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The sound was faint—barely a whisper against the quiet hum of the night—but Flame's eyes snapped open anyway. Years of survival instincts didn't just disappear because he had four walls and a roof now.
He lay still, embers flickering faintly along his fingertips as he listened. There it was again. A soft scrape followed by what sounded like... clawing? Coming from the kitchen.
Flame slipped out of bed, bare feet silent against the cool floor. The flames at its tip dimmed to barely a glow. He crept down the hallway, one hand trailing along the wall, the other ready to summon fire if needed.
The kitchen was dark except for the moonlight streaming through the window. And there, silhouetted on the counter, was a cat.
Not just any cat—this one looked rough. Its fur was matted with dirt and mud, clumped in places like it hadn't seen a proper grooming in weeks. It was small, ribs visible even from where Flame stood, and it was currently nose-deep in the bread he'd left out earlier. The cat's ears were distinctive—curled back in that unique way that made them look almost elegant despite the creature's current disheveled state. Its tail was strange too, twisted and spiked at the end in a way that seemed almost unnatural.
Flame took a step forward, floorboard creaking under his weight.
The cat's head whipped around, and Flame caught a glimpse of purple eyes that seemed to glow in the darkness. They locked gazes for exactly half a second.
Then the cat bolted.
"Hey—wait, bro, hold on!" Flame lunged forward, knocking a chair aside as he gave chase. The cat was fast, weaving between table legs and leaping over scattered boots with desperate agility. It made a beeline for the front door, and Flame's heart sank. If it got outside—
A blur of brown and white shot out from the living room.
Ashen planted himself directly in the cat's path, hackles raised, and let out a sharp, commanding bark that echoed through the whole base.
The cat skidded to a halt, back arching instantly. Its fur puffed up to twice its size, making it look like some kind of feral shadow creature. A violent hiss ripped from its throat—loud and guttural—ears flattened completely against its skull. Its twisted, spiked tail lashed behind it like a whip.
"Ashen, easy boy," Flame said, but his husky was already herding the cat, barking again.
The cat backed into a corner, trapped between the wall and chests. It yowled—a desperate, rattling sound—and swiped at the air when Ashen got too close. Its sides heaved with exhaustion, legs trembling, but it stayed upright through sheer hostility alone. Those eyes were wild, pupils blown wide with fear and aggression.
Flame approached slowly, hands raised. "Alright, bro, let's just calm down—"
The cat hissed again, longer this time, and swiped at the air between them. The sound was continuous, punctuated by sharp spitting noises.
"Yeah, yeah, I see you." Flame moved in anyway, watching the cat's body language. It was pressed so tightly into the corner that it looked like it was trying to phase through the wall. Every muscle was coiled, ready to strike or flee—whichever option presented itself first.
The moment his hands closed around the cat's middle, claws found purchase in his forearms. Sharp, deliberate scratches that would've made most people drop the animal immediately. The cat thrashed, yowling loud enough to wake the dead, twisting in his grip with surprising strength for something so small.
Flame had been stabbed with axes, swords and spears. He'd been hit by maces multiple times. Cat scratches? Please.
He held firm, ignoring the frantic spitting and clawing. The cat twisted in his grip, tail whipping against his arms, those strange demon-like claws extended fully. It let out another yowl—this one sounding almost like a scream—and tried to bite his hand.
"Ashen, bed," he commanded, jerking his head toward the living room.
The husky whined, clearly unhappy about leaving his master with the feral creature, but eventually padded off with one last suspicious look at the cat. His nails clicked against the floor as he retreated, and Flame heard the soft thump of him settling into his dog bed.
Flame carried his captive into the kitchen and just... stood there. Near the table. Not moving. Just holding the still-struggling cat and waiting.
The clawing continued for another minute. The cat yowled again, squirming violently, its curled ears pressed flat against its skull. Then the movements slowed. Then stopped.
The cat went rigid in his hands, finally realizing that its attacks were doing absolutely nothing. It hung there, tense and breathing hard, clearly trying to figure out its next move. A low growl rumbled in its chest—constant and threatening.
"So here's the deal, bro," Flame said conversationally, as if he were talking to a person and not a muddy, half-starved cat. "I'm gonna put you down, yeah? But you can't go all feral on me again. That's the agreement."
The cat's ears twitched. It let out a small, questioning meow that sounded almost confused.
"I'm serious. No biting, no scratching, no attacking. You broke into my base to steal my food." He paused, adjusting his grip as the cat shifted slightly. "I mean, you're clearly hungry, so I get it. But still. Can't just let you destroy my kitchen, bro."
The cat made another sound—softer this time, almost like a chirp—before going completely limp in defeat, body sagging in his grip.
Flame, despite himself, felt a small smile tug at his mouth. "There we go. That's better."
He set the cat down gently on the kitchen floor. It immediately crouched low, ready to bolt, but didn't move. Its eyes tracked Flame's every movement.
Flame reached out slowly and petted its head once—quick and light. The cat's ears flattened but it didn't hiss or run.
"Good," Flame said, straightening up. He turned away, moving to the pantry. "Alright, bro, let's see what we've got."
He rummaged around, pulling out some dried fish and cooked chicken. Behind him, he heard the soft padding of paws on the floor—the cat was following him at a distance, tail still bristled and twitching.
"This should work, right? You're a cat. Cats like fish." He set the food on the floor and held out a piece of the dried fish, waiting.
The cat stared at him with those unsettling violet eyes. It meowed—soft and uncertain—then crept forward slowly. So slowly. Each step was careful, calculated, like it expected the floor to give out beneath it.
It snatched the fish from his fingers and shuffled backward a few feet. It nibbled cautiously, never taking its eyes off Flame. Between bites, it made small sounds—quiet chirps and trills that seemed involuntary.
Flame watched it eat, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. The cat was so thin that he could see its shoulder blades moving under its matted fur with each bite. It ate like it hadn't seen food in days, but still maintained that wary distance, ready to run at the first sign of danger.
There was something weirdly familiar about this whole situation. The suspicious behavior, the aggressive defensiveness, the way the cat kept watching him like it was waiting for a trap...
"You remind me of someone," Flame muttered, watching as the cat finished the fish and started on the chicken. "This one guy I know. Total pain in the ass, honestly. Always sneaking around, stealing stuff, causing problems."
The cat paused, a piece of chicken hanging from its mouth.
"Acts all tough but he's really just—" He stopped himself, studying the cat more closely. That twisted tail. The way it held itself despite being exhausted and starving. The purple eyes that he'd only ever seen on one other person.
"Wemmbu?"
The cat froze completely, chicken forgotten. Its ears shot back flat against its skull.
Flame's eyes widened. "No way."
The cat hissed immediately—a sharp, violent sound—and backed away from the food, tail lashing.
"Bro. Are you Wemmbu?" Flame straightened up, staring at the cat with new understanding. The demon-like tail, the distinctive eye color, the aggressive attitude...
The cat's response was a low, threatening growl that seemed too deep to come from such a small creature. It backed up further, pressing against the cabinet.
"Holy shit." Flame's disbelief morphed into something else as pieces clicked into place. The way the cat had been so determined to steal food despite obvious fear. The intelligence in those eyes. The fact that it had somehow gotten into his base despite all his security measures. "You—bro, is that actually you? Did you get turned into a cat?"
The growl intensified, and the cat yowled—loud and furious—before hissing again.
And then Flame lost it. Laughter burst out of him, loud and echoing through the kitchen. He doubled over, one hand on his knee, the other pressed against his stomach. "Oh my god, this is—this is the best thing that's ever happened. Wemmbu, dude, you're a cat!"
The cat—Wemmbu—hissed viciously, ears flat, and let out a series of angry yowls that sounded almost like cursing.
"What happened, bro?" Flame wheezed, wiping at his eyes. His tail swayed behind him, flames crackling with his amusement. "This is amazing, bro, I can't—"
Wemmbu yowled again, the sound echoing off the kitchen walls, and tried to dart past Flame toward the door.
Flame caught him easily, still laughing. "Oh no you don't."
He finally managed to get himself under control, breathing hard from laughing. Then he actually looked at Wemmbu, taking in the matted fur, the mud caked into his coat, the way his ribs showed through his sides. The curled ears were drooping slightly, and there were burrs stuck in his tail.
"Okay, okay, alright." Flame's amusement faded into something more concerned. "Dude, you look terrible. When's the last time you ate? Actually ate, not just stealing scraps?"
Wemmbu meowed pitifully despite himself, then seemed to realize what he'd done and hissed again, squirming in Flame's grip.
"Yeah, that's what I thought." Flame moved forward, and Wemmbu immediately tried to dart away, crying out in protest. "Nope, not happening, bro."
He scruffed Wemmbu—grabbed him by the loose skin at the back of his neck like a mother cat would a kitten. Wemmbu let out an indignant yowl that rose in pitch, twisting and clawing at the air. His back legs kicked uselessly, and he spat and hissed the entire way down the hallway.
"Dude, you're covered in dirt," Flame said, carrying his hissing, spitting burden toward the bathroom. "We're fixing this. Now. Can't have you tracking mud everywhere."
Wemmbu's response was a long, drawn-out yowl that sounded almost like a complaint.
"Yeah, I know, bro. Life's tough." Flame kicked the bathroom door open and deposited Wemmbu directly into the tub. "Stay."
Wemmbu tried to leap out immediately, claws scrabbling against the porcelain with a horrible scraping sound. He yowled—loud and desperate—as Flame pushed him back down.
"I said stay, bro."
He turned on the water, adjusting it until it was lukewarm. Wemmbu yowled again, even louder this time, claws scrabbling frantically against the tub. The sound echoed off the bathroom tiles, and Flame winced.
"Dude, it's just water. You're not gonna die."
Wemmbu disagreed, apparently, based on the volume of his protests. He thrashed, splashing water everywhere, his yowls turning into pathetic mewls as the water soaked into his fur. His curled ears were plastered to his head, and his tail was plastered flat and looked almost pitiful.
Flame held him firmly in place with one hand while working water through the matted fur with the other. The water around them immediately turned murky brown, and Flame grimaced at the amount of dirt coming off.
"How long were you out there, bro? Seriously."
Wemmbu just meowed miserably, still trying halfheartedly to escape. His claws extended and retracted repeatedly, catching on nothing but air.
"Stop fighting, dude, you'll just make this worse." Flame reached for the shampoo—something mild he used for Ashen—and worked it into Wemmbu's fur. The cat growled continuously, a low rumble in his chest punctuated by occasional hisses and meows of protest.
The matted sections were the worst. Flame had to work carefully, using his fingers to separate the clumps while Wemmbu yowled and squirmed. More than once, those claws caught his arms, but Flame barely felt it through his skin.
"Almost done, bro, just hold on."
Wemmbu made a sound that was half-growl, half-mewl, and tried to climb up Flame's arm. Flame gently pushed him back down into the water.
"Nope. We're finishing this."
By the time he was rinsing the soap out, Wemmbu had stopped actively fighting and had resigned himself to miserable, soggy acceptance. His ears were still flat, and he kept making small, pitiful sounds, but the aggressive yowling had stopped. He just sat there, looking absolutely pathetic, while Flame made sure all the soap was out of his fur.
"There," Flame said, finally turning off the water. "See? Not so bad."
Wemmbu's response was a long, mournful cry that made him sound like the most tragic creature in existence.
Flame bit back a laugh and grabbed a towel. He lifted Wemmbu out, wrapping him up immediately. The cat was shivering now—whether from cold or stress, Flame wasn't sure—and making continuous small sounds of complaint.
He dried him off as gently as he could manage, rubbing the towel through damp fur until Wemmbu was just slightly damp instead of soaking wet. Without all the mud and dirt, Flame could actually see Wemmbu's coat color properly now—see the way his fur caught the light, the distinctive curl of his ears.
"There," Flame said, holding Wemmbu against his chest, towel and all. "Not so bad, right? You look way better, bro."
He made sure to hold Wemmbu firmly but not roughly against his chest, ignoring some leftover trickles of water dampening his shirt. He warmed up his hands a little in an attempt to keep the sulking cat from getting cold.
Wemmbu started purring.
It was clearly involuntary—the way Wemmbu's whole body went rigid the second the sound started. The purring was deep and rumbling, vibrating through Flame's chest. It cut off abruptly after only a few seconds, replaced by a sharp hiss and a snap of teeth that didn't quite reach Flame's hand. Wemmbu hissed angrily, like he was cursing himself out for the slip.
Flame bit back a smile. "Didn't hear anything, bro."
He carried Wemmbu to his bedroom and set him down on the floor near the bed. Wemmbu immediately darted to the darkest corner—under the bed frame, pressed against the wall—and glared out at him with those glowing eyes. A low growl emanated from the darkness.
"Yeah, alright, that works." Flame tossed a pillow in Wemmbu's direction, then grabbed a spare blanket from the closet and draped it near the corner. "There. You're welcome."
Wemmbu didn't respond except for some shuffling to grab the blanket.
Flame climbed into bed, pulling his own blanket up. The room was quiet except for the occasional rustle as Wemmbu adjusted in his corner. "Goodnight, bro."
A soft hiss came from under the bed—but it was questioning, maybe uncertain.
Flame closed his eyes, flames along his skin dimming to nothing as sleep pulled at him. He could hear Wemmbu moving around, the soft padding of paws and the occasional grunt or chirp. Eventually, those sounds faded, and Flame drifted off.
Flame woke to the sound of thunder.
It rolled across the sky like a living thing, deep and rumbling, shaking the windows in their frames. Rain hammered against the roof, a constant drumming that filled the silence. Lightning flashed, illuminating his room in stark white light for just a moment before plunging it back into darkness.
Flame groaned and rolled over, pulling his blanket up. Just a storm. Nothing to worry about.
Then he heard it.
A whimper came from under his bed.
Flame's eyes snapped open. Another crack of thunder, and the whining intensified. It was continuous now, desperate, punctuated by hisses.
"Wemmbu?" Flame sat up, peering over the edge of his bed into the dark corner.
Two eyes stared back at him, pupils blown so wide they were almost entirely black. Wemmbu was pressed as far back into the corner as physically possible, his body so tense it looked like he might shatter. His fur was bristled, making him look twice his size, and he was shaking.
Lightning flashed again, and Wemmbu yowled—loud and terrified—pressing himself even further into the corner. His claws were extended, digging into the floor, and his tail was wrapped tightly around himself.
"Bro..." Flame slid out of bed slowly, kneeling down to get a better look. "You okay?"
Wemmbu's response was a pathetic whine, followed by another yowl when thunder cracked overhead. He was trembling violently, his whole body shaking with each boom of thunder.
"Hey, it's just a storm, bro." Flame said softly, reaching out slowly.
Wemmbu hissed weakly, but didn't move away. His ears were flat against his skull. He looked terrified—genuinely, completely terrified in a way Flame had never seen from Wemmbu before.
Another flash of lightning. Another boom of thunder.
Wemmbu let out a whining sound, and Flame's chest tightened.
"Okay, alright, come here." Flame reached in and carefully pulled Wemmbu out from under the bed. The cat didn't fight—just mewled pitifully and tried to make himself as small as possible. His claws caught on Flame's shirt, holding on desperately.
Flame stood up, cradling Wemmbu against his chest. The cat was shaking so hard Flame could feel it through his whole body. Another boom of thunder, and Wemmbu yowled directly into Flame's collarbone, claws digging in.
"Hey, hey, it's okay," Flame murmured, climbing back into bed with Wemmbu still clutched to his chest. "You're okay, bro. I got you."
He settled back against his pillows, keeping Wemmbu held securely. The cat was making continuous sounds—mewls and whimpers and small chirps that sounded almost like crying. His curled ears were pressed so flat they were almost invisible against his head.
Lightning flashed again, turning the room white. Thunder followed immediately—so loud it seemed to shake the whole base.
Wemmbu screamed—there was no other word for it. The yowl that came out of him was desperate and terrified, and he buried his face against Flame's chest, trembling violently.
"Shh, it's okay, you're okay." Flame adjusted his hold, keeping one hand on Wemmbu's back. He could feel the rapid hammering of the cat's heart against his palm. "It's just noise, bro. Can't hurt you."
Wemmbu mewled—high and pitiful—and pressed closer, if that was even possible.
The storm raged on outside. Rain pounded against the windows, wind howled, thunder rolled continuously overhead. And through it all, Wemmbu shook and yowled and whimpered, making sounds that broke Flame's heart a little.
Flame had never seen Wemmbu like this. Never seen him vulnerable, never seen him scared. Their rivalry had always been built on mutual confidence, on the understanding that they were both dangerous and capable. This Wemmbu—small and terrified and clinging to Flame like he was the only solid thing in the world—was completely different.
"It's alright," Flame said quietly, running his hand down Wemmbu's back in slow, careful strokes. "I got you. Nothing's gonna hurt you while you're here, bro. Promise."
Wemmbu made a small sound and his shaking gradually started to subside. Not completely, but enough that Flame could tell he was listening, focusing on the sound of Flame's voice instead of the storm.
"That's it," Flame continued, keeping his voice low and steady. "Just listen to me. Storm's gonna pass eventually. Always does. You're safe here."
Another boom of thunder, but this one was more distant. Wemmbu still flinched, still yowled, but the sound was quieter—more startled than terrified.
Flame kept talking—quiet nonsense, mostly, about his day and his plans and whatever came to mind.
His hand never stopped moving, stroking down Wemmbu's back in a steady rhythm. Gradually, the yowling became meowing. The meowing became small chirps. The chirps became silence, broken only by the occasional whimper when thunder rolled overhead.
The purring started so quietly Flame almost didn't notice it at first. Just a faint vibration against his chest, barely audible over the rain. But it was there, steady and continuous, even as Wemmbu occasionally cried out when lightning flashed.
"There we go," Flame said softly. "See, bro? You're okay."
Wemmbu made a small sound—agreement or complaint, Flame couldn't tell—and shifted slightly, getting more comfortable. His claws were still dug into Flame's shirt, but not as desperately as before. His curled ears had lifted slightly, no longer pressed flat with fear.
The storm continued, but it was moving away now. The thunder was quieter, more distant, and the rain had softened from a violent assault to a steady pattering. Wemmbu's trembling had mostly stopped, though he still flinched occasionally at the louder booms.
"Bro, not so bad, right?" Flame murmured. He'd adjusted his position so he was lying down properly now, Wemmbu curled up on his chest.
Wemmbu chirped softly—almost conversational—and the purring intensified. His body was finally relaxing, muscles unclenching one by one.
Flame smiled in the darkness, his hand still moving in those slow, steady strokes down Wemmbu's back.
"You can sleep," Flame said quietly. "I'm not going anywhere. Promise."
Wemmbu mewled—soft and sleepy—and pressed his face against Flame's collarbone. The purring was a constant rumble now, vibrating through both their chests. His breathing was evening out, becoming deep and regular.
Flame felt his own eyes growing heavy. The weight of Wemmbu on his chest was warm and solid, the purring almost hypnotic. Rain continued to patter against the windows, but it was soothing now rather than threatening.
"Good night, bro," he whispered.
Wemmbu woke slowly, consciousness filtering in through layers of warmth and comfort he hadn't felt in days.
The first thing he registered was softness. Not the cold, hard ground he'd been sleeping on for the past three days, not the rough bark of trees or the damp rock of caves. Actual softness, like a blanket or a—
His eyes snapped open.
He was on a bed. A real bed. And beneath him—oh god, beneath him was—
Flame.
He was sprawled across Flame's chest like some kind of—like he belonged there. One of his paws was pressed against Flame's collarbone, claws slightly extended and caught in the fabric of his shirt. His face was tucked under Flame's chin. He could feel the steady rise and fall of Flame's breathing, feel the warmth radiating from his skin.
And he was purring.
Wemmbu's purr cut off with a strangled sound. He tried to move, to scramble away, but his body felt heavy and sluggish with sleep. His muscles protested, still exhausted from days of running and hiding and surviving in this cursed form.
He managed to lift his head, looking around the room with growing horror. Morning sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating everything in soft gold. The storm had passed—he could tell from the way everything looked clean and fresh, water droplets still clinging to the glass.
The storm.
Memories from last night crashed back. The thunder. The lightning. The way he'd completely lost it, yowling and hiding like a terrified kitten instead of—instead of—
He'd let Flame hold him. Had buried his face in Flame's chest and purred while his rival comforted him through the storm like he was some kind of helpless pet.
Wemmbu made a sound of pure mortification and finally managed to scramble off Flame's chest. His claws caught in the blanket, and he had to yank them free, which only made everything worse because now he was tangled and—
Flame stirred beneath him, groaning softly. "Bro, what...?"
Panic shot through Wemmbu like lightning. He couldn't be here when Flame woke up. Couldn't face him after—after everything. He yowled again, finally freeing himself from the blanket, and leaped off the bed.
He landed awkwardly, his stupid cat body not quite cooperating, and stumbled before catching himself. His twisted tail lashed behind him as he darted toward the darkest corner of the room—back under the bed where he'd hidden last night before the storm.
"Wemmbu?" Flame's voice was rough with sleep, confused.
Wemmbu pressed himself into the corner, trying to make himself as small as possible. His heart was hammering—still too fast, still too aware of the vulnerability of this form. He was tiny. Helpless. Had spent the entire night clinging to his rival, his enemy, like—
He hissed at himself, ears flattening. Stupid. This whole situation was stupid.
He heard Flame move—the rustle of blankets, the creak of the bed. Wemmbu tensed, waiting for Flame to come looking, to drag him out, to tease him about last night.
Wemmbu growled—low and threatening—even though they both knew it meant nothing. He was the size of a loaf of bread and covered in fur that made him look more cute than intimidating. His claws extended, scraping against the floor, but even those seemed less threatening in this form.
Flame didn’t push.
The door opened and closed, and Wemmbu was alone.
He stayed in the corner for a long moment, trying to process everything. The events of last night played on repeat in his mind—every yowl, every whimper, every moment he'd clung to Flame like his life depended on it.
He was Wemmbu. Wemmbu. Chaos incarnate. A man who'd built his reputation on being unpredictable and dangerous and—
And he'd spent last night purring in his rival's arms because he was afraid of thunder.
A pathetic whimper escaped him, and he immediately hissed at himself for it. He needed to get control of this form. The instincts were too strong—the urge to vocalize every emotion, to seek comfort when scared, to purr when content. It was humiliating.
He couldn't even talk properly. Every attempt to speak came out as yowls or hisses or mewls. The most he could manage was rough, distorted sounds that barely resembled words, and even those took enormous effort.
A few minutes, maybe ten, passed by. The door to the room opened and closed again.
Wemmbu heard Flame’s footsteps.
But the footsteps didn't approach. Instead, there was a soft thump as something settled against the wall, and then... silence.
Wemmbu's ears swiveled, trying to catch any sound. What was Flame doing?
He risked a glance out from under the bed, peering into the room with one eye.
Flame was sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him. He wasn't looking at Wemmbu's hiding spot. Wasn't trying to coax him out or make jokes. He was just... sitting there. Quietly. His flames dimmed to almost nothing, and his body was pressed against the wall like he was barely awake.
Waiting.
Wemmbu pulled back into the shadows, processing this. Flame was waiting for him. Not forcing him out, not invading his space, just... giving him time.
It was weird. Un-Flamefrags-like. Their whole rivalry was built on action and reaction, on pushing buttons and crossing lines. This quiet patience was something else entirely.
Wemmbu hissed softly—frustrated and confused—and pressed further into the corner. His curled ears were flat against his skull, and he could feel his fur still bristling from the panic of waking up in such a vulnerable position.
He'd shown weakness. Had let Flame see him terrified and vulnerable and—
The purring. He'd purred while Flame held him. Multiple times.
Wemmbu wanted to disappear into the floor.
Minutes passed. Flame didn't move except to shift slightly, getting more comfortable against the wall. He still wasn't looking at Wemmbu's hiding spot. Was giving him space in a way that felt almost... respectful.
Wemmbu's stomach chose that moment to growl—a rumble that echoed embarrassingly loud in the quiet room.
Flame's lips twitched, but he didn't comment. Didn't laugh. Just continued sitting there, apparently content to wait as long as it took.
This was worse than teasing, somehow. Wemmbu could handle mockery, could handle their usual back-and-forth antagonism. This patience, this quiet understanding, made something uncomfortable twist in his chest.
He didn't want Flame to be nice to him. Didn't want to think about how safe he'd felt last night, or how Flame had held him through the storm without hesitation, or how that steady heartbeat beneath his ear had been the first thing to make him feel secure in days.
His stomach growled again, louder this time.
Flame finally spoke, voice quiet and directed at the floor rather than at Wemmbu. "Got food ready when you want it, bro. No rush."
Wemmbu's ears twitched. The words were casual, but the tone was... gentle. Like Flame understood exactly how mortified he was and was trying not to make it worse.
It made Wemmbu want to hiss. Made him want to stay hidden out of sheer stubbornness.
But he was also starving, and hiding under a bed wasn't going to change his situation or give him back his dignity.
Slowly—so slowly—Wemmbu crept forward. Just to the edge of the shadows where he could see Flame better. His twisted tail dragged behind him, and he kept his body low, ready to dart back if Flame made any sudden moves.
Flame's head tilted toward him—just for a second—then back to the wall. "Hey."
Wemmbu meowed before he could stop himself. A small, uncertain sound that made him immediately want to hiss at his own lack of control.
Wemmbu took another step forward, then another. His paws were silent on the floor, but his breathing felt too loud in the quiet room. He emerged fully from under the bed, standing in the open now, and waited for the teasing to start.
It didn't come.
Flame just sat there, patient and quiet, flames along his skin barely flickering. His tail swayed slightly—a slow, non-threatening movement—and his posture was relaxed despite sitting on the floor.
Wemmbu growled, questioning, and took another hesitant step forward.
"You okay, bro?" Flame asked, finally turning his head to look at him properly. And his expression was... concerned. Genuinely concerned, without a trace of mockery.
Wemmbu's ears flattened again. He didn't know how to process this version of Flame. The one who'd bathed him when he was covered in mud, who'd fed him when he was starving, who'd held him through a storm without complaint, who was now sitting on the floor waiting patiently for Wemmbu to feel safe enough to come out.
This wasn't how rivals were supposed to act.
He meowed—softer this time—and his tail curled around his legs uncertainly. Every instinct in this stupid cat body was screaming at him to seek comfort, to close the distance, to trust the person who'd kept him safe last night.
But his pride, his sense of self, fought against it.
"Take your time, bro," Flame said quietly. "I'm not going anywhere."
And somehow, that made it worse. Because Flame meant it. Would actually sit there on the floor for however long it took, without complaint, without judgment.
Wemmbu's stomach growled again—a reminder of practical needs over pride—and he made a decision.
He padded forward slowly, keeping his body low and his ears swiveling to catch any threat. Each step was deliberate, cautious, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. But Flame didn't move except to watch him with those ember-bright eyes.
When Wemmbu got close enough, he paused. Looked up at Flame. Tried to communicate everything he couldn't say—the frustration, the embarrassment, the reluctant gratitude for last night.
Flame seemed to understand somehow. His expression softened, and he reached out slowly—giving Wemmbu plenty of time to back away—and gently scratched behind one of his curled ears.
Wemmbu's eyes closed involuntarily, and a purr rumbled up from his chest before he could stop it.
He hissed immediately, jerking away, mortified at the automatic response.
Flame's hand retreated, and there was the ghost of a smile on his face. But it wasn't mocking—it was almost... fond. "It's cool, bro. Can't really help it."
Wemmbu snarled indignantly, but the sound came out more resigned than angry.
"Come on," Flame said, standing up with an easy grace that made Wemmbu acutely aware of how much smaller he was in this form. "Let's get you fed."
He walked toward the door without checking if Wemmbu was following, tail swaying behind him. And Wemmbu—despite himself, despite everything—found his paws moving automatically, padding after Flame down the hallway.
His tail dragged slightly behind him, and he meowed once before he could stop himself.
Flame glanced back, that small smile still on his face. "Yeah, bro. I know."
And somehow, even though Flame couldn't possibly know what Wemmbu had been trying to say, it felt like he understood anyway.
The kitchen smelled like fish—fresh, recently prepared. Flame had clearly made breakfast knowing Wemmbu would eventually emerge. The plate was already on the floor in the same spot as last night, and Ashen was in his bed, watching with lazy interest.
Wemmbu approached the food cautiously, still waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Flame to make a comment about last night, about the purring or the fear or the way Wemmbu had clung to him like—
"Eat up," Flame said simply, moving to the counter to grab his own breakfast. "We can figure out what to do about... all this... after you've got some food in you."
Wemmbu stared at the back of Flame's head, trying to understand this version of his rival. The one who was just... helping. Without conditions, without mockery, without leveraging Wemmbu's vulnerability for his own gain.
It was unsettling. Confusing.
And maybe, though Wemmbu would never admit it out loud, could barely admit it to himself, maybe it was exactly what he needed.