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Fate has a cruel sense of humour, really. And that, Wemmbu could appreciate.
After all, he had found his way onto Lifesteal through a ridiculous sum of money. A thousand dollar bounty placed upon his own head, for the sole purpose of testing these murky waters.
People liked to delude themselves with moral superiority, you see. The rigidity of rules could bend even for the most uptight. The kindness offered comes intertwined with unspoken conditions. The gentle whispers, the shared warmth, the suppressed giggles…none of those will last, no matter in this server or the next.
There’s no bottom line that Wemmbu wouldn’t cross to manipulate others for his own gain, but one thing’s for certain: he refuses to lie to himself. Dangling a thousand dollars was all it took for the entire server to abandon all moral high ground and hunt him down like a dog. Not that he minded, of course; it was the exact outcome he had been fishing for.
His promise of three hearts to the PMC if they succeeded, however…now, that was far more interesting. He didn’t care for Clown, or Leo — top tier pvpers, whatever.
No, his eye had always been set on MinuteTech the entire time. Prodding at his nerves and inching closer to his teeth…yeah, there’s the dance with danger he was so helplessly hooked on. Inexplicably drawn to, like a fly to an alluring flytrap; diving headfirst into his own personalised doom. Isn’t that cute?
——
A piercing burst of glass shards served as their only warning when those heavily armoured figures clawed their way into the woodland mansion at last. Still holding his breath, Wemmbu felt Minute’s gaze land on him — a weight he’s more than willing to shoulder for the rest of his long, wretched life.
Smirking was second nature. Could you really blame him, when Minute’s long-suffering sigh sounded so much like home?
“They’re right below us,” Minute mouthed, fingers clenching tightly around the hilt of his sword. It took Wemmbu much longer than necessary to nod. Perhaps it was a deliberate attempt to infuriate Minute further; perhaps it was one of his few chances to memorise the way Minute’s brows knit together while focused. They certainly didn’t get many opportunities to be in such close proximity previously.
At least, not without a sword pressed against Wemmbu’s throat, and his own dagger digging into the small of Minute’s back. That’s just the pattern they’ve naturally fallen into, y’know? A song that only they bothered memorising the lyrics of.
But Wemmbu gets easily bored. They’ve sparred the same way across worlds, for god’s sake. It was time to spice things up a little.
So if he cackles with delight as Minute extends his sword out — pointing not towards him, but shoving him back protectively — that giddy high he rides is purely thrill, nothing more. And when that familiar blade draws blood for him…oh, Wemmbu thinks that Minute has never looked more glorious.
A knight kneeling for his king.
Well, that’s what he envisioned. But it wouldn’t be the Minute that he knew if the self-righteous fuck didn’t take it upon himself to ruin any fun that Wemmbu tried to have.
So when he finds himself on the ground, shuddering his last breath, he isn’t surprised when Minute only offers him a curt nod in acknowledgement. Of his failure? Of their—whatever it was that they had?
He’s always been the cool ice to Wemmbu’s fiery temper. It’s only made Wemmbu more determined to ruffle his hair and see him dishevelled, angry, out of control. He distantly wonders if the sight would be akin to a fallen angel; the inherent blasphemy that arose from something so pure becoming dredged in filth. Utterly debased, though not in any way that mattered to Wemmbu. He knew that—regardless—he would always hang onto Minute’s every word.
Sometimes he can’t tell which one of them is the god, and which is the devout cultist. Eh, semantics. Where’s the fun in figuring everything out anyway? Wemmbu enjoys the uncertainty far too much; he was a creature born in chaos.
Especially when it comes to MinuteTech. He can never tell whether that darkened gaze he teases out of him spells his demise, or a sensual promise. It doesn’t really matter. He would welcome either, as long as they were courtesy of Minute.
Wemmbu harbours no embarrassment about that fact. The feeling’s mutual.
Until—
Minute turns away, one arm already slung easily across Leo’s shoulder. “Damn. Better luck next time, huh?” Clown hums in agreement softly, bloodied scythe trailing after his footsteps.
What the fuck?
Minute glances back once, almost out of pity. “Sorry,” he says, sounding not very sorry at all. “It’s just business.” Wemmbu bristles at the sheer audacity, but finds himself too busy choking on his own blood to snap back a retort.
——
When Wemmbu dies, it’s colder than usual.
He tries not to dwell on it.
——
Up on the stage, Minute looks perfectly composed; a spitting image of the confident leader that people wanted. Only Wemmbu notices the fist he keeps clenched behind his back, valiantly trying to hide how much he’s shaking.
Fucking stunning in a suit, Wemmbu thinks. It hugs him in all the right places, drawing attention to the toned muscle that usually gets buried under heavy armour.
Too bad he’s desperately trying to avoid Wemmbu’s gaze. Ah, well…he wonders if a well-timed ‘kitten’ would still make Minute flush. Wouldn’t that be something? Lifesteal’s most promising presidential candidate, reduced to a sputtering mess.
He tucks that thought away to try out later. C’mon, he’s not that much of an asshole.
Though Minute was really tempting him. The harder he tries to sell the good guy act, the more Wemmbu wants to drag him down. Making the heart recipe cheaper to help those in need? Yeah, right, and Wemmbu has never abused exploits a single time.
A part of him still flinches every single time Minute offers that patient, kind smile to someone else. As if Wemmbu hasn’t seen him at his worst — bloodthirsty and merciless. As if Minute could just walk away; wash himself clean of all the stains left from their sins.
Wemmbu couldn’t fucking stand it. Couldn’t handle being cast to the side, no longer deemed a threat. Couldn’t accept Minute moving on to better things, as if he wasn’t just as damned to hell as Wemmbu was. Couldn’t deal with him acting like he had a chance at redemption, when their only destiny was to rip each other to shreds.
Worst of all, he couldn’t bear to see how Minute willingly gifted his aid to every pathetic runt that so much as whimpered in his general direction. Not when Wemmbu had to bargain a third of his lives away, just for the chance to stand by his side.
——
And so he orchestrated the overthrowing of Lifesteal’s greatest president.
Five hundred dollars, for every vote he bought against MinuteTech. It was worth every fucking cent. He made sure his stare bore into Minute as he gave his election speech, after all.
“You know what my thing is. You know what I’m about.”
Minute had stumbled back a step, barely managing to catch himself in time. Wemmbu treasured every moment of his seething desperation; savoured every bite of his quivering voice as Minute forced himself to concede.
Coward. He was growing far too soft. He was becoming weak.
The notion both excites and disgusts Wemmbu. Minute has been his lifelong rival; he should be untouchable, witnessed at full blinding glory. But now that he’s…changed?
Oh, Wemmbu wants to see him fall. Wants to remove that heavy armour piece by piece, carve him up and see which strike truly makes him scream — the dagger poised above his heart or the kiss pressed against his lips.
——
When he tracks Minute down, there’s a sense of bone-deep exhaustion in the way he carries himself. Wemmbu frowns. That’s no fun; he’s barely just begun!
Minute looks away, as if the very sight of Wemmbu scalded him. Now, that was new. Minute’s looked at him like trash before. Looked at him like they might be something more in another lifetime. But never like this, no. Never like his sword roared for bloodshed but his fingers were too heavy to lift the blade any longer.
So, very, fragile. Already? Wemmbu wonders how many thinly veiled insults it’ll take for Minute to crack. How much he should rip into old wounds, before some of that fight returns to Minute’s eyes and he pins him down at last.
Mmm, it’s a fun game to play. You can never expect the outcome with Minute; he’s surprisingly unpredictable in this regard.
“Five hundred dollars, Minute,” Wemmbu purrs, tracing the embroidered details on the other’s suit. “Shouldn’t you be honoured?”
Minute tenses under Wemmbu’s touch, but doesn’t make a move to stop him. He stubbornly remains silent, pressing his lips into a tight line.
Wemmbu raises an eyebrow, amused. “Whaddya think? Would they have done it for fifty? A hundred, maybe?” He snorts, flicking Minute on the nose. (He hisses. Wemmbu laughs in his face.)
“Just how much is your friendship worth, MinuteTech? Everyone else has evidently put a price on it; how exciting! But what’s your own? Surely I didn’t lowball you, right?”
That sharp anger seems to dissipate from Minute’s shoulders, put out far too soon. “Are you done gloating?” he says, deadpan. “Enjoy your immortality.”
“Oh, I already am, Brandy!” Wemmbu grins brazenly. “You should try to relax a little, y’know. It’s hard to take in, I get it. Everyone wants something in return, huh? Kindness isn’t worth jackshit.”
Minute musters a glare at him, but it’s severely lacking that intimidation factor when tears are prickling at the corners of his eyes. “Aww, Minute,” Wemmbu coos, “they’re all using you as a means to an end. Only I was willing to open your eyes.”
“At my own expense, too,” he adds ruefully.
…Minute doesn’t smile. Fine, Wemmbu supposes it’s a joke made in poor taste.
At last, Minute asks, “What do you want from me, then?” Wemmbu doesn’t comment on the way his voice wavers. Minute doesn’t shy away from the condescending little pats he receives.
Wemmbu cocks his head to the side, making a show out of his consideration. One firm push sends Minute down onto his knees; Wemmbu knows that he deliberately let him, but none of it matters, now, does it? He crouches to Minute’s eye level, and whispers into his ear, “I just want you broken. Is that really so much to ask for? You’re the only one I care about.”
Minute shivers against him. Ticklish? That’s adorable. Or perhaps it was just from his words alone. Regardless, his knight looks up at him, bloodied and trembling.
Beneath his rightful king.