You tell Wukong you don’t want friends.
He doesn’t try to change your mind, but he does have something to say about doing everything alone.
You find him before he finds you, perched on the edge of a rooftop, staff resting across his shoulders, tail flicking lazily in the warm breeze. Sun Wukong always looks like he’s doing nothing, but you’ve learned better. He notices everything.
“You’ve been avoiding everyone again,” he says without turning, voice light but not careless. “Your friends have been asking about you.”
You don’t sit beside him right away. You linger a few steps back, fingers tightening in your sleeves.
He hums, finally glancing over his shoulder. There’s no accusation in his eyes, just quiet curiosity. That almost makes it harder.
That gets his full attention.
Wukong shifts, turning to face you properly now, one leg dangling off the roof. “Prefer what way?”
You hesitate, but you’ve already come this far.
“Being alone,” you admit. “I don’t… want friends. Not really.” Your voice doesn’t waver as much as you expected. “It’s easier. Quieter. No expectations, no worrying about messing things up or losing people. Just, me.”
The words sit in the air between you.
For once, Wukong doesn’t jump in with a joke.
He studies you, expression unreadable at first. Then something softer settles in. Understanding, not pity.
Not you shouldn’t feel that way.
You finally sit down, leaving a bit of space between you. He doesn’t close it.
“You know,” he says after a while, “people always assume being alone is the worst thing that can happen to someone.”
That… isn’t what you expected.
“I’ve had centuries of it,” he continues, voice quieter now, less performative. “Not the peaceful kind, either. The kind where it’s just you and your thoughts, over and over, with nothing to interrupt them.”
A faint smirk tugs at his lips. “Gets real old, real fast.”
You huff softly. “That doesn’t exactly sound like you’re agreeing with me.”
“I’m not disagreeing either.”
“I’m choosing it,” you insist, quieter now.
There’s no hesitation. No doubt.
And that makes your chest tighten more than if he’d just argued.
Wukong shifts, pulling one knee up, resting his arm over it. He’s closer now, not invading your space, but present in a way that’s impossible to ignore.
“What does ‘friends’ mean to you?” he asks.
You hesitate, then sigh. “....It means… expectations. Talking all the time. Being there when you don’t have the energy. Feeling like you’re doing something wrong if you don’t respond the ‘right’ way. It means eventually messing up and losing them anyway.”
Your voice dips slightly.
“It means it’s temporary.”
The last word almost disappears into the wind.
Wukong doesn’t respond immediately.
When he does, his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it.
“No big speech?” you ask.
“Oh, I’ve got plenty,” he says dryly. “Just none that would actually help right now.”
That earns the smallest hint of a smile from you.
He notices. Of course he does.
“But listen,” he continues, tone steady. “Not wanting that kind of connection? That doesn’t make you broken. It means you’ve learned what drains you.”
You relax slightly at that.
“But,” he adds, and you knew there’d be a but, “cutting everyone out, isn’t the same as protecting your energy.”
You don’t answer immediately.
Because he’s not entirely wrong.
“I don’t feel lonely,” you say, softer this time.
He nods. “Then I’ll believe you.”
No argument. No pushback.
“I don’t get to decide how you live your life,” he replies simply. “And I’m not gonna force you into something that makes you uncomfortable just because it fits some nice, neat idea of what people should want.”
Wukong leans back on his hands, looking up at the sky. “You don’t have to have a bunch of friends. Or any, if that’s really what you want.” A beat. “Doesn’t change anything between us, though.”
You blink. “You’re not… bothered?”
“Why would I be?” he says, glancing at you again. “You’re not rejecting me. You’re just telling me how you exist.”
That lands somewhere deep in your chest.
“I like being around you,” he adds casually, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “But I don’t need you to be someone who thrives in a crowd for that to work.”
The space between you doesn’t feel so heavy anymore.
After a moment, you shift just a little closer—not all the way, just enough.
