They're surrounded. Heaven's generals closing in, weapons raining down. Wukong laughs, wild and incandescent, as Six-Ears moves without needing to look. They're back-to-back, shoulder-to-shoulder, breath in sync. Within a split second — a spear comes from behind.
Six-Ears pivots, grabs Wukong by the waist, and pulls him flush against his chest. The spear flies by inches away, but their attention is elsewhere.
They're too close. Their faces inches apart, gold eyes meeting green.
Wukong grins. "Posessive."
Six-Ears responds evenly: "Sloppy."
He doesn't let go immediately, and neither of them comments on it.
They've taken a celestial terrace, Heaven burning below. Wukong is perched on a railing, treating gravity as a suggestion.
Six-Ears grabs his wrist to pull him down. "Stop posturing."
He smirks. "You love it."
"I tolerate it."
Wukong leans in, deliberately invading space. "Do you."
They're almost nose-to-nose, electric. Six-Ears' almost thinks he might come closer, but instead he laughs, infuriatingly, and flips backward into open air.
Six-Ears watches him fall, unalarmed, his hand still lingering in the air.
Six-Ears takes a hit meant for Wukong. It's not fatal, not even close, but it hurt. They're alone behind shattered cloud pillars, Wukong kneeling in front of him, unnervingly still and quiet.
"You shouldn't have done that."
"You shouldn't need guarding," Six-Ears replies, equally resolute.
Wukong grips his collar. Hard. Their foreheads are nearly touching.
"You don't get to disappear on me," Wukong snaps.
Six-Ears studies his face, seeing rawness. And something terrified. In that moment, Wukong realizes how close they are, and pulls back, standing abruptly.
They never talk about it.
It's after a particularly catastrophic celestial collapse. They're standing amid the wreckage, Heaven in chaos.
They look at each other, and start laughing. Shared delirium.
Wukong reaches out and wipes ash from his general's cheek, thumb lingering at the edge of his mouth. Six-Ears' hand comes up, catching Wukong's wrist.
They freeze. It could have turned into something, but instead:
"Focus," Six-Ears says quietly, and lets go.
They're alone, on their favorite stone ledge, high on Flower Fruit Mountain. Sunset is bleeding gold through emerald branches. Wukong's pilgrimage has already been completed, and they've been back home for a while. Too long, maybe. Peace has settled in, which means room for thoughts.
(Dangerous.)
It started small, like bad days tend to do: a council matter, irrigation again. Monkeys arguing over river flow. Wukong dismissed it too quickly, and Six-Ears corrected him in front of the others. The king's pride flared.
The wind is sharp, night deep.
"You undermined me," Wukong starts.
"I preventing you from making a reckless decree."
"I was not reckless."
"You were impatient."
Wukong turns on him, stepping closer. "I am king."
Six-Ears continues, unintimidated. "You forget that you are not alone."
"That was the point," he snaps, stubbornly continuing his tantrum. "I was alone. I earned this. I don't need you to—"
Six-Ears' stops him, voice rising as something buried is exposed. "You would have died a dozen times if I had let you be."
Wukong's eyes flash. "I'm immortal, and you say I needed guarding?"
"Yes." The answer is sharp, honest. Wukong freezes as Six-Ears continues, quieter but no less intense, "you are brilliant. You are powerful, and catastrophic. And you never look behind you."
"I didn't ask you to."
"You never ask."
Wukong's jaw tightens. "Then why did you?"
There's a beat, wind moving through the trees below and around them. Six-Ears doesn't respond immediately, but the silence says too much. Wukong steps closer again, too close, into his space.
"Why," he repeats.
Six-Ears' control is slipping, just barely. "Because someone had to choose you."
The king inhales sharply. "I didn't need—"
"You did." The interruption is fierce, It hits harder than any celestial weapon ever did. "And you still do."
Wukong's voice drops. "Careful, General."
Six-Ears' eyes darken. "I am no longer your general."
Wukong grabs his collar, not violently, but not gentle either. "Then what are you?"
Six-Ears' breath catches. Finally, a crack shows.
"I am the one who stayed," he says, trying to keep his voice steady. "And I am tired of pretending that is nothing."
The world feels dead still. Wukong searches his face, but not for weakness.
He finds truth. All of it. Every moment: in the armory, on the balcony, through injury. Every time Six-Ears stood at his back without being asked, even as his king stared down the Army of Heaven, mad with divine hubris and drunk on power.
"...You idiot," Wukong whispers.
Six-Ears' mouth twitches, a tiny familiar dryness that breaks something open.
Wukong pulls him forward and kisses him.
It's not careful or practiced. Their kiss is teeth, and breath, and pent-up, centuries of repressed and unspoken emotion. It's anger redirected, relief disguised as aggression.
Six-Ears stiffens for half a heartbeat, before grabbing Wukong by the waist to kiss him back.
It's not elegant, and they bump noses. Wukong laughs into it, while Six-Ears makes a frustrated sound, because of course this is how it happens—
They finally pull apart, foreheads touching and breathing hard. Wukong blinks in shock before grinning, dazed and feral, leaning back in to continue. Six-Ears exhales a disbelieving laugh he did not mean to release, seconds before the king's arms reach around his shoulders and their lips touch again.