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Never trust anybody, said Mane.
And when he said it he didn’t say it like a lesson; like he was telling Flame not to track mud inside on the floor or to stop catching frogs or to put his rainboots on before going outside. He said it like a warning.
Pinky-promise me, said his brother. I want you to live. Never trust anybody.
Back then, he was littler and stupider and couldn’t win a fight against a bat. He was a quiet kid, so he didn’t say anything. He just nodded. Linked his finger with his brother’s; trusted in him because his brother’s word was law.
There was an exception to Mane’s law, though. He had decided it then, and it stayed decided for years and years and years. Never trust anybody—except for Mane.
And then not so long after Flame was little and losing a fight to a bat he was twenty and holding the sharpest edge of his sword to his brother’s neck in the rain. Because he had betrayed the Empire; because he had betrayed Flame.
Get out of here, Flame said. The rain was warm and wet and he waited a long time for Mane to scold him for not bringing an umbrella.
But he didn’t. He just looked at Flame—a little sad, and a little frustrated, and a little—what? Knowing? Like he had some kind of deep understanding Flame didn’t? Like he knew something Flame didn’t?
And then he was gone.
Flame sheathed his sword in the holster, and Empress Zam patted his shoulder approvingly. Her long pink nails clicked against his armor. I would have gone with you, Flame thought, then, even as his brother disappeared forever. If you asked, I would have gone, too.
After that, he was with the Empire. Until the Empire collapsed. And then he was with the Mafia, and he had “teammates,” sure, but Flame would and did leave them for dead when he didn’t need them anymore. Sometimes he killed them himself if they got in his way. Ash liked that about him. He liked that Flame was vicious; he liked that Flame didn’t hesitate.
Where did you learn that from? Ash would ask approvingly, and Flame wouldn’t say a word.
Good job, Ash would say when he came back with a player’s head in his inventory. Multiple, sometimes; dragged back to Ash’s porch like Flame was some kind of fucked-up barn cat.
Look at me when I speak to you, Ash would say, and grab one of the horns on his helmet and force him to meet his awful, glitched-out not-eyes. And Flame couldn’t see the smile on Ash’s face beyond the mind-melting missing-texture buzz, but he knew it was there.
Then there was no Mafia. So it goes. Flame was solo there; he’s solo here.
He was a killer there, he’s a killer here.
Then there was Lomedy.
His new not-teammate was gentle; painfully, achingly so. He had curly black hair that stuck to his forehead when he worked and pale golden eyes and tan skin. He smiled too much and too often. He liked to wear whites and yellows; bright colors that got covered in dirt from the garden. He was weak and spineless and unskilled.
He thought Flame was cool.
And maybe that’s a stupid reason to keep somebody around. But after so much hatred and toxicity and aggression from literally everybody he knew, it was… nice. Something about how Lomedy looked at him after he dropped those guys that were pestering him—like Flame hung every star in the sky—to be looked at with that kind of pure, innocent admiration—he liked it. He liked this arrangement that they had, where Flame just took anything he wanted from his base and Lomedy didn't stop him because he couldn't.
Lomedy was strange. He lived life slow. Sometimes Flame could hear him singing in the morning as he worked; sitting in his stolen bed, in his stolen house, woken too early by the birds and by a faint, happy voice, out in the early sunlight. Down in the valley, valley so low… early in the morning… hear the wind blow.
And Flame was still a killer, then; stayed that way for a long time, even as he slept in one of Lomedy’s guest houses, and dropped his enemies, and dragged him along to missions that nearly killed him ten times over.
But here’s the thing: so was Lomedy.
First time he ever watched Lomedy butcher a chicken, it was incredible. Flame’s a fighter. He can recognize the artistry of violence. But Lomedy—Lomedy did it gently. Painlessly. Easily. Said a little prayer over its small feathered body and then took it apart; dismantled its body into parts and drained the blood and for a moment Flame wished he could have half of that kindness when he killed.
They were the same, but different. Where Flame butchered over insults and slights and for the glory of victory, Lomedy killed to eat. He burned the bones and worked the ash into the soil and coaxed little green things from the dark.
Never trust anybody, his brother said. But at some point, Flame broke that rule.
At some point, it felt weird to wake up to nobody singing in the garden.
Never trust anybody, Mane said, but Mane wasn’t here anymore and Lomedy was.
This was a strange time. He wasn’t used to having responsibilities to other people; wasn’t used to Lomedy asking what’s up? or what’s next? or want to help me out in the farm? Like it was voluntary. Like Flamefrags was in control. It took a lot of time to get used to it.
The touch, too—Lomedy was a clingy guy. He liked hugs and patting Flame on the head when he did a good job and grabbing Flame’s hand to drag him off to some stupid adventure. That was different. Most people were too afraid to casually put their hands anywhere near Flamefrags, and the ones who did were usually his bosses, and that wasn’t casual, no, that was—possesive. A symbol, to whoever they were trying to intimidate; a message—the Immortal Demon is on my leash.
That’s not how Lomedy did it. Lomedy hugged him like he missed him. Or like he was going to miss him. Like he was getting in all the time he could before Flame left or died or disappeared. Flame’s teammate was nervous like that. He was wounded like that. He was special and lovely and good like that. It wasn't long before stupid and weak and spineless became thoughtful and gentle and kind. Before Flame started helping him out in the garden just because it was nice and they were friends and catching frogs in the rice fields was fun. Joyful, innocent, in a way he hadn't been in years and years and years.
They had something good going.
And then, again, somehow, Lomedy was gone. Like a stabshot in slow motion—he was there and then he wasn’t.
He can still remember turning over his shoulder—catching Lomedy’s golden gaze through the fire; the awful, out-of-place rage that lit him up; watching him mouth, trembling—
Get out of here.
I would have gone with you, Flame thought, later, when he came back to look at the ashes and the burnt Law banners speared into the soil. If you had asked, I would have gone, too.
Somehow, being solo again is that much more impossible now that he knows what it’s like to not be solo. There is no second-watch; there is no-one to cook dinner; there is no soft singing in the morning. It’s his life, but it’s only half a life. It’s wrong and it feels wrong.
So he trains, and he fights, and he takes down the Law. It's a blur, really--a mess of murder and guilt and the creeping sense that he had done something unforgivably wrong. Eventually it’s him and Lomedy, back again.
“I’m gonna change,” Flame says, to his best friend’s back. “I’m sorry.”
And Lomedy turns over his shoulder, and he measures Flame up, and then, after a moment, pops a windburst at his feet and maces the shit out of him. Blood is warm and wet in his mouth and it tastes like he's alive again for the first time in months.
Then it’s laughter, and Lomedy grinning wide, and the sun breaking out in the sky. Radiant, free, forgiving. It's a gasp of air.
“Pinky promise?” Lomedy says, and Flame offers him his hand, and Lomedy uses it to tug him in close and loop his arms around his shoulders. He's real, and there, and not-gone, not-forever, just right here and right now.
Hi, Lomedy, runs through his mind. Hi, hello, hello again. There you are.
“Missed you,” Flame muffles into his best friend’s orange jumpsuit, quiet enough so he could pretend he never said it. Lomedy hugs him back like he's a ghost resurrected, like if he holds on tight enough Flame won't disappear.
“Why didn’t you start trying to kill me when I maced you?” his best friend laughs. “Getting rusty?”
“No,” Flame scoffs. “Course not. I trust you.”