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It's the limbo between season five and six. They're all on server that's supposed to be on peaceful mode to let them all properly recover from the antics of last season, and yet─
Minute's sword hangs above Wemmbu's head. Hesitant, yet there's a warning still present in the way Minute's hands clench, and how the sword stills just before it strikes down, hovering.
Wemmbu does not flinch, he smiles. The way he does so is sinister, threatening, yet Minute knows him too well. There's a slight downturn in the corners Wemmbu's lips that he's fighting, and his body is tense. Knees bracketing Wemmbu's torso, and leaving them both in an awkward position that consists of Minute facing down at him. Eyes wide and aware; studying.
And Wemmbu slumps surprisingly fast. His façade lasts no longer than a few moments until he realises that Minute doesn't fall for it. Not anymore. Not since he's grown, adapted, and metamorphosed into something wiser.
That's what betrayal does to someone. It unwillingly changes them, forces them to undergo a process of unwanted emotions that end with an undying vengeance
But Minute isn't ‘normal’, he hadn't ever been. Wemmbu can defend that statement adamantly to anyone who says otherwise. Recite the amount of times Minute has allowed Wemmbu to get away with things, because he's Wemmbu, and no-one else. Doesn't mean he forgets them though.
No, Wemmbu's deeds are very much remembered. The bad more than the good, yet, nonetheless, he can't find a particular reason to care. Wemmbu's long since accepted that fact.
“Why aren't you-” Minute breath hitches. “You should be fighting back.”
Wemmbu shrugs, bored. “It's obvious, isn't it? You're better at PvP than me, we were fighting.”
Instead of driving his sword through Wemmbu's neck, Minute frowns. Black hair cages his face, and white pupils steadily observe Wemmbu's posture. Even now, years later, Minute holds Wemmbu's betrayal close to his chest. Maybe forgiven, yet never forgotten. Wemmbu can't help but outwardly snicker at the prospect of others now joining him in Minute's mental ranks. He'll happily boast how it brings him satisfaction.
“You paid them,” Minute's voice is shaking slightly at the edges.
“I did - there's no denying it.”
“Do I hate you now?”
Wemmbu pauses, then hums as he thinks maybe a bit too deeply about it. Admittedly, he isn't surprised Minute asks this. His mind is still confused, falling behind as he tries to process the aftermath and contents of Season Five. How now they wait patiently for the next season, in a frankly provocative position if it were anyone else. Sword promising death, yet never administering it, disoriented in its decisions.
Maybe Wemmbu should say no. Lie through his teeth, and spew anything but the truth once again just to save his own flesh and bones.
Pointedly, “Yes,” And he can see the way Minute's shoulders tense, hunching as he sucks a sharp breath in.
Wemmbu doesn't frown, a smile still plastered across his face, yet it's more neutral now. No clear emotion behind it, but there's acknowledgement. A mutual understanding that this was how it was always going to play out. With one in dismay, and the other fruitful in their achievements. It's just unlucky that Minute is the one with another scar embedded above his heart.
“I think we're fucked.”
“We are, but that's how we work,” Wemmbu muses, a hand coming up to trace the diamond edges that threaten. “In a way, we're closer when we're enemies than allied.”
Minute scoffs, “You keep saying that.”
“Am I wrong?” Wemmbu retorts, raising an eyebrow, eyes locked onto Minute's own.
No response, and Wemmbu expects that. He's aware of Minute's stubbornness, his annoying, righteous habits that have led him to crash and be smothered out by an unforgiving rain. Wemmbu was once that storm.
There's something poetic about this taking place in the limbo between now and then. A future is in sight, yet they'll both come out of this fundamentally different, changed. They both know this. Wemmbu accepts it, it's just a matter of if Minute will too.
For once, the look Minute has on his face is unreadable. Gaze fluttering from Wemmbu's face to where his sword aims poised to strike and tear. The adrenaline flows through Wemmbu's veins like a drug, and Wemmbu is addicted to how the Minute's weapon is shaky as it rises. Prepared, ready.
There's a loud crunch as Minute thrusts the weapon down. Stabbing the ground, grazing Wemmbu's ear.
Wedging itself further into the floor, beginning to uproot the grass beneath it as Minute twists it further into the earth.
Wemmbu can almost hear the grinding of Minute's teeth, frustrated, over the sound of his eardrums. He was ready to die, but Minute was predictable. Always was, always will be to Wemmbu. When Minute stares down, eyes wide and vacant, Wemmbu returns it - smiling.
“I hate you,” The words are familiar, but there's a slight hitch to Minute's voice that he always has when he says it.
It's then his sword is pulled out of the ground. Wemmbu hums, “Because you feel like you should? Or because you actually do?”
“I hate you,” And Minute hisses it out, yet his anger isn't at him. Wemmbu can't help but laugh.
Minute purses his lips as the other does so, shakily returning his sword back to its sheath. He's terrible at covering up the way he fumbles too much at the clasps for someone who's supposed to be so strong. So powerful─ and now he's weak all because of his stupid, ridiculous emotions.
“You- you actually—" Wemmbu is failing terribly at stifling his own laughter. “Minute- We've talked about this. Experienced it so much and you still won't learn?”
Said player falters; then, “You’re fucking weird, bro─”
“But at least I'm me.”
And Wemmbu knows he’s right. Right from the way Minute doesn't spare him another second and storms off, or attempts to. Minute's shoulders were hunched and he kicked rocks out of the way, a frown etching his face, but he could never hold hide his fondness even for people who've wronged him.
PMC may be a different story, one that Wemmbu happily helped in creating, but Minute is but a simple man for Wemmbu to understand. It's fun to dissect his very being, poke and prod at his little labels and habits, yet at the same time there is an understanding between them.
Maybe it's more so of an acceptance nowadays, though, but their lives are interlocked -threads weaving together and timelines splitting- for whatever reason. Wemmbu doesn't frankly know himself, yet nonetheless it's fun so Wemmbu indulges. And as much as Minute denies it, the way he glances back at Wemmbu says otherwise
Wemmbu's has had enough today, he concludes. He was satisfied, Minute's annoyed, and there's rain beginning to fall which only prompted him further to push himself off the floor. In Wemmbu's grand opinion, he'd rather not deal with his clothes soaked with mud, thanks! Minute however can trip over, fall into a puddle, and drown.
Okay, that might've been harsh, But Wemmbu's said worse - done worse. He's content with watching whatever the hell an in denial MinuteTech will get up to now. Maybe Wemmbu will finally get to see that 1v1 he wanted between Minute and Clown, maybe he won't. Instead he might be pushed to the sidelines as he watches Minute from afar do useless chores as he mopes.
Oh well, that can wait another day. Wemmbu really needs to work on his fighting, he's displeased that even after all this time, Minute can still beat him.