Chapter Text
Chapter 1: New Steps
The rain tapped against the car window like nervous fingers, a syncopated rhythm against the low hum of the engine. In the passenger seat, Wumuti stared out, watching the neon signs of the city blur into hypnotic streaks of pink and blue. He imagined stepping into one of those glowing signs, becoming the confident producer and singer he was in his bedroom studio—not the insecure boy being driven to his new step-sibling’s house, a consequence of his mother’s whirlwind romance he was still struggling to call love.
The scent of his mom’s perfume, familiar and floral, filled the car. She glanced at him, her knuckles pale on the steering wheel. “Almost there, honey.” Her smile was tight with a hope he didn’t share. “You’ll like Rui. Their dad says they’re artistic, like you. A serious dancer, I hear.”
Wumuti didn’t reply. He just twisted the silver ring on his finger, a gift from his mom’s fiancé—a peace offering that felt more like a brand. “Artistic” could mean anything. Competitive. Pretentious. Or worse—better than him. This entire arrangement felt like being cast in a play he’d never auditioned for, forced to share a stage with a stranger who probably resented his existence as much as he resented theirs.
The house was a sharp, modern structure of glass and chrome, a world away from their cozy, cluttered apartment. It felt like a place where you couldn't hide a single dust mote or a secret, which perversely appealed to Wumuti’s love of order. This was the home his mother was choosing, the life she was weaving them into.
Before they could ring the bell, the door opened. Inside was all cool, minimalist elegance. And then, a figure descended the floating staircase with a poised, deliberate grace that felt like a performance. Or a warning.
They—Rui—wore black ripped jeans and an oversized, soft pink sweater that seemed to swallow them whole. Their dark hair was slicked back, their eyeliner a sharp, perfect wing, their nails a glossy black. They were the embodiment of the cool, curated aesthetic of this new house.
Wumuti felt a surge of self-consciousness, acutely aware of his oversized corduroy jacket and his own nails, painted a muted slate blue. He instinctively tucked his hands into his pockets.
Rui’s dark, assessing eyes swept over him, then his mother, their expression unreadable. The silence was heavy, charged with the unspoken fact that their parents were in love, and this awkward introduction was the price.
“You’re Wumuti,” they said. Their voice was smooth but guarded, a statement of fact that offered no warmth.
“You’re Rui,” Wumuti echoed, his own voice softer, barely a murmur. He was the interloper here, the addition to their perfect family portrait.
Neither smiled. The rain tapped against the large windows, a nervous rhythm for the new, fragile, and deeply complicated life they were being forced to build.