Chapter Text
Flame gripped his sword, lightly testing the weight of the cold handle as he picked it up and spun it with mechanical muscle memory. His hands shook, palms cold and slippery. The icy metal bit into his palms. He stared across the empty arena.
A silver tiara, metal twisted and ugly in his hands. Breath fogging the steel of his sword, messy violet hair limp and tangled with blood and sweat.
“Sure,” Wemmbu panted. The mace fighter was still trembling from the adrenaline of the fight, body twisted slightly away from Flame’s blade. He was smiling, but it wasn’t the smile Flame knew, brimming with ego and danger and the wild ferocity of battle.
Flame could hear his heartbeat screaming, pounding through him and trembling the ground. He stared at Wemmbu and at last, at long last, Wemmbu’s face was twisted with the beauty of defeat and desperation. He was beautiful, and the thought made Flame want to disembowel himself.
Beautiful?
Rivals were always rivals; spurred by opposing magnetic fields, repelling and kicking and clawing at each other until one shattered from a well-timed blow.
Until one accepted defeat.
And defeat was not beautiful. It was the blistering satisfaction of victory. Of warm blood smeared on faces, locked swords and the sweet comfort of hatred.
(He refused to think about warm fingers, wrapping around his wrist.
Hair tickling his cheek. A weight on his shoulder.)
Flame refused to let pity or - or- whatever this was dampen what Wemmbu was about to say. He waited, watching Wemmbu’s strained face as if it were a banquet and he was a starving man.
Wemmbu’s face suddenly twisted, the tense smile growing wilder. He began to laugh, blood trailing from his cracked lip and tracing the curve of his chin.
“Sure,” he repeated, “Yeah. You’re the strongest. You win.”
Flame felt like there was searing dynamite in his chest, tearing through his ribcage. He was in control. He was better than Wemmbu. He was the strongest.
He was… he was…
Flame blinked and slowly released Wemmbu. He forced a lazy grin onto his face, muscles around his mouth twitching with the effort. He sheathed his sword with a flick of his wrist, shoving it into his inventory.
He turned around to look at Wemmbu, smile flickering a little as he took in his rival. Wemmbu was still smiling, looking at the fading sun in the sky. Blood ran like a pearly tear down his torn sleeve, dripping off the pointed embellishment on his mace.
“Yeah, whatever, bro.” Flame turned around and equipped his elytra. “You better remember that. Don’t try me again.”
Because Flame was weak, because his brain and body were betraying him, because he had no idea why he wasn’t happy, he turned around to look at Wemmbu one more time.
It was absolutely doubtless now. In the dying streams of the sun, cast like a star in center stage, under feverish backlight, Wemmbu was vibrantly alive.
Blood and wounds glowed on his body and adorned him in rough detail. His pale skin and lilac hair were set silver, tears of a bitter moon. Wemmbu still clutched Gambit, swaying slightly at the edge of the crater.
He looked at Flame then, and Flame felt the heat in his chest sputter and die. Wemmbu grinned, and his teeth were stained with rust.
“You’re the strongest. Are you happy now?”
_________________________
Flame laughed to himself, hearing the sound echo hollowly though the arena.
“Yeah, Wemmbu. Of course I’m happy.”
The blindfold felt too tight around his eyes. The sword weighed a million pounds in his hands. He didn’t know who he was talking to.
Flame continued, “You thought you were something, huh, Wemmbu? Swinging that stupid mace around, thinking you were better than me.”
The words were empty, empty, and Flame wanted to reach into his head and pull out the parts infested with violet eyes and long silvery hair.
Flame was lying through his teeth to thin air. He could remember, with painful vividity, the fluidity of Wemmbu’s lanky frame as he whirled through the air. The clanging and cracking of weapons brutally meeting again and again. Wemmbu’s voice, taunting, mocking, adding to the cadence of battle.
(Fingers interlocking with his, the sweet scent of alcohol –) No.
He dropped his sword and groaned, rubbing the heels of his palms against the scratchy fabric of his blindfold.
“It was fun fighting you, I guess. I’ve- I’ve never had to fight to be the best before.”
A thousand players, cresting the hilltop. Wemmbu moving, a bright blur beside him.
The hurt (imagined or real?) flashing in violet eyes as Flame bit back choking guilt and directed his blade towards his rival.
Guilt. Was that what he felt? Why? He was the strongest, just like he had always wanted to be. Just like he had always been. Why wasn’t he happy?
Flame whispered to himself, gazing up at the intricate stained glass on the dome of the arena:
“Wemmbu. If I’m the strongest, what do I do now?”
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Wemmbu was kneeling, hair forming a curtain around his helmeted face. He stared at the delicate embroidery in the opulent carpet through the grid pattern on his visor.
“...That’s enough, Knight. You may stand.”
The voice was a cruel shiver, a promise of pain and white-hot lashes and a memory of hunger curling low in his stomach.
White feathers, long and lily-pale. A glazed blue eye. Hot scarlet flowing like a bright fountain.
Wemmbu stood and bowed deeply to the dais. He did not lift his eyes from the carpet. A cold, gloved hand tipped his chin up, and Wemmbu’s blank eyes met pale green ones.
“Knight, please do look at your king when you are spoken to.”
Wemmbu blinked slowly. “Apologies, king.”
LettuceK stood, smiling down at Wemmbu. His fine gold robe swirled like magnificent fog behind him.
“Kinght, how far we have both come since I met you!” He leaned forwards. “The people want me as king. The world has lived in this chaos for too long, under too many cruel mercenaries.”
He brushed an invisible speck of lint off his crisp dress shirt.
“But no matter! Order and sanctimony are coming.”
His smile was a sharp slash across his face, abrupt punctuation.
“The Law is coming.”
Wemmbu stared blankly at the young king, arms spread wide and mouth curved in a snarl. LettuceK tipped his head towards Wemmbu.
“Knight, look how far the Law has come. We stand at the precipice of a new era.
And so.”
Lettuce’s lips curved yet farther, arching into a smirk of pure mirth.
“Lawdog. For the Law, and for the empire we have built: I have for you a mission.”
Wemmbu bowed. His voice was tempered steel, icy void. “Yes, liege. My sword is at your command.”
Lettuce passed a piece of parchment to Wemmbu. His armored hand gripped the paper. On it, there was the profile of a player.
Long dreads. Ragged blindfold and sharp scowl. Ruby-crusted sword.
Wemmbu’s heart sang with familiarity. Faintly, in the back of his mind, bells chimed bright and insistent; he felt as if his whole being reacted to the image.
There was something – there was something here, like some secret door trapped under the layers of wallpaper the Law had covered him in.
For the first time in many months, Wemmbu was afraid.
Who are you? Wemmbu asked himself, tracing the pencil marks that outlined the player’s face.
Wemmbu could feel Lettuce’s eyes piercing his visor, analyzing him, preying on the doubt in his mind.
Lettuce spoke again, voice cold and clear and condemning: “Find the player who calls himself FlameFrags. And when you have found him, kill him.”
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There was a figure in the cracked bathroom mirror. Twin torches illuminated a sallow face, framed by thick dreadlocks. Gold eyes complemented by little gold accesories, glinting like eyes from a mess of knotted hair. Flame gripped the sides of the sink, staring at himself as if analyzing a stranger during battle.
Assess weaknesses.
Determine strengths.
Figure out how to win, at any cost necessary.
But Flame was weak, too weak to figure out how to beat his own mind. And so he let himself trail away, fingers shaking as they brushed a small gold bead carefully tied into his hair. It was one of many, dozens of gilded teardrops weaved into each braid. It was one of many dangerous memories.
____________________
Flame glared daggers at the purple figure stretched out lazily on a chair. He couldn’t believe it. His rival.
His rival.
He had just let his rival into his base. Temporary alliance or not, he had to be seriously delusional. Flame would have to rebuild his base, thousands of blocks from here. Restart farms that took hours to build. Keep an eye out for weeks for potential ambush. Wemmbu was, after all, a force to be reckoned with when he set out to do something.
But for such a dangerous opponent, Wemmbu didn’t look even an iota menancing under the flickering lights of the dingy kitchen. His features, normally twisted with mirth, were relaxed. His eyes were closed, features smoothed out and warm.
He was pretty, and even Flame had to admit it.
Suddenly, jarringly violet eyes flickered open and Flame quickly looked away. The amount of relentless teasing Wemmbu would inflict upon him if he caught Flame staring would be mortifying. Wemmbu leapt out of the chair and grinned devilishly, pulling a glass bottle from his inventory. It sloshed with deep amber liquid. Wemmbu rummaged around in Flame’s cupboards, despite his feeble protests, producing two glasses.
“Want me to pour you some?”
His rival was grinning, features alight with mischief. Flame wrinkled his nose.
“Dude. You’re gonna get drunk before a fight?”
Wemmbu shrugged, voice almost a lilting sing-song. “Science says you PvP better with a massive hangover!”
Flame snorted, and shrugged. “Suit yourself, bro. I’m not risking the regret tomorrow, no matter what science says.”
And so Wemmbu drank, and chatted, and boasted, and drank some more. Flame watched as Wemmbu became increasingly tipsy. His eyes were twin comets, feverishly glazed and bright. His words didn’t slur, but what he said became increasingly disjointed. He smiled a lot more, gaze tracking Flame’s every movement.
“Hey,” Wemmbu said suddenly. He sat up and shoved the alcohol onto a nearby countertop. “You wanna race to sit on the roof?”
Flame blinked. “You wanna… sit on the roof… while drunk? Bro, are you suicidal?”
Wemmbu laughed, eyes still overbright. His words were tripping and running over themselves a little now, racing to get down his throat and to his mouth. “Yeah, whatever. It’s not like you care, Mr. ‘Die, Wemmbu, Die’. If I rolled off the roof, you’d be cheering me on.”
That’s not true, Flame thought, and he was surprised at the force of the thought. They were temporary allies. Once tomorrow’s 2 v 1000 was over, he planned to betray Wemmbu. That was the plan. That had been the plan for weeks.
In a rivalry, there was no room for guilt.
No room for concern.
And certainly no room for… for…
Wemmbu laughed again, and for some stupid reason the sound was unbearably sweet. He equipped his elytra and sprinted out the front door.
It banged rudely behind him.
Flame cursed under his breath, sprinting after him.
…
“I winnnn!” Wemmbu cheered tipsily as he crash-landed on the roof of Flame’s base. Flame was right behind him, scowling and putting away his stack of fireworks. Wemmbu flopped down, arms propped under his chin. His long, pale hair cascaded in the wind that suddenly tore across the plains. The purple blob tucked it behind his ears impatiently, fine strands spilling across his fingers.
Flame was really starting to hate himself for noticing these kinds of things.
Wemmbu blinked, looking at Flame. He smiled slowly, making childlike grabby-hands at Flame. “Flaaame. Your bead-thingies are coming out.”
It was Flame’s turn to blink, scowling harder (if that was even possible at this point) at his rival.
Bead thingies? Wemmbu was a whole lot more drunk than he had thought.
Wemmbu smiled lazily up at him. He looked devious. “The gold trinket things in your hair.”
Flame sat down carefully on the roof tiles next to him, self-consciously pulling fingers through his hair to touch them. He didn’t consider himself vain, except for where his hair was concerned. Wemmbu watched him, bright gaze making Flame’s fingers clumsier than usual.
Wemmbu rolled over, gently brushing Flame’s arm. The contact seared like an acid burn, but Flame was weak.
He didn’t pull away.
“‘S no good,” Wemmbu muttered. He reached up and Flame could feel his delicate fingers twining through his dreads. “Lemme do it for you.”
Flame crouched on the roof, shoulders stiff, legs aching, for what must have been an hour. He flinched at the icy brush of fingers at the nape of his neck, the infinitely gentle tug as Wemmbu worked methodically through each gold bead. Flame, try as he might, couldn’t pull away. He had never hated himself as much as he did then.
What a sight they must have been, two rivals (a word that wasn’t even close to covering all of it) sitting together under a scorching moon.
When it was all done, Wemmbu smoothed the last braid back into place.
“There,” he admonished sleepily, “‘S lots better.” He leaned in again, so close that Flame was afraid Wemmbu would hear the way his heart jacknifed and tumbled, an engine about to overheat.
“Flame,” Wemmbu whispered, and Flame shivered at the sharp tang of alcohol on his breath. He was warm, warm, and Flame was seriously going into overdrive. Wemmbu continued heavily, words bleeding together with sleep and too many drinks,
“Flame, I dunno if I wanna fight anymore.”
Flame swallowed, trying to force his brain back into action.
“What are you talking about, bro? We’re rivals, remember?” He felt Wemmbu shrug against his back.
“I guess.” Then, in a flash, Wemmbu had flung his arms around Flame’s neck. Every fiber of Flame’s being froze.
“And yeah, you’re my rival.” Wemmbu leaned over to somewhat face Flame. His tiara glittered atop his head, crowning him a child of the moon.
Wemmbu clambered awkwardly to the edge of the roof. Flame could still feel where his body had been pressed against his back. The beautiful figure spread his arms wide, still smiling.
“We’re rivals,” Wemmbu repeated. The phrase was familiar, a relationship that defined them and the space between them clearly.
“But what else are we, FlameFrags?”
Flame’s hand automatically jerked towards the handle of his sword, a nervous habit. Wemmbu reached out and gripped his wrist, cool and painfully present.
Flame tried to jerk away. “Bro, you’re actually so drunk.”
His rival smirked, sitting down with a plop and curling up against Flame’s left side.
“What are you–”
Wemmbu interlaced their fingers, hot on cold, fire on ice. He leaned quietly on Flame’s shoulder, pearly silk strands spilling around Flame’s tense neck.
“This is fine,” Wemmbu muttered. His breathing eased, and within minutes, the stupid purple blob had fallen asleep.
__________________________
Flame slammed his fist into the side of the sink. He probably busted a knuckle. He felt warm blood slide down the hollow of his wrist and pool against the cracked porcelain. He didn’t care.
“Dammit, Wemmbu!” Flame yelled. His voice cracked with desperation and fear.
He sank to the tiled floor of the bathroom, cold leeching through his clothing.
A thousand slices of a sly purple mace user, bound tightly together into a devastating illusion.
A thousand lies uttered by the same weak lips.
A thousand wounds, spreading blood like salt on a swollen tongue.
…
Flame uncurled his aching limbs, staring unseeingly at the disgustingly white ceiling.
“Where are you?” He asked no one in particular.
(He may have had someone in mind.)
__________________________________
Flame pushed open the wooden door, scowling at the creak of the hinges.
“Oi!” Flame barked. “Parrot.”
A lime green avian peered at him from over a rickety countertop. He paused in his action of punching something into the register machine. His features narrowed. In a blink, the bird had tented his wings and launched over the countertop, landing neatly in front of Flame; far too close for comfort. Flame could hear the avian’s multicolored wings rustling suspiciously.
“Flame,” Parrot greeted unenthusiastically. “I assume you’re here to buy something?”
Flame stepped back, fingers playing with the hilt of his sword. He shrugged.
“Not really.” He leaned towards Parrot, just a fraction, grin showing just enough teeth to be threatening. It was Parrot’s turn to shuffle backwards. From behind him, a familiar yellow canary materialized.
Flame planted his feet wider apart, placing his hands on his hips dangerously.
“Theo. Parrot. Do you have any information on Wemmbu?”
The two birds looked at each other, evidently surprised by the inquiry. There was a beat of silence. Then Parrot sighed. “I think you’d better come inside,” he muttered miserably.
_________________
The back of the shop was warm and dank, with colorful boxes and trays of potions neatly stacked halfway to the ceiling. Every few feet, a torch sputtered against the dirty oak walls.
Parrot sat Theo, Flame, and himself around a small circular table.
Theo shifted uncomfortably and asked if Flame wanted a drink.
Flame declined.
Parrot stood up and began sorting through chests, decidedly not looking at Flame.
Flame cleared his throat.
“Sooo….” The word was dragged out and awkward.
Parrot sighed, back still turned away from Flame.
“Let me guess. You’re looking for a rematch with that idiot blob. Again.”
Flame smirked. He twisted in his barstool, eying the figure stiffly digging through stacks of potions. “Maybe. My business with him doesn’t involve you. I just need the intel.”
Parrot turned to face him, vibrant wings slightly flared and mouth tight.
“But why should we tell you?” Parrot’s arms were folded. He looked insurmountable and stupidly pious.
ParrotX2 was a very punchable person, Flame mused to himself absentmindedly.
“Assuming we know, of course.” “Which we might not,” Theo added, glaring across the table at Flame and snapping him out of his reverie. “Why’d you come to us for info, bro?”
Flame threw up his hands, cool and collected facade dropping away. Parrot and Theo were always suspicious, always scheming. They were exhausting to be around and even more exhausting to barter with. It was true, he didn’t have anything to exchange for the intel.
(But he couldn’t admit that he was desperate.
He couldn’t admit that he was worried.)
Flame took a deep breath, gritting his teeth and choking down a stinging mouthful of pride.
“Whatever, bro. What’s it to you, anyway? I – I’ll be in your debt, or whatever. I’ll owe you a favor. Do you have Wemmbu’s whereabouts or not?”
Parrot stared at him, confused and deliberating, clearly weighing his options.
Theo spoke quietly, into the silence. “I think we tell him, dude.”
Parrot turned slowly, redirecting the force of his glare to face the other avian.
“A favor? From the high and mighty FlameFrags? He’d just as soon kill both of us. I don’t want a favor from him.”
Theo shrugged, tipping his head back and forcefully downing a bottle of water as if it were a shot of something strong.
“Dunno, Parrot. I’m getting the vibes that he’s desperate. We don’t really have anything to lose anyway.” Suddenly Theo looked shifty. He glanced over at Parrot and muttered, “‘Sides, there is something we can ask of him.”
Parrot sighed, running a hand through his tangled chestnut hair. But Flame recognized the set of his mouth, the droop in his shoulders.
It was the look of defeat.
(And he would know all about how defeat looked, wouldn’t he? Defeat looked like crystalline blood and fuscia globes pressed above high cheekbones. Defeat were words muttered like a chant under the rhythm of a dying moon, words that killed him and made him whole again.)
“Whatever.” Wemm– Parrot took a seat at the round table and faced Flame. His choppy brown curls and iridescent wings were as far from Wemmbu as one could get. This was Parrot. Flame was tripping. Flame wanted to slap himself, and slap Wemmbu out of his head as well. What was he even doing? A favor? For his rival?
But Flame was in too deep to back out now. (Or at least, that’s what he told himself.)
“Last we heard, your precious purple blob was captured by the Law.” Parrot had leaned in close, voice low and furtive.
Flame startled. He hadn’t expected Parrot to fork over the information so easily, so abruptly. It was only after a few minutes that the meaning of the sentence began to sink in. Flame clenched his jaw, teeth cracking together. The Lawmen. Of course.
(Flame seized the sudden tugging of memories and guilt and strangled it roughly.)
“Okay. Okay.” Flame began to back out of the storage room.
“Where are you going?” Parrot’s voice cracked like a whip. Flame turned slowly and stared Parrot down.
“...to the Law headquarters. Duh.” Flame’s body was already coiled, ready to spring into action. He furrowed his brow at Parrot.
Parrot stalked over to him and smiled. It was grim and cunning.
“Not alone, you don’t.”
“What–”
Parrot smirked and stepped forwards. Theo rose silently behind them. “Our favor, remember?”
Flame sighed. He was regretting ever coming here already. Perhaps there was a way to get out of the favor… well, he may as well humor them first.
Parrot fluffed out his wings. That smile was still on his face, eyes gemlike emerald slits.
“You’re gonna kill LettuceK for us, Flame.”
Flame just stared.
Theo also grinned, shoulder to shoulder with Parrot.
“Yeah. And we’re coming with you to make sure you don’t betray us.”
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