Work Text:
It's always with Minute that bad things happen.
Mane remembers that one time the stadion fell onto them during a game, or the time Minute called him from the hospital.
They're still missing a tsunami, a hurricane, maybe? Perhaps a Mudslide?
It must be some kind of hysterical breakdown that makes Mame think these thoughts.
After all, this very moment, he's crossing of 'Wildfire' from the list of natural disasters he still has to experience.
Sweat drips down his brow and forces Mane to blink it away.
Even with closed eyes, the cave exit is bright as a sun.
Smoke lies heavy and cloying in the air, a crinkling and crackling of splintering wood drowns out even the heartbeat Mane feels puckeding in his throat, in his ears, his trembling fingers.
He licks his lips, chapped and dry beneath the wet flick of his tongue.
The flames are enchanting.
Half of the view is obscured by the small waterfall trickling past the entrance.
Mane swallows.
His fingers bury deep in Minute's hair, whose head is cradled in Mane's lap.
Now, Minute is still. His breathing is laboured but steady, eyes closed and forehead covered in sweat.
In sweat and blood.
Convulsing and shaking, head jerking back — seizing — Minute's head had impacted the stone hard.
Mane isn't sure if that knocked him out or the heatstroke. He isn't sure which one would be preferable.
Mane stripped Minute of his boots and stuck his feet into the waterfall, his pants now soaked up to the knees. He isn't quite sure how much that will do to cool Minute down, but Mane is at elast mostly sure that it won't do any harm.
Mostly sure, he tells himself, is good enough.
A long sigh next to him forces Mane to acknow the elephant in the room.
"This isn't how I thought tonight would go", Clown Pierce says. He sounds awafully steady for someone stuck in a wildfire. Mane wants to bunch him.
"Yeah", he settles for saying instead, digging his fingers deeper into the sweaty mass of Minute's dark curls.
Mane could deal with the wikdfire if only this fucking clown wasn't here.
Long-time star center of the Pacific Mid Conference and captain of its titular team, the Pacific Mid Coalition, made up of the most bumfuck ash-end towns Mane can imagine.
He can't say too many bad things — it is where Minute comes from. It's also where Minute's life was all-but ruined, so Mane supposes he can be large amounts of mad despite any home-town familiarity.
Stupid fire for keeping Mane here, all buddy-buddy-shoulder-rubby with Pierce of all people.
At least Minute isn't awake to see it.
That might be the only redeemibg quality of the situation: Minute doesn't have to see Pierce.
"It's good to see he has somebody", Pierce says, even now managing to sound so condescending and punchable that it lights a fire inside of Mane that rages taller and brighter than the flames outside ever could.
But Mane, it has long-since turned out, is a good firefighter, who can stiffle the urge to shout, 'Look who's fault it is he hasn't for so long, poke your own fucking nose and pop your own bloody pimple'
But Mnae is civil and polite and not the kind of person to ruin a career and not even send apologies. To do it on purpose, even.
If Clown started seizing and bashing his head bloody, Mane might take pleasure in it, but he wouldn't let the fucker die.
Because Mane is better than Clown.
But he might not be as good as he thought he was. The words escape him, gritting through his teeth, "Well, look at who he won't have to thankyfor that. Fuck yourself, Pierce."
Pierce is silent now, at least.
The fire crackles, Mane flinches and feels Pierce do as crashing and breaking and shattering reach their ears.
The trees have started falling.
Mane wonders how much longer it will take until somebody finds them, scattered into the wind as they are.
Their bus had broken down on the way to the rink at Spawn City, for the All Stars game.
Players had scattered to explore the forest, take pictures, frolick in the fucking fields.
The fire had cought Man completely off guard, cutting of his and Minute's escape route in a matter of seconds or perhpas an eternity.
Time had felt strange.
Mane licks his lips again.
The fire outside swirls and Mnae leans against the cave wall. A hedache, dizzyness.
He's in hearstroke territory, too, despite the cold water soaking through into his pants and laying a fold balm onto his skin.
Mane wonders if Pierce is the sort of person to let Mane die because he smacks his head open during a seizure.
He might be.
Mane really doens't want to find out.
There's other things he does want to fight out, on the other hand.
"Why did you even do it?", he asks Pierce. It certainly wasn't for the money. Pierce — and Wook, too — were both to succesful in their jobs. Mane wouldn't betray Minute for money, not five hundred grand Wemmbu had offered the twoy and certainly not half that after the split.
So what was it? He looks at Pierce's face from the conrer of his eyes and finds as just as unreadable as always.
"I don't know", Pierce says.
Mane has to process. He bristles.
"What do you mean, 'you don't know'? Like hell you do!"
"He was dangerous, he was boring, he was annoying, the money — take your pick, Pear. It doesn't matter either way."
"Of course it matter! Do you even know how many night he lies awake, worrying if he could have changed anything? If it was his fault? As if it could ever be! Of course it matters!", the collar of Pierce's red jersey is clenched in Mane's hand before he can decide otherwise.
And still Pierce looks at him with those same smug eyes, "How would I know? We don't talk anymore, you see. But I coukd have guessed, I supposed. He was always a little sentimental."
Now Mane does punch him, and punch him hard.
That's how the firefighters find him a little while later, two unconcious players by his side.