Chapter Text
When Macaque was younger he hated fighting. He was no warrior, no, for he much preferred the title of a poet. His favorite art medium was, and still is, ombromanie; better known as shadowgraphy or shadow plays.
When Wukong had asked him to join the brotherhood he hadn’t wanted to fight, no he wanted to tell the stories. He had wanted to spy, to sneak, and predict with the gift his six ears bestowed upon him. He wanted to send shadow upon shadow out with the wind, he wanted the wind to tell him of the great gods plans and for his shadows to provide visuals. He wanted to stick to the shadows and provide a reliable escape. He wanted to watch their backs and take care of any unnoticed enemy with a shadow portal.
The brotherhood had been content with this at first, excited even; for they knew Macaque was reliable and would do them the justice they felt they deserved. Until he made the mistake of helping them, they had been in a sticky situation and Macque felt he could no longer stay in the background; no longer just providing a swift retreat and taking the occasional enemy out.
He should’ve known once wouldn’t have been enough; for if you dangle meat in front of a lion's den you should not expect to come back out.
“You could do that the entire time?!” he exclaimed, sounding surprised but not angry. ‘Yes,’ he thought, wanting to inform, but didn’t say.
“Why didn’t you help us before?” he queried, not unkindly. ‘Because I don’t like fighting,’ he thought, wanting to tell him and only him, but didn’t say.
“Why didn’t you tell me you could do that?! I thought we were forever Mihou!” he whined, pouting. ‘You know I don’t like fighting,’ he thought, wanting to remind the other- as he knew his sun could be forgetful, but didn’t say.
“You could do that the entire time, but didn’t?!” he shouted, his angry tone hurting the others six ears. ‘I’ve told you to stop screaming at least a hundred times by now!’ he thought, wanting to snap, but didn’t say.
“I always knew you were a coward,” he sneered, turning his nose up in disgust. ‘Takes one to know one,’ he thought, wanting to insult, but didn’t say.
“But didn’t say”, “but didn’t say”, but never said. Perhaps he wasn’t a coward, but is an obedient people pleaser much better? Maybe it’s worse, he can’t tell. Sometimes he wishes that he really was a coward, that he could have bowed out before his love blinded him, figuratively and literally.
Maybe some people just aren’t meant for something as lovely but vile, something as strong but weak, something as healing but hurting, as love.
Magazines, movies, media, and people will have you believe that love is this wonderful thing; and maybe it can be. People will have you believe that love and hate are polar opposites, but that isn’t true. No, they are one in the same. Not repelling magnets but two sides of the same coin.
People kill for love and hate, people accomplish great things for love and hate. Revenge exists for love and hate, justice exists for love and hate. Love is nothing without hate the same way hate is nothing without love. Both are strong emotions that blind us, both can cause us to commit heinous crimes or beautiful miracles.
People can hate love or love hate. You can love that you hate someone or hate that you love someone, you can even hate and love someone. Love can turn to hate and hate to love.
However you view the two, one thing is for sure, you need to fight for love.
And Macaque? Well, Macaque hates fighting.
Maybe that doesn’t mean anything anyway, there’s no real difference between hate and love. Maybe he actually loves fighting. Maybe he hates that it’s the only way he could ever get the sun's attention. Maybe he just hates everything and loves too much.
Maybe, maybe, maybe. “Maybe” won’t fix anything, but it’s better to think on the “maybe”s than to take action. Maybe he’s just a coward who doesn’t know what he hates and what he loves.
Maybe he’s a coward for not wanting to know the difference between hate and love.
What difference is there that matters if they both wind up hurting him in the end?
Fight for love.
Cold but hateful red eyes stared down at him. Blinding gold drowning in an ocean of hurtful red, not even a glimmer of love left in their expanse. A terrible feeling settled in his gut as his once love raised the once pure gold staff. Red liquid, already crusting at the edges from how long the fight was, slowly fell down the edges of the weapon. It glimmered in the sunlight, creating a morbidly beautiful piece. Then the fucked-up artwork came crashing down, promises of pain ripping into the wind too fast for him to move his already battered body.
Or for hate.
Cold and empty blue eyes stared down at him. Once warm glamoured gold was an empty icy blue. Not even a glimmer of hate left in their expanse. Fighting through the terrible feeling that had begun to settle in his gut. Deja vu was a terrible feeling he decided right as bright blue beams of light ripped through the wind out of his opponents eyes. It was almost too fast for him to block. Almost.
Ah, there it is. The only difference that truly matters. Love gets him killed, and hate?
Well, hate is what saves him.