Chapter Text
“Marshmallows,” Wemmbu deadpans flatly. The boy across from him hums and bobs his head noncommittally, pulling the cheap plastic open and popping a white blob into his mouth.
“Dude, there’s no way you hate marshmallows,” Rejoice laughs, tossing a messy fishtail braid over one shoulder. “That’s, like, hating sunshine and music and puppies.” He’s relaxed and unguarded, shoulders loose and marshmallow sugar dusting his fingertips.
Wemmbu snorts and catches the bag when Rejoice flings it at his head without warning. “If you really wanna know,” he snickers, “I’m a cat person. So puppies are gross.”
Rejoice gasps in mock betrayal, hands clutched to his chest. He sidles away from Wemmbu with an expression of playful contempt. “This is the end of our friendship. I’m terminating this right here.”
Wemmbu digs a misshapen marshmallow from the bag and sticks it in his mouth.
It tastes like microplastics and cardboard; like kerosene and bad life decisions.
The bell tower is drafty and technically closed for the night, but as Wemmbu had put it to Rejoice, ‘rules are always up for interpretation’. The “NO TRESSPASSING” sign dangling ominously behind them is just a… suggestion.
They had scaled the side of the tower with the relative ease that scrappy city vermin tended to gain, stumbling across the uneven roof in the dark until they found a nice spot above the hooded arch of the bell.
They’re a pair of ratty teens on a windy roof, talking and snacking and breaking rules. It’s painfully cliche and painfully familiar, and Wemmbu has never felt less alone.
The maze of the bright city is spread out before them, blinking brightness that clashes and sparks in every shade and size of light. The distant mournful wail of a cop car fades into a phantom echo, and the cold air brings with it the stench of sewers and grease.
Wemmbu turns to where he’s squashed against Rejoice on the roof, and for the first time in days, maybe weeks, he lets himself lean on the warm shoulder next to him. Just a fraction of his weight, the lightest press of his head to another body.
It feels like the dark sky is being lifted from his shoulders. Wemmbu closes his eyes, feeling only the subtle rise and fall of Rejoice’s frame as the other boy breathes evenly.
Neither of them says anything. There’s a lot unsaid, and at the same time, there isn’t anything left to say. The confusing swirl of emotions and adolescence and fear slows to a muddy churn, low in his stomach. Time skids to a halt and darts ahead of them, leaving them exactly where they are, suspended in an awkward limbo.
Two boys breathe on a bell tower, unbearably close and already eternities apart.
_________________
-3 years later-
Wemmbu blinks blearily. His limbs feel like they aren’t even attached to his body; they’re tied onto helium balloons, floating closer and closer to the ceiling.
His eyelids hurt. His head hurts. His stomach hurts. He– is he in a closet?
Wemmbu sits up, spitting purple hair and the taste of grit from his mouth. Yep, propped up against the wall parallel to him, that’s a mop. The fluorescent light above him buzzes incessantly.
Oookay. He’s woken up in weirder places before, he’s sure.
Wemmbu buries his face in his hands. The confusion only lasts for a few seconds before muddy memories trickle back in.
The party. The lights, the people. The-the crawling into a closet. Maybe.
Wemmbu’s not great at the entire social interaction thing. He still remembers the roar of the crowd, the wild strobe lights, the sweaty bodies pressing against him. It was traumatizing.
He remembers hiding in a broom closet. He doesn’t remember anything after that.
Wemmbu’s body jerks upright. He scrambles to his feet, pushing aside buckets and rags until he finds his backpack discarded amidst the fray. Fumbling for his phone, he hurriedly powers it on.
“...dear god.” Wemmbu speaks to himself, in quiet denial. It’s seven thirty. He has fifteen minutes to make it to his first class.
Wrenching his arms through the backpack straps, he lurches to the door and turns the handle–-
It’s locked from the outside. Hurrah.
Wemmbu sinks to the floor, groaning and fisting his hair in his hands. “I’m screwed. Hah, this is so hilarious. I’m screwed,” he laughs breathlessly.
He curses his stupid antisocial self. Wemmbu’s been at this new campus for all of eighteen hours, hasn’t even been to his room yet, got duped into going to a party, crashed out, fell asleep in a broom closet, and now he’s gonna miss his first class.
Wow. He couldn’t ask for a better start.
Wemmbu gets back up. He rattles the door handle. He knocks. He calls out– “Uh. Anyone out there?”
The realization sinks in. Panic settles, nice and comfortable against his ribs.
I’m gonna spend the rest of my natural lifespan here, Wemmbu thinks, tinged with hysteria. I’ll introduce myself to all the mops and know them all by name. I’ll– I’ll befriend the buckets or something.
He rattles at the handle more frantically, to less avail. Beyond the door, it’s achingly silent. Wemmbu sits back down and hugs his kneecaps.
Maybe he dozes again.
…
Wemmbu wakes up to the sound of footsteps. Someone’s walking down the hall. He stumbles to his feet and bangs at the door, throwing his shoulder at it like a battering ram.
“Help!” He screams, and he’s fallen so far that he feels only a little pathetic.
The footsteps stop. Wemmbu knocks with renewed ferocity.
He can hear someone drawing closer, pausing in front of the closet. Regaining some degree of sanity, Wemmbu calls out again, more sheepishly.
“Hey–uh. Could you maybe unlock the door?”
The sound of a lock shifting, the doorknob turning.
Bright sunlight filters through the crack. There’s a face staring at him, a mixture of curiosity and disbelief and amusement. Dark hair and owlish eyes, shaded by some kind of hat.
Wemmbu tries not to visibly sag with relief. The light of day has never looked so beautiful. “Thanks, dude.”
The door opens wider and Wemmbu shuffles out.
He faces the other kid and immediately splutters. “Why–why are you wearing a pirate hat?” It’s navy and broad-rimmed, trimmed with gold accents. A bright parakeet feather fans eccentrically from the side. It’s over-the-top theatrical, fancy enough to probably be worth more than everything Wemmbu has on him right now.
The kid shrugs, adjusting it so that it tilts away from his eyes. “Felt like it.” A pause. “What were you doing in a broom closet?”
Wemmbu considers the long explanation for a moment and thinks better of it. “Felt like it.”
The other boy snorts, and sticks out his hand. It takes Wemmbu a moment to realize that a handshake is being offered, and he scrambles to reciprocate.
“Name’s Jaden.” Jaden’s face is inscrutable, deadpan; there’s no way to tell whether he’s actually serious.
Wemmbu tilts his head in acknowledgement. “Okay. Jaden.” The uncomfortable pause stretches long and thin.
“Man.” Wemmbu startles slightly. “What?” Jaden repeats himself, unblinking. “Man.”
Wemmbu frowns. “Man… man what?”
Jaden doesn’t elaborate. He shrugs. Wemmbu tries: “Hold up. Your name is– Jaden-man?”
Jaden neither confirms nor denies, dark eyes pinning Wemmbu down in silent judgement. Wemmbu’s starting to feel a bit silly.
Wemmbu laughs in disbelief. “Okay, sure, Jaden-man.” He checks his phone and blanches. Nine forty-seven. He missed his first class and he didn’t eat breakfast. Awesome.
“Uh, so, I gotta go. See you around, dude. Thanks again.” Wemmbu holds up his hand in an awkward half-wave, backing away.
Jaden turns, nodding. “Letting someone outta a broom closet can be considered basic decency, I think,” he smirks. “See you around.”
Wemmbu freaking runs. His next class is in half an hour, and he hasn’t even found his dorm room yet. It was an awful, awful idea to attend that party.
Thinking back to last night, Wemmbu vaguely remembers a gaggle of excited teens pulling him along, a crowd of colorful strangers.
It’ll be fun, they said. It’s tradition to start the year with a party, they said.
He hates them, he hates himself, he hates the world. Wemmbu’s panting and fuming by the time he’s back at the main square in campus. He pulls up a map on his phone and trudges to class.
…
Class is torture. Wemmbu knows he never liked math, but oh wow. The teacher drones ahead until their voice is a high-pitched ringing in his ears. The board swims in his vision, even though he’s seated in the first row. Wemmbu squints and furiously scribbles and almost rips his paper to pieces.
It doesn’t help that everyone at this freaking school is a nerd. Hands shoot up around him every time a question dares to fall from the teacher’s lips. Kids are straining in their desks, eyes round like it’s taking considerable self-restraint to keep from blurting the answers.
Unstable is prestigious. A boarding school for the rich, the genius, and in most cases, both. Wemmbu can sense that he’s a fish out of water here, can literally taste the money permeating the atmosphere.
He’s scum raked in from the street, gum scraped from the soles of these kids’ shoes. Wemmbu knows that. But it’s one thing to hear about this school’s crazy stats and admission rates, and another to be here, on this stupidly opulent campus, surrounded by stupidly rich, stupidly brilliant kids.
Wemmbu huffs as the teacher calls on some kid, scrambling to even follow the general sense of the lecture as his pencil lead breaks from the frantic bobbing of his pencil.
The teacher calls on some random dude at the back of the class. He launches into a long-winded rambling as if possessed, spontaneously reciting the first hundred digits of ‘Pascal’s triangle’.
Show-offs, he thinks sullenly, sticking his pencil into a handheld pencil sharpener and twisting with more ferocity than necessary. The guy is still talking.
Pascal’s what-now? Who the ever loving hell is Pascal, anyway? Why does he have a triangle?
Wemmbu fists his choppy hair in his hands, still slightly unused to the length. His fingers meet the tiny silver stud in his ear, briefly brushing against cool metal.
He sighs and tries to focus instead of daydreaming about ninja-kicking down a desk and strangling the kid who won’t shut up about Pascal’s godforsaken triangle.
_________
As soon as the bell rang, Wemmbu shoots up in his chair, shoving the stray papers into his binder and stomping towards the door. In his haste to escape, he trips and shoves against someone. Hard.
“Watch where you’re–” Wemmbu blinks, the words dying in his throat. “Woah.”
The only thing Wemmbu can think of to immediately describe this kid is holy color. The boy frowning at him is wearing a bright cyan hoodie and a green bandana tied around his neck. He’s nervously fidgeting with a pair of orange gloves and a yellow beanie.
He looks like he breezed through a modern fashion store blindfolded, obnoxiously collecting colors like a nerdy rainbow.
Wemmbu squints, eyes widening a fraction in familiarity.
Shoot. Shoot, shoot, shoot.
Pascal’s triangle kid.
“Uh- sorry.” Pascal’s-triangle-kid tilts his head like he’s curious (or trying to figure out if Wemmbu has anger issues). “Who’re you?”
“...” Wemmbu pauses awkwardly. “I’m Wemmbu.”
Pascal’s-triangle exhales. “Well, hi. I’m– uh, I’m Parrot.”
Instant mental images of tropical beaches and dumb colorful birds learning to sing on Youtube. Wemmbu side-eyes him to see if he’s serious.
Pascal - ugh, Parrot- doesn’t seem to be kidding.
“‘Kay.” They glance at each other again and then quickly turn to leave.
It’s a brief interaction, but it’s deeply unsettling for some reason. Parrot seems like an average guy, but something about him is just… is… painfully familiar.
It’s deja vu and a weird swooping in his stomach, a presence that feels like a memory.
Wemmbu walks faster, decisively clamping down on this random mental tangent.
It’s stupid, is what it is. Wemmbu’s hallucinating because he got four hours of sleep in a closet. He decides to disregard the prickling he still feels, phantom goosebumps running along his arms.
…
When he finally drags himself to his room, it’s past noon. Wemmbu sighs and knocks wearily on the door, hoping he didn’t get the room number wrong. If he did, well, that wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s happened all day. That honor belongs to waking up in a broom closet.
There’s a pause, and then a huge blue eye appears in the keyhole. Wemmbu startles, jumping back. The eye stares at him for a long time. Wemmbu taps his fingers on his thigh, counting the seconds.
If it takes longer than fifteen, he’s sleeping outside. No questions asked. He can’t handle some kid right now if they decide to troll on him.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five–
The door swings open. Wemmbu’s greeted by a shock of white hair and eyes so startlingly blue that he takes half a step back.
“Uh. Hi.” The other guy’s voice is gravelly. He seems awkward. “Room 190?”
Wemmbu exhales. “Yeah.”
The guy swings the door all the way open and Wemmbu finally -finally, thank the lord - stumbles into his dorm room.
He doesn’t care if he’s getting judged. He tosses his backpack onto the ground and faceplants onto the bed that’s not occupied. At least, he can assume so. It’s on the side of the room that’s still undecorated.
From his spot half-squashed into the mattress, he can see that his roommate’s side of the room is freakishly tidy. White sheets overturned, desk lamp and papers neatly organized. The guy has a shelf of books that look so ancient, they’ll come apart with a good sneeze.
There’s a faint snicker from the other kid. “That bad, huh?”
Wemmbu props himself up on his elbows, rubbing his face in bone-deep weariness. “Don’t wanna talk about it, dude.”
There’s a hum of acknowledgement. “Nice to meet you, I guess. I’m Egg.”
Wemmbu sighs, resigned. Maybe everybody at this weird-as-hell school is just destined for a weird name. He buries his face in the pillow, which is probably soft enough to drown in. Ugh. Freaking luxury hotel.
“Wemmbu,” he mutters at length, muffled by the pillow.
Egg nods rather coolly. He fidgets with his hands for a minute and if Wemmbu has to deal with one more second of awkward hesitation, he’s gonna scream.
Thankfully, or maybe unfortunately, Egg speaks up again.
He gestures at the backpack Wemmbu tossed on the ground. “I’m guessing you’re new here. Uh. Is that everything you’ve brought? For the whole school year?”
Wemmbu fixes him with a glare. “I’m not rich, dude. I’m a foster kid.”
He braces himself for judgement. Egg definitely comes from rich parents like the rest of them. Here comes ‘what happened to your parents?’ And maybe ‘why are you at this school, then?’ If Egg’s a real piece of work, maybe he’ll ask ‘is the foster system abusive like they say it is?’
It’s too quiet. Wemmbu wishes Egg would just say something, even if it’s messed up.
Egg speaks. “You wanna go get lunch together?”
Wemmbu’s eyes narrow. He looks at Egg’s expression, searching, but he hopes that the eye contact can still somewhat convey the relief he feels.
He sighs, reluctantly dragging his aching limbs off the bed. “Kay. I skipped breakfast, so I’m starving.”
______________
Egg is doubled over, laughing. His laugh is a little unsettling, low and gritty but unashamedly amused.
“A broom closet,” he deadpans, still smirking.
Wemmbu scowls in embarrassment. “Shut up, bro. It was a single bad life decision. I could have died.”
“Not before the janitor found you.” They look at each other again, all mock seriousness, and it’s enough to set them off laughing again.
They’re getting some weird looks from the students in the booth across from them, but the diner is rowdy enough at lunchtime that they don’t raise that much attention.
Egg is leaning on the greasy restaurant table, the cuffs of his white dress shirt rolled up. His weird white hair looks even stranger in the dim light, glinting like flinty silver.
He’s funny, that’s for sure. Egg has his own brand of witty humor that catches Wemmbu off guard, quips low and dry.
Wemmbu realizes that he doesn’t mind hanging out with Egg. When their sandwiches arrive, he attacks Egg mercilessly for choosing a barbecue sandwich.
“Pulled pork has the texture of stringy vomit,” Wemmbu snarks, wrinkling his nose as Egg takes out half the hamburger in one bite.
“You jus cam’p apprecia’ ‘Merican cui-seen,” Egg retorts around his gigantic mouthful. Wemmbu tilts back his head and laughs. “Dude, I have no idea what you’re saying right now.”
Egg swallows and fights back playfully. “And we’re not gonna mention that you chose to eat a grilled cheese sandwich. You have free will in this country and you chose a grilled cheese.”
Wemmbu rolls his eyes. “Okaaay, buddy. Don’t trash on my grilled cheese sandwich.”
But seriously, the sandwich is fine. It tastes like grease and melted cheesiness, and Wemmbu is seriously hungry after the morning he just had.
Egg is licking the barbecue sauce off his fingers when the door of the restaurant slams open.
A hush immediately falls over the noisiness inside, and Wemmbu twists to see what’s caused the disturbance.
A voice cuts across the sudden hushed quiet, clear and commanding.
“Attention. There has been an assassination attempt on a deputy within the city. We are assuming lockdown procedure, and all student classes have been cancelled for the evening. We ask that you return to your dormitories or households and lock your doors. LAW forces are investigating the ordeal and until the offender is captured, we ask that you cooperate. Thank you.”
There’s a man fitted in a yellow uniform. A black mask is fitted to his face, a gun strapped to his belt. He’s surrounded by a small coalition of identical officers.
Wemmbu recognizes them because they haven’t changed. The LAW looks exactly as they did three years ago.
His heart clenches tight with hatred.
Suddenly there’s a whirlwind of movement around them, and Wemmbu is dazed. He’s still staring at the yellow uniforms retreating through the door amidst students getting up and hurrying out, fists clenching and unclenching in his lap.
There’s a firm hand at his shoulder. Wemmbu looks up.
Egg. Oh yeah. They just told the students to go back to the dorms. Wemmbu shakes himself firmly and stands up.
…
They weave their way through the crowd, following the hordes of anxious students down the streets and shoving their way through the packed dorm halls.
Egg barely manages to open their door and they slip inside. Wemmbu’s brain feels foggy.
“Holy mob,” Egg pants, closing the door and kicking his shoes off. He turns to Wemmbu, frowning slightly. “You good, man?”
Get a grip, Wemmbu thinks fiercely, and he shrugs. “Yeah. A little worried, though. What– there’s been an assassination attempt?”
Egg sighs sits on his bed. “Yeah. It hasn’t been the first time, at this place. Rumor has it there’s a group of assassins somewhere on campus. They’re anti-LAW and they kill the LAW higher-ups throughout the city.”
“Huh.” Wemmbu didn’t know that there were anti-LAWs here, right at the heart of the LAW city. It gives him a brutal twinge of satisfaction.
Egg continues almost absentmindedly, thankfully not paying attention to the way Wemmbu is trying to school his expression. “It happened a lot towards the end of last year. A low-ranking officer dead here, another lockdown there. They haven’t been caught yet, so I’m guessing these assassins are pretty powerful.”
He laughs, but the sound doesn’t really reflect any humor. “The LAW is everywhere, though. They’re huge. If these assassin guys aren’t careful, they’re gonna be caught.”
It’s – it’s a weird thing to say, and Egg’s expression is unreadable. Something about how Egg phrased it, maybe, or something about the intonation of the words makes Wemmbu pause.
Wemmbu’s gonna regret this. He’s an idiot and he’s gonna regret this. Everyone here is rich, this is a school founded by the LAW, he’s gonna get locked away for hearsay–
“Do you– uhh,” Wemmbu blurts before he can stop himself, “are you pro-LAW?”
Egg stares at him. There’s a pause where Wemmbu considers what he’ll do once he’s in jail, before Egg speaks again, hushed and ambiguous.
“Uh. They protect our city, I guess.” Wemmbu relaxes a little. So Egg is pro-LAW. That’s easy; that’s predictable. Wemmbu can work with that. He can play along.
“Yeah,” Wemmbu mumbles. “They’re the voice of justice or whatever.”
Egg meets his gaze then, and it feels like there’s a thousand unspoken words lurching between their connected stares.
“Good people do bad things,” Egg says at length.
Wemmbu blinks, processing what Egg said. Oh.
Oh.
So he’s not the only one who’s been hurt by the LAW, then, Wemmbu manages to think.
Silence is between them again, but it isn’t awkward this time. It feels heavy and meaningful, something forbidden, something that can’t be voiced.
Then–
Egg claps his hands together decisively, and Wemmbu almost flinches at the sudden noise. “I’m gonna go take a shower,” Egg yawns. “And then nap for a week. At least we don’t have classes all afternoon, I guess.”
He pushes off the bed and swings nonchalantly into the bathroom.
And suddenly reality crashes back into Wemmbu, leaving him feeling like he just hallucinated the whole conversation.
“Oh. Uh, kay.” Wemmbu covers up the hesitation as best he can. “Don’t use all the hot water. I wanna take a shower too.”
Egg snorts from farther away. “Thanks for deciding for me. I now intend to take a two-hour shower just to spite you.”
Wemmbu laughs as the bathroom door closes. “D’alright, bro.”
He falls backwards on the bed, listening to the shower running. The ceiling is a dull white, and Wemmbu stares into the void as if it holds the answers to the universe.
“What the heck just happened,” he mutters to himself.
Yeah, it’s official. Today has been a genuinely bad day for Wemmbu.
_______________