Chapter Text
The first time Mane sees him, he’s dead convinced he’s officially lost it. Even after a slow double take, he still can’t believe his eyes. Yeah, the day has finally come where he has lost his damn mind; he’s hallucinating visions of his younger self getting beat up.
The image of some little kid getting picked on by grown ass fully-geared players wasn’t abnormal. Probably getting recruited or indoctrinated into some kind of faction: bandits, pirates, the Mafia, the Law, the Nether militia. They were all hungry for new recruits to fill their ranks, and orphans were a dime a dozen nowadays. That’s what happens when you send all of their parents to die at war. It leaves a lot of young prospective soldiers ripe for the picking. Mane would know.
No, the crazy bit was the fact that the kid looked exactly like ManePear, if he was eight years younger. Seriously, this cub couldn’t be more than seven years old. He was just a scruffy little guy, and he was holding a poorly crafted wooden sword against a whole squad of fighters. They were just playing with him, really, crowded around him in a circle and shoving him back and forth, laughing meanly as he stumbles over the uneven ground. Poor kid doesn’t stand a chance.
If ManePear had heartstrings, they might’ve been tugged a bit. Just a bit.
Fortunately, he doesn’t. He’s got places to be, and his own shit to deal with. So he turns away and walks around the scene, not wanting to delay his travels by getting involved.
As he’s skirting past the edge of the battalion, the soldiers’ delighted, cruel din is interrupted by pained grunts and the sound of a player taking actual damage.
Intrigued, Mane slips into the crowd to investigate; pretty much all of the adults are at least a foot taller than him still, making it easy to sneak through their ranks unnoticed.
He reaches the edge of the crowd and—in the center of the circular opening, as if this was some kind of real duel happening—sees one of the players knocked to the ground, with the cub standing over him bravely. With trembling hands, he’s pointing that wooden sword down at his bully like he’s actually about to do something with it, eyes wide and breathing heavily like even he can’t believe it.
Mane laughs and shakes his head at the kid’s gall. “No shit,” he huffs quietly.
The second ManePear decides to open his big fat mouth, the soldiers notice him, identifying him as “other” and therefore “enemy.”
Someone grabs him roughly by the scruff of his neck and gestures at the inventory on his back. “Nice gear you got there. Why don’t you go ahead and drop everything. Now.”
He turns his head slowly and eyes the group around him. Less than a dozen players, all of them in unenchanted iron armor, maybe half with actual shields. Most are preoccupied with roughing up the cub; Mane watches one of them backhand him across the face so hard he falls to the ground, and his little wooden sword tumbles out of his hand and into the dirt.
Mane kills them quickly. A few minutes later, the only sound remaining is the twinkle of experience orbs mending his sword, replenishing the durability he would’ve hated to waste on players like this.
He stands up from the carnage of all the dropped loot and looks down at the cub’s shocked expression, watching and waiting expectantly for it to turn to horror, or fear. Instead, he breaks into a blinding grin and his eyes sparkle with wonder.
“That was so cool,” he breathes. “How did you learn how to do that? Hey, what’s your name? How old are you? I’m FlameFrags. Also where are you going?”
Mane is already leaving, headed in the same direction as before the encounter. He hears the hurried footsteps of the cub scurrying after him.
Mane sighs, “I had a good teacher. And my name is ManePear. Can you shut up and leave me alone now? ”
Ignoring his request and continuing to rush after him, Flame repeats, “Where are we going? Are you going home?”
“. . .No, I don’t have a home. I live in a tree. A big one.”
“You have a treehouse?! No way, that’s so cool.”
Mane scoffs. “It’s not a freaking— Bro, aren’t you like, seven years old? What are you doing all the way out here bro?”
“Hey, fuck you, I am not seven.”
“Yeah? How old are you then?”
“. . .Eight.”
When Mane turns to give the cub an unimpressed look, he notices the giant bruise forming across his face, from earlier. The adult handprint engulfs an entire half of his small face. ManePear feels his lungs collapse inwards a little, and another tug on his non-existent heartstrings, like pain from a phantom limb.
“Whatever bro, I guess you can come to the tree. But only for a little bit, you can’t stay there, got it?”
“Got it! Hey, how long did it take you to learn how to fight? Can you teach me to fight like that? How far away is your treehouse?”
“How about we play the silent game?”
“I don’t know that one.”
“This is gonna be a long trip little bro.”
—
Flame does not stay at the tree for “a little bit.” He stays forever. And he starts by moving into the room right next to ManePear’s.
The tree is huge, he had dozens of rooms to pick from, and he decided he needs to be right next to Mane’s room. Of course.
Honestly, Mane’s not entirely sure what eight year olds even do. He’s pretty sure they need to be fed and watered, at least, so he starts there. He makes them bread and golden apples because he’s fucking fifteen and doesn’t know how to make anything else. Flame inhales his food like he’s never eaten before in his life and will never get a chance again. Which makes sense, when Mane takes more than two seconds to think about it. With no parents to teach them how to hunt or cook for them, most war-orphans simply starve. The kid probably grew up malnourished.
After spending an hour dogging on the cub’s fucked up, messy ass hair while they ate, Mane decides to take pity on him and fix it with the supplies he has stashed in the tree. He sits him down on the floor and spends several hours putting his shit in the same two strand twists he does on himself, figuring he can just let it loc up if he gets too lazy to change it later.
And of course, because the cub is an annoying, ungrateful brat, he complains and whines the entire time, yelling that Mane is pulling too hard. Mane just laughs and calls him a tenderheaded crybaby.
“Wait. . .” Mane says seriously, finally finished.
“No way bro,” Flame gasps fearfully. “Do not tell me you messed it up bro please, I swear–”
Mane keeps up the ultra-serious face but can barely contain his laughter. He runs a hand over Flame’s head contemplatively and lets the charged pause stretch on. “Why did I lowkey cook?”
“Oh my god bro–”
Flame stomps out of the room huffing dramatically while Mane absolutely howls with laughter, knowing damn well he might just be the funniest player alive.
—
That first night back at the tree, it storms. The giant branches shake and groan with the wind, swaying around like a ship in a hurricane. When Flame comes knocking at his door—pillow and blanket in hand—he almost doesn’t hear it. Almost. He keeps his eyes closed and stays very still in hopes that the cub will just go back to bed. Which obviously doesn’t work. The door quietly clicks open and closed, and when he feels Flame’s little paws grab at the edge of his bed, he has to force himself to not flinch.
He turns around and peeks one eye open to glare at him. Flame freezes like a criminal caught in the act.
Flame whispers defensively, “My room is too cold bro!”
Mane isn’t sure how the kid could ever be “too cold,” given that his default resting temperature is like, a billion degrees. He just groans, too tired to argue, and lifts the blanket up for him to crawl under. The motion must also look like an inviting gesture to cuddle, because the cub climbs right into Mane’s arms and curls into his chest. Not at all what he was offering, but whatever. He just sighs, tucks the blanket and an arm around him, and falls right back to sleep.