bath?”

Sandy paused.

“Unless… you prefer showers?”

A strange sensation washed over him, and Macaque gaped like a fish stranded on the docks. His hands felt light, a tingling he only realised was there after being thrown into the depths of panic. Macaque chose to stare straight ahead, peripheral only capturing the white of Sandy’s sweatpants.

“You’re not kicking me out?” He could hear it then, how the world seemed to stand still on its own. How the wind stopped rustling through the sheets Sandy put up and called sails. How the waves turned timid and cold, waiting, just waiting, for something to happen.

“No, I–” Sandy hesitated, the words hissed hot on the edge of his tongue. But he swallowed those coals down and felt the tension between them thicken and thin out, wane and wax. “I’m not kicking you out,” felt like the right thing to say. “I promise,” that felt even righter. 

Macaque’s shoulders slumped, the rest of him pleaded to do the same. If he were lesser, he might have collapsed right then, fallen to the weight of a life he knew he didn’t deserve to be leading. The soles of his shoes were adjusted to the cold hard pavement. So why did he melt into the softness of the carpet, instead of making his grand exit, flourished with a bow, now that he’s on two feet? 

“A bath sounds nice,” he croaked out instead. Instead of the thousands of other sentences brewed behind sharp teeth and a sharper tongue. Macaque bit the inside of his cheek; he hoped his fang would pierce right through the flesh. He hoped it would bleed.

“Alright.” Macaque finally glanced up; his eyes felt heavy. He found himself missing being asleep, missing being wrapped up in blankets without worry of when and where the next step would be. There wasn’t some ground-breaking scene when he met Sandy’s face, just watched as his head flicked back to motion towards the door. “Come out with me.” And that he did.

Walking through the hallways was a liminal experience. Macaque found himself rocking on each step but hesitated between illness or the steady break of the waves being the cause. With each flutter of his eyelashes, it was though a new side of the boat unravelled for him. Over the days, he could hear the cogs of the housework in place. How the cats milled about, the specific times Sandy got up to feed them. He could tell when they were fighting, and when Sandy was meditating. Knew when the kettle was boiling and could tell when Sandy made enough for two by how long the streams poured for. He could tell some cats ate more than others and spent their days on the litterbox longer. Knew that Sandy had a majority collection of elderly cats, could hear them lounging around and purring, not nearly as many kittens playing. 

Now he was out there, feeling his steps click in place with the ebb and flow of life right here, Macaque could tell the entire boat smelt like earl grey, with the faintest whiff of lavender. 

Sandy brought him out to the living room. Though, it seemed to be the cat cohort’s living space more than his. The place was decorated liberally with cat-scratches; toys crowded the floors; the treats spread out sparingly, most likely not Sandy’s work; and the fur… everywhere. Except for the couch, the one Macaque spent a night or two on. He doesn’t remember it for its comfortability, but he can’t say the same for most of the places he’s chosen to sleep. A frown graces his lips at the depression in the couch, pulled out further to more resemble a bed. There’s a thin red blanket tossed to the side of it. Macaque frown grew deeper, more refined into his face.

“I got your clothes back, you know– your normal ones.” Sandy smiled sheepishly, giggling awkwardly at Macaque still dressed in his dirtied attire. “Sorry for not giving it back straight away, I had to stitch some of it back together, then give it a proper wash and dry. Should be good as new now though!” Sandy held out the pile of clothing. Macaque looked from Sandy’s face to the outstretched clothing. He hooked a hand under the sweater, which dangled about near his knees, and finally started to tear it off. 

Halfway through pulling it up, Sandy stopped him.

“You don’t have to change right now! You can have your bath first, and then change after.” Sandy rushed the words out, and Macaque paused. His eyes were on the exposed parts of his chest. The gaze didn’t feel obtrusive, but the curiosity in it was starting to make him feel… perhaps self-conscious. Slowly, he lowers it. Past the scars sunk into skin, and almost managing to cover the patch, fraying and peeling yet still somehow sticking on. 

Sandy seemed stuck on that.

“I.. What is that?”

Macaque dropped it entirely, “It’s nothing.” The words snapped a little harder than intended. Internally, he winced. Sandy’s mouth fell into a soundless O, quickly pushing his hands together and nervously looking around. 

“Well, uh, sorry. A-anyway, I had to stitch up some of the clothes. Had to uh, cut some up a little bit. When people have hypothermia, it’s not really a good idea to move them around much. And your clothing had gotten, well, cold and wet from being outside. Had to get it off.” Sandy muttered, laughing to himself. Macaque could practically hear the sweat dripping off him. 

“Oh, huh. Alright,” was his elegant response. 

Sandy laid each article out, folding it up and taking it back out. Macaque watched this odd ritual of him folding, unfolding, and refolding for quite some time. All the while he continued to mutter, words that were so high strung with nerves he barely registered them.

“So, um. How do you like your baths? I prefer hot water, personally. I’m surrounded by cold, sea water all the time! I’d just dip in that if I wanted to be cold.” He glanced at Macaque wearily, “Not like I’d dump you in the ocean, or anything. I wouldn’t do that.” For some reason, he found himself believing that. He didn’t avoid most bodies of water without good reason, having such a thick pelt really does come with its downsides. But a shadow would be simple enough to save him from landing right in the waves.

Sandy blinked at him, already refolding his clothes up for the fourth time. Macaque’s mouth felt dry. Instead of answering, he kept his gaze lingering on the stitches in his clothing. Fabric was reunited together with golden string, how it weaved together and tightened the ruptures. It was almost, in a sense, beautiful. Eyes met eyes on the subject of beauty, and out of the corner of his vision, Macaque watched Sandy’s face soften impossibly so.

“Ah, this colour was the only one I had on me at the time. I didn’t want to make you wait much longer; didn’t think you’d be all that pleased about having to be stuck in someone else's clothing so… I rushed, just a little!”

From around the corners, stuck in the darkness, or the holes carved out for them, the cats emerged. Despite hearing them flocking the place for the week he’s been trapped in here; Macaque had barely seen hide nor hair of the little creatures. But here they were now, padding along the floorboards on silent feet. The only sound announcing their presence was the jingle of the bells, attached tightly to their collars. A few came closer than most. Some danced along the outskirts, not touching the light but bending their nose down to sniff the boundaries. But others, the elders, the ones who took neutrally to intruders such as him, dived up onto the couch with not a shred of hesitation. 

Macaque watched them, torn between doing something and nothing at all. Instead, he just imitated a statue, hand halfway outstretched in an aborted action. One of the cats, a tabby, with swirling markings of grey like the stones nestled on the ocean’s floor, leaned forward. The base of their head, the space between their ears where the patterns really curled, was placed against Macaque’s open palm.

He flinched backwards, recoiling. Sandy stopped his folding. It must have been the eighth time by now.

“Oh, that’s just Mocha, she’s a friendly one.” He made quick clicking sounds with his tongue, which the cat, Mocha, reacted to. Little ears perking up, whiskers twitching. Sandy giggled, light and weightless like bubbles, “She’s a sweetheart.”

Mocha dipped forward, pink nose quivering. Tentatively, Macaque held out a hand. The cat sniffed it, wet nose skimming against his skin. After a few seconds, feeling Mocha’s warm breath over his palm, sandpaper scraped across it.

Yelping, Macaque jumped back. Holding his hand as if burnt. Sandy giggled from behind him, and suddenly it wasn’t just the fever that made his face feel so warm. 

“No need to be scared, she’s just licking you!” Sandy explained, he finally stopped putting creases in his clothes to step forward as a demonstration. He held out an enclosed hand, and Macaque watched as Mocha’s tongue flicked across his knuckles. “Cat tongues just feel a little rough, but it’s just their way of affection! It’s like… hm, how monkeys groom each other!” Macaque stiffened, on instinct alone if nothing else. “Cats clean themselves with their tongue, so they clean you too as their own way of grooming. It’s actually quite sweet.” 

Gently, Sandy took him by the wrist. The touch was featherlight, and even though his hand encircled and dwarfed Macaque entirely, there wasn’t an ounce of fear running through his nervous system. Simply, he allowed his hand to be offered out to the cat like a sacrifice to the gods. Without missing a beat, Mocha lapped at his skin. It took a few seconds to grow adjusted to the texture, but after a while, it started to feel more comfortable than anything. He grew accustomed to the grooves in the tongue. Sandy let go, smiling with the warmth of a small sun as Macaque allowed the cat to lick up and down his hand. 

“See, Mocha’s a nice girl. She’s always very curious about new people, aren’t you Mochy? Yes you are!”  Sandy ruffled the fur on her head, and the cat purred loud in response. And maybe it was the soothing frequencies of the rumble that made his tongue tie loosen, or his inhibitions ebb, but whatever the reason, he opened his mouth. 

“It’s a testosterone patch,” he intoned. The air around him felt thin, flat, but Mocha continued to purr to Sandy’s ministrations like nothing had been said.

“Hm, pardon?” Macaque’s ears felt warm, they fluttered around for a place to hide.

His tongue felt dry and heavy in the warm cave of his mouth. Little by little, he lifted up the oversized sweater to reveal once more the brown square against his visible skin. “This, it’s a, uh, testosterone patch. The hormone, you know?” Macaque’s eyes flicked up to scan Sandy for any sort of reaction. 

“Oh, oh well. Thank you for telling me,” Sandy tried to smile, but seemed far too nervous about it. Like each minor expression could perhaps shatter the air around them. 

Mocha rubbed her head flat against Sandy’s arm, purring and bouncing away. Nothing but a few wisps of shed fur in the wind. 

“So, are they something you need to replace, or–?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah like once a week I think. Don’t really remember where I put the rest of my stash…” 

Sandy put a hand to his chin, scratching lightly like a wise old man. “Do you remember where you got them from by any chance?”

Macaque hummed, “I’ve been borrowing from the pharmacy near here… I mean– buying, like a law abiding citizen. Obviously.”

“Right, of course.”

Macaque frowned, fidgeting with the patch and peeling it all the way off. It layed flat, curling up at the edges, on his palm.

“It’s probably out,” he sighed.

Sandy gently took it from his hand, grabbing it by the sticky outside. “I can get you some more, you need to take them regularly right?” Macaque just stared at him. Just… stared. “I heard from MK a few times you can’t really just suddenly stop or– or the effects will reverse I think.”

Macaque gulped a lump down his throat, “Yeah… Yeah, uh, it does do that.” He winced at pure memory. 

Sandy looked the discarded patch over, inspecting it. 

“Alright, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Wait, what–” but before the protest could advance beyond a faint confusion, Sandy was already moving off. Macaque followed at his heels, dragging his tail down the hall until they made it to the bathroom. 

It was clean in there, not as though he expected much less. Nothing in his house was sullied, apart from where Macaque touched, and where the cats marked their territories by way of fur and other means. The walls were shiny, the mirror was only the faintest bit foggy. And there, in the corner, was the largest bathtub Macaque had ever had the glory of seeing. In all fairness, Sandy was a big guy. It didn’t shock him nearly as much as expected, but it was still a sight to behold. 

Without even waiting, Sandy knelt down by the porcelain tub. He laid Macaque’s mended clothes on the dry mat, moving instead to turn the knobs. Warm water gushed out the faucets, slowly but surely filling the whole thing up. Macaque watched from the wall, shifting his weight back and forth on his feet. Eyes glazing over, watching as Sandy went about the motions of pouring liquid into the rising water. He turned to the side, his face meeting the reflection. 

The glass held stories, and they weren’t pretty. Macaque finally got a good look at himself for the first time in, well, months, and the result wasn’t easy to digest. Somewhere in the struggle, his glamours had been wiped away like faulty makeup. Battle scars just open wounds. His ears are out, scars and jagged edges open for anyone to see. 

The thought hit him like a tonne of bricks. Sandy’s been seeing him like this, for a week now. Macaque choked on air, desperately grabbing his throat to force the realisation out. But his eyes couldn’t tear away from the disgusting marks covering his body. He could almost picture what was under the blood-stained sweater, tangled fur and poking ribs, and the places where a patch should be. He choked, and the sound that was released after that sounded an awful lot like a whine. 

Two hands like weights of iron and fire were pressed to his back. A voice like weaved silk spoke into three ears at a time. It’s okay, it said. Circles of warmth brushed themselves into his shoulder blades. Macaque shuddered; his knees buckled traitorously. You’re alright, just breathe. He could hear it then, the purposeful intake of breath from the one behind him. It was a fight for his lungs to work, closed off and unready for business. But Macaque tried, and oh, he tried so hard.

The sound of pouring water, the smell of sweetness, tinged with honey, never left his nose. 

“That’s it,” the voice continued, “breathe, just like that.” Macaque couldn’t feel his limbs, couldn’t feel anything other than the unrelenting grip of the cold.

“I’m scared,” he wheezed pathetically. Scrabbling for hold on anything, for anyone, Sandy embraced him. It was close, but not tight. There was no squeeze against his ribcage, Macaque could breathe.

“I got you, I got you.” Someone lit a fire deep in his skull, melting his brain like a candle and burning the back of his eyes. Macaque shivered, even as the warm air wafted into mist. 

Sandy slowly untangled the embrace, keeping his touch light against his shoulders. 

“You’re okay, it was just a bit of a panic attack, I think. Just focus on breathing, you’ll be okay.”

Macaque sucked in a breath so fast it made him feel faint, stars dancing above his head like a halo. “Right, right… Didn’t mean to– mean to do that.” He drew himself away, pressing further to the counter, the mirror. Despite reason, he glanced back at himself.

You’re such a mess.

The urge to shatter the mirror didn’t fade. And Macaque could spend hours upon picking apart every part of himself until there was nothing left. The eyebags that didn’t ebb away after a few good nights rest, the wrinkles of stress that overstayed their welcome, the patches and scars. So many scars. Macaque wanted to dig his fingers into the scar tissue and rip it out, knowing it would only make it worse. He’d rather bleed out for the rest of his life than show the world that he failed. 

Sandy was knelt by the tub, one hand in the water to test it. Macaque leaned back until the back of his head was against the mirror, and he was sitting on the counter, tail lazily settling into the sink. He wished for the sound of it cracking under his skull, but no sound like that was to come. Closing his eyes, he listened to the sounds of the cats pawing at the door, rubbing their faces against the walls, the furniture, the scratching posts, and listening to the lapping of those rough, sandy tongues against water and pellets.

Something else dripped into the water, it hissed on contact. The room was flooded with the sweet aroma of strawberries, and of course, lavender. There was a hint of cherry blossom and fig to it as well.

“I put some scents into the bath so it smells nice for you. Ooh, and I added some bubbles too!” Sandy rambled on, stacking bottles along the flat parts of the tub. “There’s also some bath bombs if you want to use them.”

“Why would I blow up the bath?” 

Sandy paused, “Er, nevermind then.”

The faucets squeaked with completion. Sandy shook his hands free of water, rubbing them down his sweatpants. 

“There ya go! I made it nice and warm for you, but if you need to adjust the temperature, the left knob is for the cold water, and the right is for the hot water.” Sandy stood up, gently taking Macaque by the waist to lower him back down to the floor. Macaque almost fell on his face when Sandy let go. “And oh! Call out if you need anything, I’m just going to be washing down the bedsheets.”

His face, Macaque realised, was bright like a fully grown sunflower. He was tall like the trees, and giving like the pollen. Cool like water, kind like petals. And it was a foolish, corny thing to think, neck craned up to get a good look at that sunny countenance… but he found it couldn’t be refuted. 

“I– yeah, thanks. Thanks for this.” Sandy grinned, making his way to the door and closing it behind him. It shut with a click, and Macaque was alone. The mist from the hot water suddenly felt like nothing but altitude, and the air around him was cold like a blanket of ice. His feet found themselves moving on their own, and hands, of their own accord, pressed flat to the door. 

Shaking, he realised lamely, he was shaking. Macaque screwed his eyes shut, forehead pressed against the door as he began to undress. Wow, he was more of a mess than he could have ever imagined. The simplest of gestures had him crumbling, dirt and destruction on the floor below. Slime, the gunk Sandy carried out from the trash. He wanted Sandy to tell him this was a sympathy project, cash him in for brownie points. Because otherwise the pang in his heart felt much too real, and he was tired of chasing stars that never landed for him. 

The sweater and scarf landed on a heap on the floor. And for a few minutes, while the bath’s warmth and sweet scents started to fade into the vents, just looked at himself. Looked, where the knife had made incisions into his chest, leaving two little imperfect marks. For the first few months, he hated them, no, despised. Just another mark for everyone to gawk at. A constant reminder, as all scars were, that he was born wrong. And the world simply had to remind him of his place, making sure everyday he awoke in his own skin was another day he remembered how wrong he was. At least it wasn’t the reminder his flesh was born with, that birth had set him on the wrong path since the beginning. For years he wanted to slice it off, free himself. But it always left a reminder.

Always.

A shudder, it wasn’t just the cold anymore. Everything was shattered, and Macaque was lugging around broken bones in a bag of skin. And right then, more than anything, he wanted to lose it. Standing there, naked in someone else’s bathroom. His heart screamed to trust, but his mind knew he hadn’t earned that pleasure. He wanted, (and wasn’t it such a thing, to want?) to just break. He was so tired of carrying the burden of putting one foot in front of the other. So tired of the performances, the scores that followed. 

A warrior isn’t allowed even a chip in the armour, but what kind of warrior is he? The kind to be pulled in by the calming scents of a bath, and the need to rid the grime of his skin. Couldn’t break, not right now. Not when Sandy already had to help him with the simple act of breathing. What did he call that, a panic attack? That was ridiculous, he wasn’t being attacked by anything. Just… acting dumb. Normally others who witness those periods of weakness don’t treat it with the same unearned grace. He was used to being told, in no uncertain terms, to suck it up and keep going. And they would last hours, bubbling beneath the surface as he begs not to shed even a single tear. They never passed so quickly before, just like water under the bridge.

Macaque placed one foot in the bath and winced. His fur stood on end, but a few seconds of adjusting was all it took until his skin erupted into goosebumps, craving more. Soon, he was sunk deep into the warm, bubbly water. It covered the scar-etched skin, and Macaque felt his entire body go limp. The place where his neck and head met lowered to rest against the wall of the bathtub, Macaque allowed himself to sink into it. 

Rocking along with the waves, he closed his eyes. It wasn’t sleep, nor death, but something close washed over him. It smelled like the bath, like all the scents Sandy meticulously added in for him. It felt like the warm embrace of the water, how it scalded his flesh and fur and reminded him what it was like to feel anything but the fleeting sense of frost. The bubbles gathered around him, a protective coat to hide the body he was burdened with from sight. 

Was this peace? Was this what it was meant to feel like this entire time? Macaque paused, inhaling deeply through his nose, if only just to smell the scents placed in just for him. They didn’t serve a purpose, didn’t clean him faster, didn't heal him quicker to get him out of Sandy’s hair… It’s just– there. There to be nice, to be soothing. To make bathing again for the first time in years less sterile, less terrifying.

Macaque dunked his head under the bath water, eyes closed tight. If anyone were to witness the water running down his face, then it wouldn’t be called tears. 

 

---

 

The washing machine thunked in place, playing a soft little tune. Some of the cats had crowded around to sit on top of it, having their furry little bodies shaken by the thumping. Others just sat by the window, watching the sheets tumble about. Their tails waved in unison, and Sandy was just as focused.

He was trying to keep his mind off how far this whole thing could break. Keeping everything in his palms, every fragile egg, and putting them in their respective baskets. Had to plan a trip out for some more food, then head to the pharmacy and see if he can get some testosterone patches for Macaque. Needed him to feel as comfortable as possible, and that wouldn’t be feasible if his body was slowly undoing the changes of hormone replacement. He thought those scars looked more surgical than the rest, jagged and unclean, but didn’t get a good look. 

The sheets and blankets churned around in the soapy water. Over, and over again. The spilt blood would be clean, the grime and dirt would be cleansed. Hopefully, Macaque would feel a lot better once finally getting clean. There were a lot of smells in the boat, from the tea being brewed, to whatever the cats dragged in, to the plants hung in pots around the place. But even he was starting to tell that Macaque hadn’t been acquainted with hygiene for a while. But staring into those sunken eyes… eye, that it wasn’t much fault of his own. The fur of his body always felt off when he touched it, coarse and greasy. There were times he could feel something like sludge slicked up between the hairs, and had to bite back a wince at the feeling. 

If that sound left his mouth, he knew Macaque wouldn’t look at him again. Worse than the coats of shadows, dripping over the floors and swallowing the light whole. Before he could even stutter an excuse, he’d be gone. The only hope of finding him again another fateful day, another winter storm, another fallen dumpster. 

There was something drawing him to Macaque. And it was more than the fostering instinct of one who nursed many cats in his lifetime. Perhaps just the seed of potential buried in mussed up black fur, hidden in the pearlescent purple of his eye. And in the moments he tore away from reality just to sink into a touch. All Sandy could do was recount the tales told from mouth to ear in his mind. An evil being, despicable, only cares for himself. Remembers the vague anecdote of his play. Sandy never got to see it for himself, yet it still echoed in the hollow chambers of his heart. It bounced around, a bud of pain that was in full bloom. 

What was it called again? His brain was abuzz, the information filed away in the dark recesses. Oh well, it wasn’t overly important right now. There were bigger things to worry about. Particularly, checking up to make sure Macaque was still okay. A noisy part of his mind fretted about the poor guy drowning in there, though it wasn’t exactly likely, the bathtub was much bigger than a normal one. 

Leaving the machine to chug along the cleaning cycle, Sandy pushed himself to stand. He brushed the clinging dust and debris off his pants, moving instead from the laundry to just outside the bathroom. Shoes touching the wooden door, he knocked gently. There wasn’t a stir from within, just the faint pop of bubbles. 

“Uh, Macaque? Doing okay in there?” Again, not a response. Sandy frowned, all too suddenly that little voice was gnawing on his ear. Then it spoke louder. What if he slipped, the floors could get pretty drenched at times. The death would only be apparent when sluggish blood leaks out from under the door. And at that point, it’d be too late. What if Macaque was having another panic attack? He slipped so easily, on a high-off hazy perch one moment, something close to rock bottom the next! And if he really did slip under, how long could he hold his breath before dying? 

Sandy knocked on the door until his knuckles hurt. No response. 

In a moment, his shoulder was pressed up against the door. A hand secure on the doorframe. He’d locked it preemptively, assuming Macaque would appreciate the privacy it offered. But with his heart beating wildly in his chest, Sandy acted on impulse. 

The door slammed open, smacking against the wall. It almost left a dent in its place, but Sandy wouldn’t notice even if it did until weeks later. The only sound he could hear was the pained breathing stuck in his throat, it throbbed against his neck. Whipping his head to the side, hunched shoulders slackened to see Macaque laying still in the bathtub, eyes closed. 

His nose and ears were under the water. Through the foamy white bubbles, smaller ones peppered around Macaque’s muzzle. Sandy was at his side in mere seconds, skidding across the floor so quick fabric burn flared at his knees. Warm, protective hands hoisted him from the waters, just enough to lift him to expose the neck. There was a scar there, one he found he couldn’t look away from. It was thin and encircled the entirety of his throat. Nausea boiled in his stomach. 

Macaque’s eyes sluggishly blinked open, suds clinging to his eyelashes. Sandy removed one hand to delicately clear his eyes, they fluttered under his touch. Instead of replying right away, though Sandy’s nerves were soothed by him moving at all, Macaque shook himself off a little and yawned. 

“Hm, hey?” he mumbled.

Sandy went to say something but wheezed instead. His lungs were so tight, he could have lost him. The world was dark, and the bathroom was closing in on him. The walls taunted him with how distracted he got with laundry of all things. Should have been keeping an eye on him… Should have made sure he was okay.

“Sandy?” a voice broke through the fog. “Hey, uh. Breath, okay? Umm…” Sandy opened his eyes, facing the front of his palms. He tore his hands off his face, glancing up breathlessly to meet Macaque’s eye. That face he was greeted with contorted erratically, one eye searching his face, ears flicking water. A hand was trembling out for him, not deciding whether to take the plunge or not. 

“Breathe,” Macaque echoed, “did somethin’ happen?”

“I– I was just… I was just coming to check on you, but you didn’t say anything. So! So, I opened the door, and you were under the water, not moving!” Hands came down to clutch at the edge of the tub so hard it creaked. “I’m sorry for breaking in like that.”

Macaque laughed a little dizzily. 

“Was napping, big guy. I like the water over my ears… Probably should’ve just laid on my back though, huh?” his words trailed off into a giggle. “Didn’t mean ta’ make you worry or anything.”

“It’s okay,” Sandy exhaled, “it wasn’t your fault. I just got worried.” A tiny, wet hand patted him on the forearm.

“No need to worry, ‘m allll good.” To top it off, Macaque gave a weary thumbs up before relaxing back into the bath.

Through the fuzzy, suds of the bath, the water was already turning brown. Macaque leaned back, floating on his back and submerging the back of his head into the bathwater. Sandy frowned.

“Do you want to get cleaned up, so you can get out quicker?” His eye lazily scanned the ceiling, sinking further into the bubbles.

“Hmm….” he mumbled through a mouthful of bubbles.

Sandy churned a hand slowly through the water and foam. “You’ll feel a lot better.”

Spitting out some suds, Macaque shimmied to sit further up, “I guess.”

Along the edges of the bath sat various bottles, some fuller than others. Sandy reached over, carefully as he could, to grab a bottle from the other side. Macaque just watched him, gaze listless and foggy. The bottle was shapely and pink, a photo of a smiling cat pasted on it.

“This is the shampoo I use for my cats whenever they need baths, which isn’t a lot so there’s plenty in here. Might be better for your fur!” 

Macaque side-eyed him, “I’m a monkey…”

Sandy gave a conflicted expression, slowly twisting the bottle around. “But every other product is for hair, it might not work the same.”

“Fine.” He muttered, staring down at the soapy waters instead of at Sandy. 

There was a cat at the door, scratching at it because she could smell Sandy inside. There was that faint scent of bath smells that normally meant Sandy was soaking, and she would trample around the edge and try not to slip in. But the door wasn’t opened for her, no matter how much she scratched. Inside, he was too preoccupied to even think about twisting the doorknob. Just staring at the shampoo bottle, then glancing back up at Macaque. His face was still flushed an unhealthy red, pale in places he shouldn’t be. The next words out his tongue were thick like honey but tasted just as sweet.

“Do you need any help?” he quired. Macaque shrugged, head tilting on its axis to stare at him.

“It’s been a few years,” mumbled words and quiet eyes, “I’m gross.”

Sandy leaned forward, one hand cupping the side of his face. He felt the taut muscles in the demon’s body release. Just a body in the water of an oasis. “Everyone needs a little help sometimes.”

Macaque grumbled, “I don’t wanna be indebted to you… Not like– not like with her.”

The settled hand moved to brush through the fur on his head, ripping a shiver out of him. 

“You won’t be,” Sandy whispered. A voice so gentle, it pleaded a case of belief. Macaque’s face was quiet, still. It was pinched in thought when he gave a slight nod. A sigh released as he relaxed back into the waters, chin meeting his chest. 

“Make it quick.”

With a bucket in one hand, and shampoo in the other, Sandy got to work. He scooped all the warm water he could into a pitcher, pouring it over Macaque’s head. 

“Make sure to close your eyes, you might get soap in them,” he warned gently. A hand covered Macaque’s face when he tried to take the bucket of water wide-eyed. 

“Nothin’ wrong with a little soap,” he snarked.

Sandy chuckled, pouring some shampoo into his hand, “Well, it will sting.” Macaque made a disbelieving sound.

While the cat shampoo was worked and massaged into Macaque’s scalp, a lone rubber ducky fell from its porcelain perch to swim through the slowly dissipating bubbles. He hummed slowly, melting into a puddle within the water. A drenched tail swatted the duck, making it spin through the spume. Sandy carded through his fur, slathering up the matted parts with close attention. Foam dripped down his wrists, splattering into the bathwater below.

A rumbling symphony was the backdrop to this task. A bubbling thing in the back of Macaque’s throat, down in his chest. His eyes remained lidded, focused entirely on tipping the duck upside down and wringing the old water out of it with his tail. A lazy smirk played on his features, batting at the bath toy. A scrunched-up nose, a thick growl down his throat, and the way his body was limp in the warm bath that cooled quickly with each passing second. Sandy reached over to run the hot water faucet when Macaque shuddered again.

Once the endless, dark fur of his head was completely covered in pinkish-white foam. Sandy nudged the back of his neck forward. The bucket was placed under the running tap, the warm water petered out once Sandy turned the knob off. He spilled the water over his head, letting the shampoo stream down into the bubbles below. Macaque’s eyes flitted open, watching the waterfall of pink suds wash off his head. 

He doubled over, water running down his spine and hair mingling with bubbles. Sandy had to stifle a giggle at Macaque’s hiss.

“Told you so,” it was hard to keep a steady voice when Macaque was wiping his eyes clear of soap. 

“I’m not in pain, this is just my body’s defence mechanism… ow.”

Sandy filled the pitcher back up, taking Macaque by the scruff and tilting his face up to the ceiling. The water cascaded over his features, rivers trailing off with the soap infecting his open eyes. Macaque blinked at the warm water, but visibly relaxed.

“So that’s why you keep your eyes closed, okay?” Macaque huffed, but nodded nonetheless.

The rest of the soap was massaged into his shoulder blades, through the knots across his back. Macaque barely spoke the entire time, tail flicking languidly in the waters. The water coursed through tangled fur, Sandy ran his hands through the knots, pausing whenever Macaque winced at the tugs. His mind was wild with the potential day he’d tend to this coat, a few towels set against the floor, the TV playing a random show. All the while he’d have his hands messy with dry conditioner, scissors, and a fur brush. Sandy’s soap-laden hands played through the fur, trying to map out exactly where he’d need to cut and pull. Macaque might protest, but he’d give him snacks to pacify him. Eventually, this fur would shine.

But that would have to wait until he’s clean, of course. The only reason he’s not pulling back now was due to the illness deep in his veins, the gunk clinging to the inside of his skull. Sandy doubts he’d trust him on a normal day. His touch grows hesitant, but Macaque doesn’t seem to notice, nor mind. Twisting to the side to lean into his hand. 

“Sit up,” Sandy sighed, a fond smile on his face already. “I can’t get your back like this.”

“Fine, no fun,” he pouted. But once those hands were back to pressing against his spine, it melted into the closest expression to contentment Sandy had seen on him. Such a rough, scar-ridden face, and yet the softness inherent to all could not be eroded away forever.

When the water grew cold, Sandy adjusted the temperature. When the scents faded into obscurity, he poured more. And when the bubbles threatened to dwindle, he made sure they didn’t. Macaque’s eyes stayed closed after a few more minutes. That throaty rumble noise only kicked up in volume, even when both their hands started to wrinkle. Though Sandy had to wake him up to wash through his stomach and legs, he allowed Macaque to sleep while brushing through his tail with the foamy shampoo. Once he was done, the water was starting to turn a murky brown.

“You feel a bit cleaner now?” Sandy asked to Macaque’s nod. 

“Haven’t felt this clean in centuries. Uh, thanks… Thank you.” He submerged himself back in the water, ears flicking like bugs caught in a net. “Haven’t been able to do this sort of thing in… a while.” The bucket was weighed down, pushed under the water to fill up to the brim. Sandy poured it down his back, running his hands through the dripping fur. Macaque folded inwards, chin on his knees, arms wrapped around his legs. 

“It’s not a problem, really. I’m always happy to help.” 

Over his hunched shoulder, Macaque offered a small smile.

“...Yeah.”

The water was warm.

Notes:

Hope everyone is enjoying (∩^o^)⊃━☆

Chapter 3: To be Beheld, Arms of War

Summary:

Macaque and Sandy are friends now, but Macaque is still depression :(

Notes:

Thank you to everyone's who's read this far i really appreciate it!! i'm not too proud of this chapter, but i hope you all like it anyway \(￣︶￣*\))

i also want to warn everyone that i showed my friend one single paragraph from this chapter and he immediatley started crying so, have fun :)

The floor was cold and hard, but the hairdryer was soothing and humid. Macaque sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, fluffy towel wrapped around his body as Sandy frazzled his fur with the air machine. The breeze was a ring of cold on the outside, but through the eye of the storm, it was warm as the water. Right there and then, he could doze off once more. Every so often, he’d angle the hairdryer to blow hot air over his face, and Macaque would soak it up like a fat lizard on a sunny rock. 

Fluffy fur picked up like lightning to a storm. Sandy perused over Macaque’s body with the machine, watching as he melted into the embrace of the wind. His eyes never stayed still on the scars that tore through his fur, the patches where hairs refused to grow back like trampled grass in the midst of a corn field, it was just as beautiful. And he would say he just couldn’t help himself when he ruffled Macaque’s hair. The fur just so bouncy and soft, inflating to twice its height. The resounding purr that simple action knocked out of him was all worth it. Sometimes, Sandy wondered if Macaque even was aware that he did that.

Sandy readjusted the towel around his shoulders, making sure it was safely tucked around him. He left without a word, feeling Macaque’s eyes drag against him until the door clicked in place. There wasn’t a need for words that only served to make the talkative silence more bloated. So instead of calling out, Macaque just rubbed his fur vigorously, feeling a static buildup crest until it popped. The tingle ran down his arms, but already he was reaching to put his clothes on. 

Clean. They were without visible stain, holes ripped over time and place stitched back together with a steady hand. He sorted through the undershirt, tunic and sash, the skirt and pants followed quickly after. Once all the layers were wrapped back safely around his body, Macaque’s hands froze above the last article. A torn scarf. 

He knew each rip and tear in it by heart. His hands sought it out when the heart was too fast and the lungs too small, when the stomach forgot to digest, the hands found the ruptures. They were stories, like the scars and bite marks were stories. And there was peace there, in a past that forgot to repeat in that moment. How the strings snapped apart to his gentle command. And where it snapped when fangs sunk in, there was peace there too. The ends nibbled to pieces, the middle scratched up like a cat’s claws had torn through a velvet curtain. And now, the golden string threaded through it, a reminder of what was there, without letting it bleed out any further.

It was back in his possession, and Macaque’s hands dug in so deep it threatened to burst a new spring of tears through the flimsy fabric. The backs of his eyes burnt, and his mouth felt dry. Maybe he had swallowed down the sultry water he bathed in, drank up the hot air combing over his frame; because inside was so, so warm. Through the cold that bit his bones, his fleshy, weak organs like parasites. The heat boiled in his stomach, and it flooded the rest. 

The scarf cuddled around his throat, hiding where the glamour refused. Markings of scar where chains ripped through flesh. It had rubbed, and rubbed, and bit in faster, harder, when he struggled. It told him not to fight, and bled him out when he refused. The scarf was nothing like the chain, tightened like an animal’s collar against his neck. It was soft, an embrace almost. A place to hide, to flee. A small, if needless reminder, that all that’s suffered can be light too. 

Sometimes, and only sometimes, Macaque would take the chewed end of the scarf and tie it around his wrist. Only one wrist, never both. But as it hung over his neck, and tightened under his hand, he could convince himself, in the dark of night, that he was back. It wasn’t clear in that hazy mind why he needed to be back, that void was something he dreamed about in a cold sweat and shaking, heaving chest. 

But it wasn’t lady bone demon’s chains, not when he did it. Tight wrappings, almost enough to cut off the blood flow, but it was his hand tying. It was his choice to do so, and he decided that was enough, he didn’t have to accept deals of keys and a destiny of perfection to free himself. Macaque took one end, just one, in his right hand, looping it around his left wrist and pulling tight; sat there on the unforgivingly cold bathroom floor. Now, it’s his. They can’t take that away from him, and they can’t keep it, either. 

Debt, kindness unearned and undeserved, cleanliness… The filth he grew accustomed to was gone, sucked down the drain. Now what was he left with? Just the chains. His chains. His agony. There was comfort in the way the sun set, and there was fear of getting your head above the waves and spindrift after hours of swallowing water. What if he forgot the taste of salt, thought himself above the ocean? Then surely he would drown. 

The scarf tightened, but after a few minutes (or maybe it was hours. Hell, it could have been weeks. Just wasting there, eyes on the ceiling, the overhead light, and pulling the loop flush against his pulse) it loosened. Macaque dropped it, letting the darkened end of the scarf fall to the floor. He pulled red fabric over his body, wrapping it around himself. No sign of scarring, no sign of himself.

At the very least, he was clean now. Didn’t smell like he just rolled out the trash, which he had. It was just far too bad, the shampoo couldn’t abrade himself away. 

Macaque made his way to the door. The floor, at this point, was soaked with water. Where it didn’t dry, the drenched ends of his fur trickled down to the ground. He grabbed the strands with two hands, squeezing the water out. Macaque wasn’t about to track dirty water over Sandy’s floors, not after all the grace he’d been shown so far. One step out of line, and the chains would turn back on him. That stare, that begged the question of why are you here, no, why are you still alive? Macaque feared it, for he had no answer to give. 

He was outside, just in the hallway. And right now, Macaque was alone. Not even the cats walked their usual path to meet him, swerving away, or hiding in the light that he could not touch. It called to him, a sense to move. But his legs shook, unsure, choices branching and twisting into incoherent little vines. Should he stay, or should he go? It would be so easy to flee right now, to lead to the safety of predictable instability. Shove his head back under the thrashing sea, inhale and choke on salt. Eat his own tail, go round and round until he leaves nothing left. It would be a fate once trodden, and at the very least, he knew to the very end how it was going to go. 

So when he shuffled through the hall, socks against coily carpet, despite seeing the light at the junction, he still felt so, so dark. These weren’t his own shadows, this wasn’t a darkness that could hold him close and whisper that even when he’s dying, it’s unsurprising. Macaque hates surprises. Hates when the steps forward are unforeseen, because he should know. From the moment he was brought into the world, unsure of everything, at least he knew where to go. It might lead him right into the jaws of the beast, follow the trail of breadcrumbs to agony, but he knew for a fact that would be his destination. So why was the future so blurry right now?

Macaque retched over Sandy’s carpet. It was dry, thank the gods. His stomach boiled, bubbling, tossed and turned. Hands dug, claws sank, into the flabby skin of his stomach. Should have ripped it out when he had the chance, shouldn’t bleed out on Sandy’s nice floors. He’s already cleaned one slab of filth, and doesn't need to scrub another. 

Only sometimes, Macaque wondered what it’d be like if he just stayed dead. 

A click, steam wafted, the smell of lavender and honey. Macaque could have drooled then, of course he didn’t, he only did that when really asleep. He walked, shoulders scraping the wallpaper. The doorway made a shelter for him, and he passed a cohort of cats. They strutted, toy mice dead in their jaws. Tails were high in the air, not sweeping the ground for dust like Macaque’s. He was overcome then, by a feeling that he was acting rather pathetic. Standing there like a soggy cat Sandy found out in the rain, chasing after his hands and biting at his heels. But that’s what he’s always done, found someone and sank his teeth in. Needed that steady stream of addicting eyes, a touch that he’ll grasp so it won’t disappear again. 

It had been a week, and Macaque wanted to hide away behind Sandy’s ribs. Bones strong enough to protect him from himself. But no-one had to know the warrior that rivalled the sun itself was here, tail between his legs, and craving for Sandy just to look down, look his way for a second. Smile like the sun, smile like the sunflowers, and the trees, and the coral deep in the ocean, and the shells washed up on shore. You do not have the light, cannot carry the torch without being burnt. Take it from someone else. Devour it, for it’s what you deserve. 

Macaque’s hands clenched into fists. Hands, capable of so much. Felt buildings crumble under them, felt an erratic heartbeat pulse under them, and wanted to dig through bone and muscle just to feel the heart on a deeper level. Maybe lick it, just to taste the fear of him on his tongue, and experience what it was like to be afraid of Macaque from the other side. He already knew the specific taste that flooded his mouth when he feared himself. It tasted like iron mixed with bile. 

Sandy was in the kitchen. The kettle was boiling, and it whistled the tune of heat. Nothing was out of place, that was one thing for sure. The only thing that didn’t belong was Macaque pacing through the living room, keeping his one working eye on Sandy. He barely moved, it wasn’t much to observe. But he continued to orbit like a plant around the sun nevertheless. 

There were two mugs on the counter. Two. Tea leaves filled the bottom of both the glass cups. They were the only one’s Sandy had. Only to be taken out of the highest cupboard once the cats went down for their naps, and once they could be herded off the counters. 

Still, Macaque watched him. He was sitting on the couch now, torn between sitting legs crossed, or pulling his legs up to tuck his chin over his knees. The latter enticed him, absorbing less space on the couch Sandy had been spending his nights… Macaque twirled a hand through the blankets Sandy had collected onto it; they were soft, but not nearly as kind as the one’s on the bed. And the pillow was pushed inward, a dent for his head. Grip tightening, Macaque felt his back teeth grind together. 

The kettle was singing, and the cats were finally remembering their place. They crept along the outskirts, sniffing unsurely at the stranger. Their tails flicked about, meowing and purring as usual, as the wind did wail. They stopped short of approaching him, noses scrunching up and sniffing loudly. 

“They can smell their shampoo on you,” Sandy joked from the kitchen. He took the kettle up by the handle and started the pour. Macaque held a hand out, mimicking the closed-hand gesture Sandy had done prior. A cat leaned forward to sniff it, the whites of their eyes glossy. “Normally you’re not supposed to wash cats, they’re pretty diligent about cleaning themselves, but some get extra dirty… Or the flea outbreaks, those are never fun times.”

The cat licked at his knuckle, Macaque tried not to flinch. Sandpaper lapped at scarred skin, the cat paused, tail curling as if in deep contemplation. Their hind-quarters trembling right before taking the leap. Macaque fell backwards with an audible thump as the cat landed on his lap. In seconds it was nuzzling up his neck, wet nose curving grooves into fur and skin. The licking didn’t stop, brushing through cleaned fur and savouring the faint taste of strawberry shampoo on its tongue. A rumble carved a path out its chest, reverberating through his own skin and tissue.

The couch dipped under the weight of three other cats. Their whiskers were twitching with curiosity, paws ready to knead the newcomer into nothing but putty. Macaque tried to pull away, but the weight of four cats on him destroyed any hope of escape. One curled up into a loaf on his lap, another on his shoulders, one on his head, and the other clung to his arm. They roughly groomed his fur with their tongues, filling his ears with low, thrumming purrs. 

A cup clinked against the table, snapping Macaque out of the haze that threatened to overtake him. Despite trying to relax into the seat, his eyes were wide open. A protest simmered away to ash on his tongue, holding a free hand out to take the tea. A lavender brew. A sip downed his throat, coating it in a floral love. 

“All your teas are so sweet,” Macaque hummed. “Does all tea taste this good, or just yours?”

Sandy almost seemed to flush, “Oh well. I put honey in yours… Sometimes sugar too. Y–you seemed to like it the first time! So I just…”

Macaque’s face dropped, “Oh, you’re serious? Come on, gimme your cup.” The taste test of Sandy’s unsweetened mug took place. If it was at all possible for Macaque’s face to fall any harder, it would have. “Nevermind, that’s disgusting.”

A warm laugh filled his chest, far more filling than the hot tea nursed between his hands. Sandy sunk into the opposite side of the couch, dipping the weight even further and causing Macaque to slide down towards him. The cats were unbothered, continuing to work their way through his fur.

“It seems the cats have taken a liking to you! I knew they would, most of them are pretty friendly!”

Macaque took another swig of tea, “Most?”

A hum, “Some cats I rescued off the streets. Most of the time, they were mistreated or abandoned by their owners… breaks my heart. They’re half-feral by the time I get to them. Takes a while for them to trust anyone new, they’re just looking out for themself. I can’t blame them for it, I just feel sympathy.”

The violet of the tea swirled. “Do you pity them?”

He startled, “I suppose. I mean, I pity the fact they were treated like that, I can’t stand to see cats in pain… But pity gets nothing done, that’s why instead I choose to care about them, it’s a lot more productive.”

“Even when they fight you?” Macaque went on, “do you still like them then?”

“Of course I do.”

Lavender tea, a brew of royal purple liquid. It spiralled around the mug, glinting like crystal, a tiny tsunami. Macaque lifted it, just to drink. It wouldn’t linger inside his stomach for long, it had been carved away long ago. One of the cats tried to dip their entire head into the beverage, and he tried not to hate them for it.

“Even when they scratch and bite?” And hiss, and fight. When they bristle, curled against the wall like a last resort. 

Sandy hummed against his own tea, much less sweeter, but all the same warmth. Ripples brushed through the violet. “Yes? I suppose it’s hard for them, they’ve grown accustomed to living like that, I don’t blame them for not adjusting immediately. It takes time, for cats who were just surviving, to become content with living.”

There were stains of lavender tea leaves at the bottom of the glass cup. That was the worst thing about glass, the stains were so much clearer when they appeared. But oh, they could be so beautiful at all the right times. All the most gorgeous things become smirched one way or another, for life cannot stand to see another as gorgeous as she. But a simple wet rag and a little soap would clear it right up, though it wouldn’t do much for the mauve tinge dancing through the cup. Thankfully, purple was Macaque’s favourite colour.

The cats craned their necks to lick at the glass, rough tongues fogging up the mug. Macaque let them explore the texture, some rubbing their whiskers and cheeks against it. A smile dawned across his face, unfamiliar and pulled in all the wrong ways. That hideous little grin that blossomed wider when a purr kicked up volume in the cats’ throats. They wound around him, like a circle of mushrooms sprouted amid grassy plains. Every time they were met with a touch, the cats slammed their heads into his hand. A brush, a purr, they drank off the affection. Sandy took the mug from him, letting Macaque collapse into the steadily growing pile.

“These are my therapy cats,” he explained, balancing the glass.

Macaque squeaked when a cat shoved a heavy paw into his gut. “Therapy cats? They’re not going to make me sit down and talk about my issues, are they?”

“No, no, it’s more of a deep pressure thing. Also, the sound of a cat’s purr is said to be on such a frequency it soothes people. Plus, who doesn’t feel better after cuddling with a cat? I know I sure do.”

Sandy was already moving on. The sound of a tap ran, it ran and ran and fell through the drain. The cups filled with water, then emptied. Endless cycles, and Macaque collapsed into the couch. It would consume him whole, it didn’t matter. The cats were rubbing on his face, kneading through fur and trying to break the ribs of his chest. A giggle escaped, and his hands were running all over lithe bodies, attempting to kiss each fluffy face that brushed past him. 

The tea stains had been washed out. Macaque couldn’t parse the leaves clung to the bottom of the glass, just couldn’t. There might have been something there in the way it twisted and turned, but nothing was literate for him. Just the remaining sense of dread that filled him, worming its way through his guts. It tried to fester through his intestines, burn the back of his throat. It was there, just biding its time to become a threat. 

Cats called to him like sirens atop flat rocks, surrounded by statues of jagged boulders the ocean eroded. Couldn’t resist the song, deep and thick. It tasted like honey. He wasn’t just another lone sailor, lost at sea. Not anymore, he drove this boat himself. And though the salty spray was much less sweet, he didn’t want to end up one of the skulls, washed along the beach. 

Macaque stilled when another cat joined the fray. They pressed up against his lungs and beckoned the air out his throat. He was drowning, carried away in waters that hadn’t yet submerged his lungs. Run, he wanted to run. A rabbit-quick pulse, a prey’s mind: flee. Sandy was humming opposite him, just a small tune, nothing at all. Macaque wanted to fold his ears in until the sound stopped completely. The air was running thin, another cat joined the space of his shoulders. 

An exhale lodged itself down his throat, bubbling up like vomit. Macaque choked around nothing, wheezing a desperate plea to breathe. The pressure was lifting, and he became weightless. The ground was spinning, the waves must be crashing. The boat on the pier, and it shook apart. Bones crumbling, Macaque grasped his own wrist. Squeeze, hold it together. The air was clearing up, if only to allow Macaque the reprieve of a single breath. 

There’s suddenly no paws trampling him, no purrs rumbled through his ribcage. It was just him, alone with the storm. Hands covered his face, his own hands. Didn’t feel it though, flexed his fingers just to see if they would still respond. They did, a twitch, just barely. He curled into himself, a ball impenetrable. Whispers, just one voice.

“He just needs some space, don’t worry kitties, he’s okay!”

That wasn’t a voice he knew, not anymore. Didn’t deserve to know. Claws tore through his scalp, ripping it. And that was when hands grasped at his own, gentle as a cat’s fur, and as biting as their fangs. Macaque might have screamed, but he couldn’t hear any of it. In the end, he just went limp. His hands, the claws that etched blood through his scalp, were guided away. Pressed firm to his lap, curling up and clutching the fabric. Something needed to break. 

The arms encapsulated his entire fire, one hand running through the softened fur on the back of his head, snaking its way up to his crown. He could breathe now, chest inflating and making contact with another. It didn’t matter, never did. 

The ground swayed, breaths coming out in slow puffs. Tail curled around an arm, comfort like a hand gripping a safety bar. And though down on the ground, just a few metres from the inevitable sea, he was lifted up in the clouds. It was soft in a way that was expected. Macaque was splayed across the clouds, feeling each clump like fabric beneath his hands, felt it cushion his head.

“Just sleep,” someone whispered. It must have been an angel. A simple grip on reality beckoned him. Macaque followed, the chains reminded him to obey.

Sandy was looming over him, the heart couldn’t find itself scared. Macaque reached out, if only just to verify. Blue met black, a bruising array, Sandy’s hands cupped Macaque’s one. 

“You’re okay?” said like a statement, squeaked like a question. He could only nod, there was nothing else to say. Sandy’s face fell, or maybe it just softened, it was hard to tell. “Get some sleep, you need it.”

Macaque was alone in this large bed, the one whose legs did not stand for him. The blankets were not stitched for his demand, did not fold and crease in a way to fit his body to the sheets. 

“Where do you sleep?” Macaque asked, voice barely even a rasp. 

A shrug, “On the couch. It’s no problem, really. It’s big enough, even for a guy like me!”

Something sick and disastrous stirred from within. “But why?”

A hand (a hand, a second hand, a third, maybe. Just the touch, the delight. Something there in the way hands calloused by pulling, pushing, pressing to the cold waters could be so, so warm) held itself over his forehead. A low tsk from Sandy.

“Get some rest, please.”

A yawn, “Only because you asked so nicely.” Barely a puff of air flattened the candle’s flame, the wick was pinched quiet. The touch retreated, low into the night. There wasn’t finality, it was a standstill. Macaque’s eyes were drifting, lower and lower, he faded. But he was aware enough, just enough, to feel the hand against his cheek. If only because the lights were so dim, and the world hazy, Macaque shoved his face to meet the touch. A breath ghosted across his face, it was warm like the salty winds of the sea. Soft as it was, something pressed gently like a feather against his forehead. It was warm. It was… so warm. But it was quick, and gone as fast as it happened. 

“Goodnight,” a rumble ripped through his chest as the lights were fully snuffed. 

 

---

 

The morning sun illuminated the empty couch. Well, not completely vacant. Blankets, a pillow, and a few straggling cats were strewn everywhere. Beams of light from the shuttered blinds accentuated how lonesome the furniture seemed to be. Accompanied by the distinct lack of a whistle, the kettle silent. Macaque walked through the kitchen, if only just to turn the kettle on. He didn’t know how to make tea, the thought evaded him. But at the very least, the boiling water was singing as it always did. Made something right this morning. 

There was a note on the door. A bright pink sticky note written in black ballpoint pen. There was a doodle scratched onto it, something that would take ten, no, five seconds at most. Just a little picture of Sandy wearing sunglasses. Honestly, it was a bit endearing. Macaque couldn’t help but smile at it upon seeing it, frowning at it felt like throwing a kid’s ice-cream cone away, you just didn’t do it. 

A cat rubbed against his leg, tail curling up to try and brush his thigh. None of them seemed overly offput from last night’s meltdown, still meowing at him in a way that might have been regular now. There was no way to really tell, it had only been a week… Nearing two weeks. But damn, damn, two of the best weeks he’d ever had. Nothing like sleeping comfortably, a belly full of warm tea, and soapy water soaking his skin into wrinkles. If you told him on the day he ventured outside the shelter, that this was the fate that would have met him, Macaque wouldn’t have believed a word. Nor would he have taken a step out, no matter how temptingly the void inside beckoned. 

Macaque was alone in the kitchen. Dressed as he always was, fitted with golden threads. He should be alone in the abandoned house, that was how it was meant to go. Maybe curl up, like a rat who failed to find the cheese in the kitchen. Rotting away, blue mould. And then… and then what? Does he return to bone, soil, and nutrients for the plants to fester themselves over?

This was not the path he was destined to take. But nonetheless, when has destiny ever dictated him? These chains are his own.

A meow broke him from his thoughts. Not a normal one, no, desperate and high-pitched. Claws sank into his leg, being used like a temporary scratching perch. 

“Didn’t Sandy feed you?” he spoke to himself. There was no-one else around to hear him. The cats, the kettle, and the ocean. But the cats stared up at him, big watery eyes. How could anyone resist that, speckled noses and messy coats that pleaded for you to brush them down. 

A sigh, “Where does he even keep the food?” If the cats’ could have understood him, they would have lit up like a firework-ridden festival. They still did, meows kicking up in pitch. They pawed at the bottom of his pants, tails curling wildly like a vicious new vine. Macaque had to step over the crowding cats, like an elephant through a herd of ants. 

The cabinet doors were not something he’d explored yet. Whatever food Sandy housed was his own business, Macaque could live without, he has before. The kettle continued to scream on, the water was bubbling and steam poured out the top. Macaque was slipping through the door, the inside of the walk-in cupboard was dark. He fumbled about for a light, a string tapping slowly against the back of his hand. A pull, and the cramped nook was alight with luminescence. A place was carved out for him with every step inside the boat. Cat food bags, folded over at the tops, slumped against the walls. They were heavy, objectively, but light in his grip. 

The bag was dragged out of the cupboard, leading a legion of hungry cats behind him. Pellets inside shook, perhaps even angry. But why at him? For once, he wasn’t doing anything wrong. Redirect your anger, he could almost beg. The bag of dry cat food ignored him, continuing to shake. It was furious, even as Macaque tore it back open, ripping skin and exposing tender insides. There was a plastic scoop half-submerged in the mass of food. The cats gathered around their bowls impatiently. They did not wait for the bag to open, nor for the scoop to be harvested. They demanded the food fill their bowls post-hate, not accepting even a second of delay. 

Food spilled out the sides, filling the bowls into pyramids. Pellets fell everywhere, scattering loudly against the tiled floor. Some cats jumped onto his legs, begging with keen meows to dive into the bag. Macaque kept the bag up high, holding it above his head and pouring out haphazardly. Cat’s rough tongues lapped at the food rained down atop them. 

Macaque yielded the pour, feeling almost a dash of pride. It didn’t really touch, just rested in his throat and refused to be swallowed back down. The bag dragged loudly against the floor, moving to return it to its place. And the house was quiet, once again. The kettle had clicked to a close, nothing but steam. The cats were noisily eating in the same room, some submissively bowed at the door frame, waiting for their own turn. 

All cats, but one. 

Mo was curled up on the couch, occasionally stretching his entire body out, paws flexing on each individual pad. The mohawk hairstyle donned on his head was messy and every which way. With a snort, he wondered how long it took Sandy every morning to get both of their hair in shape. Macaque moved from the kitchen, swiftly, quickly. Since when did his legs find the floor like his veins found the creases in his hand? It brushed like water over sand, and Macaque found himself along with the stream. Sitting on the couch was no longer just an act of defiance from the cold, it remembered him now. And when he pressed a hand to soft, neatly groomed fur, it wasn’t so soft his skin jolted. It just… was.  

Fingers brushed, almost involuntarily, to comb through Mo’s mussed hair. The cat let out a loud, growling purr at the action. That round head shoved itself into Macaque’s hand, demanding more. It turned from hands brushing to gentle scratches across a thin coat. Mo stood up to meet his touch, head curling to guide Macaque’s affections to just the right spot. Soon, it wasn’t just the head, Mo allowed the small fires of tactile to alight across his spine, all the way up to the base of his tail.

A pink, scratchy tongue licked across his face. It aimed for the scar, a soft-furred snout pressing against it, trying to kiss it away. Not an injury by claws, but aimed with the heart intended. A cat could not heal the scars of such an organ, but could make it beat again. 

“It doesn’t wash away,” he spoke uselessly. But Mo was determined, resolute in his task. And at some point, the minor flashes of phantom stings faded. It was just the soothing ministrations of the cat’s affection across his scar. And eventually, it began to tickle. 

Mo’s head darted up unexpectedly, tail catching on one of Macaque’s ears. He couldn’t help but follow the gaze, staring directly at the door. If he had been paying more attention, Macaque might have observed every step with meticulous listening. But his mind was stuck on the cat climbing up his lap to return the touches spared. 

The door twisted open, copper knob shaking with effort. Light streamed in from the outside, desperate for any purchase across the floor. It glinted off dusty frames, coated plant pots in something to photosynthesise off. A shadow cut through it all, as shadows always do. Hairs pricked up along the back of Macaque’s neck, hands squeezing into themselves. It was just instinct, he reasoned with himself, even as the curl in his chest tightened as the figure entered.

Plastic crinkled, wind was banished by the shutting of the door. A click, the sound of keys being ripped out of place. 

“I’m home,” a voice so mirthful announced. Just like the lightbulb in the middle of a dark, dusty room. Mo leaped off the couch, skittering against flat, shiny floors to rub up against his ankles. “Hi, Mo! Did you miss me?” Placing bags to one side, Sandy lifted the cat up, Mo’s legs dangled over, threatening to kick him square in the face. But the cat merely meowed, pressing more kitten kisses to his skin.

Macaque watched him, just watched. There was a tear of uncertainty, and it warred within. Is it in his place to stamp over the shadow and meet him at his side? Or should Macaque just wait, speak when spoken to? What is expected here, claws dug into leather, what does Sandy want, when he appears to want for nothing? Macaque was greeted with a short wave, Mo observed him from atop Sandy’s shoulders. That cat’s eyes were naught but slits staring down at him, as if assessing him for the first time, a new angle, a new idea. 

“Sorry for the wait, I was out shopping!” Macaque nodded to that, hands aching as he continued to rip through the cushions. Everything said after that was but a blur, just a drone in the back of his many, many ears. It hit him then, and probably not for the first time, but the one time he’d acknowledge it, that Sandy has had front row seats to those grotesque ears for days now. He doesn’t know when exactly they were sweated out with his feverish state of mind, but Sandy has been seeing them for days now… It was quite tempting to throw up all over the floor. His scars, memories, ears, they were his alone. A growl came unbidden from his throat, would Sandy hear over the sunshine in his mind? Hopefully not.

There was a murmur, something that sounded like “Who fed you again, aw, you managed to get a second breakfast out of—” it went blurry again after that. It cut off like radio static, an angry squeal. If he were to rip his ears off, the noise would end. Well, it might linger for a little while. But a ‘little while’ was nowhere near eternity. Macaque’s palms trickled with blood, hands turned to fists through the thick cover of the couch. There must be stuffing, or whatever couches were filled with, everywhere by now. He didn’t care, couldn’t. 

Breath was an old friend he lost contact with. Left town, packed his bags on a sunny afternoon while Macaque had been snowed in. Leaving only a note on the door, it blew away in treacherous winds. And he’d never know the town his oxygen fled to, and why he was left so alone. Macaque’s hands came up to his throat, it never beckoned breath closer. It always seemed that bit more far away. He could only inhale by means of pure will. It blocked up his airways, full of enclosed space and clouds who refused to return to the sky.

Macaque was brought back to reality kindly, the smell of tea filled his nose. It was placed in his hands, as gentle as an egg into a nest. There was this inherent desire to protect it, even as he felt how sturdy it was. Not glass, something far less fragile. The cup was brought to his lips, though unsure whether from his own will or anothers. The tea down his throat was mellow and warm, silk poured down, pooling into his stomach. It tasted faintly of apples, of honey, sweet and thin. 

“It’s chamomile,” a voice explained. Perhaps it was just his own thoughts. Macaque licked his lips, he didn’t remember drinking this before. The word was unknown to him, spinning about and trying to put itself together into letters. Chamomile, a mile to walk, a slice of ham, perhaps a mother. Clam and home. Ok, those words weren’t really a part of chamomile, but if you rearranged some letters they might. 

“It calms the nerves,” yet the sound remains as disembodied as before. So Macaque just drinks, and chugs it down even though it burns. Maybe it deserves to burn. 

The voice keeps talking, just a sound now. It floats about him, climbing around his head and hooking into his skin. Macaque’s body is being moved, but it doesn’t matter. He’s just a doll to destiny’s tired hands. Is there mercy in accepting fate, even after fighting it for so long? Macaque thought he found salvation in the middle, not dead or alive, but death continued to haunt while life was content to float at his side. Neither wants to really grasp, and it's a suffering in its own right. 

Breath returned, and he slipped through his nose on the next swallow of chamomile. It didn’t burn his throat on the way down. Tilting back until the burnt leaves gathered on his tongue, it wasn’t a thought when he swallowed those too. His nerves, frayed wires throughout his form, stilled for a minute. Maybe a minute was all he needed right now. The cup was removed from his hand, he allowed it. Something else wrapped around it, soft like cloth. Macaque's hands squeezed into themselves, feeling out the foreign object. But it was just soft, like the bed had been, and the cats, and everything else Sandy brought with him. 

Sandy was only a presence in the room when he remembered he was. Simply, he could float there forever more. Nothing but a whisper in many ears. Macaque blinked, awareness seeped back slowly. His hands continued to flex, curl and uncurl. There was a hand on his shoulder, he was beginning to feel out the path of such palms. Stories there, in every callous and print. He’s struck then, by a thought that normally hesitates, he wants to know the tale behind each one. No matter how mundane, or sad, or angry. It doesn’t matter, he just has to know. And if he were to find any scars, Macaque would delve into them too. Run a lone finger across them, and beg it to tell him the story of its birth. Was it a fight, an accident, a purpose? 

“You alright, Macaque?” that voice asked, so tenderly he could melt from words alone. Sandy, it was Sandy.

“Mhm,” he muttered. All he wished to do was curl into his side, tuck his tail over his nose and fall back into obscurity. Would that be too much? His eyes twisted, turning to witness the spread of white across his hands. “What did you do to me?”

There was hesitation. Macaque could hear words clogging up Sandy’s throat. And yet his eyes still couldn’t absorb the sight in front of him. 

“You– you, uh. You accidentally cut your hands a bit. I just bandaged it, you’ll be alright.” Larger hands cradled his own, and the sensations started to make sense. 

“Oh…” Macaque trailed off. It stung. 

He glanced up, only to regret it on first contact. Sandy’s face was all creased up, scrunched like a thrown out paper. And those eyes of his, they were wide and full of something he could liken to fear. 

“Are you okay, Macaque?” The hands over his squeezed, and it didn’t hurt. Why didn’t it hurt?  

“Yes. I’m okay, I’m good.” It was all the reassurance Sandy could ever need, so why did he still look so sad? Was a lie not enough to soothe, it was more comforting than the truth. 

Sandy turned away, adam’s apple bobbing painfully in his throat. 

“I went out shopping, by the way. I was going to tell you myself, but you seemed comfortable, so I didn’t… Anyway, I got some more food. N–not sure what you like, maybe next time we could go together?” he rambled on, Macaque was only halfway paying attention. Sandy rummaged through the bags, the plastic crinkled. “And, I stopped by at the pharmacy, managed to pick this up for you.”

It was handed out to him as gentle as could be. Like Macaque could shatter if it moved too fast. It was so considerate it was almost condescending. He didn’t find time to hiss about it, create a spat out of the air, too busy being infatuated with the item being handed over to him. A packet of testosterone patches, and the price tag was still on it.

“You bought them,” he intoned. 

“You needed them,” Sandy replied. The packet was nudged into his hands. The bloodied, bandaged hands. 

Macaque managed to rip it open, as shaky as he was. He peeled the back off, using another hand to lift his tunic. The patch was applied to the skin of his chest. And there it sat, sinking hormones inside. A breath of fresh air, an old friend returned, the spring sensation of dragonflies and pollen, his eyes were stinging. 

Staring at the floor, not the punctures in the couch, Macaque felt his body grow tight. It was awaiting something, not a hit, but something. It would hurt just as much as a staff through the sternum, and he knew what it felt like. It haunted his dreams sometimes, or perhaps they were more a nightmare. But Macaque was too grown to talk of bad dreams, those only affected children and the weak. He was neither. 

Sandy was already gone, he was sorting through the food he bought, cans and bags, fresh produce. Macaque’s head craned back, back and back until it hooked over the edge of the couch. The patch was firm against his chest, it beat a rhythm of its own, right up against his heart. His body betrayed him, from the second he was born it was treacherous. So maybe the scars were deserved, giving back to the mortal form what it took from its mind. But in the end, they just hurt him all the more. Wishing there was a separation from the ruptures and the bandages. In the end, Macaque supposed he deserved this pain too. If memory were to serve him as dutifully as it always has with past mistakes, he can remember every knowingly bad step he took in the name of anger. And isn’t rage such a petty thing? Not red like roses, or red like blood. It was the red you swallowed back down, thorns through your throat. 

“I’ll make us something to eat in a bit,” Sandy explained from the other room. His voice carried like it deserved to fill every hall, every chamber. It was hard to deny that it did. Soothing and thick, like warm tea. No, not just warm, it was piping hot, but it refused to burn your tongue. The steam never swayed, but it kept the fire to itself. 

“I already ate,” Macaque told him. He couldn’t hear his own voice, just felt the air rush out his throat. Chapped lips closed in on each other, he doubted Sandy could even understand him. 

But despite the rasp to his voice, Sandy paused, could hear how he stopped moving. Couldn’t even hear the syllables out his mouth, each utterance deaf to him. But the cease of shifting and light-toned murmuring made everything feel silent in a way that stung. 

“You ate a week ago at this point,” he muttered. There was thinly veiled anger there, and Macaque didn’t know what to say or where to go to keep that rage off him. Eyes roamed every inch of Sandy’s form, glancing for a sign a fight was about to break out. 

“That’s all I need,” he’s lasted longer. Besides, he’s not some fragile mortal. The void inside him knows how it's been trained. To be empty and be okay with it. 

“You need to eat every day,” Sandy shot back. There was a growing frustration, it only made the stubbornness rear its head faster. A snap as the ugly beast that resided within the emptiness fought to keep its home decorated exactly as it wanted, and the beast was a minimalist. 

Macaque rolled his shoulders back, hackles rising. “I’m good, don’t worry big guy.”

His ears curled in, through the fur and slipped into place against his scalp. Digits quivering and blood running cold, he awaited for the blizzard to meet him again. But it didn’t, the wind fell flat. And the room was still, proceeding as per the norm. Cats were scratching up furniture, Mo sat perched on the counter as Sandy went about putting things away, near finished. He didn’t say anything. No spitting rebuttal, not even a punch to the face. Macaque stared at the ceiling, waited for it to give way. But nothing happened, nothing at all. 

And then finally, there was something.

“I won’t force you, clearly this is what you’re used to. But I have enough for all my cats, and I have enough for you. It’s not a problem for me.”

Macaque melted backwards, “Hmph.”

Quiet again, wasn’t too bad. At least it wasn’t loud, loud enough to draw blood from his ears. 

It wasn’t worth it to fight anymore. Hands lax against the holes he cut into the couch. Sandy could have yelled at him for it, could have, and yet he bandaged the damage he brought upon himself. Maybe he decided cutting into his own palm was punishment enough. He was in the kitchen, Sandy wasn’t moving anymore. Just staring out the window, Mo on his shoulder. And he was just staring.

The ocean waves rocked the boat. It was peaceful enough to drag his eyelids down, calming enough to make the sounds stop for just a moment. He relaxed into the scratched leather, eyes closing. A tail thumped against the blankets pooled around the couch cushions. Macaque could feel each individual spring. 

Sandy still wasn’t moving, not saying anything.

“Do you hate me?” Macaque managed to hoarsely choke out. It didn’t matter the response to come, as long as it wasn’t that forsaken silence. His ears strained to hear what should come easily to him, if only hearing thoughts was as easy as hearing everything else inside another. Macaque kept his eyes closed, letting his ears guide him through the motions. Sandy’s heart jumped, and the floorboards creaked when he turned on his heel. 

“I don’t,” he replied. So simple, and not enough at all. 

A tilt of the head, his neck should snap right off. That would be justice, or something close to it.

“You should.” 

The sound of a knife slicing, like a dime dropping to the floor. Copper and gold, the clash of elements. Raindrops fell, but they weren’t from the clouds. 

“You know who I am, don’t you?” It kept slicing, and Macaque found fantasies ran wild in his head at the mere sound. The void curled, emptiness curdled like milk left out in the sun. The first pang is like a siren, a warning woefully ignored. 

“I know you’re hurt,” Sandy went on. The knife hit the board. Over and over. The beast reared back, it squished itself between the towering walls of the small couch. A hand came to clutch at his chest, digging in, willing to rip it open and free the creature inside. Hissing through teeth, the dull ache spread throughout the void like a plague, a bacteria unheeded.

“You’re just not used to people being nice to you… Are you?” Why did his voice get so soft? It became just another blanket under his clutches, a pillow to rest against. Another figment of a cat to hold against his stomach, hold and anchor him from floating away. The ground was so far away. 

“Don’t be nice to me,” he fired back. Macaque’s voice broke around the words, and it shouldn’t have. It… it wasn’t supposed to do that. But it was falling to pieces beneath him, it all was. And there was nothing to do but clutch to himself, a lifeline that was dead on arrival. 

Sandy didn’t retort to the claim, just continued to cut with the knife. It split something apart, over and over again. Macaque’s chest was right, lungs deciding it was time to shrivel back up. The next breath came out as a choked cry. Hands wound around his stomach, fires set alight within. The void was demanding, screaming. 

A harsh choke, a gag. Bile dripped from his lips. The void demanded emptiness, the snake ate its own tail. Why was it happening again? Static was enveloping his mind again, and it covered every inch of his thoughts. Now it was just words, flashes.

Hurt.

Empty.

Nothing.

Where–

Help.

A light through the dark offered its merciful hand out to him. Macaque couldn’t even see it, let alone touch it. But it didn’t wait for his cooperation, latched on by the scruff of his neck and sat him up. His body was limp, like a ragged doll, mistreated by the young children who tore it apart at the seams. He didn’t even remember lying down. 

It was a familiar aching, not a new torture by any means. It wormed its way up his throat. The beast within, the empty feeling, it trampled through the void. It demanded more space, it needed to carve a place for itself. Claw the walls back and make a home as it expands, a mess of roughened edges. But the expanse of emptiness was folding in on itself, caving in. The beast bit at the corners, roaring at it to back off. It rumbled, an earthquake shook. 

Macaque’s hands scrambled to relieve it. Pulling and stretching at the skin, digging into it. Just a little more pain, it would override the sensation. It was all falling apart, to pieces and he could do nothing to stop it. Liquid rolled down his lip and caught on his chin, couldn’t tell if it was drool or blood. His body twitched beyond his will, coherent thought straining out through his brain. 

Macaque’s eyes burnt, a fire was set within him and it was melting him from the inside out. He didn’t think he’d been without the patches for this long– this hadn’t happened to him for a few years now… He’s not ready, he’s not ready. It’s too much, can’t deal with this now on top of everything. Macaque curled into himself, smaller, invisible. But the pain refused to subside. 

There’s a hand there, and he can only tell it's a hand through the fogginess of his mind. But it isn’t striking him on the head, so Macaque can only hope childishly he can trust it.

“Hurts s’ bad,” he mumbled. The fire melted his eyes. Streaming hot lava poured down in rivulets from his closed eyes, chest hitching with every strangled inhale. All the while his stomach, that void, pulled itself apart from the inside out, all he could think about was the disappointment in Sandy’s voice. He couldn’t even see his face from where he was sitting, but still knew he was mad. Because all Macaque does is ruin everything. 

Why does it seem like every good thing shatters in his hold? It makes his chest constrict and the tears burn out faster. 

“You’re okay,” a voice prodded through the screaming, the pounding of his brain. “Shh, don’t cry, it’s okay.”

“It’s happening again,” Macaque clutched himself tighter. There was another useless organ he should rid himself of, should have torn it out guts and all years ago. His claws twitch with the need to rip his stomach open, kill the thing inside that's poisoning him. 

The voice is quiet for a bit, mulling over the words presumably. Macaque just cried harder, and it echoed throughout six ears, though he knew he should be quiet. Keep it silent, tears invisible, don’t let the mask shatter… Shatter more than it already is, that is. He has to keep some semblance of holding it together, of being the strong demon he convinced everyone he was. 

“It’s probably not like that. I think you’re hungry, probably just hungry,” the voice reasoned. “Why don’t you just have a bit to eat, and we’ll figure it out, okay?”

Macaque’s eyes fluttered open, following the coaxing voice. Belatedly, he registered Sandy above him. Face pressed to his lap, down on the floor and sobbing his eyes out. Macaque’s hands are too numb to hide it away, he turns his head away instead. Face pressed against the soft, worn fabric of Sandy’s pants, Macaque tries to relax. The longer he stays taut, like a wire twisted too far, the longer these emotions continue to get the best of him. But Sandy’s already shifting, moving away. He bites back a whine, he’s not that pathetic. 

For a few painful moments, Macaque is alone again. Just him, the static thoughts, and the beast that continues to gnaw at his insides. At least the thoughts had stopped being comprehensible. Just same old, same old. Alone, as he’d always be in the end. Macaque’s body turned lax. Maybe if he just melted into the floor, became one with the shadow again, it wouldn’t hurt. Having these expectations of change on him might finally stop hurting. He’s a stubborn creature of habit, biting through his own limbs because he’s grown used to the taste of his blood. It’s a sick diet, but it was the only one sustaining him. Who was Sandy to change it?

When Sandy returned (though Macaque had his doubts he would. It would be so easy to just hide away until Macaque recovered enough to gather the hint, leave and never look back) he helped Macaque back onto the couch. He curled up into the side, cradling his stomach with clawing hands. The couch dipped in front of him, didn’t need to open his eyes to see Sandy in front of him. Could hear the nervous inhales, clogged up by lumps in the throat.

“Sliced up some fruit for you, if you don’t like them, that’s okay.” He flickered eyes open, begging for light. It was a helpless plea answered in the form of a plate in front of him. Hands dug further into his sides, his stomach, anywhere he could reach. There was perhaps an attempt to reach out, do something, but all it earned was a pained whine. It bubbled behind his teeth, soaking out through his gums. 

Something pressed to his bottom lip, something soft, bringing with it an aroma that filled up his nose. 

“What–” 

“It’s an apple slice,” Sandy urged it on. Macaque took it between his teeth, feeling it crunch with the low force of his jaw. The skin split apart from the flesh, and it all was chewed up and swallowed back down. It wasn’t just one slice, Sandy continued on to feed him apple slices , strawberry, and banana slices. Each one accepted with greedy vigour. 

The plate was finished off, fully devoured with nothing but the residue wiped across the porcelain. The aches, the cramps ravaging though that empty, empty void finally came to a cease. The fire stopped, sizzling out into embers. The fruit sat heavy in his stomach, and it soothed the beast for just a little while. The thoughts came back with twice the fury, and it made his throat clench with the desire to remove all of it. But nothing gave, just laid there, cushioned against the couch, and breathed in deep. 

“There you go, are you alright now?” Sandy spoke slowly, quietly. It was honey against his strained ears.

A weak nod, “Yeah…” At least it wasn’t what he thought it was. The cramping of the void slowed, ebbed away into a deep, longing ache that only hurt his heart. “Sorry, I didn’t mean–”

Sandy cut him off, “It’s okay.” And opening his eyes, bleary as they were, Macaque was met with a warm smile, a face flushed with the aftermath of fear, and eyes that crinkled around the edges, happy little crows feet despite everything they’re seeing out of this demon. “Do you feel better now?”

Macaque had to take a few breaths before he could respond, his throat was closing in. 

“Yea, I’m– I’m alright.” He curled into his side, staring at the back of the couch instead of Sandy’s face. He couldn’t stand to see kindness reflected at him so easily. It just… just wasn’t fair. “I didn’t mean to.” At this point, he wasn’t sure what he was actually apologising for, if you could even call it that. Perhaps just the inconvenience of having to see a warrior break, crumble apart from a stomach ache. Maybe it was just the fact Sandy’s been putting up with him, no matter how much he hisses, fights back, remains stubborn and the same. He continued to be there when Macaque fell apart. Sandy put each individual piece back in its place like he’s trained his whole life to do so. And isn’t that just something.  

“It’s okay, you’re okay. I know adjusting to better conditions is difficult, but you don’t have to be afraid here…” Sandy trailed off, clicking his tongue and adjusting the blankets spread out messily on the couch. “It was just hunger pangs, probably a lot worse for you given everything, but it’ll be alright.”

“Just… hunger, huh?” Macaque prodded again at his stomach, the pain was fading. Slowly but surely, it was like it was never there to begin with. “I guess that makes sense, explains a few things…”

So now, they were just sitting there. Some cats had fled at the first sign of tension, but others drew near. One cat jumped onto Macaque’s lap, curling up and napping on his legs, weight leaning into his stomach. And Sandy was staring out the window, brows furrowed. They were both trying to figure out what was next. Neither of them were coming to much of a conclusion. Macaque wondered if Sandy was thinking about how he was a lost cause, would be better off on the streets, in a fight, where he belonged. 

And for once, it wasn’t Sandy who spoke first. His lips were still pursed, still waiting for something to happen to drive his mind into the right direction. But nothing was flitting through, nothing at all. And again, the boats were lost at sea. They crashed about the waves, no lighthouse to guide them, no flashlights for the moths to fly into, thinking it the sun. 

It wasn’t so lonely, out here in the sea. For the water was deep and blue, and it was beautiful. The spray of sultry spray and the heat of the sun behind clouds, it did nothing to rival the company of two boats. Side by side, even in the night. There were words etched into their sides, where sharks got curious, and where they were mishandled by those supposed to put them together again. Neither of them had the words to translate from wound to word. But it was okay, they fit together, side by side, and they floated.

“Have you been sleepin’ out here for the past… Week?” Macaque eventually spoke up. His voice was a rasp, something phlegmy caught in the back of his throat. Hands weaved through the blankets, fluttering eyes landed on the creased and flat pillows. Under him, Macaque could feel where the insides clumped and the springs rusted. 

Sandy looked away, almost sheepish. He was combing through his hair, his beard, the necklace sitting snugly around his neck. The blue of his skin was dappled with navy, across his nose bridge and the knuckles of his hands. His elbows, the tips of his webbed ears. And it shimmered when the sun latched onto it, just through the splits in the curtain. If the light had further spread across the room, it might illuminate every silver hair in his beard. It might shed the truth of the pale scars across his body, they didn’t demand attention in the way Macaque’s did. They were silent, unobtrusive, and they smiled. 

“Uh, yeah. I didn’t– didn’t want to disturb you. You needed the bedrest, it’s only fair you got the bed.” The knee-jerk reaction was but it’s yours, but those words shrivelled on Macaque’s tongue like a dying rose. The petals, dead in the back of his mouth, reminded him of how fruitless such a thing would be. But new flowers bloomed, and he didn’t recognise the colours. They bathed in the light of one not the sun, but far, far brighter.

“There’s room for both of us,” it wasn’t spoken with the same confidence, the same burning altruism Sandy might have said it with. But there was not a break in Macaque’s voice, not a single stutter. It didn’t feel performed, like adorning a new mask, a new stage act. It just was. 

And then Sandy smiled. Like the ocean cresting into a wave, glinting with the stars, the sun, anything it could meet, it was bright. 

“You’re right.” And what simple words they were.

 

---

 

The next day, and the day after that, and the days that followed, Macaque awoke to the wooden board pressing against his spine. Other times, it was simply just the crown of his head. Knees tucked to his chin, tail meeting fluttering ears. Sleep washed over him like the blankets tucked around his sides. It pinched in around his curved back, to sit comfortably under his knees. Sometimes, other cats would join him. They curled up like a fresh pastry, some laying back to back with him, and others curling up on his side. Others enjoyed the steady flick of his tail brushing over their bodies. The single, weighted cat plush would be tight in his arms. 

Sandy took up most of the bed, with a habit to toss and turn. Sometimes the quilt would end bunched up, the top folds pressed against Macaque’s feet at the far end of the bed. Other times, it would fall off entirely. No matter how quiet the ocean was on any given day, it would end up scrunched up and tossed away. And still, Sandy awoke without even the faintest sign of grey wiped under his eyes. And once done in the bathroom, not a hair out of place. 

That’s how the mornings went, Macaque jolted awake by the piling meows of cats. Some scratched at the door incessantly, others climbing Sandy like a jungle gym. A few even tried their luck with bothering Macaque but that didn’t earn them more than a tail swat to the face. Sandy would leave for the bathroom, cats trailing after him like a school of fish through the waters, chasing a worm on a hook. Macaque would rest his head back to the sheets, yawn maybe once, then return to dozing off. The warm sunlight from the curtains, thrown open moments earlier from Sandy (probably, he’s never awake enough to figure it out) would warm his fur and coax him to a gentle sleep. 

An hour later, or what simply felt like one, Sandy would come back in. Whatever dreams Macaque was enraptured in would slowly spin away, like the silk of a spidersweb, fading into obscurity once the light stopped shining its way. He’d awaken to a hand on his shoulder, and a nudge if his eyes didn’t flutter to awareness right away. His mornings would start with the image of Sandy, bathed in early light and perfect, like he never stumbled out of bed with his hair a proper mess. It was styled to perfection, nothing less. 

Always in his hand would be a mug of tea, still warm. And Macaque would grab onto it hazily, sip it until his eyes felt less dragged down by the mere existence of the moon last night. When it was finished off, nothing but dregs at the bottom, Sandy would take it, along with his own. Macaque was never alone, there was always a cat curled into his side, or trying to worm into the empty space under his chin and into his neck. Some tried their luck attempting fruitlessly to clamber into his scarf, fit themselves snugly against his shoulder blades and live there. There was always a cat trying to lick at any exposed skin, over his knuckles or across a scarred cheek. Never could they manage to wiggle under his tunic (Sandy hadn’t managed to get his size for pyjamas yet, but he was determined) and place their face against his chest. At least they never managed to get fur stuck under his patch… yet.  

After that, Macaque would follow Sandy out to the living room. More times than not, the TV was playing, the volume never higher than twenty. And a few cats might be lounging about the empty leather couch. Emptied, except for the ragged towel hiding where Macaque ripped in. Most times, most days, Macaque would wait on the cushion of the couch not overrun by cats. Mindlessly staring into the television, sometimes seeing faces of beloveds long since gone flash past the screen. It never mattered much to him, it never computed. 

All days, Sandy would make himself breakfast. Most days, he’d offer Macaque some. From dumplings, to “breakfast soups,” to whatever else Sandy had stored away. Sometimes little cat-shaped buns that never lasted more than a day it seemed. They were so cute, they would spend a few minutes just staring at those cute, fat faces and considering whether to just douse them in resin or actually eat breakfast. Macaque was always the first to cave. 

“They’ll get bad if you don’t eat them,” Macaque had said, mouth full of gooey dough. 

“I know,” Sandy had replied. Maybe. It was something along those lines. “Better than letting them rot, huh?” Macaque didn’t say anything back to that. The plate of buns was already half empty. 

This morning, Sandy offered him breakfast. Macaque shook his head, barely felt it. Sandy only smiled, placing the second half away. Mo would eat it later, he’d seen it. Sandy had seen it. Neither of them stopped him. Just licked it up, as he always did.

And in this way, a routine was made. The same steps were taken, simple and precise. It was like the same waves crashed against the shore, against the docks. Only the cats differed, they refused to walk the same path. Life went on as always, and Macaque’s skin prickled with the sensation that he should be cold, the void inside unfulfilled. But instead, he was relaxing onto a mat on the floor. 

It was a yoga mat, that was what Sandy said. Currently, he was doing stretches. The cats climbed up Sandy as he flexed muscles, doing all kinds of moves Macaque couldn’t even begin to describe. He laid flat on his back, a cat already curled up on his stomach. They used to sink right in, the cats did, into the hollowness from years spent abiding to every word of the beast. But now, the surface was a little more flat, evened out. The cat nuzzled into his chest, and Macaque tried not to think about it. 

Some soft, calming music was playing from Sandy’s speaker. 

“Did you change your patch over? I think it’s about time,” Sandy nudged a cat off his yoga mat. He was already gathering himself into position, Macaque was still laying on his back.

“I did it this morning.”

“Good, I can get more once you start running out, so let me know!”

Macaque gave a thumbs up, arm immediately dropping back to his side. 

And so life went on. 

But it hurt so bad. 

The music kept playing, and it faded into static. Just emptiness, and the void reared its head once again. Body pressed to the soft, spongy mat. It didn’t feel like heaven, not like at first. Alone in the store, the stench of noodles wafting through the whole building, permeating his form. It didn’t feel like wings, or the great finality of death’s embrace. It just was, and there was no rotting feeling, except for the sensation of his stomach eating itself. Once it was done with that useless organ, it would consume and devour everything else Macaque had to offer himself. Then nothing. 

Why is everything so dark when the light is right there? Hand on the switch, knowing what turning it on would bring. The lightbulb, the room flooded with a warmth, an orange gleam. And the way would seem so much more clear. He hated the dark, the dark rooms, the dark floors. The shadow wasn’t his to bend, to demand, and it would not obey.

But it was so much more familiar to be surrounded by the darkness, how it stretched from the walls to the ceilings like fragile spiderwebs. If it’s held between his hands, at least it's a sting he remembers. From the years spent in chains, hidden underneath the earth. At least it’s not blinding him with light, drowning it down his eyes and through his throat. Macaque… He isn’t ready to shed the protective guise of a warrior wreathed in all that was left to rot. 

The clock was ticking. There might have been a clock in the boat, just sitting fixed on a wall somewhere. Or the click, click, click he was hearing might have been from a shop far into the heart of the city. A clock that waited for someone to pick it over the others, dutifully spelling out the time with hands that one day shall erode, and the click slightly off. It wouldn’t tell the time exactly how everyone wanted anymore, no matter how much you hit the rounded sides, it only chugged along per usual for a few hours at most. The clock wasn’t even pretty, a nice ornament that boosted morale around the house. Just a useless hunk of crap they wasted twenty dollars on. 

Every day, it remains the same. And when the click finally stops presenting itself on time… Will Sandy know he’s made a mistake? From the second he even bothered to check the dumpster outside, he’d been making a mistake. And soon, the nature inherent to him would wear Sandy down. Soon those patient, gentle smiles would turn to frowns. When understanding words are just sighs, like dealing with a child who won’t listen. Macaque has plenty of ears, and they hear all too well. But it just… doesn’t work. 

The music was fading out, and his eyes had grown dark. The air was misty, and fog was drifting in from the windows. And all Macaque wished to do was putrefy. Better to quit while you’re ahead, if he closed his eyes right now and never opened them again, it wouldn’t be so bad. This was as good as life was going to get, that was one thing for sure.

He didn’t crave for death, not exactly. Though its jaws were always hovering just around his neck, squeezing little fangs in just enough to leave indents, but not enough for blood. The only one to acknowledge it the instinctual firing of nerves that were set alight, but no one shed eyes to the marks that death left. And if Macaque laid still enough, for a moment he could convince himself that he was buried again. Maybe this time, in a nicer grave. 

The music is dead, and Sandy is still there. The clock tries to click in time, but the back has rusted over and no-one bothered to check it. 

“You doing okay, little friend?” Sandy had asked. His voice was underwater, just bubbles. Sandy is sitting by him now, right next to the mat, legs crossed. Some of the cats trampled across rugs and floorboards. They rubbed their faces against anything with a beating heart. And they loved, even when it was broken, they loved. 

Macaque didn’t feed the cats, not on most days. Sometimes he did, but mostly at night. Sandy fell asleep at weird times on occasion, and Macaque… Well, he didn’t want to wake him up just for the cats. Even if the thought of poking him until he stirred was endlessly entertaining. No, he’d resist.

Sandy is still there. The music has long faded out, and he can’t tell if this is a comfortable silence or not. Macaque wants to sit up, and maybe just give him a thumbs out or mutter that he’s fine. But he doesn’t. 

“I don’t know how to word it,” Macaque whispers, “but will you listen anyway?”

“Of course,” Sandy said. He laid down too. They were both just laying there, staring at the ceiling as if it were the most interesting thing they’d seen all day. 

There could be a lot of different ways to express this, a way that didn’t make sense unless scrutinised for long. For example, imagine, if you will, a rock. Just a small one, a bumpy one. It used to live under a river, and only resurfaced to be skipped over the strait. But it would always plop and fall in halfway, and so everyone decided to get a better rock. One that was smoother, and it obeyed better. Because the rock didn’t know it was being asked to skip, it only knew to sink. And it did what it could, but it was never enough. But one day, when shoved to the forefront of the shore, a nice young child takes the rock home. It’s washed under the school taps until the clay and dirt washes off, and sanded down to be drawn on with marker. And it’s comfortable in a heated room, with a bow made of pipe cleaners, but what happened to the river? What is expected now? 

No, that wasn’t quite accurate. Maybe, a lamb. A lamb born from no ewe. And the lamb will eat grass, and the farmers encourage it. The lamb knows that one day it will die. None of the older sheep come back, they go to the other end. And they don’t come back out. The lamb can smell the blood, and it has accepted it. But a person passing the farm saw the lamb, saw how it refused to chew on the grass to prolong the inevitable (He was never good at accepting his own destiny.) But the person bought the lamb, for money the lamb couldn’t even comprehend. And it spent the rest of its years in someone's backyard, not a farmer. The blade never met its neck, and now it wandered aimlessly. What now?

But in the end, Macaque decided on this.

“I don’t know how to be normal.” For a while, that was all that said. Everyone could hear the wind outside, faint as it was, and the meows of cats who closed the door on themselves to enclosed rooms. When it was clear Sandy had nothing to interject with, he went on. “I mean, I’m assuming that everything on this boat is ‘normal’, which is why it feels so wrong.”

“How does it feel wrong?”

Macaque sighed, “I’m not supposed to be here, you know that.”

A hum, “Well, what makes you say that?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere along the way, I think I  got so used to my own demise I forgot what living was like.” Macaque swallowed dryly, he heard Sandy tilt his head but didn’t follow. “I mean I died once, I– I don’t wanna think about that right now. But all I could think at the time was how angry I was, not just at him but, I was just mad at myself. Because even now, I don’t know how I could have changed that. Maybe if I was less me, it wouldn’t have happened. But I can’t escape myself, and I’ve tried.” A gulp, it felt like a thick blockage was holding him down. “I’m used to that anger, I’m used to pain. I was revived in it, I live in it. I think I forgot my whole reason for being alive again, and now it doesn’t even matter if I died.”

Macaque squeezes his eyes shut. He tried not to think about Sandy, the heart he can hear pounding.

“I forgot what it’s like… To have someone here. And slowly, I stopped feeling so angry. But now I’m just… guilty? Because you’re so fucking nice, so unbelievably nice. And I– I don’t know how to give you what you want. I don’t know how to be nice like you, to be normal and just– like you guys.” His chest is heaving now. He hoped it was sweat rolling down his face. It was so hard to breathe. “I’m fucked up, and I’m so ugly. And you’ve had front row fucking seats to all of it. But I just– I can’t. I can’t be normal anymore. I forgot how. I think there– there might have been a time once I could have been. But no, no I just– I’ve never been like you. There’s no peace in kindness, just more pain.”

He’s near hyperventilating at this point, throat tight and eyes firey.

“Sandy…”

Hesitation, “Yes?”

“I don’t know how much more pain I can take.”

Macaque’s voice broke mid-sentence, and the rest of him crumbled with it. Face falling, expression shattering. His body hitched with each muffled cry that escaped out a strangled throat, but the hurried shuffles next to him only made the process speed up. Balled up hands came to hide his face, and Macaque wailed. Like a child without a mother, a rock without a river, and a lamb without death, he sobbed. Half-formed, guttural sounds came pouring out his mouth, none could be silenced in time. His heart throbbed, screaming profanities that he’d allow himself this disgusting vulnerability right now. Again, why do you never fucking learn? 

The shadow always grasps for the light. 

This time, the light offered his hand. 

A question might have been asked, something shrill and a little panicked. But all Macaque could see were those arms stretching outwards. An invitation, and oh, how he’d take it. 

Sandy engulfed him, the shore embracing the sea. And with its rugged and rough ways, the sand softens the waves nevertheless. Even as Macaque shakes, even as he breaks apart, Sandy still doesn’t cut himself on any of the shattered pieces. Just held him, and what a thing that was. To be held, tight and firm, without the underlying fear that either of them would be cut open, flayed by the embrace. Macaque’s hands scrambled across his back, his arms, searching for something he couldn’t have. But they finally hook on some firmer muscles, Sandy doesn’t seem to mind as hands dig in and use his body like a lifeline. 

They’re both curled up on the floor, the music is forgotten in favour of stangled, anguished cries. Like a clam holding onto the most precious pearl, Sandy keeps Macaque close. Even when he barely breathes through the whole ordeal, just choked sobs and keens. Ugly, shrill cries that barely sounded alive. Sandy rubbed circles into his back, the other hand securing him in place. There was no way he was letting Macaque go. No way in hell. 

“I’m sorry-” came shattered, hurtling out of Macaque’s mouth. He didn’t know what he was sorry for, wasn’t sure if the apology was even from a genuine place. But it just sounded right, to say sorry right now. For ruining everything again, he was so used to sinking, so used to breaking. 

“You’re okay, just breathe,” Sandy instructed gently. The hand pressing circles into his back moved up to comb through the fur on his head. Brushing through it like one would grooming a cat. Twisting through tangles, curls that were hidden within messy hair. Carding through it, like the wind does the sand. Just sifting through the thin layers with such care. And it didn’t hurt, that was the part that made it ache the most. Macaque’s throat burned with the need to explain himself, explain everything away until the situation fades from the possibility of existence. Maybe Sandy would forget it even happened tomorrow. They would wake up early in the morning, feed the cats, and maybe tomorrow they would eat breakfast but who knew. And not once would they bring it up, leave it unspoken until it faded. And Sandy wouldn’t have even a single memory of his tears. 

“Can’t–” Macaque choked out instead, “can’t breathe.”  

Sandy cooed, a small sound that put a shock blanket over his racing heart. “That’s okay, you’re just panicking. Breathe with me, follow me.” Under his breath, just under the thick strums of his voice, counting. 

1, 2, 3, 4 - Inhale

One, two, three, four - Hold

I, II, III, IV, V - Exhale

Over and over again. The shell turns in a spiral, and the patterns flourish and dapple themselves in the sunlight. Even metres below the surface of the sea, it breathes in the sun. Even when the light escapes him, it continues to embrace him. Sandy counted, on, and on. Macaque followed, chest swelling and deflating with air. It’s as painful as running for his life, and each slip-up feels just as dangerous. But Sandy never sighs with disappointment, never scowls when Macaque digs his hands in and chokes for air desperately.

Instead, he soothes him. Gentle pats on the back, brushing through fur, rubbing a circle into his cheek and wiping away lingering tears. He’s dancing through the air, nothing but fear and adrenaline in such a body. But Sandy, heavy and sturdy, doesn’t let him fall, doesn’t let him lose himself. An anchor, a lifeboat, the north star in the darkest night. A second sailor on his sinking ship. My Polaris, he can only imagine the words, cannot speak them. There’s a disconnect from his mind to his mouth, a severed nerve. But his hands do the job, holding on, grasping. Like a strangler fig onto the deciduous tree, but he’d never break through the bark. Just hold on, latch like a parasite to its host. Tears nourished the soil, the roots between them. And Macaque sobbed like he never had cried before, fumbling through his choked out keens. 

Macaque tries to hide in the light Sandy shed for him. But that’s the sad thing about being doused in luminescence, your flaws are on display for everyone to see. The sun brings attention to it, a spotlight. There’s nowhere to run in Sandy’s embrace, no matter how much those arms of his engulf him. Make him feel unreal, become something cryptid and fable in this cradle.

Darkness coats them once again. Shadow wipes over the ground, gripping at the carpet. It mews like a kitten, desperate to mark every inch of its surroundings until nothing is unfamiliar. It’s been warped over this exact floor before, but it whines and whips around the room. A tornado of unfamiliar emotion. Shadows strangle itself, and reconcile with the light. Shade drapes itself over the two of them, like a blanket of comfort, one you hide under when the lights suddenly go out, and the storm continues to rage just outside your window. Sandy doesn’t fight against it, sinks into the dark with Macaque. He didn’t even loosen his grip. 

A hand kept itself buried in his fur, hands meticulously and deftly undoing knots. 

“Can I tell you something, Macaque?” his voice was a whisper. Barely a drift in the wind. If Macaque hadn’t six ears, he would have missed it through the echoing of his own tears and sniffling. He does not trust his voice, not one bit, and hopes Sandy can feel him nodding against his bare skin. Sandy hummed, eclipsing further around him, allowing Macaque to curl up into the smallest ball he can manage. 

“These hands I’m comforting you with now have taken lives. I was a soldier, a warrior. The wars fought weren’t just between the mortal and the not. This realm has always been full of fighting, and I was on the frontlines. To some… I was the most fierce person they knew. And there was something within me that was just so lost, so angry. None of my allies even wanted to eat with me when the fights came to a close. Except… except for Pigsy, of course. He was small, but so tough. I watched him stoke fires, and cook whatever supplies we had. And he was rough around the edges, but I always thought if I touched him, I’d kill him too. 

“I grew so scared of killing everything I touched. All the food I held was eaten, and the people I cared for were lost. All's fair in war, I suppose, but– one day… Pigsy was wheeled back to our camp on a stretcher. A white stretcher, I’d seen it many times. But it wasn’t white anymore. It was red, so, so red. He was barely even breathing and I–” Sandy’s breath hitched, “I didn’t even visit him in the medical tent. This man who I'd crossed hallways with in high-school and fought side by side with, I didn’t want to see if it was true. That just being around me was getting people hurt… I don’t know what I would have done if he died, and we didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

Macaque swallowed dryly, one hand coming up to brush at his face with light touches. The tears inhibited, just a shaking lip and barely concealed sounds. 

“I think I’d consider that my wakeup call, but it wasn’t. I decided then, that if I couldn’t help anyone, I would just hurt for them instead. I threw myself into the battles, I fought with my soldiers, my own men. And I didn’t stop, couldn’t stop. Not until it was over, not until I knew I could make things better for the people I cared about.

“And then? I got hospitalised…” Sandy trailed off, body stilling around him. The pulse of his form thumped in Macaque’s ears, he was still warm.

“What happened?” he croaked.

A sad little laugh, it pained Macaque to hear more than a sob. “It turns out, I destroyed myself too… I thought I was helping, but I turned myself into a machine. Just a weapon. But everyone knew me as a fighter, it was all I knew how to do. It was how I survived, I didn’t know how to stop but–”

Macaque holds on a little tighter, “But what?”

“I decided I wanted to change. I didn’t want to live in fear of myself, angry at myself. I wanted to love and be loved. I embraced the life of a pacifist, leaving what I thought was my one true calling. I left it behind, all of it. I changed myself every way I could see how. Everything that gave me joy, I indulged in plentifully. Tea calmed me, cats brought me joy, and therapy gave me peace. Even so I… I still don’t fully forgive myself. But I’m working on it, still am.”

Macaque chewed the inside of his cheek, “What did everyone think? That you stopped doing what they expected.”

“Well, they were confused. And I think disappointed. But Pigsy… Well, he knew me as the strongest, scariest man he ever met. But now? He just knows me as Sandy, his best friend.”

Macaque paused, “I don’t know what is expected from me. Not just from you, or anyone else. I don’t know what I need to do to be better.”

Sandy held him so close. Like if he let go, by even the slightest measure, they would both lose themselves to the darkness. “Do your best, everyday. Doing what you can is the only step right now. Even if your best is just waking up in the morning, I will wait for you.”

“But why?” Macaque muttered, voice crackling like an old stereo. His eyes burned with threat.

Sandy hummed, low and melancholy. “Because I wouldn’t be here right now if I was left alone… And I’m not leaving you alone.”

Macaque sobbed. It was a sound feral and simmering from within. Sandy shushed him, soothing him with whatever he could. Soft, whispered words, and gentle running hands. As peaceful as a bubbling pond. 

“I– I miss it. I miss the chains. At least then, she told me what to do. I don’t know what I need to do, no-one ever tells me. I can’t read what they don’t spell out. If I stop trying to avenge myself, if I stop trying to kill him… What do I even have? I just– I lost the light. I never had it.”

Sandy didn’t say anything, not for a long time. But he never stopped crying to calm Macaque down. Didn’t stop, even when the shadows began to recede. 

“We all want the comfort of predictability. I missed war, for the longest time I missed fighting. I wasn’t so lost there, but I don’t miss it anymore. I remember it as the nightmare it was… I was shrouded in rose-coloured glasses. There’s a lot of difference between security in chaos, and happiness in the unknown.”

Macaque choked on his own tears, snot was running down his nose. He couldn’t unwind his hands to wipe it away, he didn’t want to let go. “When does it stop feeling so scary? When… when do I stop missing the pain?”

Sandy pulled him close, closer. Macaque’s head was pressed under Sandy’s chin, and his hands grappled to fill themselves with just Sandy. It was a fruitless goal, but the effort didn’t wane. 

“I can’t say, but you won’t have to wait alone.”

They were still on the floor, being rocked by the ocean like children in a mothers hold. The pressure behind Macaque’s eyes loosened, strings strung taut through his frame fell flat. He exhausted himself, crying out tears that had been damned behind him for more than centuries. Words felt easier now, slipping off his tongue despite how dry his mouth had gotten. So close, and yet his heart didn’t pound with the fear of being taken back to death.

“How can you even stand to look at me?” Macaque mumbled, “my glamours… you’ve seen all of it.”

Sandy smiled, his eyes were wet too. That didn’t make sense, a small hand lifted to catch the first falling tear. “Scars tell stories, and you’re a book I want to read.”

Macaque felt himself smile too, wobbly and wrong, and it must look hideous. But laughter bubbled up in his throat. “Only if you tell me yours as well.”

Sandy brought them together, foreheads touching. Pages flipped, too fast to comprehend.

“Of course.”

 

---

 

Something went bump in the night. 

There was no light in the room, even though the curtains were wide open. The moonlight stirred over the sea. It glimmered, like a lighthouse guiding all the lost boats. The lost sailors. Sandy wasn’t lost when he leaned up, one arm bracing himself. 

The nights were eerily quiet most nights. The lullaby of the ocean’s softly lapping tides lulled Sandy to sleep most nights. There were no cats sleeping inside, there was not even the slight tone of them padding through the halls. Just the ocean, just the moon. A writhing mass knocked against the end of the bed, Sandy watched it struggle against itself. A fight unwinnable, and it died down into a whisper of the night. 

Through the darkness, two half-formed slits, like the moon's crescents, stared him down. A smile dawned on his lips.

“What time is it?” Macaque croaked out, unravelling from the fetal position he preferred to sleep in. 

Sandy huffed, “Much too early. Why are you awake?”

Macaque said nothing to that, just rubbing his eyes. One hand came up to caress at where he smacked his head. 

“Don’t laugh,” he hissed, a faint warning. Sandy simply shuffled to sit further up.

“I promise I won’t.”

Macaque glanced to the side, pushing himself up to rest on the heels of his palms. He glanced to the open window, he was watching the moon too. The moon, and the ocean. They worked in time, pulling and pushing the tides. It was a beautiful meeting of nature and her carefully crafted love. 

“I had a nightmare.” Words spoken so softly, they barely held Macaque’s own inflection. They were foreign, clunky from his mouth. 

“I have those too,” Sandy mumbled. 

Macaque let his arms slip out from under him, back hitting the bed with a thump, “Hm.”

Sandy peeled the blanket back, offering the open spot to the moon’s light. Macaque glanced at it, but didn’t move. 

“You don’t have to be alone,” Sandy whispered. “Not anymore.”

Macaque huffed, “Don’t have to keep reminding me, you know.”

“I’ll keep reminding you until you no longer forget.” Neither said anything, Sandy patted the empty spot next to him. 

Macaque turned his head away, staring at the wall. And then it was silent. Nothing but the chirp of nocturnal birds, and the whirr of boats churning through the midnight waters. Sandy’s eyes closed of their own accord, drooping, drooping, gone. 

He hoped to dream of tea and cats, and all the things that showed him joy when all he could see was misery. Macaque might not love tea, and he might get overwhelmed when the cats pile on him. But Sandy sees how his eyes practically light up when the TV flickers to a theatre performance, or puppets made of everything from socks to metal. It’s the light not born from another, so graciously offering you a chance at something other than darkness. It’s happiness, and it was always Macaque’s. He just didn’t know how to grasp it. 

Sandy tried to stifle the flinch when the bed dipped beside him. Barely cracking an eye open, he watched Macaque pace circles next to him. He curled up, using Sandy’s arm as a pillow. His tail wrapped gently, oh so gently, around his bicep. And that was it, the weight of Macaque atop him melted, like butter warmed on a hot day. He had to fight not to move, to not spook the demon, flightier than birds scattered around a dog park. 

Macaque nuzzled further, closer. His head leaned on his shoulder, an arm stretching out to lay across his chest. Sandy dared to move then, just to pull the blanket back up and cover him fully. Macaque muttered something then, warm and thick like honey, sweet like a spoonful of sugar, or two. 

“Thank you,” and it was a start.

If Macaque pressed his face into Sandy’s chest, covered only by the thin shirt he wore to bed, could he feel his heart beating as if it were his own? The sleeves of his own pyjamas scrunched up around his elbows, Sandy bought and fitted them for him. Said he couldn’t just sleep in his regular day clothes. It was far more comfortable, Macaque would give him that. Sandy twitched, he hesitated to move. But Macaque would tussle with the sheets until he got in a position more allowing for his night’s rest. Sometimes, Sandy would feel it at the foot of the bed, just barely skimming him. He’d fight against sleep sometimes, and Sandy would open his eyes just enough to not chase off his own rest, and watch Macaque’s striking purple eyes scan the ceiling, the floor, and the window to the outside. 

He didn’t get out much, not as though Sandy didn’t offer. But he was still finding his feet amongst the boat, trying not to jump when a cat rubbed up against him from behind. Still trying to stomach eating more than once a week, but he was getting better! And soon, none of this would feel like murder. It would just be living, and isn’t that such a concept. 

Sandy’s arm came to curl around Macaque’s side, relaxing at the audible sigh of relief leaving Macaque’s lips. The tail clutching onto him, a dear-life grip that refused to slip, lest Sandy turn into the salty wind above the sea and never return to him. And he doesn’t know it all, and he doesn’t expect to ever hear every scar on Macaque’s body sing its laments. But what he does know is that everytime he leaves the room, Macaque stares at him like it's goodbye. There’s almost a genuine shock written across his face upon his return. And he just wants to watch that look fade, to see Macaque relax into his own presence, not sit tense and taut like an unattended puppet once he’s out of the room. 

He made a promise, silent and loving to himself one night. There was nowhere on this planet he would roam where he wouldn’t take Macaque with him. He’d never be alone again, and Sandy would never forget the look on his face when he told him that, and everytime he repeated it after. 

And come morning, when the room was too cold, and the bed nicely warm, they would sleep in. Macaque would hardly stir, and Sandy wouldn’t bother him. A shadow clone was already slipping out the door, following in Sandy’s footsteps and leading the army of cats out. Later, he would make them breakfast when it was lunchtime, and he’d be subtle about turning to a channel he knew played theatre shows. 

But for now, Macaque purred against him. And they were not alone. 

 

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 11 of Poet's LMK fics