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Flame wasn't the type to overthink things. He was tall, his dreads with the dark red tips looked objectively immaculate, and he knew for a fact he was the best-looking guy in their entire year. He didn't stress. He didn't try hard.
Except right now, he was staring at a Spotify screen until his eyes burned, rearranging track nine and track ten for the fifth time in an hour.
"If the transition drops the bass too early, it ruins the vibe, bro," Flame muttered to his empty room, rubbing his face. "Gotta keep it smooth. For the aesthetic."
The aesthetic belonged to Wemmbu.
Wemmbu was a menace. He was shorter than Flame, pale as a ghost, and had this ridiculously long purple hair that he flipped around like he owned the hallway. He was bratty, loud, and entirely full of himself, constantly running his mouth about how everyone else’s taste in everything was completely trash.
Two days ago, Wemmbu had leaned against Flame’s locker, twirling a strand of purple hair around his finger, looking up through his bangs. “Your car music is barely tolerable, Flame,” he’d scoffed, crossing his arms. “Make me a playlist. Prove you actually have a brain cell under that blindfold. But make it good. Don't embarrass me.”
Flame had laughed, throwing an arm out. “Bro, my taste is legendary. I’ll make you a list that’ll literally change your life, bro. Just watch.”
He didn’t tell Wemmbu that every single song he picked was a confession.
Flame added indie-R&B tracks with lyrics that explicitly talked about wanting to pull someone close. He added alternative beats that felt like the exact temperature of his car when Wemmbu sat in the passenger seat, complaining about the air conditioning. It was forty-six minutes of Flame basically shouting I look at you and I lose my mind through digital audio files. It was the most vulnerable he had ever been in his life, hidden behind a casual link.
The next day, they were sitting on the bleachers after school. Flame was sweating through his gym shirt, feeling bulky and huge next to Wemmbu, who looked small and intensely focused on his phone, his thumb flying across the screen.
The low hum of Flame's playlist was leaking out of Wemmbu’s white earbuds.
Flame’s heart did a weird, heavy thud against his ribs. Track five. The slow one.
"Yo," Flame said, trying to sound completely detached, leaning back on his elbows to show off his arms. "You actually listening to it, bro?"
Wemmbu didn't look up immediately. He finished typing a massive paragraph, hit send, and then finally blew a strand of purple hair out of his eyes. He popped one earbud out, letting it dangle.
"Yeah, it’s alright," Wemmbu said, his voice dripping with his usual bratty indifference. He gave a small, self-satisfied smirk. "I mean, obviously the order is a little messy, but the fifth track is actually kind of catchy. Good job, bro. Didn't think you had it in you."
Flame let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, a smirk spreading across his own face. "Told you, bro. My ears are elite. You’re welcome for elevating your whole lifestyle."
"Don't get cocky, it's a six out of ten at best," Wemmbu shot back quickly, snapping his fingers. "But it's perfect background noise for right now."
Flame blinked. "Background noise for what, bro?"
Wemmbu kicked his feet out, looking incredibly pleased with himself. "I'm texting that guy from the city league. The one with the motorbike? He asked what I was doing this weekend. I told him I'm probably too busy for him, obviously, but this music is putting me in a good mood to tease him. It’s got a good vibe for it."
Wemmbu went right back to typing, a small, pink blush creeping onto his pale cheeks as his eyes locked onto his screen.
The smirk completely died on Flame's face.
The bass from the earbud was still thumping. Track five. The song Flame had picked because the lyrics perfectly described the exact shade of Wemmbu's eyes under the afternoon sun.
Wemmbu was using it to flirt with a guy on a motorbike.
"Oh," Flame said. The word felt thick and stupid in his throat. He cleared it quickly, forcing his usual loud, arrogant grin back onto his face before Wemmbu could look up and see the absolute wreckage in his eyes. "Oh, yeah? That’s crazy, bro. Use my beats to get your mans, ig. Real wingman hours."
"Exactly," Wemmbu murmured, completely absorbed in his screen, completely oblivious to the way Flame's knuckles were turning white against the metal bleacher. "You're a lifesaver, bro."
Flame looked away, staring out at the empty green field. The sun was hot, his chest ached, and he felt entirely ridiculous for spending three days on a digital love letter that was currently being used as a soundtrack for someone else.
"Yeah," Flame muttered, the red tips of his dreads falling forward to hide his face. "No problem, bro."
Flame felt like he’d been hit by a freight train. He sat there, his figure entirely frozen, staring at Wemmbu’s glowing phone screen like it was a bomb about to go off.
Wemmbu was still giggling, his pale fingers tapping furiously, flipping his long purple hair over his shoulder with a bratty little smirk. “Look at this, Flame. He’s literally so annoying. He thinks just because he has a vintage Honda he can just tell me when we’re hanging out. I told him he has to wait in line, obviously.”
Wemmbu turned the screen to brag, shoving the phone right in Flame’s face.
Flame’s eyes locked onto the contact name at the top of the chat. It didn't say Motorbike Guy. It didn't say some random dude's name. It said: Manepear ^_^
Flame’s brain flatlined.
Manepear. His older brother.
Manepear, who was built exactly like Flame but half an inch taller, who rocked blonde dreadlocks instead of red tips, and who currently parked his stupid, loud-as-hell black vintage motorbike in their driveway every single night.
"Wait," Flame choked out, his voice cracking slightly before he aggressively corrected it, dropping it back into his usual low, arrogant tone. "Yo, hold on, bro. That's the city league guy? Blond dreads? Annoying as hell? Parks like an idiot?"
Wemmbu blinked, pulling his phone back and squinting at Flame. "Yeah? Wait, how do you know him? Don't tell me he plays in your division, Flame. If he's cooler than you at basketball, I'm never letting you live it down."
"He's not cooler than me, bro, he's literally my brother," Flame said. The words came out sounding detached, hollowed out by a sudden, freezing wave of reality. "Manepear. That's my actual blood, bro. We live in the same house."
Wemmbu’s jaw dropped. His eyes went incredibly wide, his bratty demeanor instantly fracturing into pure, unadulterated high school shock. "What?! No way. You're lying. He's way too hot to be related to you."
Ouch. That one sliced right through Flame’s massive ego, straight into his aching chest.
Flame wanted to scream. He wanted to shake Wemmbu by his stupid purple hair and tell him that Manepear didn't care about indie R&B transitions, and that Flame had been yearning for Wemmbu all his life while Manepear didn't even know Wemmbu existed until five minutes ago.
But worst of all? Manepear had no idea Flame liked Wemmbu. Flame kept his feelings locked down like a military secret to protect his pride. If Manepear knew, he would've backed off in a second—because for all his cockiness, Manepear was a good brother. But he didn't know. And Flame was too proud, too stubborn, and too terrified of rejection to speak up now.
"I'm not lying, bro," Flame muttered, forcing a heavy, arrogant scoff. He crossed his muscular arms over his chest to hide how much his hands were shaking. "He's probably texting you from our kitchen right now. Figure it out yourself, bro."
Wemmbu rolled his eyes, a massive, genuine smile breaking across his face as he looked back down. "Whatever, hater. I'm keeping him."
And he did.
The next three weeks were a slow-motion car crash that Flame had to watch from the absolute front row.
It started with Manepear picking Wemmbu up from school. Flame would stand by his locker, watching through the glass doors as Manepear idled his vintage bike by the curb, his blonde dreads peeking out from under his helmet.
Wemmbu would saunter down the steps, acting bratty and entitled, but Flame could see the bright, uncharacteristic pink blush on Wemmbu's pale cheeks the second Manepear handed him a spare helmet.
Wemmbu completely stopped asking Flame for music recommendations. He didn't need to.
One Friday night, Flame was sitting on the couch in the living room, staring aimlessly at a video game menu, when the front door swung open. Manepear walked in, laughing, tossing his keys onto the counter. Right behind him was Wemmbu, whose purple hair slightly messy from the wind.
"Yo, Flame," Manepear called out, throwing an arm around Wemmbu’s shoulders. Mane looked entirely at ease, completely bagging Flame's crush without even trying. "Look who I found. Your little buddy."
Wemmbu sniffed, crossing his arms and putting on his usual bratty front, though his eyes were locked on Manepear. "I'm not his buddy. I'm just here because your brother's car taste is trash, but your bike is barely acceptable."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, gorgeous," Manepear chuckled, shaking his head. He pulled out his phone, tapping the screen. "Hey, put on that playlist you sent me earlier. The vibe is immaculate."
Wemmbu pulled out his own phone, beaming. "Right? I told you my taste is elite."
Flame sat entirely frozen on the couch, the controller heavy and useless in his hands.
A second later, the living room speakers connected to Bluetooth. The low, smooth bass of track five—the exact R&B track Flame had sweated over, the one with lyrics about wanting to hold someone close under the afternoon sun—started filling the room.
Wemmbu hummed along, completely oblivious, leaning casually against Manepear’s side. Manepear smiled down at him, resting a hand on the top of Wemmbu’s purple head, completely unaware that he was stepping all over his brother’s heart.
Flame looked at the two of them. He looked at how perfectly Wemmbu fit under his brother's arm. He looked at the playlist title on the screen: “chill beats to drive to/for you ig”.
His own love letter, playing in his own living room, soundtracking the moment he lost the only boy he wanted.
"Yo, Flame, you good, bro?" Manepear asked, glancing over, noticing his brother's silence. "You look like you're glitching."
Flame forced his lips to move. He threw his head back, letting out a loud, boisterous, entirely fake laugh, forcing his massive teenage ego to mask the absolute wreckage inside his chest.
"Yeah, bro, I'm legendary," Flame said, standing up and grabbing his hoodie, his red-tipped dreads swinging to hide his eyes as he headed for the stairs. "Just tired from practice, bro. Have fun with my leftovers, ig."
He didn't look back as he walked away, leaving his playlist behind to finish telling someone else's story.