Chapter Text
The first thing Wemmbu notices isn’t the door.
It’s the quiet.
Not the normal kind—the kind that settles naturally into a space—but the kind that feels placed there, deliberate, like someone is holding it down with their hand, waiting to see what breaks it first.
He doesn’t look up.
He’s learned, slowly and unwillingly, that looking first gives something away, and with Lettuce, everything turns into something that can be taken, twisted, or studied until it doesn’t feel like yours anymore.
So he stays where he is, sitting at the edge of the narrow cot, one leg bouncing faintly with restless energy he refuses to acknowledge, fingers loosely tangled in the ends of his hair—not out of nervousness, not really, but out of habit, like he needs something to anchor himself that isn’t the room.
The door clicks shut behind him.
There’s no greeting.
No immediate words.
Just the sound of footsteps, unhurried and precise, each one placed like it matters more than it should.
Wemmbu exhales slowly, already annoyed.
“If you’re gonna stand there like a creep, at least say something,” he mutters, eyes still fixed somewhere vaguely ahead instead of where Lettuce is.
There’s a pause.
Then—
A soft, almost amused breath.
“I was waiting,” Lettuce says, his voice calm in that way that never quite feels natural, “to see how long it would take before you acknowledged me.”
Wemmbu rolls his eyes, though the motion is small, restrained. “Congratulations bro. You win. Now what.”
Another step closer.
Not enough to touch.
Enough to feel.
“That depends,” Lettuce replies, and there’s something faintly thoughtful in it, like he’s still deciding what this interaction is going to be. “What kind of mood are you in?”
Wemmbu finally glances at him, frowning slightly. “What kind of question is that?”
“The kind that saves time,” Lettuce says simply, tilting his head just slightly as he looks at him, his gaze steady in a way that feels less like looking and more like measuring. “You’re either going to argue with me, ignore me, or pretend you don’t care.”
A beat.
“Sometimes you try all three.”
Wemmbu lets out a short, dry laugh. “Yeah? And which one do you prefer?”
Lettuce smiled.
It was small.
Controlled.
“I like it when you don’t decide.”
Something about that lands wrong.
Wemmbu’s fingers still slightly in his hair tighten without him meaning to, just for a second, before he forces himself to relax.
“Well, too bad,” he says, pushing to his feet in one smooth motion, like movement might give him back some ground he didn’t realize he’d already lost. “I’m not here to entertain you.”
Lettuce watches him stand, his gaze flicking briefly—just briefly—to Wemmbu’s hands, to the way they linger near his hair before dropping to his sides.
He notices.
He always notices.
“I know,” Lettuce says, and his voice softens just enough to feel different, to feel… closer. “You’re not very good at pretending, either.”
Wemmbu scoffs, turning away slightly, but not fully, never fully. “You don’t know me that well bro.”
“No?” Lettuce steps closer, the distance shrinking without permission, without urgency, just inevitability. “You touch your hair when you’re irritated, not just when you’re nervous.”
Wemmbu’s shoulders tense.
“You go quiet when you’re trying not to react,” Lettucecontinues, his tone still mild, observational rather than accusatory. “And when you’re actually angry—”
“Stop,” Wemmbu cuts in, sharper now, the word coming out before he can soften it.
Lettuce stops.
Immediately.
That’s what makes it worse.
Because it looks like he’s listening.
Like he’s respecting it.
The silence that follows is almost gentle.
Almost.
“…Okay,” Lettuce says after a moment, and his voice is softer now, stripped of that edge, like he’s stepping back from something without making it obvious.
Wemmbu blinks, thrown off by how easily that came, how quickly the tension shifts into something quieter, something that doesn’t demand a reaction.
“Okay?” he repeats, suspicious.
“Okay,” Lettuce echoes, and there’s something almost reassuring in it, something that settles instead of presses. “We can talk about something else.”
Wemmbu hesitates.
Because this—this version—is easier.
Safer.
It doesn’t dig under his skin in the same way.
“…Fine,” he mutters.
A small pause.
Then, quieter—
“What do you want, then?”
Lettuce studies him for a second longer before answering, his gaze softer now, less sharp, like he’s deliberately choosing not to push.
“I told you,” he says. “I just wanted to see you.”
Wemmbu huffs, but there’s less bite in it this time, less certainty in his annoyance. “You always say that.”
“And you always don’t believe me.”
There’s no argument in it.
No frustration.
Just a statement.
And for some reason, that makes Wemmbu shift slightly, like something about that landed closer than he wanted.
“Because it’s not normal,” he says, quieter now, more to himself than anything. “You don’t just show up for no reason.”
“I do,” Lettuce replies.
A beat.
“Just not for everyone.”
That—
That does something uncomfortable to Wemmbu’s chest.
He hates it.
He hates that it sounds like something important, like something that matters, like something he should hold onto.
“…That’s not a good thing,” he mutters.
“Maybe not.”
Lettucesteps closer again, slow, unthreatening, his presence settling rather than pressing this time, his voice dipping just slightly lower.
“But it’s true.”
For a moment, neither of them moves.
The air feels different again.
Quieter.
Heavier.
And then—
Without thinking, without deciding to, Wemmbu speaks.
“Why me?”
The question slips out before he can stop it, before he can swallow it back into something safer.
Lettuces expression stills.
Not cold.
Not sharp.
Just… still.
Like something about that matters more than anything else that’s been said.
“Because you react,” he says finally.
And just like that—
It snaps.
Wemmbu’s expression hardens instantly, whatever softness had started to creep in burning away into something sharper.
“That’s it?” he demands, anger flaring fast now. “That’s your reason?”
Lettuce tilts his head slightly, watching him again, that careful attention returning like it never left.
“It’s part of it.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the honest one.”
Wemmbu laughs, but there’s no humor in it now, just frustration curling tight in his chest. “So I’m what, entertainment?”
“No.”
The response is immediate.
Flat.
Certain.
And for a second—just a second—there’s something colder underneath it.
“You’re interesting.”
There it is.
That word.
Wemmbu’s stomach twists.
“I’m not something you get to study,” he snaps, stepping forward now, closing the distance this time, refusing to let Lettuce be the only one who controls it.
“I know,” Lettuce says calmly.
“Then act like it.”
“I am.”
That—
That makes something in Wemmbu falter.
Because he believes it.
And that’s worse than if he didn’t.
“You’re not,” Wemmbu says, but there’s less certainty in it now, less ground under his feet.
Lettuce’s gaze flicks briefly to his hair again, to the way it falls, to the way Wemmbu unconsciously reaches up to push it back.
And then—
Without warning—
He reaches out.
Not grabbing.
Not pulling.
Just… touching.
His fingers catch a loose strand near Wemmbu’s face, brushing it back lightly, the motion careful, almost absentminded in its gentleness.
Wemmbu freezes.
Because this—
This doesn’t match anything else.
“You’re doing it again,” Lettuce murmurs, his voice softer now, closer, like the tension from a moment ago never existed.
“Doing what,” Wemmbu asks, but it comes out quieter than he meant it to.
“Hiding.”
The word lands gently.
Too gently.
Wemmbu’s breath catches, just slightly, just enough for Lettucek to notice—because of course he does.
“I’m not—”
“You are,” Lettuce says, not unkindly, not harshly, just certain.
His hand lingers for a moment longer than it should before dropping away, but the absence of it feels just as noticeable.
Wemmbu swallows, trying to steady himself, trying to pull back into something familiar, something safer.
“Don’t,” he says finally.
And this time—
There’s no sharpness.
Just quiet.
Lettuce watches him.
And for a second—
It looks like he might listen.
Like he might step back, let the moment settle, let Wemmbu keep whatever distance he’s trying to rebuild.
Instead—
He smiles.
Soft.
And just a little wrong.
“You don’t mean that,” he says.
And just like that—
Everything shifts again.
Wemmbu’s chest tightens, frustration snapping back into place. “Yeah, I do.”
“No,” Lettuce replies, just as calm, just as certain as before, but now there’s something underneath it, something colder, something that doesn’t leave room for disagreement. “If you did, you would’ve moved away.”
The words hit harder than they should.
Because they’re true.
And Lettuce knows it.
Wemmbu steps back immediately, like proving it now will fix something, like it’ll take back whatever just happened.
“Happy?” he bites out.
Lettuce’s smile doesn’t change.
“Not particularly.”
And that—
That’s what finally makes the anger stick.
“Then what do you want from me?” Wemmbu demands, his voice rising despite himself, frustration spilling over now that there’s nothing left to hold it back. “You show up, you say weird shit, you act like you know me, and then—what? You just—leave?”
Lettuce considers him for a long moment.
Really considers him.
Like he’s weighing something.
Deciding something.
Then, quietly—
“I want you to stop pretending you don’t care.”
The room goes still.
Wemmbu stares at him, something in his chest twisting sharply, painfully.
“I don’t,” he says, but it sounds weaker now, less solid.
Lettuce steps closer one last time, closing the distance with that same calm certainty, his voice dropping just slightly.
“You do,” he says.