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Wemmbu had always considered himself a man of taste.
Excellent taste, actually.
Unmatched taste.
Historically questionable taste, perhaps, if one asked certain guards, magistrates, exasperated innkeepers, one very offended duke, or that one enchanted swan who had taken the phrase “you’re being dramatic” personally.
But still.
Taste.
He liked things with flair. With teeth. With a little narrative weight. He liked entrances that made people turn their heads, exits that left at least one person shouting after him, and plans that sounded, at first listen, like crimes.
Not all crimes, obviously.
He had standards.
Petty theft? Occasionally justified.
Trespassing? Situationally romantic.
Scaling the Empire State Building without tethers to unfurl a banner about the power of love before proposing to the most terrifyingly handsome man alive?
Well.
That was practically poetry.
It was also, at the moment, trying to kill him.
The wind hit like an open-handed slap from the sky.
Wemmbu pressed himself against the metal lattice of the antenna and clung with both gloved hands, breathing hard through the black fabric of his mask. Beneath him, New York City dropped away in a dizzying grid of light and glass and impossible distance. The streets looked too small. The taxis looked like toys. The people below were barely flecks of movement, little sparks of humanity swallowed by the morning glare.
Four hundred and forty-three meters.
That was how high the antenna rose.
Wemmbu had known that number before they started.
He had said it aloud with great confidence.
He had even rolled his eyes when Flame repeated it in a grave voice like a funeral bell.
“Yes, yes,” Wemmbu had said at the time. “Four hundred and forty-three meters. Very tall. Very impressive. Very compensatory architecture.”
Now, halfway up the skeletal metal ribs of the tower, Wemmbu regretted several things.
First, his tone.
Second, his boots.
Third, being born with a nervous system.
Fourth, every single decision that had led him to this exact piece of freezing metal in the Manhattan sky.
Above him, Flame moved with silent, controlled precision.
Of course he did.
Flame always made impossible things look irritatingly possible. He climbed like the building had personally invited him. Black clothes, black mask, dark hair whipped by the wind, broad shoulders steady beneath the pale sky. He looked less like a man and more like a warning sign the world had failed to read.
To anyone watching from below, Flame would look frightening.
A masked figure in black scaling the Empire State Building without safety gear. A shadow on steel. A danger. Wemmbu knew better. Flame had checked his gloves three times before they started. Flame had packed water, emergency cloth wraps, a small medical kit, and a tiny bag of sugared candies because Wemmbu, apparently, got “reckless and faint” when he forgot to eat.
Wemmbu had objected to that phrasing. Flame had stared at him. Wemmbu had taken the candies. Scary to everyone else. Soft for one person. Unfortunately, Wemmbu was that one person, and it was ruining his life in ways previously unknown to science.
Flame paused above him and looked down.
Even through the mask, Wemmbu could feel the weight of his attention.
“You okay?”
Wemmbu’s grip tightened around the rung.
“Define okay.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Are you dizzy?”
“Emotionally, yes.”
“Wemmbu.”
“Physically, no.”
Flame’s eyes narrowed, not in suspicion exactly, but in the very specific way he looked when he was deciding whether Wemmbu was lying for comedic effect, emotional avoidance, or both.
Usually both.
The man knew too much.
It was a problem.
“You’re breathing fast,” Flame said.
Wemmbu gave a wounded gasp, which was difficult to execute while clinging to architecture. “How dare you monitor my breathing during our romantic outing?”
“This is not an outing.”
“It has a view.”
“It is illegal.”
“That’s your opinion.”
“It is the police department’s opinion.”
“They’re traditionalists.”
Flame looked at him for one long second.
Then, with the kind of calm that made Wemmbu want to bite something, he reached one hand down.
“Give me your wrist.”
Wemmbu stared at his hand.
Then at the city.
Then back at Flame.
“You know,” Wemmbu said, “if this is your way of holding hands, it needs work.”
“Wrist.”
“Bossy.”
“Yes.”
“Possessive.”
“Protective.”
“Semantics.”
“Wemmbu.”
There it was. Flame never needed to raise his voice. He simply said Wemmbu’s name like it mattered and the entire world rearranged itself around the sound. Rude, deeply manipulative.
Probably illegal in several emotional jurisdictions.
Wemmbu lifted one hand carefully.
Flame’s fingers closed around his wrist.
The grip was secure, warm through the glove, firm enough to anchor but not enough to trap. Flame never held him like something owned. He held him like something precious and terribly breakable, which was offensive because Wemmbu was neither precious nor breakable.
He was, at most, decorative and temporarily concerned.
Flame waited until Wemmbu had found the next foothold.
Only then did he let go.
“Better?” Flame asked.
“No,” Wemmbu said instantly.
Flame’s eyes softened.
Wemmbu looked away because there were limits to what a man could survive while suspended above New York.
“Okay,” Wemmbu muttered. “Maybe slightly.”
Flame’s gaze lingered. The wind tugged between them. Below, the city roared, far enough away to sound like the sea.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” Flame said.
Wemmbu nearly missed the next rung.
Absolutely unacceptable.
He looked up. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t have to pretend you’re not scared.”
Wemmbu blinked. Oh, that was cruel. That was very cruel. Not cruel in the way enemies were cruel. Not blades or insults or betrayal. Gental, gentleness could sneak past defenses where violence never could.
Violence announced itself. Gentleness slipped a hand under your ribs and found the softest thing in you before you even knew you had let it in.
Wemmbu hated that.
He loved Flame.
These facts were unfortunately related.
“I am not scared,” Wemmbu said.
A gust of wind shoved at him.
He flattened himself against the metal and made a sound that could only be described as a heroic squeak.
Flame did not laugh.
This was further evidence of his suspiciously noble character.
Wemmbu hated that too.
Flame merely stayed where he was, waiting.
Patient.
Solid.
Like if the whole city tilted sideways, Flame would simply plant his feet and hold the sky up by force of stubborn devotion.
Wemmbu swallowed.
“I’m not scared of the climb,” he said finally.
Flame’s eyes sharpened.
There.
He had heard what Wemmbu had not meant to admit.
Of course he had.
“What are you scared of?” Flame asked.
Wemmbu’s heart did something dramatic and unhelpful.
The ring was in the inner pocket of his jacket, pressed close against his chest.
A small box.
A small object.
A catastrophic amount of meaning.
He could feel it with every movement.
It had been there since before dawn, since Flame helped zip his jacket and checked the seams and said nothing about the way Wemmbu’s hands shook.
Flame had noticed.
Flame always noticed.
But Flame had not pushed.
He had only said, very quietly, “Whatever happens up there, I’m with you.”
And Wemmbu, because he was a coward in a gorgeous coat, had responded, “Good, because if I get arrested alone, I’m making it everyone’s problem.”
Now the ring felt heavier than the building.
Wemmbu forced a grin.
“I’m scared,” he said, “that when they make the documentary about this, they won’t capture my good side.”
Flame stared.
Wemmbu stared back.
The wind screamed.
Flame sighed.
Not disappointed.
Fond.
The sort of sigh one gave when one had knowingly fallen in love with a disaster and was now living with the paperwork.
“You have no bad side,” Flame said.
Wemmbu’s foot slipped. Only a little, ascrape of boot against metal, tiny jolt through his body. But Flame moved like lightning. One moment he was above. The next, he had shifted down two rungs and caught the back of Wemmbu’s jacket in one fist.
“Wemmbu.”
This time his voice cracked.
Just barely.
But Wemmbu heard it.
He froze.
Every joke in his mouth turned to ash.
Flame’s grip tightened.
Not enough to hurt.
Enough to say, I have you. I have you. I have you.
Wemmbu breathed in.
The city blurred below.
“I’m okay,” he said.
Flame did not answer immediately.
His eyes were fixed on him, dark and fierce above the mask.
For everyone else, that look would have been terrifying.
For Wemmbu, it was worse.
It was love with all its armor still on.
“You scared me,” Flame said.
Wemmbu’s throat closed.
“I know.”
“No.” Flame’s voice lowered. “You don’t.”
The wind snapped at their clothes.
The sun had begun to rise fully now, turning the glass around them gold. Somewhere below, a shout floated up. Maybe someone had seen them. Maybe several someones had seen them. Maybe by now, people had their phones out, tiny bright rectangles pointed toward the sky.
Wemmbu thought of the banner rolled tight against his back.
He thought of the words painted across it.
When the power of love beats the love of power the world knows peace.
It had sounded grand when he painted it.
A little dramatic.
A little idealistic.
A little too sincere, which was why he had made three jokes while lettering it and had pretended the smudge near peace was an intentional artistic flourish rather than the place where his hand had trembled.
But now, high above the city, with Flame’s hand fisted in his jacket and fear raw in his eyes, the words felt less like a slogan and more like a confession.
The power of love.
Not soft in the way people misunderstood softness.
Not weak.
Love had power because it made men like Flame climb into danger not for glory, not for conquest, not because anyone ordered him to, but because Wemmbu had asked and Flame had heard the need beneath the joke.
Love had power because it made Wemmbu, who had spent years pretending he needed no one, reach for a future with both hands.
Love had power because in a world obsessed with domination, control, crowns, towers, ownership, winning, being feared—
Flame had chosen to be gentle.
And Wemmbu had chosen to be seen.
“Okay,” Wemmbu whispered.
Flame blinked.
Wemmbu forced himself to meet his eyes.
“Okay,” he repeated, softer. “I’m scared.”
Flame’s expression changed.
Not triumph.
Never triumph.
Relief.
Pain.
Tenderness so fierce it almost looked like fury.
“Of what?” Flame asked.
Wemmbu laughed once, shaky and thin.
“Right now? Gravity. Police. The wind. My tragic lack of upper body hobbies.”
Flame waited.
Damn him.
Wemmbu looked away.
“And maybe,” he said, the words dragged from somewhere dangerously close to honest, “that this is too much.”
Flame went still.
Wemmbu rushed on before he could lose courage.
“I know. Stunning. Me? Too much? Impossible. A shocking twist no one saw coming. But sometimes, on rare occasions, a thought enters my beautiful head and says, ‘Wemmbu, perhaps climbing a skyscraper with a protest banner and a romantic surprise is not a normal expression of affection.’”
Flame’s hand had not left his jacket.
“Normal doesn’t matter to me.”
“Dangerous thing to tell me.”
“I know.”
Wemmbu looked up.
Flame’s gaze was steady.
He meant it.
Of course he meant it.
Flame was terrible at saying things he did not mean. He could stay silent for hours if honesty required it. He could be awkward, blunt, impossible. He could terrify a room by existing quietly in the corner. But when he spoke, he carved the truth clean.
“You’re not too much,” Flame said.
Wemmbu’s eyes burned.
Rude.
Illegal.
Emotional vandalism.
“Don’t say things like that,” Wemmbu whispered.
“Why?”
“Because I’ll believe you.”
Flame’s eyes softened further.
“That’s the point.”
Oh.
Oh, that was not fair.
Wemmbu looked away quickly, blinking hard against the wind, which was absolutely the reason his eyes stung.
Flame released the back of his jacket only when Wemmbu had both hands secure again.
“Keep climbing,” he said.
Wemmbu exhaled.
“Bossy.”
“Yes.”
“You love it.”
“I love you.”
Wemmbu’s entire brain fell off the building.
His body, regrettably, remained attached.
He stared upward.
Flame had already turned back toward the next section of lattice, like he had not just fired a flaming arrow directly into Wemmbu’s emotional kneecaps.
“You can’t say that casually!” Wemmbu hissed.
Flame glanced down.
“I didn’t.”
Then he climbed.
Wemmbu pressed his forehead briefly against the cold metal.
“Terrible man,” he whispered. “Awful. Disastrous. Perfect.”
And followed him up.
The idea had been born three weeks earlier at their kitchen table.
This was how many of Wemmbu’s worst ideas began.
The kitchen table had seen treasonous maps, enchanted dice, half-finished love letters disguised as grocery lists, stolen pastries, one poorly behaved cursed mirror, and Flame sitting across from him with a mug of tea held in both hands like it was something holy.
Flame did that with warmth.
Held it carefully.
As if heat was a trust.
Wemmbu had watched him over the rim of his own cup and felt something in his chest twist.
Flame’s hair had been damp from rain. His black shirt clung slightly to his shoulders. There was a faint bruise on his knuckles from the night before, when he had stopped a man twice his size from cornering Wemmbu in an alley.
Stopped was a polite word.
The man was alive.
Mostly.
Flame had not bragged.
He never bragged.
He had merely walked Wemmbu home, made him tea, and then sat close enough on the couch that their knees touched while pretending he was not doing it on purpose.
Wemmbu loved him so much it made him stupid.
More stupid than usual.
Dangerous levels of stupid.
He had stared at Flame’s hands around the mug and thought: I want to put a ring there.
Then immediately: Gross.
Then: No, actually, wait.
Then: Oh no.
Then he had spent two days acting completely normal, which Flame noticed immediately because Wemmbu’s version of normal involved stealing Flame’s left glove and staring at his fingers during breakfast.
“Are you checking for curses?” Flame had asked.
“Yes,” Wemmbu had said too fast.
“On my hand?”
“It’s a vulnerable region.”
Flame had looked at him.
Wemmbu had looked back with the expression of an innocent man, which was difficult because he had never been one.
After a long silence, Flame had held out his hand.
Wemmbu had taken it under the pretense of inspection.
His fingers had closed around Flame’s.
Flame’s hand was warm. Callused. Strong. Gentle in the way a sword could be gentle if it chose to remain sheathed.
Wemmbu had traced one finger around Flame’s ring finger while pretending to hum suspiciously.
Flame’s ears turned red.
Wemmbu nearly died on the spot.
“Any curse?” Flame had asked, voice suspiciously low.
“Severe,” Wemmbu had said.
“What kind?”
Wemmbu had swallowed.
“The permanent kind.”
Flame had looked at him then.
Not understanding.
Not yet.
But something in his face had softened, almost hopeful, and Wemmbu had panicked so violently he knocked over his tea and accused the table of betrayal.
After that, the plan formed as naturally as a thunderstorm.
A protest banner.
A climb.
A public declaration.
A proposal in the sky.
It made no sense.
It made perfect sense.
Flame protected through actions. He believed in proof. He trusted what people did more than what they said because words had been used against him too often by people with power and polished smiles.
So Wemmbu would show him.
He would not just say, I choose you.
He would climb an impossible height and unfurl it above the city.
Love over power.
Devotion over domination.
Peace over control.
A banner and a ring and a kiss high enough that the world could not pretend not to see.
When Wemmbu finally told Flame, he had done so with both feet on a chair and a fork in his hand like a royal scepter.
“Hear me out,” he said.
Flame immediately closed his eyes.
“No.”
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“You said ‘hear me out.’”
“That means the idea has vision.”
“That means I should hide the lockpicks.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
Wemmbu pointed the fork at him. “Empire State Building.”
Flame opened his eyes.
Slowly.
“No.”
“Banner.”
“No.”
“Power of love.”
“No.”
“Protest against the love of power.”
“No.”
“Romantic climax.”
Flame paused.
A tiny pause.
Barely a heartbeat.
But Wemmbu saw it.
He always saw Flame.
Flame’s face stayed composed, but his eyes changed. Something vulnerable flickered there before he buried it beneath caution.
“What romantic climax?” Flame asked.
Wemmbu’s grip tightened on the fork.
His courage, which had swaggered into the room wearing dramatic boots, suddenly considered resigning.
“The good kind,” Wemmbu said.
Flame’s gaze did not move from his face.
“Wemmbu.”
His name again.
Soft.
Demanding honesty.
Horrifying.
Wemmbu lowered the fork.
“I want to ask you something,” he said.
Flame went still.
Not with fear.
With hope.
Hope looked strange on Flame. Not because it did not belong there, but because he tried so hard not to hold it where anyone could see.
Wemmbu hated everyone who had taught him that.
All of them.
Even hypothetical people.
Especially hypothetical people.
Flame looked down at his mug.
“You don’t need a building for that.”
“No,” Wemmbu said. “I need a building because if I ask you normally, I’ll make a joke halfway through and then I’ll panic and then you’ll be kind, which will make it worse, and then I’ll have to flee the country.”
Flame looked back up.
His mouth twitched.
“You think climbing a skyscraper is less frightening than sincerity?”
“Yes.”
Flame stared.
Wemmbu stared back.
After a moment, Flame said, “That explains a lot.”
“Do not psychoanalyze me while I’m being vulnerable.”
“You called it a romantic climax.”
“I was trying to maintain brand consistency.”
Flame’s expression softened.
There it was again.
The dangerous thing.
The thing that made Wemmbu want to curl up against him and also set fire to a nearby curtain because feelings needed ventilation.
Flame reached across the table.
Not quickly.
Slowly enough for Wemmbu to refuse if he wanted.
Wemmbu did not refuse.
Flame took his hand.
“You don’t have to earn the answer,” Flame said.
Wemmbu’s breath caught.
Flame’s thumb brushed once over his knuckles.
“If you ask me something important, you don’t have to make it impossible first.”
That should have comforted him.
It did.
It also terrified him so badly he wanted to crawl under the table.
Because Flame was offering him something ordinary.
And Wemmbu, who could make a performance out of anything, did not know if he deserved ordinary tenderness.
So he squeezed Flame’s hand and smiled too brightly.
“Unfortunately,” he said, “I already bought paint.”
Flame sighed.
But his thumb kept moving over Wemmbu’s knuckles.
“You’re impossible.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll get arrested.”
“Likely.”
“You’ll frighten me.”
“I will try to be elegant about it.”
“Wemmbu.”
“I won’t go without you,” Wemmbu said.
Flame’s expression shifted.
The room quieted.
There it was.
The real vow beneath the nonsense.
Not: Come watch me be reckless.
Not: Save me if I fall.
But: This matters, and I want you beside me.
Flame looked at him for a long time.
Then he said, “Show me the route.”
Wemmbu’s grin broke open so wide it hurt.
“You’re saying yes?”
“I’m saying I’m not letting you climb the Empire State Building without me.”
“That is a very Flame-shaped yes.”
“It is a safety intervention.”
“It is romance.”
“It is supervision.”
“Love language.”
Flame sighed again.
But he did not let go of Wemmbu’s hand.
At the top, the world was made of wind.
Wemmbu crawled onto the narrow ledge and immediately decided he hated ledges as a species.
They were arrogant.
Untrustworthy.
Far too committed to having edges.
He pressed one hand to the metal beneath him and took a breath.
The antenna rose behind them, dark and skeletal against the brightening sky. The city spread beneath them in every direction: towers, bridges, rivers, streets, steam, glass, sunlight. Manhattan looked endless and fragile from here, like something built by ants with delusions of grandeur.
The height was unreal.
So unreal that for a second, Wemmbu’s fear could not understand it.
Then it understood perfectly and filed a formal complaint.
Flame climbed up beside him and immediately turned to check every point of contact.
The cables.
The metal.
The ledge.
Wemmbu.
Especially Wemmbu.
“You’re doing the face,” Wemmbu said.
Flame looked at him. “What face?”
“The ‘I will personally defeat gravity if it touches you’ face.”
Flame did not deny it.
Wemmbu’s chest went tender.
The bastard.
“You can’t defeat gravity,” Wemmbu said.
“I can try.”
“Romantic. Stupid, but romantic.”
Flame moved closer, shielding him from a gust.
His body blocked the worst of the wind, broad and warm and solid.
Wemmbu stared at him for half a second too long.
Flame noticed.
Of course.
“What?” Flame asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m admiring the structural integrity of my bad decisions.”
Flame’s eyes crinkled above the mask.
Wemmbu loved those almost-smiles.
He loved Flame’s full smiles too, rare and devastating, but the almost-smiles felt like secrets. Tiny gifts Flame gave only when he thought the world was not watching.
The world was definitely watching now.
Far below, voices rose.
Tiny shouts.
A scatter of movement at the observation decks.
Phones lifted.
Someone screamed, though whether in fear or excitement was unclear.
Wemmbu looked down and immediately looked back up.
“Nope,” he said.
Flame’s hand touched the small of his back.
“You don’t have to look.”
“I was not looking. I was verifying that down still exists.”
“It does.”
“Unfortunate.”
Flame’s hand stayed there for one more second.
Warm pressure.
Then he pulled away to help with the banner.
The roll was strapped across Wemmbu’s back. Together, they unfastened it carefully. The fabric fought them before it was even loose, snapping and jerking in the wind like a living thing eager to escape.
“Hold the left side,” Flame said.
“I know how banners work.”
“You tried to fold it diagonally.”
“That was artistic.”
“That was chaos.”
“Same alphabet.”
“Not remotely.”
The wind yanked.
Wemmbu cursed.
Flame caught the fabric before it could whip free, one arm braced against the metal, his whole body tensing with controlled strength.
Wemmbu stared.
Terrible time to be attracted to one’s future fiancé.
Then again, all times were terrible times to be attracted to Flame, because Flame looked like he could carry a wounded dragon and then apologize to it for the inconvenience.
“Focus,” Flame said.
“I am focused.”
“On the banner?”
“Eventually.”
Flame gave him a look.
Wemmbu grinned behind his mask.
The fear was still there, clawing at his ribs.
But teasing Flame made it smaller.
Flame’s steadiness made it bearable.
Together, they pulled the banner open.
White fabric unfurled against the sky.
For a moment, the wind caught it so hard both of them had to brace. Wemmbu’s boots scraped against the ledge. Flame’s hand shot out, catching the back of his belt this time.
“Stop grabbing my clothes like I’m luggage,” Wemmbu snapped, mostly because his heart had leapt into his throat.
“Stop trying to become airborne.”
“I’m a free spirit.”
“You are a hazard.”
“You adore me.”
Flame’s eyes flashed.
“Yes.”
Wemmbu forgot what he was saying.
Flame used the opportunity to secure his side of the banner.
Cheater.
They fixed it to the metal with practiced movements, the kind rehearsed in secret rooms and on rooftops at much safer heights. Wemmbu’s fingers were clumsy from cold and adrenaline, but Flame covered the knot with his own hand, guiding, steadying.
Not taking over.
Never taking over.
Just there.
Helping him finish.
At last, the banner opened fully.
The words stretched across the morning sky:
WHEN THE POWER OF LOVE BEATS THE LOVE OF POWER
THE WORLD KNOWS PEACE
The fabric cracked in the wind.
Below, the city erupted.
Shouts. Gasps. Sirens beginning somewhere far away. The thudding pulse of helicopter blades in the distance. Phones recording. People pointing upward at two black-clad figures standing impossibly high above Manhattan without tethers, without permission, with nothing but a banner and a message.
Wemmbu stared at the words.
His throat tightened.
The power of love.
He had written it because it sounded big enough for the sky.
Now, seeing it above the city, he understood why he had needed it there.
Because people loved power loudly.
They built towers to show it.
They built systems to keep it.
They wore it like armor and called fear respect.
But love?
Love was expected to be private. Quiet. Tame. Soft in the harmless way. Something tucked into apartments and hidden under sleeves. Something whispered behind doors.
Wemmbu had spent half his life making jokes so no one could see how badly he wanted it.
Flame had spent half his life becoming frightening so no one could hurt what remained gentle in him.
And here they were.
High above a city built on ambition, danger, money, spectacle, hunger.
Unfurling a banner that said love had power too.
Not ownership.
Not control.
Not conquest.
Love.
The kind that caught wrists on ladders.
The kind that packed extra gloves.
The kind that looked at someone chaotic and difficult and too bright and did not ask them to dim.
The kind that looked at someone powerful and feared and said, I see your softness. I’ll guard it too.
Wemmbu blinked hard.
Flame noticed, because Flame’s greatest flaw was perception.
“You okay?” he asked.
Wemmbu laughed wetly.
“Stop asking me that.”
“No.”
“Possessive.”
“Protective.”
“We’ve had this conversation.”
“And we’ll have it again.”
Wemmbu turned to him.
Flame was watching the banner, but his body angled toward Wemmbu. Always toward Wemmbu. As if even the message mattered less than making sure Wemmbu was still there to see it.
Something inside Wemmbu gave way.
Not broke.
Opened.
“Flame,” he said.
Flame looked at him.
The wind rushed between them.
The city watched below.
Wemmbu’s heart climbed into his throat and began tap dancing.
This was it.
This was the moment.
Naturally, his brain responded by presenting him with every embarrassing thing he had ever done in chronological order.
Dropping soup on Flame’s boots.
Calling Flame “brooding furniture” during an argument.
Accidentally saying “our children” when referring to two stolen houseplants.
The ring-size curse inspection.
The time he had tried to flirt and instead said, “Your shoulders are alarming.”
None of this was helpful.
Flame’s gaze softened.
“Wemmbu?”
Oh, his name.
His name in Flame’s mouth had always been a hand offered in the dark.
Wemmbu reached into his jacket.
His fingers found the box.
Flame went completely still.
The world seemed to pause with him.
Wemmbu pulled the ring box free.
For once, Flame had no clever response.
Not that Flame often had clever responses. That was Wemmbu’s department. Flame’s department was silent devotion and looking devastating beside windows.
But now even his usual steadiness faltered.
His eyes dropped to the box.
Then back to Wemmbu.
Wide.
Vulnerable.
Hopeful in a way that made Wemmbu’s chest ache.
“I had a speech,” Wemmbu said.
Flame did not move.
“It was very good. Possibly award-winning. There were metaphors. A callback. One tasteful insult. Unfortunately, my entire nervous system has turned into soup, so we are all going to have to be brave.”
Flame’s breathing changed.
Wemmbu heard it even over the wind.
He lowered himself carefully onto one knee.
Immediately, Flame’s hand shot out to steady him.
Wemmbu looked up.
“You are helping me kneel for my own proposal.”
Flame’s voice was rough. “You’re on a ledge.”
“Yes, and you’re ruining the drama.”
“I’m keeping you alive.”
“Also romantic.”
Flame’s hand stayed on his shoulder.
Wemmbu did not ask him to remove it.
He needed it there.
The truth was, he had always needed Flame’s hand somewhere near him. On his wrist, his back, his shoulder, his sleeve. Not to hold him down. To remind him that staying was allowed.
He opened the box.
The ring caught the light.
Dark metal, simple and strong, with a thin line of red-gold running through the center like fire banked beneath ash.
Flame made a tiny sound.
Barely anything.
A breath.
A break.
Wemmbu nearly lost all ability to continue.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Words.”
He looked at Flame.
Really looked.
At the man everyone else thought was dangerous first. At the man who had climbed after him into the sky. At the man who looked at Wemmbu like he was not a problem to survive but a person worth choosing.
“I love you,” Wemmbu said.
Flame’s eyes shone.
Wemmbu’s own voice shook, and he hated that, and he loved that Flame got to hear it anyway.
“I love you,” he repeated, because the first time had not killed him. Shocking. “And I know I say everything like it’s a joke. I know I turn fear into noise and sincerity into performance and affection into insults because if I make people laugh first, they might not notice how badly I want them to stay.”
Flame’s hand tightened on his shoulder.
Wemmbu swallowed.
“But you noticed.”
Flame’s face changed.
“You always notice,” Wemmbu said. “You notice when I’m cold. You notice when I’m tired. You notice when I’m lying badly and when I’m lying well. You notice when I’m pretending I don’t care, and instead of calling me a coward—”
His breath caught.
Flame shook his head once, sharply, as if the idea offended him.
Wemmbu smiled, small and trembling.
“Instead, you stay. You stay so quietly I don’t even realize I’ve started counting on it until you’re already part of the room. Part of the day. Part of me.”
Flame’s tears spilled over.
Wemmbu had seen Flame wounded and furious and exhausted.
He had rarely seen him cry.
Never like this.
Openly.
Silently.
Like every word had found the place he had tried to hide most carefully.
Wemmbu’s own eyes burned.
“Everyone thinks you’re made of danger,” he said. “And you are, a little. Don’t look smug. You’re very scary. It’s one of your worst and most attractive qualities.”
Flame gave a broken laugh.
Wemmbu smiled through the ache.
“But you’re also gentle. So gentle it makes me furious sometimes. You carry your strength like a promise, not a threat. You could make people afraid of you forever, and instead you use all that power to protect. To hold. To make sure I eat breakfast before committing crimes.”
Flame’s mouth trembled.
Wemmbu held up the ring.
“And I wanted the world to know that. Not just that I love you. That love like yours is powerful. More powerful than fear. More powerful than control. More powerful than all the people who think being loved means being owned or weakened or made smaller.”
The banner snapped hard above them, as if agreeing.
Wemmbu looked at the words, then back at Flame.
“When the power of love beats the love of power,” he said softly, “the world knows peace.”
Flame’s eyes closed for half a second.
Wemmbu’s voice lowered.
“You are my peace, Flame. Which is very annoying, because I had a whole chaotic brand, but there it is.”
Flame laughed again, wet and helpless.
Wemmbu’s smile broke wider.
“So,” he said, and now his own tears were falling, which was unacceptable but apparently happening, “in front of this entire city, several helicopters, probably half the internet, and at least one police department having a very stressful morning…”
He took a breath.
“Will you marry me?”
The world held still.
Flame stared at him.
For one terrifying heartbeat, Wemmbu could not read his face.
Then Flame dropped to his knees too.
It was not elegant.
It was not planned.
It was desperate and immediate and so painfully Flame that Wemmbu nearly laughed and sobbed at the same time.
Flame grabbed his face with both hands.
Carefully.
Always carefully.
“yes” Flame said.
Wemmbu forgot how to breathe.
Flame pulled his mask down with one shaking hand.
His face was wet with tears.
“Yes,” he said again, voice rough. “Wemmbu, yes.”
Wemmbu made a sound that was not dignified and would be denied under oath.
“You’re sure?” he asked before he could stop himself.
Flame’s expression crumpled.
“Oh, love.”
That did it.
That absolutely did it.
Wemmbu’s heart ceased to be an organ and became an entire weather system.
Flame pressed their foreheads together.
“I have been sure,” he said. “I was sure when you stole my glove to measure my hand.”
Wemmbu gasped. “You knew?”
“You are terrible at curses.”
“I am excellent at curses.”
“You held my finger for two full minutes and whispered ‘interesting’ like a villain.”
“It was a complex diagnostic process.”
Flame laughed, and the sound shook against Wemmbu’s mouth.
Then Flame kissed him.
The city disappeared.
The height disappeared.
The sirens, the wind, the cameras, the danger, the protest, the whole impossible spectacle fell away until there was only Flame’s mouth and Flame’s hands and Flame’s yes.
The kiss was not perfect in the polished way.
Their masks were awkward.
Wemmbu nearly dropped the ring.
Flame caught his wrist again because of course he did.
Wemmbu laughed into the kiss.
Flame smiled against him.
Then it became perfect in the only way that mattered.
Messy.
Alive.
Chosen.
When they pulled apart, Flame’s hands stayed on his face.
“I love you,” Flame said.
Wemmbu closed his eyes.
“Again,” he whispered.
Flame’s thumbs brushed his cheeks.
“I love you.”
“Again.”
“I love you.”
“Again, but less emotionally devastating. I’m fragile.”
Flame smiled.
Actually smiled.
Full and open and unbearably soft.
“I love you, Wemmbu.”
Wemmbu slid the ring onto Flame’s finger.
It fit.
Flame stared at it like he had been given something sacred.
Then he looked at Wemmbu.
“I thought,” Flame said quietly, “for a long time, that being loved would mean being useful.”
Wemmbu’s heart clenched.
Flame’s voice was barely audible over the wind.
“Or safe to stand behind. Or strong enough that no one had to worry about me. I thought if I was frightening enough, people would leave me alone, and if I was useful enough, maybe someone would stay.”
Wemmbu’s hand closed around Flame’s.
The ring was cold beneath his glove.
Flame looked at him with unbearable honesty.
“But you wanted me loud.”
Wemmbu’s breath caught.
“You wanted everyone to see.”
“Of course I did,” Wemmbu said, voice breaking. “You deserve to be chosen where the whole world can’t miss it.”
Flame’s eyes filled again.
Wemmbu squeezed his hand.
“Also, you’re very tall and dramatic. The skyline suits you.”
Flame laughed, helpless.
There he was.
Wemmbu’s Flame.
Terrifying. Tender. His.
Not his like possession.
His like home.
Above them, the banner roared in the wind.
Below them, sirens grew louder.
Flame looked toward the descent path.
The softness did not vanish, exactly. It folded itself carefully behind focus.
“We have to go down,” he said.
Wemmbu followed his gaze.
The way back looked impossible.
The way down always did, after the moment at the top.
His stomach turned.
“Right,” he said. “Wonderful. The romantic portion concludes. Now we return to our scheduled programming: consequences.”
Flame pulled his mask back up.
Then he reached for Wemmbu’s.
Wemmbu stilled.
Flame adjusted the black fabric gently over his nose, his fingers lingering near Wemmbu’s cheek.
“Breathe,” Flame said.
Wemmbu did.
Because Flame asked.
Because Flame was there.
Because love, apparently, was not only grand banners and proposals above Manhattan.
Sometimes love was a command soft enough to obey.
They began the descent.
Going down was worse.
This felt unfair.
Wemmbu would be filing a complaint with whatever department managed dramatic symbolism.
Climbing up had at least contained momentum. Purpose. A clear narrative arc. The summit, the banner, the proposal, the kiss. Excellent structure. Strong emotional payoff.
Descending was just fear with repetition.
Every rung required him to face the height again. Every movement made the wind seem louder. His muscles, which had been enthusiastic at the start, were now staging a quiet rebellion. His fingers ached from gripping cold metal. His arms trembled. His knees kept trying to become poetry.
Flame climbed below him now.
This had not been a discussion.
“If you slip, I can catch you,” Flame had said.
Wemmbu had looked at him. “And if you slip?”
“I won’t.”
“Arrogant.”
“Accurate.”
“Annoyingly hot.”
Flame had gone very still.
Wemmbu considered that a victory.
Now Flame moved beneath him, always one rung lower, one hand ready, his body positioned between Wemmbu and the worst of the open drop whenever the structure allowed it.
The city watched.
Wemmbu could feel it.
The attention rose from below like heat. Police, tourists, office workers pressed against windows, people on sidewalks pointing upward, phones recording a story that would be told and retold with increasingly inaccurate details.
Two masked climbers.
No tethers.
A banner about love.
An apparent proposal.
They kissed on the antenna.
Wemmbu wondered if people would understand.
Probably not all of them.
Some would call them reckless.
Correct.
Some would call them criminals.
Possibly.
Some would call them idiots.
Rude but not unsupported.
Some would completely ignore the protest and focus on the proposal. (who would do that)
Also rude.
Some would laugh. Some would gasp. Some would argue about the banner. Some would zoom in on Flame’s ring. Some would turn it into a joke before they let it become something sincere.
Wemmbu understood that instinct.
He had built a personality out of it.
But maybe someone would look up and feel the message land.
Maybe someone would see two people risk fear not for conquest, not for fame, not to prove they were untouchable, but to say love should be louder than power.
Maybe someone would understand that love was not passive.
It climbed.
It shook.
It held on.
It came down carefully, one rung at a time.
“Left foot,” Flame said.
“I know where my left foot is.”
“It’s searching.”
“My left foot is an artist.”
“Your left foot is on the wrong rung.”
Wemmbu looked.
His left foot was, in fact, on the wrong rung.
Betrayal.
He corrected it.
“Do not tell anyone.”
“I won’t.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I’m not.”
“Your eyes are.”
Flame glanced up, and yes, his eyes were smiling.
Wemmbu’s chest warmed despite the cold.
Unfair.
The man could make a steel death ladder feel like a living room.
They descended slowly.
Too slowly for the police, probably.
Too quickly for Wemmbu’s liking.
At one point, a gust slammed into them so hard the banner above cracked like thunder. Wemmbu froze, pressing his body to the lattice.
Flame stopped immediately beneath him.
“I’m here.”
Two words.
Simple.
Steady.
Wemmbu closed his eyes.
The city spun behind his eyelids.
His breath came too fast.
The humor drained from him for a moment, leaving only the raw truth underneath.
“I don’t want to fall,” he whispered.
Flame’s voice softened.
“You won’t.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“I can promise I’ll catch you if you do.”
Wemmbu opened his eyes.
Flame was looking up at him.
No hesitation.
No fear for himself.
Only that fierce devotion, the one that made Wemmbu feel both cherished and furious because how dare Flame value him so openly where he could see it.
“What if I pull you down?” Wemmbu asked.
Flame’s expression changed.
There was something in the question that was not about the climb.
They both heard it.
What if my chaos hurts you?
What if loving me costs too much?
What if I am too much after all?
Flame reached up slowly.
His gloved hand wrapped around Wemmbu’s ankle, gentle and grounding.
“Then we fall together,” Flame said. “And I still choose you.”
Wemmbu’s heart split.
“You are not allowed to be that romantic during an active descent.”
“I just accepted your proposal on top of a skyscraper.”
“Fair.”
“You set the tone.”
“I regret giving you standards.”
“No, you don’t.”
No.
He did not.
Wemmbu breathed again.
One rung.
Then another.
And another.
The descent became a rhythm.
Flame’s voice.
Wemmbu’s breath.
Metal under gloves.
Wind in fabric.
Sirens below.
Banner above.
Love between.
At a wider ledge, Flame made him stop.
Wemmbu collapsed against the metal with as much dignity as one could have while clinging to the side of a landmark.
Flame climbed up beside him and immediately took his hands.
Wemmbu blinked.
“Is this the part where you scold me?”
“No.”
“Because I have several defenses prepared.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m vibrating with symbolism.”
Flame pulled off one glove with his teeth.
Wemmbu’s brain, despite exhaustion and imminent arrest, briefly lit up like a cursed carnival.
Terrible timing.
Flame took Wemmbu’s hand between his bare fingers, rubbing warmth back into it.
“Your hands are cold,” Flame said.
“We are outside.”
“You didn’t say.”
“I assumed the skyscraper setting implied some discomfort.”
“You should have said.”
Wemmbu looked at him.
Flame’s head was bent over his hands, ring gleaming on one finger as he worked warmth into Wemmbu’s stiff joints. The same hands that could break bones were gentle around his.
Always gentle with him.
The world thought Flame’s power was in his strength.
They were wrong.
His power was in what he chose not to crush.
Wemmbu’s voice came out quieter than expected.
“You said yes.”
Flame looked up.
“I did.”
“Still?”
Flame’s eyes softened.
“Still.”
“Even though we are being actively pursued by consequences?”
“Especially then.”
Wemmbu laughed, but it shook.
Flame’s fingers tightened around his.
“Ask me again,” Flame said.
Wemmbu blinked. “What?”
“Ask me again.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“On the ledge?”
“Yes.”
“During our escape from—”
“Wemmbu.”
There it was.
Wemmbu swallowed.
His heart had no defenses left. It had abandoned the fort. It was waving a little white flag that said please be gentle with me.
He looked at Flame’s ring.
Then at Flame.
“Will you marry me?” he whispered.
Flame answered instantly.
“Yes.”
Wemmbu closed his eyes.
Flame leaned closer.
“Again.”
A tear slipped down Wemmbu’s cheek.
Absolutely humiliating.
Deeply romantic.
He opened his eyes.
“Will you marry me?”
“Yes.”
“Again?”
“Yes.”
“You’re supposed to let me ask first.”
Flame’s laugh was soft.
Wemmbu gripped his jacket.
“Will you marry me?”
“Yes,” Flame said, smiling through tears. “Every time.”
Wemmbu kissed him.
It was smaller than the kiss at the top.
Quieter.
No banner framing them now, no grand stillness, no perfect moment.
Just cold metal, shaking hands, sirens below, and Flame kissing him back like yes was not a word but a place they could live.
When they parted, Wemmbu rested his forehead against Flame’s chest for exactly one second longer than his dignity preferred.
Flame’s hand cupped the back of his head.
“Ready?” Flame asked.
“No.”
“We can wait another minute.”
Wemmbu smiled against his jacket.
“You know we’re wanted by the police.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re giving me a minute?”
“You needed one.”
Wemmbu lifted his head.
“You’re going to make an excellent husband.”
Flame froze.
Wemmbu watched the words hit him.
Husband.
Not someday in a vague, distant way.
Not a joke.
Not a concept.
A future.
Flame’s eyes softened so deeply Wemmbu almost had to look away.
“So are you,” Flame said.
Wemmbu scoffed. “Obviously. I bring drama, snacks, legal challenges—”
“Love.”
The word cut through him.
Flame’s voice was quiet.
“You bring love.”
Wemmbu stared.
Then, because he had limits, he pressed his gloved hand over Flame’s mouth.
“Stop. I’m going to combust.”
Flame kissed his palm through the glove.
Wemmbu made a strangled sound.
“Illegal,” he whispered.
Flame’s eyes smiled.
“Come on.”
When they finally reached the lower platform, uniformed officers were waiting.
Several of them.
Many, actually.
A deeply unnecessary number, in Wemmbu’s expert opinion.
No one was injured. That was the important part. The building was safe. The people inside were safe. The banner had been secured. The only casualties were Wemmbu’s arms, Flame’s composure, and possibly the Empire State Building’s reputation for being difficult to climb.
The officers shouted instructions.
Flame immediately lifted both hands.
Wemmbu did too, but with more flair.
“I would like it noted,” he announced, “that we came in peace.”
One officer stared at him.
Flame sighed.
Wemmbu glanced over. “What?”
“You don’t need to narrate the arrest.”
“I absolutely do.”
Another officer ordered them to remove their masks.
Flame did first.
His face emerged flushed from wind, tear tracks drying on his cheeks, hair wild, mouth set in a serious line that would have looked intimidating if Wemmbu had not known he had been crying over a proposal eleven minutes ago.
Wemmbu pulled his own mask down.
The cold hit his face.
So did the cameras.
Somewhere behind the officers, people were shouting. Reporters, maybe. Tourists. Staff. The city had become a mouth, all noise and questions.
“Why did you do it?”
“What does the banner mean?”
“Was that a proposal?”
“Are you engaged?”
“Were you scared?”
Wemmbu looked at Flame.
Flame was already looking at him.
His ring caught the sunlight.
That was answer enough.
Still, Wemmbu had never been one to waste a stage.
He lifted his chin.
“The banner says what it means,” he called. “When the power of love beats the love of power, the world knows peace.”
The noise shifted.
For half a second, something like silence moved through the crowd.
Then another wave of shouting rose.
But Flame’s face had changed.
He looked at Wemmbu like he had just watched him hang the banner all over again.
Proud.
Soft.
Chosen.
Wemmbu’s bravado faltered.
An officer took Wemmbu’s arm.
Another moved toward Flame.
Flame’s eyes sharpened immediately.
Not at being touched.
At being separated.
Wemmbu saw the reaction before anyone else did.
“Easy,” he said softly.
Flame looked at him.
Wemmbu smiled.
“I’m right here.”
Flame’s jaw tightened.
Then he nodded.
The officers guided them forward.
Not roughly.
Firmly.
With the particular energy of people who had spent the last hour wondering whether their workday would include two bodies falling from a skyscraper and were now very eager for paperwork.
Wemmbu could respect that.
A little.
As they moved, Flame managed to angle closer. Their shoulders brushed.
Tiny contact.
Enough.
Wemmbu looked down at Flame’s hand.
At the ring.
Flame noticed.
He lifted his hand slightly, just enough for Wemmbu to see.
Wemmbu smiled.
“You know,” he said, “this may complicate wedding venue negotiations.”
Flame looked at him.
Then at the Empire State Building.
Then back at him.
“No rooftops,” Flame said.
Wemmbu gasped. “You’re already making demands?”
“Yes.”
“Controlling.”
“Alive.”
“Fair.”
Flame’s mouth twitched.
They were led toward the elevator.
The descent inside the building felt absurd after the climb outside it.
Too smooth.
Too contained.
No wind. No open air. No metal rungs. Just bright elevator walls, radio chatter, officers watching them, and the strange domestic quiet of standing beside the man Wemmbu had just asked to marry him above Manhattan.
Wemmbu looked at Flame in the reflection.
Flame looked back.
His face was calm now, but his eyes were warm.
Wemmbu’s chest tightened.
“You okay?” Flame asked quietly.
Wemmbu laughed.
“Did you just ask me that in custody?”
“Yes.”
“I love you so much it’s embarrassing.”
Flame’s eyes widened.
Then softened.
Wemmbu had said it before.
Several times now.
But this one felt different.
Not part of the proposal.
Not heightened by the wind.
Not framed by a banner.
Just an elevator.
Police.
Consequences.
And love, still there when the spectacle was over.
Flame’s voice dropped.
“I love you too.”
One of the officers cleared his throat like he desperately wished to be anywhere else.
Wemmbu smiled politely at him.
“Sorry,” he said. “Engagement glow.”
Flame closed his eyes.
“You are impossible.”
“You agreed to marry impossible.”
“I know.”
“And?”
Flame opened his eyes.
“And I would again.”
Wemmbu stared at him.
For once, no immediate joke came.
Flame watched him carefully, like he understood exactly what his words had done.
Wemmbu looked away first.
Not because he was embarrassed.
Because he was overwhelmed and dignity required a scenic pause.
The elevator doors opened at ground level.
Noise rushed in.
Reporters.
Cameras.
Police radios.
The city, waiting.
They stepped out together.
Not hand in hand.
They were not allowed that yet.
But side by side.
The banner was still far above them, snapping against the sky.
Wemmbu could not see the words from here, but he knew them.
He had painted them.
He had carried them.
They had climbed with him, heavier than fabric, lighter than fear.
When the power of love beats the love of power the world knows peace.
People would talk about the danger.
They would talk about the arrest.
They would talk about the kiss and the ring and the climb without tethers.
But Wemmbu hoped they talked about the message too.
Because the message was not separate from the romance.
It was the romance.
Two people choosing love loudly in a world obsessed with power.
Two people climbing not to conquer the tower, but to say there was something stronger than the need to stand above others.
Two people descending carefully, still choosing each other when the grand moment became consequences.
An officer guided Wemmbu toward one vehicle.
Another guided Flame toward a second.
Wemmbu stopped.
The officer tugged lightly. “Come on.”
“One second,” Wemmbu said.
“You don’t get—”
Flame said, “Wemmbu.”
His voice was calm, but the fear was there beneath it.
The old fear.
Separation.
Loss.
The possibility that joy could be taken away immediately after being given.
Wemmbu turned.
Flame stood a few steps away, hands visible, ring shining.
Wemmbu smiled at him.
Not his sharp smile.
Not his performance smile.
His real one.
The one Flame had earned through patience and stubbornness and terrifying amounts of tenderness.
“Still?” Wemmbu asked.
Flame understood.
His answer was immediate.
“Always.”
The word hit harder than the wind had.
Wemmbu nodded once.
“Good,” he said, voice unsteady. “Because if you tried to break up with me after I climbed a building, I would become very annoying.”
Flame laughed.
The sound carried over the police radios, over the shouting, over the flash and noise of the city.
Warm.
Alive.
Wemmbu let the officer guide him into the car.
Through the window, he saw Flame being placed in the next one.
For a moment, their eyes met across the chaos.
Flame lifted his hand.
The ring flashed.
Wemmbu lifted his cuffed hands in return and mouthed, Worth it.
Flame’s smile softened.
He mouthed back, You are.
Wemmbu’s breath caught.
Then the car door shut.
The city became muffled.
The vehicle pulled away from the curb.
Above them, somewhere high on the Empire State Building, the banner still flew.
Two figures had climbed without tethers.
Two figures had kissed on a narrow ledge.
Two figures had risked arrest to hang a message where the city had to look up.
But Wemmbu knew the truth of it better than anyone.
The real climb had not been steel and height.
It had been letting himself be seen.
The real danger had not been the fall.
It had been asking to be chosen.
And the real power had not been in the tower, or the cameras, or the spectacle, or the police waiting below.
It had been Flame’s hand on his wrist.
Flame’s yes in the wind.
Flame’s ring catching the light.
Love, loud enough to become protest.
Love, gentle enough to become peace.
Wemmbu leaned back against the seat and laughed softly to himself.
Fine.
Maybe they were going to jail.
Briefly.
Maybe there would be fines.
Probably.
Maybe the internet would be unbearable.
Definitely.
But Flame had said yes.
And somewhere above New York City, the banner kept snapping in the wind, stubborn and bright and impossible to ignore.
The power of love.
Not as a slogan.
Not as a joke.
As proof.