Here another piece for this fandom, following a challenge from my bae: three random words, with a random theme and make it makes sense, ofc.

Warning: Angst, light spoiler

Snippets

Sun Wukong was aware that throughout his extensive life he had been classified in many ways: mischievous, cocky, handsome, irritating, presumptuous, a thorn in the side, among many others he couldn't remember anymore; most of them he flaunted like a badge of honor, while others he ignored as if metaphorically sweeping them under an imaginary rug. The only adjective he didn't even bother denying and rarely bragged about was being a compulsive hoarder, like any of the monkeys that roamed his mountain, to be honest.

He couldn't even say that he kept things in his Trophy Room for any important reason or out of sentimental attachment. If something caught his attention, it was simply added to his ever-growing mountain of treasures to be quickly forgotten in the place, gathering dust. However, even though there was no reason for him to hoard his belongings, they were just that, his, and he passionately detested others touching them. They are his for a reason, what need did anyone, any person, have to touch them?

Perhaps his successor was the only exception to that rule, but that was because the little MK showed reverence for each object that comprised his treasure trove, which became increasingly amusing the more he watched him interact with them. He would mutter to himself upon finding something new or emit little squeals as he recognized other things he knew only by name. Ah, well, there was another exception long ago, but it wasn't the time to think about that.

No, at that moment, he must be concentrating on finding an object that MK and Mr. Tang had lost the last time they had been there, searching for something he didn't exactly pay much attention to when MK was explaining it to him. Improve the course of a river? Fix the weather station? He isn't sure, and he doesn't care, but whatever they're looking for is important enough for the boy to move from one poorly organized pile to another without murmuring to himself or pausing to admire the objects he comes across.

What were they looking for again? An Inhala... what? No, wait, that wasn't it. A breathe-something, a respirator? Whatever it was, he'd been distracted when MK had tried to explain what the thing they were looking for looked like, and the name hadn't stuck in his mind long enough to remember it. All he knows is that it's small and important, a valuable device that helps the reincarnation of the ancient Monk stay alive. Honestly, if it weren't for the fact that, apparently, the man would die without it, he probably wouldn't even bother searching. Mortals, so amusing, dying for such simple things as not being able to breathe on their own.

Ridiculous, he's sure that if he personified the situation properly, it would make Li laugh... nope, no, he won't go down that path. He must focus on finding the respirator or whatever it is.

"Hey, Monkey King?" The young man's voice distracts him from what he's examining, making him look up with a noise of curiosity. "What is this? It stands out a bit from the rest of..." He gestures towards the pile of objects he had been going through.

But Wukong doesn't hear his question, not entirely, his concentration fixed on what he's holding. To human eyes, it's probably a cape, or rather, what's left of it—worn and somewhat torn. Despite the years of wear, it still retains its original purple color, albeit slightly lighter due to the obvious passage of time. The hair on his tail bristles as the young man carelessly shakes it, spinning it between his hands to inspect it, bombarding him with a bunch of questions that don't register in his mind, which is focused on one objective: recover the cape.

He had completely forgotten that it was part of his mountain of treasures. That cape is probably the only object he kept there with a high sentimental value, whether it be longing or guilt. He had long lost track of it when it disappeared from his sight, mistakenly assuming that he had misplaced it. The problem is, although a part of him wants it back because it's his, his—what gives him the right to touch it? To erase whatever might remain of its scent with his own? To stain it, or break it, or keep it for himself...? The other, less dominant part doesn't want to have to answer his successor's questions, let alone reveal that it had once belonged to Macaque and how it had come into his hands after he...

"Give it to me," he orders, interrupting his words, his hands trembling slightly between the desire to move and retrieve it himself, and his will to remain in place to avoid doing something he might regret.

"It's... just a piece of fabric," the young man nervously chuckles, looking at him with concern, "but I'm curious because it doesn't look like..."

"MK," the monkey growls slightly, surprising them both, "hand it over, now."

If someone were to ask them in the future what exactly happened, neither would be able to recall it with complete clarity, as the events unfolded so quickly that they were barely registered by master and pupil.

What happens in that instant is that MK instinctively takes a step back, bringing the old cape to his back. He doesn't know if it's to protect it from whatever Monkey King is about to do or out of a childish desire to keep it for himself. At the same time, Wukong loses his patience and lunges towards him, baring his fangs in warning and placing his hands on his sides, gripping the fabric instead of circling around or turning to take it back. It's just a moment, in a panic that MK can't exactly pinpoint the source of. His body reacts to the attack, trying to defend himself in the only way that seems logical: tugging at the fabric with one hand and trying to push his master away with the other.

In response to the struggle, which Wukong's clouded mind interprets as a challenge, the monkey pulls with both hands, attempting to push the young man away with his tail, repeatedly shouting for him to give it back, unaware of his own actions. In an instant, they are both pulling the cape in opposite directions, yelling things at each other that neither can understand, and then the loud sound of tearing fabric interrupts them, splitting it into two parts.

Shaken, MK releases the piece that remains in his hand, watching it fall slowly to his master's feet. His eyes shift from the fabric to the monkey, who gazes at the piece in his own hand with a distant look. Swallowing hard, the young man raises a hand, trying to do or say something, to reassure his master that he is okay, that it was just a piece of fabric, that he could fix it if only... To his immense surprise, Monkey King's immediate reaction is to growl and lunge, biting in the general direction of his hand, narrowly avoiding it as the young man pulls it back against his chest.

"Monkey King, I'm so sorry..."

"Go," the monkey interrupts, wagging his tail and forcefully pounding the ground. "Go, go, GO! GO!" he shouts, falling to his knees and hastily grabbing the fabric from the floor.

"I'm sorry... I didn't mean to... I'm sorry," MK retreats slowly, confused by the situation and hurt by causing his master stress. "I'll come back... later, whenever you want... that," he nods, although the monkey doesn't see it, his gaze fixed on the fabric that he clutches tightly against his chest.

Not wanting to tempt his luck any further, MK turns and transforms into a bird, quickly flying away from there.

Meanwhile, Wukong opens and closes his hands, clutching his chest along with the fabric, trying to calm his breathing. It's stupid, he tells himself, separating the two pieces of the cape slightly. It's stupid, there was nothing to save from the cape, logically speaking, after so many years, the fabric would give in to any force ending up tearing. There was nothing he could do about it, even in that moment when he obtained it. However, he can't understand why it hurts so much.

It's stupid. Truly stupid.

He's so stupid and clumsy that he can't properly take care of something as simple as a piece of fabric, right? Not even because it's all he has left from those days, better times when life was much simpler; not even because it might be his most precious possession, he couldn't take care of it properly.

Stupid.

"Stupid," he whispers, taking the two halves in trembling hands, trying to bring them together and... he doesn't know, magically mend them with his sheer willpower?

Unfortunately, between the tremor in his hands and his blurred vision from the tears he's trying to ignore, he makes a wrong move, tugging the fabric in a bad way, causing it to tear again and worsening the situation even more. Now, with more torn pieces than he had initially, he comes to the conclusion that he couldn't fix it, there was no solution, and no matter how hard he tried, he would only make everything worse.

That's what he does, doesn't he? Make things worse. He clenches his jaw tightly, taking the fabric scraps in his hands and balling them up, feeling anger building up in his body until, in a burst of frustration, he throws the small fabric ball away from him with a small cry, watching as it unravels and the multiple scraps of fabric slowly fall in different directions. Just as quickly as it came, the anger dissipates abruptly, leaving behind a wave of exhaustion.

Heartbroken, he looks at the fabric scraps, wrapping his tail around his waist, too drained to do anything more than remain there, sitting amidst his treasures, feeling defeated. Slowly, he embraces himself, pulling his legs close and resting his forehead on them, letting out a humorless chuckle.

He doesn't even know why he tried in the first place; he should be used to the fact that the only thing he's good for is destruction. Everything he touches, even for a brief moment, crumbles in his hands.

"Pathetic," he mutters to himself, clenching his hands and ignoring the tears running down his cheeks.

Pathetic and nothing more. How did he think he could fix anything? He couldn't even take care of his former master as he deserved, let alone take care of an old, tattered cape that had, until that moment, represented a bittersweet memory, a memento to remind him of what he had and lost due to his own fault.

Simply pathetic.