Chapter Text
The hallway outside their unit smells faintly like instant noodles and cleaning spray that doesn’t quite do its job, the kind of scent that clings to cheap college apartments no matter how often people pretend to care.
Wemmbu barely notices it anymore.
He’s too busy trying to balance his bag, his keys, and the last scraps of his patience after a full day of lectures that felt twice as long as they should’ve been, already halfway into a complaint he’s been saving specifically for Flame.
Living together for almost a year means there’s always something.
“Bro, if you used the last of the—”
He pushes the door open with his shoulder.
It sticks—like always—and then gives.
And he stops.
Not abruptly.
Not in some dramatic freeze.
Just… slows, like his brain hasn’t caught up to what he’s seeing yet.
Because there’s someone on their couch.
Not sprawled like Flame usually is. Not half-asleep, not scrolling, not surrounded by empty wrappers and bad decisions.
Just sitting there.
Straight enough to look intentional, but relaxed enough to look like he’s not trying.
Like he’s been there long enough to get comfortable.
Like he plans to stay.
Wemmbu lets the door fall shut behind him with a quiet click.
“…Okay,” he says slowly, staring. “Who is that.”
Flame doesn’t even look up from his phone.
“Oh yeah,” he says, casual as anything, like he’s pointing out a misplaced charger. “That’s my brother.”
Wemmbu blinks.
Looks at the guy on the couch.
Then at Flame.
Then back again.
“…Your what.”
“My brother,” Flame repeats, finally glancing up. “Manepear.”
Like that clears things up.
It doesn’t.
At all.
Wemmbu stares a second longer, trying to process how this is apparently normal information that he’s just… hearing now.
“You have a brother,” he says slowly.
“Yeah.”
“That you’ve never mentioned.”
Flame shrugs. “Didn’t come up.”
“That doesn’t just not come up, bro.”
Wemmbu gestures vaguely toward the couch, toward the guy who still hasn’t moved much—just watching, quiet but not awkward about it. Comfortable. Like he’s already settled into the space without asking.
“And why is your—what—thirty-year-old brother just sitting in our apartment like he pays rent.”
“I’m not thirty.”
The voice is low, even, and just a little dry.
Wemmbu looks back at him.
“…That was not the part you should’ve corrected.”
There’s a pause.
Manepear shifts slightly, leaning back into the couch like he’s easing into it more, one arm stretching along the backrest, posture loose but controlled in a way that doesn’t feel lazy—just… unbothered.
“Thirty-two, if you’re gonna be specific,” he adds.
Flame snorts.
Wemmbu just stares.
“…That did not help.”
There’s the faintest hint of amusement this time—barely there, like it doesn’t fully commit.
Flame finally puts his phone down, stretching like none of this is even remotely tense.
“Relax,” he says. “He’s staying for a bit.”
“A bit,” Wemmbu repeats. “You didn’t think to tell me before I walked in and saw a random guy in our apartment?”
“I was gonna.”
“You were gonna.”
“Yeah.”
“When.”
Flame pauses.
“…Eventually.”
Wemmbu exhales, dragging a hand down his face.
“Crazy. That’s actually crazy.”
He drops his bag onto a chair, still side-eyeing Manepear like maybe if he looks long enough, something about this will start making sense.
It doesn’t.
Because Manepear is still looking at him.
Not intense.
Not threatening.
Just… steady.
Like he’s in no rush to look away.
Wemmbu notices.
Of course he does.
“What,” he says, sharper now. “Do I have something on my face or—”
“No.”
Immediate.
Simple.
Still not looking away.
Wemmbu pauses.
“…Okay.”
A beat.
“That was fast.”
Flame laughs under his breath.
“Don’t mind him,” he says. “He’s like that.”
“Like what,” Wemmbu mutters.
“Chill.”
“That’s not chill,” Wemmbu says immediately. “That’s—” he gestures vaguely, searching for it. “That’s like you’re watching me think.”
Manepear tilts his head slightly.
“You talk out loud,” he says.
“…Yeah?”
“Helps.”
Again—no judgment.
Just observation.
Wemmbu narrows his eyes slightly.
“…Right.”
Flame grins, clearly entertained.
“Oh my god, this is gonna be so funny,” he says. “You two are gonna hate each other.”
“I don’t hate him,” Wemmbu shoots back immediately. “I just don’t know why he’s here.”
“He’s staying.”
“For weeks, probably.”
“Maybe.”
“Flame.”
“What.”
“You cannot just move someone in.”
“He’s not someone, he’s my brother.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
Flame shrugs again, completely immune to the problem.
“We’ll manage.”
Wemmbu scoffs. “We.”
“Yeah, we.”
“You made that decision by yourself.”
“You’re part of it now.”
“That’s not how that works.”
Another shrug.
Wemmbu exhales slowly, weighing whether this is worth pushing right now.
It probably is.
He just… doesn’t feel like dealing with it in front of someone new.
His gaze drifts back to Manepear.
Still there.
Still relaxed.
Still watching like none of this is even slightly out of place.
“…You’re really just gonna sit there like this is normal,” Wemmbu mutters.
Manepear shrugs, easy, almost lazy.
“Seems normal enough.”
There’s something in the way he says it—light, but just a little off—that makes Wemmbu narrow his eyes again.
“…You’re annoying,” he says.
“Okay,” Manepear replies, like he’s already accepted that.
Flame laughs again, louder.
“See? You get it.”
Wemmbu rolls his eyes hard, already turning toward his room.
“Whatever. Just don’t make it weird.”
“No promises,” Flame calls after him.
Typical.
Wemmbu barely makes it two steps before—
“Wemmbu.”
He pauses.
Glances back.
Manepear’s still in the same spot, but his attention’s shifted—less idle now, more deliberate.
“What,” Wemmbu says.
Manepear studies him for a second, like he’s deciding something.
Then—
“You always come home around this time?”
The question lands… strange.
Not invasive.
Not casual either.
Just placed.
Wemmbu frowns slightly. “Yeah? I have classes.”
“Mm.”
That’s all he says.
Like that answers something for him.
Wemmbu doesn’t like that.
“…Why.”
Manepear shrugs, leaning back again, like the moment’s already over.
“Just noticing.”
Wemmbu stares at him a second longer.
Then scoffs, turning away again like it doesn’t matter.
Like it’s not weird.
Like that didn’t feel like something being… logged.
Behind him, Flame starts talking again—something dumb, something normal.
Wemmbu barely hears it.
Because now there’s a new thought sitting in the back of his mind, quiet but persistent.
Not about the apartment.
Not about Flame.
About him.
And the way Manepear looks at things—
like he’s already paying attention before anyone else realizes there’s something to notice.