Chapter Text
Manepear’s golden irises with flecks of umber, hidden under an orange blindfold, fell on Wemmbu. Those amber eyes that burned fire-yellow in the sunlight, always covered, studied Wemmbu. Wemmbu’s wavy and silky waist-length violet hair that was at the moment sitting in knots and tangles. Wemmbu’s pale, lavender skin that was covered in mauve bruises—not even covered in bandages—that were slowly turning burgundy. Wemmbu’s midnight-purple—almost black—demon horns, chipped on the right one. Wemmbu’s calloused hands with fingers constantly wrapped around the handle of his favorite weapon, Gambit. Wemmbu’s amber eyes with spots of gold that were ever so slightly brighter than Mane’s. Eyes that had dark circles lying on the skin under.
Wemmbu was exhausted.
Mane sighed heavily, his eyes under the blindfold still glued onto Wemmbu. He ran a mocha-brown hand through his dreads that hung right below his neck. His fluffy, butter-yellow ears that sat on top of his head twitched. The two had recently finished a duel—where Mane had easily won. Usually, his opponent put up more of a fight.
Currently, the demon stood in front of Mane, ready to collapse—from the fight they had completed or a lack of sleep?
“C’mon, Wemmbu.” The lion-hybrid ordered as he grabbed Wemmbu’s wrist and dragged him through a rarely-used dining room to the kitchen. Wemmbu let out a mumble in reply but let Mane pull him. Wemmbu slumped on the tangerine-orange cushioned chair, closest to the lion-hybrid. Four more chairs stood in front of a kitchen-island where a plentiful fruit basket lay on top of.
For the size of Mane’s tree house, the kitchen was surprisingly small—adding to that coziness factor. The only other room where Wemmbu felt such comfort was Mane’s sleeping chamber—which Mane insisted they both slept in so he could wake up the demon in the morning.
The walls of the room were filled with cabinets, dark-coffee colored with granite countertops. These cabinets matched the counters and the island in the middle of the room. On the left side of the room, next to a fully-stocked white fridge, was a door leading to a hallway. This mirrored the door on the right side of room, except contiguous to this door was situated the overflowing pantry.
Across this kitchen scene was a balcony with sliding glass doors, standing as a barrier. The floor was jungle-oak both inside and out on the deck, the wooden pattern providing a sense of structure. The balcony was lined with fence to prevent any fatal falls which would have brought Wemmbu comfort, had Mane not previously try to push him off.
Here Wemmbu sat, in this snug kitchen full of warmth that could only be brought from Mane. Wemmbu hated how comfortable he felt. Right now, he should be sparring with Manepear. Not slacking. Wemmbu hated how offtrack the hybrid could get sometimes.
Manepear kneeled down as his brown hands dug through a cabinet resting barely above the ground. His pecan-colored dreads that faded into a light blonde swayed as he lifted his head to sneak a glance at Wemmbu. His dreads went a little past his neck—Mane always preferred them longer, unlike his brother’s. Surprisingly, Wemmbu was conscious, his back slumped over in the chair.
Wemmbu recognized the cabinet Manepear was rummaging out of. The demon often went to it for NyQuil when he was unable to fall asleep or flu-like symptoms—though this was only when Manepear was out scavenging or on a mission, not in the same room. Manepear often went this cabinet for gauze or bandages after detrimental fights. Sometimes Fromm this cabinet, Wemmbu would grab colorful and patterned bandaids and stick them on tiny scratches on Manepear’s wrists and hands. It was, of course, the medicine cabinet.
Manepear pulled out a familiar sea-green bottle with a blue label. “Wha—I don’t need that.
I’m not sick!” Wemmbu muttered defiantly. You could hear the fatigue in his voice. Wemmbu covered his mouth and tried to keep in a cough.
“Yes, you do. You have flu-like symptoms, and I can see how tired you are, Wemmbu. You’re right in front of me, bro. You go take a nap and I’ll cook up a meal for us. You need the break anyways…” Mane rambled on, ignoring Wemmbu’s tired groan. “Demons usually never get sick, Wemmbu. Clearly, you’ve overworked yourself. I already knew you were practicing extra without me, but I didn’t know you were exhausting yourself this much…”
Mane looked at the demon who averted his eyes sheepishly.
A thought of his tiger-hybrid brother, who’s face was usually tucked away in the back of Manepear’s mind, suddenly appeared. Flame always overworked himself, yearning to be the best. Wemmbu was the same. Is that why Mane was so fond of Wemmbu? Because the demon reminded Mane of his brother?
“I only wanted more practice…” Wemmbu mumbled, slightly embarrassed—yet he was too drained to care at the moment. He let out a quiet yawn moments later, displaying his exhaustion.
“Wemmbu, why do you think I’m always telling you to eat a lot and drink a lot and sleep a lot and rest a lot? Because it’s vital! Vital to become a good pvper!” And because I care about you, idiot.
Mane was standing up now, shoving a tiny cup—which usually sat on the lid of a bottle—filled with a turquoise liquid into Wemmbu’s hands. Their fingers brushed, a strange warmth blossoming throughout Wemmbu’s stomach. The lion-hybrid looked expectantly at Wemmbu who wearily downed the cup.
Manepear was taking care of the boy who reminded him much of his brother. Both strained themselves from pvp practice, and Mane had to take care of both.
Wemmbu swiped at his wet lips with a sigh. The effects of the medicine did not work immediately, however Wemmbu was still tired nonetheless. Mane pulled Wemmbu all the way to his bedroom as the demon sluggishly plunged onto the blaze-orange covers.
Mane watched the pretty demon fall into a tranquil sleep before averting his eyes—he was only training him, thats it. No need to get things extra complicated. Too many emotions got into the way of perfectly fine relationships, as how they got into the way of Mane and Flame’s brotherly bond.
Mane tucked away those thoughts of Flame. He needed to focus on Wemmbu currently.
Mane walked, pensive, to the kitchen.
⟡
Wemmbu awoke to an alliaceous aroma. It smelt of seared meat, roasted garlic, onions, broth—an equal scent to that every hearty meal and comfort dish savored.
The demon still felt slightly dreary—the NyQuil must have not worn off completely yet. At least Wemmbu did not feel a sore throat or stuffed nose. He still felt light-headed as ever and hot, his forehead burning up. Those bruises still hurt when pressed on and his limbs still ached when he moved. He still hurt. He was still exhausted.
He did not want to leave Mane’s bed. It was so comfy, the fluffy tangerine orange blankets engulfing Wemmbu as he sunk further into the sheets, not wanting to get up.
But that redolence? God, it was heavenly.
Wemmbu found himself stumbling sleepily into the kitchen. Mane stood in front of the stove, stirring a large pot full of a soup that carries the ‘broth’ part of the aroma.
On the island lay a bowl of chicken Cesar Salad, adjacent to it a plate of mozzarella sticks. The chicken was grilled and spread throughout the green and white leaves, covered in delectable salad dressing.
The mozzarella sticks were wrapped in a mahogany-brown crumbing, a small bowl of glistening tomato-red marianna sauce on the left of it.
A tray of yellow, red, and orange swirls lay behind the salad bowl. Lasagna, Wemmbu recognized one of Mane’s dishes. The cheesy scent lifted throughout the air.
A plate adjoining the stove was veiled under skewers of seared pork, the meaty smell drifting throughout the room. Wemmbu was not quite sure what dish was in the pot, but knowing Mane’s cooking? Is had to be good.
“Ahhhhh, you’re finally awake! Just in time, the Chicken Tortilla Soup is done! My brother loved this…” Mane started his greeting enthusiastic, but he muttered the last part.
Wemmbu’s eyes widened before taking a peek at Manepear. Mane never talked about his brother.
Once, Wemmbu asked if Mane had any relatives.
“Had a brother, and you won’t hear anything about him from me.”
Mane raised an eyebrow at Wemmbu’s reaction. Wemmbu’s eyes drifted back to the pot of Chicken Tortilla Soup. So he purposely shared that, about his brother…
“Oh. I’ve never had that dish before.”
Manes mouth formed into a gleeful smile. “Great, bro! The first time you get to try it, it’s made by an amazing cook!”
The pair laughed as Wemmbu slid into a seat across from Mane who was pouring the soup into bowls. He moved the plate of skewers onto the kitchen island, adjacent to all the other dishes.
Wemmbu drooled in his mouth. He did not go to bed hungry, but at the moment he definitely was.
Manepear finished plating the meals and slipped into the chair neighboring Wemmbu’s.
“Hope you like it, bro.”
⟡
“It was really good Mane, I swear!” Wemmbu brought an sleeve to his face and wiped his mouth.
“Yea, I don’t care about that, Wemm. I know my cooking’s good.”
Mane held Wemmbu’s long, purple hair back as Wemmbu retched over the white toilet once again. They sat on a fuzzy, yellow rug in front of a barf-filled toilet in Manepear’s bathroom.
The door was open, leading to his bedroom where Mane kept wandering every few minutes to grab a cup of water for the demon. Though Wemmbu would barf that water right out, Mane still kept bringing more. The liquid at least cleaned out the demon’s mouth for a few minutes before he barfed again.
Wemmbu felt he was on the verge of tears—not that he would cry. He could not remember the last time he cried. The demon did not think of crying as a weakness, but he did not want to show that kind of vulnerability to anyone. Yet if he were to show this vulnerability, those tears would form in an instant. He was disgustingly sick. He was cruelly exhausted. He could not pvp today and probably for the next following weeks too. He had just thrown up Mane’s delicious food.
Yet here Mane was, still caring for Wemmbu. Holding his hair back gently. Rubbing his back every once in a while.
The demon knew the lion-hybrid cared. Of course Mane cared. Yet this kind of care was so… tender. Manepear cared by telling Wemmbu to eat gaps more often and shoving golden carrots down the demon’s throat to satisfy a usually ignored hunger. Manepear forced Wemmbu to finish his meals that he would eat instantly if he did not want Wemmbu to consume his cooking so badly. Manepear made sure Wemmbu went to bed early and drank a lot of water.
But did he hold Wemmbu’s hands and lead a wobbly, unstable demon to his bed? Where the boy would collapse, no food or water in his stomach and sleep deprived. Drained from energy. Instantly sinking into bright orange blankets. And then when the boy would ask the lion-hybrid to stay, would he say, “Of course,” and squeeze the demon’s hand affectionately? Would he cuddle up next to Wemmbu, grab the demon’s head and benevolently hold it in his lap? Would he tenderly run his hands through Wemmbu’s hair and on his scalp to massage him into relaxation, though Wemmbu could not feel any more relaxed some place else?
Yea, Wemmbu hated how the answer was yes. Did Wemmbu really deserve this, such a caring person in his life? He could feel himself drifting off to sleep, eyelids heavy. Was Wemmbu going to fall asleep in Manepear’s lap? Dark, calloused hands running through his hair which made him feel more safe than chugging gaps? Maybe he liked the answer to that; yes, he would. He would fall asleep here, but first he wanted to savor the moment.
Wemmbu and Mane’s legs were tangled together, hidden under the amber blanket. Mane’s arms were wrapped around Wemmbu—he was unsure when this happened. Warmth shrouded Wemmbu, not from the thick bedspread but the way Mane held him so delicately. Would anyone ever hold him this way, ever again?
Wemmbu’s head was snuggled up against Mane’s chest—he could hear him breathing softly.
Wemmbu sunk further into his instrcutor’s arms. He sunk further into the sheets lying under him and sunk further below the blanket engulfing his legs. He sunk further into the warmth. He sunk further into the care, the love.
For some reason, Wemmbu felt as if he would not remember this the next morning. Maybe not until he—or Mane—left.
That’s okay. It was lovely, to just lay here with him.