Chapter Text
Adrenaline.
The constant rush of unruly emotions running through your bloodstream, the buzzing reminder that one wrong swing could cost your life, and that at any moment— your prideful jumps could turn into void if you miss a step up. But Flame loved it nonetheless. It made him feel alive.
The clash of swords, the sparks that sometimes emerge from the impact, the sight of seeing a sharp heavy metal blade coming at you, trying to wound not just your body, but your ego; is something he might never not miss the taste of. But rarely anyone even gave him that pleasure, the pleasure of actually trying, of true victory— almost palpable in his hands.
Except for one individual.
His long, obnoxiously bright purple hair, his smug smile, his way of fighting chaotically, no real plan or strategy, just guts and dishonor alone, it gave him that feel. That pleasure. Ugh- why was he thinking about him again?
Flame laid on his back on the bed, hands covering his face, slowly running down it in a pulling motion. His fingers played with the fabric of his blindfold a bit, but his mind was shooting thoughts in all directions.
He hadn't seen Wemmbu in days. Usually he would be there to show his stupid and beautiful- wait no, face, to challenge him, to provoke that addictive feeling. So where was he now? Flame was crumbling at the thought of that question. Not because he cared for that bastard, but because of what he gave him.
Eventually Flame got off the messy bed, his head dizzying a bit. Where could he even begin to look? It was already dusk, and he hadn't done one productive thing today, except for drowning in his thoughts and whining internally over his lack of fight. He wanted— no, he needed more. His mind quickly ran over a list of players he could visit, that would at least have some clue of where to start looking for that idiot.
Lomedy? No, he was probably still mad at Flame and wouldn't help even if he knew anything.
Spongs? Yeah, no.
Jaden? God he didn't even wanna think about that guy right now.
Parrot? He would probably make a philosophical poem about him seeking out his own death or something.
Spoke? He'd trick him into fighting B.A.T. for him then give the dumbest and vaguest advice ever.
Manepear? He didn't exactly know Wemmbu's whereabouts, but it was the best option he had right now.
So Manepear it was. His base wasn't too far away, and even if he couldn't help him, maybe sparing with him would give him that feeling, since they were practically on the same skill level anyways.
Flame descended into the cave hole, the orange banners with black marks making it quite obvious who it belonged to. His netherite boots clicked against the stone, each step taken with purpose. The place smelt of death and victory; of dread and anticipation. Cobwebs stuck against the walls, some still having remnants of gear in them, twirling like a prize ready to be claimed. When he made it down he saw him. Mane was just collecting the loot off of some raiders in his base and stashing it in one of his very many chests outside the house. He was humming some random tune, not even aware of the presence inching closer behind him until he heard that one word.
"Bro"
Mane jumped under his skin slightly, turning his head behind his shoulder to look at Flame
"Geez man, you gotta stop coming here so randomly"
Flame scoffed, but took note of it anyways
"Bro I have a weird ask bro"
"Yes?"
"Can we like... duel? I wanna spar with someone, and I know you're good"
"Yeah you bet. But can I ask why?"
"I don't know bro, I guess I just... like fighting? And like, I'm tired of fighting these random chungies. They're too weak. I want an actual fight y'know?"
He bluffed, though he wasn’t even half wrong. It wasn’t exactly the reason he came, but that doesn’t mean his statement was false.
“Fair enough”
Mane reluctantly replied, already thinking of techniques he could use. He was never against fighting his lil bro, not when he came here so eager to. How could he say no?
And without a single second of prep time, Mane was already lunging forward, his spear clashing into the other's shield, a movement that was almost carved into Flame’s mind.
Swords clashed, the sounds echoing through the cave, each step precise and every flick of a wrist calculated. Neither of them faltered, neither of them shone, it was just- the same clash of swords. Flame was expecting that rush, that boiling sensation; him and Mane had practiced for years, and each time he gave it his all, he got the adrenaline he always loved, but this time told a different story. Mane’s hits were predictable, repetitive and dare he say it— expendable. He wasn’t sure if it was his recent training, or Mane’s lack of it. He countered each swing with practiced ease, finding the smallest open windows to land a hit and using every moment to his advantage. His brain was turning off. He wasn’t even trying. Each step his opponent took, he knew how to counter. It was almost like a cycle:
Mane swung.
Flame blocked.
Flame hit.
This wasn’t what he came here for. Not even close. His long and enduring fights with Mane had exhausted the fun in them, had taken away the core of fighting, and most importantly— Flame’s “nicotine”. The adrenaline.
It was only until he came back to his senses when he interrupted:
“Bro. We gotta stop”
Mane looked at him with a confused expression that was almost visible through his blindfold. His shoulders slumping in disappointment when Flame took a step back and stopped swinging.
“Dude, weren't you the one who came all this way just for a duel?”
“Yeah bro but like, I’m just not getting what I want from it”
“What do you want from it?”
“You wouldn’t understand”
“Come on dude, I’m your brother. There’s no way it’s that complicated”
“But it is!”
In reality, Flame was just ashamed. He was almost obsessed— with a feeling. It definitely wasn’t normal, but who said he had to be normal? Dammit. What would Mane think about him if he told him about his stupid, yet growing addiction? It was like a child waiting to be fed. Not his ego, not his morale, but his goddamned satisfaction. And currently that child was screaming. Screaming out of sheer and desperate hunger within him. But how would he explain that without sounding like a weirdo or a freak? How would his brother react when he found out that Flame’s whole purpose in life for the past few days was seeking this stupid, stupid thing. But he couldn’t stop it. Not now. He was too far gone to let go of it now; too starved and utterly obsessed.
…
So why should he?
Why should he even tell someone that couldn’t even help it? Why should his addiction be revealed to someone who can’t even awaken it? Maybe he didn’t deserve to be told. And maybe, he should move, he should leave before that hungry— thing, consumes itself from the amount of time Flame’s spent formulating his thoughts
“I should go”
And just like that, he turned his heel, and started walking away. Why was he acting like this? He immediately felt guilty about turning away so fast, about coming here for help and leaving like he was only robbed of precious time.
Mane looked at his brother’s now retreating back, in utter disbelief. What was that all about? Why was Flame acting like this?
“Wow. Way to waste my resources man”
He semi-shouted from behind, loud enough for Flame, who was now bathing in the moonlight glow from the surface, to hear. His gaze returned to the entrance of the cave hole, almost as if it were his last. Because who knew if he’d ever have the balls to show up here again after the way he’d just acted.
And when he started walking back to his own base, he realized— he hadn’t even asked Mane if he knew anything about Wemmbu. Leaving him right where he started earlier today, but with just more time lost.
That was, if he didn’t know another place he could go. A place where everyone had their own addiction, their own screaming passion that gets hungry the more it’s not fed. A place where no one would judge him for being a weirdo, since they would all be just like him.