Work Text:
Everything burned.
His legs, his arms; his every muscle twitched and contracted as if biting down on a cloth to keep from screaming out. The searing want of stopping melded with flesh and skin into something aching and sore stretched thin like string, twisting around every limb and cutting off circulation.
But the important part was that Wemmbu was alive. Wemmbu had escaped.
Weird fae…voidling deals aside—his right pointer cooled like being dipped in void, rainbow thread tied around it in a way that was unmistakably binding—he was finally free. Able to do whatever he wanted; to move and talk and mess about. See Egg, at some point…see a sunset, and—and, yeah, his list of to-dos wasn’t particularly long.
Well, there was one more important thing, he supposed.
See, as it turns out, fighting a thousand players, then dueling Flame, then getting taken by Law, then having to escape Law, and running for days on end, kind of dwindled his already lacking PVP supplies. Which meant he would have to do one of a few very stupid things: Steal, steal, or steal.
Sounds pretty consistent! It’s not, though. He could raid a few old bases (almost everybody has moved into Law territory; he’d get caught again), beg Minute for some stuff (the other was probably still running short from the fight with Flame awhile back; he didn’t know where he was), or…and, okay—and don’t call him insane or anything. He could technically, probably, most definitely, steal from a Law outpost.
Don’t yell at Wemmbu yet, please.
Sure, yeah, Lawmen everywhere, just like the bases, but he’s heard they’ve been spread thin to ‘protect the people’, or whatever, and so many aren’t actually where they’re logged to be. They’re just…around. Cities and towns and the like, but almost never actual outposts. Why? Because most were in the middle of nowhere, and why would a runaway convict be risking starvation by traveling out all those thousands of blocks?
Wemmbu would be answering that, he guessed. Supplies! There was probably a lot that could go wrong; would go wrong, but he reasoned that as long as he stuck to the outer posts then there was less of a chance Lettuce would’ve kept guards stationed there.
Or something. He hadn’t really thought it out before he started walking. He’d figure it out when he got there—cross that bridge when he got to it. The unease growing on the back of his neck and seeping into his spinal cord to worm its way to his brain was not reassuring.
And the walk over really didn’t help either. Greens and oranges and dull greys melted together in his periphery as all he could focus on was the gnawing of his stomach and skin against ribs and bone. The usual internal monologue started up (the one that started after his second time in solitary, when he was there for somewhere between an hour to a week. He didn’t know; meals were the only indication of time passing, and those weren’t scheduled, so he couldn’t really tell. The guard rotations he memorized, at the very least, told him it must’ve been over a few days).
It went on about what they needed to take, how his legs hurt, how pretty those sunflowers were, and when they should next eat. How they were basically there, sun setting for what was either the first or tenth time since the journey started. How the coordinates were right up ahead; he could see the tall white pillars that spun into yellow bamboo planks.
Now, how Wemmbu got said coordinates was between him and the Law officer who was…unable to snitch, but it was good to know that even a wooden sword was terrifying enough if you were him. Or maybe, given the way they looked sick—like they were about to vomit; like they wanted to run—as soon as he looked them in the eye, something was…scary about him. Wrong? Maybe. Disheveled? Probably.
His tail swished unhappily behind him.
Pushing white hair, chopped messy and short, behind his ears and out of his eyes, Wemmbu pushed himself forward. All he needed was to get there and then he could relax. All he needed was to restock quick and he could lay low for a day or two before heading back; before destroying the Law and its leader that paraded him around like an animal. The thought he was one, tattered wings and still healing horns (they pulled at them; they broke them; they hurt him) heavy on his back and head, made something leak puss and blood inside of his mouth. It was fine. He’d get it sorted.
Outward from beneath his boots, mud pushed under heels digging in. The rain a while back had made his wings wet as they covered his body, and left the path annoying to traverse—movements clumsy and sad. Somebody laughed, maybe, a familiar warm thing that was as calm as it was proud and big. There was nobody watching Wemmbu when he looked up.
It played in his head on loop like it was real, though.
It tinted everything around him into things that reminded him of a time and person painful enough it felt like being kicked and beaten by a thousand players at once all over again. The orange of the sunset made him sick enough to put all his focus on not falling over; scratches that were now old and made of puffy scar tissue burnt, little things on his left cheek from the claws of somebody who left too long ago to care about.
Eventually, the path narrowed, and Wemmbu slouched completely against the quartz support beam of the tall structure. One empty and devoid of any stupid chunguses, just like he’d hoped.
Or, well, thought, because the sound of loud footsteps and mutterings about loot and eating good for days was ringing in his ears like one of his orbitals might—familiar and sickening. Everything in Wemmbu prayed harder that, against all odds, it really was just something his mind made up. That comfort was a thing he chased so desperately that he decided to conjure up somebody who had no right to bring him any peace anymore. It didn’t really compute to his heart though, and suddenly the old blindfold he always had around his forearm was the worst thing to have on his person in the world. A worn out orange, it was almost unmistakable who it belonged to, and so was untied and shoved in his inventory as soon as eyes caught it. As soon as red came over his cheeks, flushed and dusted with embarrassment he really shouldn’t be feeling over a piece of cloth. Being seen with it felt like a death sentence.
Wemmbu mimicked the footsteps of the Invisible Knight as he walked, silent and covering distances as quickly as he could.
And. And, someone sat exactly where he hoped they wouldn’t.
The familiar sight of blonde hair and a mask of a lion made every nerve in his body close, blood stopping for as long as it could for fear that it’d be heard flowing. And maybe it was founded, because as soon as Wemmbu was stopped, the happy humming—humming that filled him with an indescribable urge to tie the other’s vocal cords together right there—and swaying of the other’s tail stopped.
Mane stared at him.
Wemmbu felt sick in a way that he hadn’t since the sign. The sign that tossed his fate away into chasing a title; abandoning and somehow also chasing happiness to prove careless words wrong (he didn’t even bother to say it to Wemmbu. He was too much of a coward to tell him). It crawled up the back of his spine delicately, forcing bones to straighten, and settled its joints awkwardly on his throat to squeeze and make him let out a whine so pathetic—something a lost kitten might let out—he could see the lion crouched a few feet in front of him tense.
Which was impressive, really, because he was already seemingly off put seeing Wemmbu. Mane’s shoulders were brought up, his mouth had been in a thin, pursed line before the pitiful display, and he could feel bright purple eyes that he wasn’t able to see looking him up and down. Looking at the mess that was left of the demon. The mess that, if he had seen even right after the two versus a thousand, or before, or even a few months after their training, he’d know wasn’t normal.
How did Wemmbu tell him this wasn’t how he usually looked? How did he prove he hasn’t been a total wreck since he left?
The thought he couldn’t made something inside him churn, acid mixing with an empty stomach to feel like it was complaining enough to bring its words up his throat and into his mouth. It burnt cold, and he wanted so badly to prove himself as much as he wanted to curl up right there and just let it be somebody else’s problem for once.
Behind him, his tail curled around his leg tightly—a habit he copied from Mane; a movement he immediately honed in on. Somehow, everything that made up his vocal cords refused to be strung and plucked, and he was left just standing. Waiting and hoping for anything but the man in front of him to move. For anything but the man to not move.
He did, eventually.
Gentle and yet as detached as always, Mane spoke in a voice that could be as concerned as it was fake, “Wemmbu, bro. What,” he faltered for a second when black eyes snapped onto him, as if reconsidering his sentence, “What’re you doing out here? Thought you were captured by Law.”
It had no right to sting as much as it did. Mane knew. He knew and he didn’t try to help. He knew and he didn’t seem to care at all. He knew and he was sitting there, looking at his beat up and half-dead student, and still not helping. As if it was just a fact that he couldn’t help, a little setback that didn’t throw Wemmbu back so far in so little time.
“Yeah, well,” he hated how Mane’s face scrunched in disgust at the roughness in his voice, “I got out. Needed a restock, so…if I could just…”
Wemmbu raised a hand in a near placating gesture, slowly moving past the lion to assess the chests labeled with items. He wasn’t sure what Mane had already looted, but…well, he didn’t have much of a choice but to ask. Sucked, yeah, he didn’t really want to be talking to the other. Especially not now. His fate was decided, though, and as sad as it was, he didn’t see looking through them all as a good time spender either, unfortunately.
Clearing his throat, black eyes turned their attention onto the orange figure that was now much closer than it was a minute earlier, “Woah—back up, bro,” the man complied, just barely, “what’d you, like, loot already? Other than the gapples.”
Mane loved taking the golden apples first. Wemmbu felt like his vision might blur if he thought about memories leaving extra for him in mafia storage chests further.
This whole thing was already too reminiscent for him, thinking stupid things like that was what was probably going to get him killed soon enough. This was the same person who mocked his sentimental box; he didn’t exactly have time to be crying over the fact he used to be nice to him. That was exactly what Mane hated. Exactly what he’d take advantage of.
“I left some stuff. Was gonna blow it up, but,” he sighed like it was the most inconvenient thing in the world, “You can have it, bro.”
Bro. Bro. It repeated in his mind. Again and again. There was a weight to that word that had him avoiding eye contact completely, hands fumbling with chest latches and shoving things into shulkers and his inventory. The whole thing was sad, maybe, but Wemmbu couldn’t care. He couldn’t, not when his hands burned with the knowledge he still organized everything exactly as Mane taught him. That Mane watched him do it and said nothing. That he could feel the heavy gaze on him even when the lion tried hiding it.
That gaze. That look. That feeling of eyes watching over him and thinking he was so hopeless; that he was following Mane around like a lost puppy.
Maybe he was, at some point.
It didn’t matter. Not one bit. Especially not when he was snapped out of it by the wash of freezing burns tracking their way wherever the eyes behind that blindfold looked. It was enough to make him sick. It was enough for him to reach out and steady himself on the shulker currently being restocked. Enough his knuckles turned white and he wanted to throw up as much as he wanted to stare right back—kick and scream and hit. Something a child might.
He distracted himself, tapping his foot and working on breathing—even intervals that seemed to help every time except right now—but time didn’t do anything. Mane just kept staring. Like Wemmbu was some kind of spectacle, some sad case of hopelessness. As if assessing the remains of what he had so regrettably poured months of his time into, a mistake on his record that he was never able to wipe clean.
The lion hummed, at that point in Wemmbu’s thinking, disgustingly on cue. It was the hum that he always let out when he was stuck between dissatisfied and concerned. When he wasn’t quite sure what Wemmbu was doing, and it caught his attention.
Familiar claws wrapped around his heart then, squeezing and leaving his muscles to pull him upright and look toward the older man. The one who left a child all alone—the one who disappeared with nothing but a sign. His arteries constricted; blood and unsteady beats impeded by a tightened grip.
“What?”
The words came out sharper than Wemmbu wanted. Venom dripped from the corner of his lips like drool, and something about the way Mane’s hands clenched and unclenched before he responded had his heart jumping like a rabbit’s might in face of a fox.
“Why do you always—Wemmbu, bro, calm down. I’m not gonna do anything.”
Calm down. Calm down. He could…he didn’t want to.
He listened regardless. Regardless of how half of him screamed to do the exact opposite, and the other half fought with messy swipes and weak hits to at least try.
And he did, to his credit. It was pathetic—because of course it was—causing something violent and shaky to force his heart even further into a monstrosity that nearly burst, but he tried. It just…ended up leaving a gross heap of tissue that was violent and twitching, and Wemmbu wanted to cry, a little bit. He settled for turning around and feigning organizing to wipe at his face.
Mane let out a chuff.
Did Wemmbu need any golden apples? No, no, he was fine on that. XP, definitely—he always ended up running out for his elytra and <Gambit>. And extra armour sets. Potions, too. Strength, swiftness…yeah. Yeah, that was fine. He needed all that. Desperately right now, but probably enough it justified getting a little extra (as much as he could carry) for later, right? Right. Yeah. That made sense. An emergency stock, or whatever. He liked being rich, anyway.
The tremor in his hands as he worked was hard to hide, but Wemmbu thought he managed just fine. Fine enough. Enough that eyes that were still on him wouldn’t notice—still on him, why were they still on him?
Nothing else left Mane’s mouth (luckily), despite the gaze that was burning more and more by the minute. Not worry or genuine care, just that singular noise of comfort that wrapped roughly around an annoyance he wasn’t able to place, but was so nauseatingly clear.
If he’d not been fighting back tears, maybe Mane would think better of him. If he wasn’t sat here with barely formed scabs and pitifully patched gashes, maybe…maybe—maybe shoulders would be able to straighten and legs wouldn’t shake and—and then what? He would be a little less of a lost cause.
The sound of solid footsteps retreating to where they originated from had Wemmbu breaking from his thoughts.
Just enough to tense and reach out to stop the lion—why? Why was he leaving again—but…but Mane wasn’t, really. He just settled back into the dirt. Just sat down slow and calm, And Wemmbu’s hand was still in the air, like it was stuck—and it was so pathetic and similar to what a child might do if their parent left them alone and…and—and it took cutting through the string that’d brought it up in the first place to tear it back down.
Mane returned to looking at him.
Even through the blindfold, the palm around his heart touched with its own fingers the second Wemmbu saw even a glimpse of his face. Myocardium squished and split open for vibrant red to spit sharply out of the cracks. Little craters of abyss that tore open at outer edges of awkward folds and twists in how the organ was gripped. All despite the fact he’d looked away as fast as he snapped his eyes over in the first place. All despite the fact the presence of the person he’d been waiting for was exactly what he despised right now.
And the older man kept staring through the whole thing. He looked a bit like he was debating something; was in his head enough that the lion-esque tail flicked once behind him unconsciously, a fast movement that cut through the soft ground.
Wemmbu wasn’t sure what he wanted—for him to stay, or go, or something else—but…but.
It wasn’t silence. It wasn’t for this.
Because, even if he didn’t know what he wanted; even if everything was so blurred and glossy with lack of sleep and something he refused to name, he did not want this. Wemmbu didn’t want his mentor to ever look at him like that again. Like he did before their last argument when he refused to give up the mace.
Like Wemmbu was something about to explode.
Grass crunched softly under heels; he could hear Mane talking as well as he heard his thoughts—something about him. Something about the red that was caked on the side of his flowy blouse. Something about having extra food, if he needed it. Something that completely avoided any accountability and failed to acknowledge anything.
Wemmbu wasn’t sure he even said any of it by the time he stopped.
Not with the watery mess of grief that hung on his clothes and hair like rain, flowing through his ears so loudly he only let it to drown out the man. Cold and clawing at skin as it fell, a coagulated mixture of sinew and liquid pooled below his feet in a spilling slop of two things that refused to mix.
Wemmbu stared back.
To Mane’s honour—which almost made him laugh, he had none—his mouth was moving; he was talking, and was about to get up. And as much as Wemmbu might’ve wished, he certainly wasn’t acting completely aloof. But it wasn’t enough. It was just horribly reminiscent of the way he tried placating the demon to get his hands on his weapon all that time ago. Which was to say, disgusting.
Black eyes focused in on a face he hadn’t seen this close up in over a year. The image didn’t last long.
Cold skin connected with bone, something cracking and leaving a hole as big as what spilled from it in Wemmbu’s soul. It was hard to stop once he’d started.
The fight back of muscle and strength—something Wemmbu very much did not have to his advantage—was difficult. A push and shove back and forth between somebody who wasn’t sure anything was hitting the man beneath him and somebody who was handling a mess of glass and dreams like it could be broken further.
Desperate and grabbing and everything that was gross like the mucus in his nose that he sniffed away, he stuttered through his words and shoved Mane’s wrist beneath his knee, “You left. You…you, you know—no, bro, you know what you did…you—you—you…god,” Wemmbu breathed out harshly as his left hand wrapped around a scarred neck.
Claws pierced white marks and healthy skin and—and, he was saying something. He was going to say something, but scabbed over gouges already sat on the other’s palms, and when had Wemmbu done that?
The lion went to move, and his right hand balled into a fist and hit Mane’s cheek. Instinctual.
“You’re such a coward—a coward, Mane. You’re so—you’re stupid.”
There was something similar to a smile on Mane’s face at his words, and not being able to see the distance and hatred in his eyes as Wemmbu stared down at the blindfold covered by a flimsy mask—it was sturdy, Mane told him once how much care he put into making it—was infuriating.
A red line made its way up his cheek, flicking off the stupid fabric and revealing a wide purple eye that was wet and squinted.
It was sincere. He resisted the urge to dig it out himself.
His next weak hit, an abandoned mess of a punch or slap or something, just do anything; Mane mumbled, loud and clear and muffled all the same, “Wemmbu.”
The lion was always such a bother.
“Wemmbu.”
Annoying.
“Wemmbu.”
He wasn’t sure if he was babbling every single one of his insults.
“Wemmbu, bro!”
Wemmbu’s wings folded uncomfortably between his back and the grass below in an instant. An orange figure above him, now, was blurry, and shaky hands that bled and weeped moved frantic and sickly. His body followed suit. It didn’t work. It didn’t work, and he wanted Mane off. He didn’t like the weight or the sharpness of the knee in his gut or the claw he had pierced into his right wrist or…or—god, god, Wemmbu wanted to leave.
Clipped; said deep and pissed and he wanted to sob into his chest right now, “Listen to me! You—you always do this. Listen to me. You,” his left hand grabbed Wemmbu’s head violently, “You are going to be fine.”
It hurt.
Not being able to move, being stuck and even having the ability to twitch taken away from him, had Wemmbu hyperventilating. He liked being able to move and fly and…and, Mane knew that. Why wouldn’t he let go? It was like being in that stupid glass cage again in that stupid courtroom with that stupid parrot watching him.
It felt like trying to hold him still rather than trying to keep him safe.
Tail wrapping around Wemmbu’s leg, a complete one-eight that made him want to puke, “It’ll be okay, I…I’m here, kid, just listen. Listen to me, yeah?”
His neck wouldn’t move with the grip, now. He couldn’t budge from under Mane. He couldn’t move his right arm. And, and—and, slow and climbing before completely knocking down the wall, weak cries similar to what an animal might have let out—because that’s what he was, a cornered animal—came from Wemmbu’s mouth. Sobs so distinctly far from his strong and confident persona that he could see his mentor’s face twist and tighten (as much as Wemmbu wished that would make him shut up, it only made him cry louder; made breathing harder) before abandoning that and focusing on helping to get what Wemmbu knew was his own wreck of a mindset together.
It didn’t work. He had to do it himself. Had to give up for any chance at it.
And only when he slackened did Mane let go, bringing them to sit.
Nothing changed; he felt just as trapped.
Bare arms and clean, dark fabric that wrapped around Mane’s body surrounded him. Tightened around him and pinned him in place, yet Wemmbu found (absolutely abhorred) that the action made his tail slow and lungs exhale in a way that let out a whine—abandoned and followed by an inhale that only served to force the lion to listen to a weep that sounded like an exclamation of nothing at all. Of everything.
It devolved back into meaningless tears, ones that only stopped when he coughed with little cuts that felt as if they ran along in lines engraved in his throat, “I’m not—I could have killed you. I could have.”
It felt like a beg. It sung the same as a last ditch effort at persuasion.
“I promise. I—Mane, I—I could’ve…I just…it’s all—Mane, bro, I could have.”
Gentle hands ran through his hair; he heard his name being whispered with little comforts. Wemmbu didn’t stop.
“I’m not usually—usually, I’m not—not this weak. I could have killed you.”
There was something similar to an affirmative noise above him, and he nuzzled further into the warmth that the cold, unforgiving figure that held him offered. Why did he have to see him half dead and losing it? Why did he have to see him during a time when he woke to vomiting in a pathetic attempt at getting the invisibility out of his system, even when he hadn’t used it in weeks? Why did he have to see him with white chunks of hair and a small frame and desperation in his eyes? Why couldn’t Mane have seen him before?
“Any other day—Mane, any other day, I would’ve been able to. I promise…promise, for real.”
“I know.”
He knew.
‘I know’, and that was it. That was all the stupid lion said. All he said while still keeping Wemmbu trapped; still pinning his wings to his back despite knowing full well he hated that. He hated it. He wanted to leave.
He wanted to leave.
“Mane,” it came out broken enough he had to retry several times, “Mane, let go.”
Wemmbu’s wings slackened and unfolded themselves. Everything was so bright and horrible and he wanted to crawl into Mane’s lap and just cry. He deserved it for once, didn’t he? Didn’t he? Would that be weak, though? It would be. It would be and that was what hurt so much. Weakness was bred by emotion, and he had never been as good as Mane at burying it. Matching Flame was out of the question.
Mane loosened his grip.
The world blurred as he stumbled to his feet, mumbling insults that resulted in a weak laugh—a laugh, nonetheless; one that felt real—from the man behind him. It was all so stupid. It was stupid, and he still needed to get to the end to find Minute…still needed to get his everything together.
Something quiet pointed out flaws in the idea—as if he’d be able to do any of that when he couldn’t see anything clearly. He countered it by arguing he’d manage. Wemmbu would manage, because he always did, and it’d all be fine. It didn’t matter.
Making sure his eyes were clear of tears as he shoved the last shulker in his e-chest and spun around to look at Mane, who still sat in bloodied grass—and god, his face looked like a glorified watercolour palette with the bruises blooming, “Well, I restocked…so…yeah. Yeah.”
He breathed out the last word, turning on his heel and walking as confidently as he could even knowing that those burning purple eyes were still staring in disappointment and disgust and…and.
And Wemmbu just wanted to see Egg again.