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“Do you mind?” Minute raises an eyebrow, gaze pointedly fixed on the cigar. This, of course, only makes Wemmbu deliberately puff it into his face. He laughs when the other scrunches up his nose. It’s cute. Makes him look a lot younger.
“Oh, I definitely quite enjoy it! Thanks for asking.” Wemmbu leans back against his chair, propping his feet up onto the desk. Minute suppresses his growl. It’s too fucking early to be this riled up.
“If you’re just here to smoke, go pollute somewhere else. I’m quite fond of my clean air.”
Wemmbu grins, a hint of wicked delight creeping into his voice as he says, “And what if I’m quite fond of ruining it? You make it so much fun, after all.” He winks, taking the liberty to make himself comfortable in his seat. “If you really wanted me to stop, why don’t you entice me? You know I’m always down to talk business.”
“Especially when it comes to you,” he adds, chuckling at the sight of Minute’s expression shifting through five different emotions at once. He eventually seems to land on disgust. Pity.
“Get out,” is Minute’s only response. Tone flat, and carefully levelled. Wemmbu has always been a fickle thing to deal with, but if all these years of verbal sparring have taught him anything — the cocky, self-assured bastard before him wants nothing more than dangerous excitement. He lives for the thrill, the risk that comes with taunting Minute. As for why Minute still indulges him…that’s far more difficult to ascertain. He doesn’t want to dwell on it.
“On edge today, aren’t we?” Wemmbu muses, fingers drumming rhythmically against the wooden tabletop. “Need a therapy session?” A flash of teeth. “I’ve been told I’m very good at saying what people want to hear.”
“Find someone else to bother, Wemmbu. I don’t have time for your games.” Minute makes to stand, and — that’s no good, now, is it? He was just getting started!
Wemmbu shoots an arm out, fingers wrapping around Minute’s crimson tie to tug him back down. Pfft. ‘Course it’s in his signature colour. All about maintaining a consistent image and all that. Come on, now. Brand identity is an excuse for the easily forgettable to feel better about themselves. Though…Wemmbu supposes that Minute’s quite an exception to that rule.
He’s very much memorable, that’s for sure. Haven’t been able to keep those stunning gray eyes out of his mind ever since he gazed into them. It’s strange — unsettling, even. Gray isn’t a loud colour. It doesn’t scream at you, bursting to be seen. It lies in silence, content to wait and wait and wait.
So Wemmbu wants to see how much it’ll take for it to snap. A little challenge that he’s set for himself, if you will.
He cocks his head to the side, studying the defiant upturn of Minute’s chin. “Make time,” Wemmbu says simply. “I’ve made plenty for you, haven’t I?”
His words startle an incredulous laugh out of Minute. “God. You fu-” he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “You sure do have a way with words, but I’m afraid your skills are far more suited in the Marketing Department. Though your true calling probably lies in the scam industry.”
Wemmbu takes a slow, drawn-out puff from his pipe. “Who’s to say I don’t already dabble?”
“I have no desire to know what you get up to behind closed doors.”
The amusement lighting Wemmbu’s eyes up makes him regret responding entirely, but it’s far too late. “If you wanted me so bad, you could’ve just asked, darling. You know I could never say no to you.”
Wemmbu watches as a muscle in Minute’s jaw ticks. The CEO grits his teeth, forcing the words out, “Get out.” It’s supposed to be an order of sorts, but Wemmbu has never been particularly good at following rules. Instead, he plasters on a saccharine smile, and waits.
Minute’s frustration is a sweet thing to drink in, nestling beneath the warmth of Wemmbu’s tongue and leaving an addictive aftertaste. “Don’t make me throw you out on your ass.”
“Tsk. How uncouth, Minute. What ever happened to your decorum?”
“What ever happened to your conscience?” he bites back, and Wemmbu giggles. “Fed it to the wolves,” he sing-songs in a tone that he knows is bound to set Minute off. Oh, how good it feels to be right!
When Minute shoots him a withering glare, it feels like a reward. A victory in this game that only Wemmbu’s bothered to keep track of scores.
Still — a win nonetheless. Minute seethes beautifully; he wants it immortalised. Perhaps it’d make a good picture to be framed on his wall.
…Too bad Minute would never come by to see it.