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The setting sun contrasted so beautifully with Mane’s cub, sitting on the wooden railing.
Reds bled into oranges that blew softly to disperse against purple-y pinks, and all of that shone dimly against their treehouse. The treehouse that housed two residents instead of just one; that stood proud and tall as it swayed gently with the cool wind that was currently messing up Wemmbu’s perfectly brushed hair as he sat concerningly close to the edge of the small balcony outside of Mane’s room.
It was new anyway, there wasn’t much risk of falling. Before Wem, the lion never even considered anything like it. The main levels all had large sections open to the sky anyway, what was the point? Well, cue the demon hybrid—a little shit that liked flying off, apparently. After the fifth or so time of him either breaking down the walls or whining about needing to make a one level descent down to a room with somewhere to take off, Mane decided it was worth it. The kid was almost always clinging to him anyway, and that usually brought him to the secluded rooms without access to outside (well, that used to not).
But now, his bed overlooked the sun and stars and clouds, and with that came a very pleased cub. Something about feeling claustrophobic, if he thought way back to when he’d shown up at Mane’s doorstep.
So, yes, balcony. New, nothing that Wemmbu could use to tumble down hundreds of feet. And, besides, he was here if anything did happen. He was always here after training, when it winded down and the boy started complaining about his hair bugging him or his arms hurting (even with the braces for his wrists). With that started the routine of grooming. Of sitting down underneath the cold, open sky and just existing. Of Wemmbu falling back against his chest and huffing that he wanted to train more, not relax.
The revelation Wem—a demon hybrid, which did not come with many cat-like attributes—apparently purred made up for the whining, though.
Tonight, it seemed, the kid was neither clingy nor talkative as usual. He’d been quiet since they’d dropped off his little friend to Minute for the time being (his baby was like him in that way, always overprotective and worrying), and thus—well, the quiet looking off into the distance. It was endearing, anyway.
“Wemmbu, bro.”
What was also endearing? The way he’d seemingly picked up on Mane’s shriek, falling and landing roughly on the floor. Seriously, this kid.
Perhaps a bit too mocking for a man who would most definitely do the same thing if their roles were swapped, “What’cha doin’ down there, kid?”
“What—what do you think, dude!” said ridiculous;y, truly! For such a small boy he was very much full of attitude.
Purple hair, undone from its usual braid or ponytail, gently fell from Wemmbu’s shoulders as he leaned forward, face scrunched up as he made a vaguely pouty sound. His jewellery—the gems and silver that he wore everywhere and anywhere, even despite Mane’s insistence it was loud and tacky—was placed off by where his glasses usually rested in his room (he’d murmured a thing or two about looking stupid with them, but Mane didn’t see it now—like Wemmbu, when he ended up missing something obvious he could have seen—with how the thin and curved frames sat softly on his nose).
Didn’t matter. Wemmbu was getting older—glaringly obvious when compared to the start of Zam’s Empire—and with that came choices, he supposed. To wear absurdly royal looking clothing, to sacrifice sight for looks (much like another brother of his), and apparently also a lot of corsets. Mane maintained the opinion, despite the poking and fun he made of the other, that his cub looked absolutely gorgeous, nonetheless.
Pretty, with how the sun reflected on his eyes and glinted against the piercings on his cheeks (of which still had baby fat clinging to them; of which smiled so brightly when Mane let him get his way). God, he probably looked so mushy staring. Blindfold off and everything.
It was hard to help it, looking at his baby—still so small, only sixteen—and yet still growing up and learning and getting stronger. He was so pretty and energetic and smart and, and—and his vision was getting blurry.
Sniffling and wiping at his eyes very nonchalantly, Wemmbu stopped whatever dialogue he was having with himself, “And don’t say—say…Mane? Mane, bro, you good?”
If he didn’t reply then who was to say the kid even noticed!
“Mane are you crying?”
He was not, for the record. Don’t listen to the dumbass kid.
“Dude I,” black eyes squinted slightly and looked around them; shoulders fell slightly as he sat up, “was I like…too mean or something? ‘Cause, like, I feel like you’ve said worse, bro.”
He was laughing now. Mane might actually kill him, “No, bro, I’m not,” his sentence was broken by a hiccup, “I’m not crying.”
“Right.”
“I’m not! The wind dried my eyes out.”
“You just put in your drops. How, bro?”
Silence.
Well, okay. There were always fights a man could not run from. Fights he must take sacrifices to escape and compromise to not die from. Tragic, really, but things had to be done. Words had to be admitted. Feelings and stupid instincts that really wanted Mane to grab his cub and crush him in a hug right now.
“You’re just,” his voice was thick with tears as he dropped his hands, soft tears doubling down and increasing tenfold as he looked at his baby brother in front of him, “You’re just—you look so pretty, bro.”
The horror and redness brought to Wem’s cheeks at that was enough to crack Mane’s sobbing with a snort, and as he frantically waved his hands and stammered through words, he found it in him to calm down. Just a bit. His cub was a dork.
“Don’t,” the kid looked absolutely mortified, leaning back and knitting his whole face together, “Ew, don’t look at me.”
Mane was going to take this kid by the shoulders and shake him silly. Maybe mace him a few times for good luck.