Chapter Text
Snow fell in thick, stupid sheets, the kind that swallowed the world whole.
Wemmbu walked through it anyway.
The storm had started hours ago, first as powder drifting lazily between spruce rooftops, then as something meaner, sharper, a blizzard that bit through clothes and packed itself into hair and lashes and lungs. By now the paths through the city were nearly gone. Lanterns glowed dimly through curtains of white. The wooden bridges connecting buildings creaked beneath layers of ice. Far below, somewhere in the ravine splitting the district in half, lava hissed orange against snowfall, trapped in endless war with the cold.
The city never stopped fighting itself.
Nothing in this world ever did.
Wemmbu liked it that way, but mostly because it made things interesting.
His mace dragged lazily against the stone path behind him, the head bouncing every few steps with a heavy clunk-clunk-clunk that echoed through the empty streets. Snow had gathered across its spikes, ice clinging to the handle and freezing his hands cold until he could barely feel them anymore. Blood—old and dried black in the grooves—stained the handle beneath his gloves. Flecks of it dripped down into the snow, leaving a path of red behind him.
He probably should have cleaned it.
He probably should have done a lot of things.
Instead, he tilted his head back and opened his mouth to catch snowflakes on his tongue, grinning like an idiot despite the cold carving through his throat and the shivers raking through his body.
His horns ached.
That was normal in winter. Demon physiology hated extreme temperatures; the cold settled deep inside the bones and stayed there, heavy and dull and irritating. His fingers were numb already.
He reached up and pulled the metal rings adorning his horns off. A thoughtful gift from his friend Eggchan, but in cold weather they were a nightmare.
His tail twitched beneath layers of fabric, annoyed.
Still, he kept walking.
A passing villager looked at him with a judgy stare.
Wemmbu smiled pleasantly at him.
The merchant immediately crossed the street.
See? Easy.
People around here were smart enough to recognize danger when they saw it.
Wemmbu turned down another street, boots crunching through snow, and finally spotted the wooden door; he knew exactly who it belonged to. Warm yellow windows glowed against the storm. Smoke curled from chimneys overhead. The place looked annoyingly domestic, annoyingly stable, like something Flame would pick on purpose.
Well, he couldn’t really complain anyway. Wemmbu never really stayed anywhere long enough to care. But storms like this one changed things. Even someone as reckless as him understood what tonight’s weather meant; the snow had weight to it, heavy and cruel, the kind that buried roads and froze people solid if they stayed exposed too long.
He’d known it would get bad hours ago. Knew he should find somewhere warm before the city turned white and vicious. And somehow, despite every person he could’ve bothered instead, despite every tavern or shelter or stupidly expensive inn still glowing open beneath the storm, his feet carried him to Flame’s base automatically, like his body had already decided where safety lived before his mind could argue otherwise.
It wasn’t like Wemmbu had many options, anyway now that he thought about it. He moved too often to build anything permanent, burned through places faster than he could settle into them.
Flame was one of the only people who’d continued letting him show up over and over again despite everything — despite the arguments, despite the property damage, despite the endless rivalry chewing holes into both of them. So when the storm turned ugly and the streets started emptying and the cold dug its teeth into his bones, Flame’s base became less of a choice and more of an instinct, the last warm place left in a city that had long since stopped making room for people like him.
Structured.
That was the word everyone used for him.
Structured, reliable, disciplined.
All stupid words, honestly.
Flame still fought like an animal.
Wemmbu had seen him split someone’s shield clean in half during a tournament match last month. Saw the way his claws dug through the sword hilt when he got angry enough. Saw the stripes along his tail puff violently when cornered.
And annoyingly good at winning.
Wemmbu hated him a bit for it. Maybe a lot.
Mostly because Flame never let him forget it.
Now they existed in a constant state of competition so deeply rooted that neither of them remembered how to stop. They fought in tournaments, on missions, during training sessions, in random alleyways when one of them said something irritating enough. Sometimes the arguments weren’t even about strength anymore. Sometimes they fought over strategy, territory, food, insults from three months ago.
Once, they’d argued for forty minutes over whose weapon required more skill.
Wemmbu was obviously right, of course. Swords were boring. Everyone knew how to use one.
Wemmbu stood in front of Flame’s door, staring at it for a second.
Then knocked three times.
Silence.
A muffled crash sounded from inside immediately afterwards.
Wemmbu grinned.
“Elegant as always,” he called.
Several locks clicked open violently.
The door swung inward.
Flame stood there in black sweatpants and a loose dark hoodie, sword already in one hand out of pure instinct. His ears flattened the second he recognized who was standing there.
“Oh,” he said. “It’s you.”
Wemmbu leaned casually against the doorway. “Missed me?”
“No.”
“You look disappointed.”
“You look frostbitten.”
Wemmbu shrugged. “I probably am.”
Flame stared at him for a long moment, expression sharpening.
He always looked strange in dim lighting, the light reflecting onto his blindfold, making his eyes visible underneath. Gold slits cutting through shadows like blades dragged through grass. It was rare to see his eyes, but whenever Wemmbu did, they were captivating. His black hair was messy, probably from sleep or irritation. Faint stripes disappeared beneath the collar of his hoodie, curling along his throat.
Everything about him looked sharp. Even now, half-awake in his doorway, he looked organized.
It was deeply annoying.
“What do you want?” Flame asked.
Wemmbu hummed, tilting his head at him in what he hoped was a persuasive manner. “Can I come in?”
“No.”
Immediate.
Wemmbu blinked, head lolling down, eyes still on his. “Wow.”
“You broke my window last time.”
“That was one time.”
“That was the only time I let you in.”
Flame started closing the door.
Wemmbu stuck his shoe through the gap instantly.
“Don’t shut the door on me, that’s rude!”
“You’re rude.”
The wind howled down the hallway behind him, carrying snow inside in little spirals. Flame’s expression darkened immediately.
“You’re getting snow everywhere.”
“You should let me in, then.”
“No.”
Wemmbu sighed. “What if I freeze to death?”
“All the better.”
Wemmbu barked out a laugh.
There it was.
That tiny twitch near Flame’s mouth, gone almost instantly. Not a smile. Flame rarely smiled around him anymore. Still, the reaction felt like winning something.
Which was pathetic, honestly.
Flame shoved the door harder. “Go bother someone else.”
“I like bothering you specifically.”
“I noticed.”
The hallway light flickered overhead. Wemmbu spoke again, quieter this time.
“It’s snowing really bad.”
Flame’s expression didn’t change.
“So?”
“So let me in?”
“No.”
Flame’s tone was harsher this time, more firm. Wemmbu’s grin faltered just slightly.
Flame stared at him like he was something deeply diseased.
Then he sighed, long and exhausted, like even interacting with Wemmbu cost him energy.
“I’m serious,” he said. “Go home.”
Something about that irritated Wemmbu instantly. Not the rejection itself, they rejected each other constantly. That was normal. No, it was the tone. Dismissive. Like Flame had already decided the conversation was over.
Wemmbu hated when people decided things for him.
“What if I don’t want to?”
“Then stand outside.”
“Seriously?”
Flame just nodded.
There was another beat of silence. Snow drifted through the hallway.
Flame looked tired. Not physically — he never looked physically weak — but worn down in a way Wemmbu didn’t know how to name. The shadows beneath his eyes looked darker than usual. Fresh scratches lined one side of his throat, probably from another fight earlier this week.
Or maybe another fight today.
Wemmbu wondered briefly who won.
Probably Flame. Always Flame.
“Fine,” Wemmbu said lightly. “I’ll stand outside.”
Flame narrowed his eyes, immediately suspicious.
“You’re planning something.”
“I’m hurt you think that.”
Wemmbu grinned wider.
Finally, Flame shoved the door fully shut.
The locks clicked back into place.
Wemmbu stood there for a moment, staring into the wood. Then he laughed quietly to himself and dropped onto the floor beside the door.
Cold seeped through his clothes immediately. A shiver wracked through him, but he forced himself to still and take a deep breath.
He pulled out his phone.
Wemmbu: still snowing btw
The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.
Flame: good
Wemmbu snorted.
Wemmbu stretched his legs farther with a quiet sigh, boots scraping lightly against the worn floor. His mace rested beside him within easy reach, the dark metal head dulled faintly beneath the flickering overhead lights. Melted snow dripped steadily from its edges onto the floor in slow, uneven taps.
Cold seeped through everything here. Through the layers of his clothes until it settled deep beneath skin and bone alike.
Wemmbu tipped his head back against the wall with a soft thud and stared at the stained ceiling above him.
Honestly, he probably should leave.
That thought had crossed his mind at least seven times in the last ten minutes.
But leaving now would feel strangely pathetic after sitting outside Flame’s base this long already.
Wemmbu snorted quietly at the thought.
Yeah. Great logic.
He dug his phone from his pocket again, screen lighting dimly against the dark hallway. The earlier messages remained sitting there unread for several seconds before he typed another one out with numb fingers.
Wemmbu sent another text.
Wemmbu: you know if i die out here people are gonna think you murdered me
Flame: they’d congratulate me
Wemmbu smirked, laughter bursting out of him unexpectedly.
The laugh dragged warmth into his chest that the ice hadn’t managed to steal yet. Even his tail gave an amused flick.
“Wow,” he muttered between lingering laughter. “You’re awful.”
Another grin pulled itself across his face despite the cold.
Even when he was being hostile, it somehow stopped feeling genuinely hostile after a while. The insults lost their edges eventually, worn down into something dry and familiar instead of truly cruel. Like listening to a wolf growl with no intention of biting.
Wemmbu looked back down at the message again, grin lingering stupidly on his face.
Then he laughed a second time, quieter now.
Because that response had been immediate.
Meaning Flame had absolutely been sitting in that base waiting for his message the entire time.
The storm outside worsened. Snow battered the windows hard enough to sound like thrown gravel. Somewhere below, a distant explosion rattled through the street followed by shouting and the metallic clash of weapons.
Wemmbu closed his eyes briefly.
The cold settled deeper into him inch by inch, slow and invasive. His horns throbbed. His fingers stung. The ache was low and rhythmic, a second heartbeat in his ribs, steady and insistent—the kind of pain you get used to until it becomes part of you.
Still, he stayed seated outside Flame’s door.
Maybe out of spite.
Maybe because he wanted attention.
Maybe because somewhere beneath all the fighting and insults and endless competition, Flame’s base had always felt strangely safe.
Like the kind of place you could fall asleep in without keeping one eye open.
Wemmbu hated that feeling.
He chased danger constantly because safety made him restless. Stillness made him itch beneath his skin. Yet somehow Flame existed as both — dangerous enough to keep up with him, stable enough to feel impossible to break.
Maybe that was why Wemmbu kept coming back.
Or maybe he just liked being annoying, who knows!
His phone buzzed again.
Flame: go home idiot
Wemmbu smiled at the screen.
Wemmbu: no (✿◠‿◠)