Chapter Text
Wemmbu had learned the art of being ordinary the same way one learned a foreign language, through repetition, correction, and fear of being caught.
His uniform was secondhand—intentionally. The shoes scuffed, the bag unbranded, the phone old enough that it lagged when he unlocked it. His hair, usually styled by professionals who spoke softly and charged exorbitantly, was tied back with a cheap elastic. No jewelry. No family crest. No driver waiting outside the gate.
Public school loomed in front of him like a challenge he had personally issued to the universe.
He exhaled.
This is what you wanted, he reminded himself.
The gate was loud—metal clanging, voices overlapping, laughter raw and unpolished. Students spilled in clusters, backpacks slung low, conversations unfiltered. No one bowed their head. No one knew his name.
It was perfect.
He stepped inside.
People didn’t bow their heads, nor did they truly know him, yet Wemmbu still couldn’t avoid the endearing, curious gazes the students gave him. He felt out of place somehow. His presence—his aura alone—didn’t belong, no matter how hard he tried to make it fit.
Maybe that was the problem.
Wemmbu had already memorized the structure of the school: where his locker was, where his homeroom classroom stood. Everything was perfect and precise, just like him.
He walked alone through the paraded hallways. The path cleared oddly, almost unnaturally, with each step he took. His attention drifted to the people he’d seen when he first enrolled—already settled into their own respective crowds. And maybe, just maybe, that made Wemmbu feel ashamed.
He was isolated, largely by choice. He didn’t want to stand out, yet the more he tried to disappear, the more he seemed to shine.
He was almost there, his classroom. He didn’t like the eyes that followed him. They were uncomfortable, unbearable.
He didn’t like being seen.
Manepear was already tired, and it wasn’t even second period.
He’d walked Flamefrags to school, listened to him ramble about some game he barely understood, made sure his uniform was buttoned correctly. Flamefrags—his brother, somehow only a year younger but shoved into the same grade through a mess of paperwork, night classes, and sheer stubborn insistence—walked beside him with a bounce Manepear didn’t have the energy for.
“You think this year’ll be easier?” Flamefrags asked. He pulled his phone from his pocket, opening the camera app to check his dreads.
Manepear snorted. “No.”
Flamefrags grinned anyway, rolling his eyes as he replied in a sarcastic tone, “Why not?”
That grin made it worth it.
They reached their classroom just as chaos erupted.
Someone, probably ClownPierce, was standing on a chair, dramatically reciting something about “the inevitable downfall of society” while Parrot laughed himself breathless. Rekrap2 sat upside-down in his seat, arguing with Reddoons about rules that didn’t exist. Branzy and Boomer whispered in the corner like they were planning a crime.
Typical.
Manepear slid into his seat, Flamefrags beside him. Relief settled in his chest—at least we’re together.
Manepear glanced at the clock, checking the time, only to realize they’d arrived almost perfectly on time. Flame seemed to notice too, joking, “Damn, bro, we got the powers of time-arrival accuracy, bro.”
Manepear cackled at his brother’s habit of saying bro, noting how unnecessary it was to repeat it at the end.
Then the door opened.
The teacher walked in first, her head held high. Her side purse glistened under the fluorescent lights, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. Manepear’s gaze drifted toward the open doorway, unsure why.
Then someone else followed—a new kid.
His face was unfamiliar. It stood out.
The boy politely closed the door behind him.
Manepear noticed him instantly, and he hated that he did.
"new kid?" he heard his brother whisper to him, he looked and smiled slightly. "seems so"
The boy wasn’t loud. Wasn’t trying to be seen. He kept his gaze lowered, steps measured, shoulders drawn in like he’d learned to make himself smaller. His uniform fit just a little too well for a public school tailored, almost—but worn down on purpose. Hair tied back, face soft but sharp in places that mattered.
Pretty, Manepear thought before he could stop himself.
How could he deny it? The boy was pretty. Polite, too—his posture and presence alone spoke of it.
Manepear looked away immediately, forcing his attention onto whatever meaningless thing he could find.
The teacher cleared her throat. “Class, we have a new student. Introduce yourself.”
She stood in front of the room, setting her purse down on her desk.
The boy hesitated—just a second too long.
“Wemmbu,” he said at last.
His voice was calm, careful. “I’m… pleased to meet you.” He tried to steady his gaze on the class.
Manepear noticed the slight quiver in his voice.
A pause.
Then ClownPierce stage-whispered, “He talks fancy.”
Laughter rippled through the room.
Wemmbu flushed—not deeply, but enough that Manepear noticed the way his fingers curled around the strap of his bag. And the way his eyes widened slightly, eyebrows scrunched.
Great, Manepear thought. First day and they’re already on him.
“Take an empty seat,” the teacher said as she dismissed him off.
There was one.
Next to Manepear.
Wemmbu walked over, steps light, and sat down. Putting his bag aside, grabbing a textbook. And manepear couldn't stop himself noticing, and staring.
Up close, Manepear noticed more things he wished he wouldn’t: the faint shimmer on Wemmbu’s nails, chipped like he’d tried to dull it; the way his lashes cast shadows when he blinked; the quiet steadiness of his breathing, like he was bracing for something.
They didn’t speak.
Not yet.
Manepear looked away, focusing on the teacher as she began the lesson, doing his best not to let his gaze linger too long on the boy seated nearby.
His hands shook slightly.
He thought no one noticed.
Wemmbu noticed Manepear too.
The moment he walked into the classroom, the first thing his attention caught was him. Even when he tried not to look, the universe itself seemed to pull him in.
Because how could he not?
He was all rough edges and restraint—dark circles under his eyes, uniform slightly wrinkled, hands scarred in ways that didn’t match a teenager’s life. There was a heaviness to him, like responsibility had settled into his bones early and refused to leave.
But when Flamefrags whispered something to him, Manepear smiled—soft, real—and the weight shifted.
Wemmbu looked away quickly.
Don’t stare.
The teacher introduced him as a new student, and made him introduce himself.
The class began, noise settling into a dull hum. Wemmbu focused on his notes, writing carefully, deliberately messier than he was used to. He kept his posture relaxed, answers short. Normal.
Halfway through, he felt a nudge.
He glanced sideways.
Manepear had leaned over, whispering, “You’re holding your pen wrong.”
Wemmbu blinked. “I—what?”
Manepear gestured subtly. “You’re gonna cramp your hand. Like this.”
He demonstrated, quick and practiced.
Wemmbu mirrored him without thinking.
“…Oh.”
Manepear shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. You look like you know what you’re doing anyway.”
Something warm bloomed in Wemmbu’s chest.
He quickly shooed it away.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
Manepear nodded, already looking away, as if the interaction meant nothing.
It meant everything, for him atleast.
Lunch was worse.
Or better.
Wemmbu sat alone at first, heart pounding as he unwrapped his food—simple, deliberately plain. He’d insisted on packing it himself. No caterers. No imported fruit.
A shadow fell over the table. Two figures, standing tall. He turned his gaze to them.
“Mind if we sit?”
Manepear stood there with Flamefrags, tray in hand.
Wemmbu shook his head too fast. “No— I mean—please.”
They sat in sync, both taking the place infront wemmbu. Facing him directly.
Conversation was awkward at first, stitched together with small talk and interruptions from nearby tables. People shouted greetings. Someone, probably Mapicc, nearly spilled a drink. Woogity was loudly arguing about a test.
Flamefrags talked the most.
“So you’re new-new?” he asked Wemmbu. “Like, transferred?” he asks questions between bites of his lunch, which receives him a knowing glance from mane. Wemmbu noticed and saw how flame immediately swallowed the food first before speaking.
“Yes,” Wemmbu said. “I wanted a… change.” he said hesitantly, wondering if that answer wasn't all to oversharing.
Manepear hummed. “Public school’s a weird choice.” he wondered, as he stared directly to wemmbu with a questioned gaze.
Wemmbu’s heart stuttered. “Is it?” he mutters out softly, as he takes a small bite off his food.
“Yeah,” Manepear said, not unkindly. “Most people try to get out.” he snarks, as he adverts his gaze somewhere, elsewhere that isn't wemmbu.
Wemmbu smiled, small and careful. “I suppose I’m strange.” he admits, as memories flood.
Manepear snorted. “You’ll fit right in, then.”
Wemmbu laughed.
It slipped out before he could stop it.
Manepear froze for half a second—then smiled back, startled.
Neither of them noticed the way Flamefrags watched them, quiet and observant.
By the end of the day, Wemmbu realized something terrifying.
He wanted to stay.
And that was only the first mistake.
Wemmbu thought the hardest part would be pretending.
He was wrong.
The hardest part was how quickly pretending became unnecessary.
By the second week, no one questioned why he was there anymore. He was simply there—another body in a chair, another name on the attendance sheet, another presence folded into the background noise of the school. That should have comforted him.
Instead, it made him uneasy. Way to uneasy for his liking. And he hated feeling uneasy. He wanted to be sure.
Because if people stopped looking too closely, it meant they might start seeing him. And he doesn't want to be seen from other people, he wants something normal for once.
In class, Wemmbu sat beside Manepear, quietly reading the page one of their teachers had assigned them to read and understand. He stayed silent, trying to muffle his presence, to make himself smaller.
He sat back in his chair, earphones playing soft, familiar music—something calming, something safe.
Then he made the mistake of glancing sideways, averting his gaze from the book for just a second.
Manepear sat stiffly in his seat, staring blankly at the paper in front of him. Wemmbu’s curiosity tugged at him, and his eyes drifted to the page.
A large red mark stood out against the paper.
-
Manepear realized something was wrong with his grades on a Wednesday. It was just a random Wednesday, where days never really mattered to him.
Not because he suddenly cared, he always cared. but because the paper slid back onto his desk with a red number that sat heavier than usual.
48%
He stared at it longer than necessary.
His thoughts turned hazy, complicated, as his gaze lingered on the bright red mark.
Flamefrags leaned over. “That bad?” he asked, noticing the blank stare, the tight expression. Of course he noticed—he always had. He was the observant one.
Manepear folded the paper quickly. “It’s fine,” he said.
The lie tasted strange. Thin. A rushed dismissal.
He knew it wasn’t.
Math had always been his worst subject. Numbers tangled in his head, rules slipping away the moment he thought he understood them. He worked, studied, tried again—but effort didn’t always translate into results, and teachers didn’t have time to wait for him to catch up.
He rubbed his eyes, as if doing so might make the red mark disappear from the page altogether.
He stayed quiet, avoiding his brother’s worried gaze. He tried to forget the mark, tried to brush it off—convincing himself, again and again, that it was okay.
It wasn't okay.
He knew that.
But what more can he do than accept that fact?
Beside him, Wemmbu noticed.
He hadn’t meant to. Truly. But he’d been watching Manepear’s hands for reasons he refused to examine—calluses, scars, the way his fingers curled around a pen like he was bracing himself.
The red mark on the paper felt loud. Even if it was just there, written.
Wemmbu hesitated.
Then he leaned over.
“Do you want help?” he asked quietly.
Manepear stiffened.
He hated that reaction. Hated that the first thing he felt was embarrassment, hot and sharp, settling behind his ribs.
“I’m fine,” he said automatically. Trying to force a small smile out off his expression. It came out pinched and fake.
Wemmbu nodded once, accepting the answer. He looked away, and went back to reading his book.
He didn’t push.
That was worse.
They didn’t plan their first hangout.
It happened because the library was empty, because Flamefrags had detention, because the rain started suddenly and refused to stop. Wemmbu hadn’t brought his umbrella that day—the weather always seemed to know when he didn’t. He hated that.
Manepear lingered by his locker, waiting. He held his phone, opening and closing whatever app caught his attention, just to have something to do. The silence felt awkward.
Wemmbu hovered nearby, pretending to reorganize his bag for the third time. It was almost comical, at least through Mane’s eyes.
More silence passed. Rain tapped steadily against the school campus outside, a soft, constant rhythm. To Mane, it sounded like white noise, mixing with the quiet shuffle of Wemmbu’s bag. Mane huffed and sighed before turning his phone off.
“You can go,” Manepear said eventually. “You don’t have to wait.” His voice was low, almost a whisper, his eyes fixed on the black screen reflecting his blank expression.
Wemmbu looked up. “I know.”
He stayed anyway. The rain seemed to turn silent from that moment on.
When Flamefrags finally emerged—soaked and grumbling—the rain was still pouring hard enough to blur the edges of the world. The detention room sat far from the school’s main campus, tucked into another building entirely, making the walk back miserable.
Flame was drenched, his dreads ruined. At least his bag was mostly spared. Flame hated rainy weather, and Mane knew that all too well.
“We’ll wait it out,” Manepear said reassuringly, placing a hand on Flame’s wet shoulder.
The library lights were warm. Quiet. Comfortably dusty.
It was as peaceful as the library had ever been. Students rarely came here—some barely even looked its way. The air-conditioning worked well, and the staff were relaxed, letting students stay as long as they wanted.
They sat at opposite ends of the same table—Flame, Wemmbu, and Mane—each facing a textbook, a book, and a sheet of paper.
For a while, none of them spoke. Silence filled the space between them. It wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t awkward either.
Then Wemmbu glanced at Manepear’s notebook.
The same problem, crossed out again and again.
And mane looked, frustrated.
Wemmbu reached over without asking and flipped to a clean page, startling Mane with the sudden movement. Mane looked up, meeting Wemmbu’s gaze.
“Can I show you something?” Wemmbu asked, scratching the back of his neck as he looked away.
Manepear hesitated.
Then nodded.
Wemmbu didn’t lecture. Didn’t rush. He broke the problem down slowly, patiently, voice soft but steady. He wrote neatly but not perfectly, making deliberate mistakes before correcting them.
Manepear followed along, brow furrowed.
“…Oh,” he said eventually. It was that easy, he thought.
Wemmbu smiled—small, tentative.
Something loosened in Manepear’s chest.
As if a flower quietly bloomed inside him.
It was strange.
And warm.
They started doing that more often.
Not calling it tutoring. Not calling it hanging out.
Just sitting together.
Sometimes with Flamefrags. Sometimes without.
Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn’t.
And that's okay.
Wemmbu learned the rhythm of Manepear’s frustration—the way he went quiet before he snapped, the way he pinched the bridge of his nose when things didn’t make sense.
Manepear learned the rhythm of Wemmbu’s kindness—the way he anticipated needs before they were voiced, the way he waited without making it obvious.
Neither commented on it.
One afternoon, ClownPierce slid into the seat across from them, grinning.
“So,” he said. “You two are, like, attached now?” he said teasingly, bearing his teeth into a wide grin.
Manepear stiffened. “No.” the grip on his pencil tightened.
Wemmbu said nothing.
Branzy leaned over ClownPierce’s shoulder. “Looks like tutoring.”
Manepear shrugged. “He’s better at math.”
Wemmbu looked down.
ClownPierce laughed. “Careful. People’ll talk.”
Manepear didn’t know why that bothered him. The way his eye twitched, his brows furrowed slightly.
He didn’t know why he said, “Let them.”
Wemmbu’s head snapped up.
Their eyes met.
Neither looked away first.
Later that day, Wemmbu wrote in his notes:
If I help him, is it selfish?
He didn’t erase it.
That night, Manepear went home with equations that finally made sense—and a feeling he didn't.
He lay awake longer than usual. Staring blankly at his ceiling as he recalled moments.
Thinking about soft voices.
Thinking about careful hands.
Thinking about the way something heavy inside him felt lighter.
He told himself it was gratitude.
He was wrong.
If anyone asked later, Wemmbu would say that nothing happened.
That things simply continued.
That would be a lie.
Things did not continue—they tilted.
It started with seating arrangements.
The math teacher announced it casually, like it meant nothing, like it wasn’t about to rearrange the emotional landscape of Wemmbu’s week.
“New partners for the next unit,” she said, already erasing the board. “Manepear, you’ll be working with Wemmbu.”
A few heads turned. Knowing smiles thrown at their way. Someone hummed knowingly.
The teacher stared right ahead at mane and wemmbu, their gazes switching back one to another. A raised eyebrow was given to the both of them as silence filled the classroom.
Manepear froze for half a second before nodding. “Okay.”
Wemmbu’s stomach dropped. He hoped his face didn't show how he felt.
This is fine, he told himself. This is normal.
It did not feel normal.
Working together meant sitting closer.
Close enough that Wemmbu could feel Manepear’s knee brush his when he shifted. Close enough that Manepear could see the faint shimmer on Wemmbu’s nails that he kept trying—and failing—to dull completely.
Close enough to notice things they had previously pretended not to.
Manepear struggled.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. He frowned at the page, jaw tight, fingers gripping his pen like it might betray him. He reread the same line over and over, as if willing it to change.
Wemmbu watched.
Something inside him stirred—an ache that felt uncomfortably like purpose.
He leaned in, lowering his voice instinctively. “Start here,” he said, tapping the page. “Ignore the rest for now.”
Manepear hesitated. “I don’t—”
“You do,” Wemmbu said gently. “You just don’t think you do.”
Manepear glanced at him, surprised.
Then, slowly, he followed.
This became their rhythm.
Wemmbu anticipated the pause before Manepear asked questions. Manepear learned the look Wemmbu got when he was thinking too hard—eyes unfocused, pen hovering, breath shallow.
Sometimes Manepear would deliberately make a mistake.
Not to test Wemmbu.
But to see him smile.
He didn’t realize that was what he was doing until Flamefrags pointed it out.
“You mess up on purpose around him,” Flamefrags said one afternoon, blunt as ever.
Manepear choked on his drink. “I do not.”
Flamefrags raised an eyebrow.
Manepear looked away.
Manepear didn’t mean to start waiting for Wemmbu.
It began innocently. A seat saved because it was easier than moving. A notebook slid across the desk because Wemmbu’s handwriting was neat and legible. Explanations offered because silence felt wrong.
By the third day, it was habit.
By the fifth, it was expectation.
By the second week, Manepear noticed when Wemmbu was late—and felt relief settle in his chest when he arrived.
He hated that.
Wemmbu hated it too.
They studied together after school, sitting on concrete steps while the sky dimmed. Flamefrags lingered nearby, pretending not to watch. kids from theather passed in loud clusters. students that never mattered argued about everything and nothing.
“You two dating?” ClownPierce yelled one afternoon.
“No,” they said in unison.
Silence.
Then laughter.
Wemmbu’s ears burned. Manepear looked away.
Of course not, Wemmbu thought.
Wemmbu learned Manepear in fragments.
That he worked nights.
That he skipped meals so Flamefrags wouldn’t.
That math hurt his head but he refused to quit.
That he hated asking for help.
So Wemmbu helped quietly.
Extra notes. Patient explanations. Snacks slid across the table with a casual, “I’m not hungry.”
Manepear noticed.
He told himself it was kindness.
He’s like this with everyone, he thought. Someone like him wouldn’t—
Wouldn’t what?
He didn’t finish the thought.
Rain trapped them under the gym awning one afternoon. Students crowded close. Noise rose. Wemmbu shivered, sweater thin. He forgot his umbrella, again.
Manepear shrugged off his jacket and draped it over Wemmbu’s shoulders. It was sudden, the action startled wemmbu.
Wemmbu stiffened. “You don’t have to—”
“Take it,” Manepear said. “You’re freezing.”
The jacket was warm. Smelled like detergent and safety. Like him
Wemmbu clutched it tighter.
He’s just being nice.
Manepear didn’t look back.
Don’t get stupid.
Rumors began softly.
Not cruel. Not sharp.
Just curious.
“They’re always together.”
“Is he tutoring him?”
“They sit really close.”
Wemmbu heard them and felt his pulse spike every time.
Not because he was afraid of being seen with Manepear.
But because being seen at all was dangerous.
He began to withdraw in small ways.
A step back. A pause before answering. A careful distance he hadn’t kept before.
Manepear noticed immediately.
He didn’t say anything.
That hurt worse.
One afternoon, they stayed late to work on a project.
The classroom emptied slowly, voices fading down the hall. Sunlight slanted in through the windows, dust motes drifting lazily between them.
Manepear rubbed his face. “I don’t get this part.”
Wemmbu leaned over without thinking.
He spoke for a while—too fluidly. Too confidently.
Manepear blinked at him. “You talk like… like someone who’s been doing this forever.”
The words hit wrong.
Wemmbu stilled.
He smiled quickly, too quickly. “I read a lot.”
Manepear nodded, accepting it.
Wemmbu’s hands shook for the rest of the day.
The awkward hangouts grew longer.
Not planned.
Never named.
They walked home together sometimes, stopping for cheap food they pretended Wemmbu enjoyed more than he did. They sat on steps, leaning close without touching. Silence stretched comfortably between them—until it didn’t.
Once, Manepear asked, “Why’d you transfer?” between bites of his bought food.
Wemmbu froze.
“A change,” he said again. Taking a low and careful sip of his water.
Manepear waited.
Expectantly.
Wemmbu did not elaborate.
The silence afterward was heavier.
Wemmbu’s complexity lived in the contradictions.
He wanted Manepear to rely on him.
He wanted Manepear to never need him.
He wanted to be chosen.
He wanted to remain invisible.
Each tutoring session made the knot tighter.
Each smile made it worse.
One day, Manepear failed a quiz. It was sudden and random, it shouldn't have cracked his heart that much.
He stared at the paper, shoulders slumping. Mood deafening, as he looked away from the paper.
Wemmbu reached for it without asking.
“I can help you,” he said. “We can go over it again.” wemmbu tells, his eyes trying to meet manes.
Manepear’s laugh was short. Bitter. “You always say that.” he didn't mean to say that.
Wemmbu flinched.
“I don’t mind,” he said quietly.
“I know,” Manepear said.
That was the problem.
Flamefrags cornered Wemmbu after school.
“You like my brother,” he said.
Wemmbu nearly dropped his bag.
“I—what?”
Flamefrags shrugged. “You do. It’s obvious.”
Wemmbu swallowed. “Please don’t tell him that.”
Flamefrags studied him for a long moment.
“I won’t,” he said finally. “But don’t disappear on him.”
Wemmbu promised.
He did not know how to keep it.
The day ended with rain again.
They stood under the same awning, closer than necessary.
Manepear hesitated. “You don’t have to stay.”
“I want to,” Wemmbu said.
The honesty startled them both.
Silence followed—thick, charged, unfinished.
Wemmbu thought, If I stay like this, I will ruin everything.
Manepear thought, If he leaves, I won’t stop him.
Neither moved.
That night, Wemmbu lay awake staring at the ceiling of a house too large, too quiet.
He thought of callused hands and furrowed brows.
Of numbers slowly making sense.
Of a reliance he was building with care and fear in equal measure.
If I am ordinary long enough, he thought, will it become true?
They never called it anything. Was it even necessary to call it—something?
If someone asked, if someone pressed—both of them would have said the same thing.
We’re just friends.
They knew better than that.
The problem was that neither of them knew what that meant anymore.
The first time they went somewhere together that wasn’t school, it happened by accident.
Manepear had stayed late again. Not officially—no detention slip this time. but long enough that the hallways emptied and the janitor gave him a look that said wrap it up. He shoved his notebook into his bag, shoulders aching, head buzzing with half-understood formulas.
When he stepped outside, the sky was already bleeding orange into purple.
Wemmbu was sitting on the low concrete wall near the gate. Even how simple he sat there so idly, he still looked effortlessly pretty. Mane noticed something,
He wasn’t on his phone. He wasn’t reading. He was just… waiting.
Manepear stopped short. “You didn’t have to wait.” he speaks out loud, standing behind to where wemmbu sat.
Wemmbu looked up, startled, like he’d been caught doing something private. “I know.”
There was a pause.
“You could’ve gone home,” Manepear added, softer.
Wemmbu shrugged. The motion was small, almost careful. “I didn’t want to.”
That should have been too much.
Instead, Manepear nodded like it was normal. Like his chest hadn’t tightened at the sound of it.
They started walking.
Not in any particular direction at first. Just side by side, bags bumping occasionally, steps falling into an easy rhythm neither commented on. The streetlights flickered on one by one, casting long shadows that tangled together on the pavement.
“So,” Manepear said eventually, because silence suddenly felt loud. “You, uh… settling in okay?”
Wemmbu smiled. It was a real one, but restrained. “I think so.”
“That’s good.” Manepear shoved his hands into his pockets. “Public school can be… a lot.”
“I like it,” Wemmbu said.
I like you
They ended up at a small convenience store.
Neither of them suggested it out loud. Manepear slowed, Wemmbu slowed with him, and suddenly they were inside, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The shelves were cramped, cluttered with cheap snacks and drinks.
Manepear grabbed a bottle of water.
Wemmbu hovered near the snacks, staring like he was trying to decode them.
“You don’t have to get anything,” Manepear said.
“I know,” Wemmbu replied. Then, after a beat, “What do you usually get?” he looks up to mane.
Manepear paused. “Uh. Chips. Sometimes.”
Wemmbu picked up the cheapest bag and studied it seriously. Then he placed it back and chose another.
Manepear watched him, amused despite himself. “You’re overthinking it.”
Wemmbu smiled sheepishly. “I do that.”
They paid separately. Manepear noticed Wemmbu glance at the price before handing over his money, careful, deliberate.
It shouldn’t have mattered.
It did.
They sat on the curb outside, bags between them.
Traffic hummed nearby. Someone laughed across the street. The world kept going.
Manepear opened his notebook again, habit ingrained too deep to stop. “Can I ask you something?”
Wemmbu nodded. “Of course.”
“How do you… not get frustrated?” Manepear asked, eyes on the page. “When things don’t click.”
Wemmbu thought for a long moment. He swung his legs slightly, shoes scuffing the concrete. “I do,” he said finally. “I just… don’t let people see it.”
Manepear huffed a quiet laugh. “Must be nice.”
“It’s lonely,” Wemmbu said, softly enough that Manepear almost missed it.
Manepear looked at him then.
Their eyes met.
Wemmbu looked away first.
Tutoring shifted after that.
It stopped being something they did around school and started being something they planned—even if neither used that word.
“Library?” Manepear would ask, casual.
“Sure,” Wemmbu would reply, equally casual.
They sat closer now. Close enough that Manepear could feel warmth through the thin fabric of their sleeves. Close enough that Wemmbu could hear Manepear’s breath hitch when he got stuck.
Wemmbu explained slowly, carefully, checking Manepear’s face after every step.
“Does that make sense?”
“…Yeah. Wait. No. Kind of.”
Wemmbu smiled. “Okay. Let’s try again.”
Manepear watched his hands when he talked—precise, gentle, steady. He wondered what it would be like to hold them.
He hated himself for wondering.
From Wemmbu’s perspective, everything felt like standing too close to a flame.
Manepear leaned in when he listened. He frowned when he concentrated. He muttered curses under his breath when he got something wrong.
Wemmbu wanted to reach out.
He didn’t.
Instead, he pointed. Explained. Redirected.
Friends do this, he told himself. Friends help each other.
His heart didn’t agree.
One afternoon, one of the theater students descended on them.
ClownPierce plopped down across the table without warning. “You guys live here now?”
Parrot leaned over his shoulder. “Seriously, you’re always studying together.”
Manepear stiffened. “So?”
“So nothing,” ClownPierce said, grinning. “Just saying.”
Wemmbu stared at his notebook, pulse loud in his ears.
Parrot squinted at him. “You’re blushing.”
“I am not,” Wemmbu said too fast.
Manepear shot him a look.
Wemmbu wished the floor would open up.
ClownPierce laughed and eventually wandered off, bored.
Silence settled.
“Sorry,” Manepear muttered.
“For what?” Wemmbu asked.
“For… them.”
Wemmbu shook his head. “It’s not your fault.”
What he didn’t say was, I don’t mind being seen with you. I mind being seen at all.
The day ended strangely.
They packed up slower than usual. Neither quite ready to leave.
Manepear slung his bag over his shoulder. “Same time tomorrow?”
Wemmbu hesitated.
Then nodded. “Yeah.”
Manepear smiled—quick, crooked, real.
Wemmbu felt it in his chest.
That night, Manepear lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
He thought about chipped nail polish and quiet patience.
About how things made sense when Wemmbu explained them.
About how he felt calmer just sitting next to him.
Friends, he told himself.
The word felt thin.
In a house too big for one boy, Wemmbu stood at his window and watched the city lights.
He pressed his forehead to the glass.
I can’t want this, he thought.
But he craves for this, and it's selfish.
But wanting wasn’t something he’d ever been good at controlling.
The slip happened on a Thursday.
It shouldn’t have mattered. It shouldn’t have been memorable. It should have been just another moment folded into the long, quiet accumulation of their days.
Instead, it lodged itself between them.
They were in the library again—third table from the windows, the one with the wobbling leg. Late afternoon light angled across the pages, turning dust into something almost soft.
Manepear stared at the worksheet like it had personally insulted him.
“I don’t get why they do this,” he said, tapping the paper. “Why not just say what they mean?”
Wemmbu leaned closer. “They are saying what they mean.”
“No, they’re hiding it in rules.” Manepear sighed. “That’s not the same.”
Wemmbu smiled faintly. “Sometimes it is.”
Manepear shot him a look. “You’d defend that.”
“Why?”
“Because you always sound like you know the reason behind things.”
Wemmbu paused.
Just a fraction too long.
“I read,” he said again.
Manepear hummed, unconvinced. “You ever get tired of being right?”
Wemmbu’s fingers tightened around his pen. “I’m not.”
“You are,” Manepear said, smiling a little. “About most things.”
Wemmbu looked down. “It’s not a good thing.”
Manepear frowned. “Why not?”
Wemmbu didn’t answer.
They worked in silence for a while.
Then ClownPierce’s voice cut through it, too loud for a library.
“Yo, Manepear! You helping your rich friend again?”
The word rich landed wrong.
Manepear stiffened. “What?”
ClownPierce laughed. “Kidding. Kidding.”
Wemmbu’s heart started racing.
Spoke leaned in, eyes sharp. “Relax, man. You just look… fancy sometimes.”
Manepear stood up. “Leave him alone.”
The table went quiet.
ClownPierce blinked. “Okay, damn. Sorry.”
They backed off, laughter trailing behind them.
Manepear sat back down, jaw tight. “Ignore them.”
Wemmbu nodded, though his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
“Hey,” Manepear said softly. “You good?”
“Yes,” Wemmbu said too quickly. “I’m fine.”
Manepear studied him. “You don’t look fine.”
Wemmbu forced a smile. “I’m just tired.”
Manepear didn’t push.
That hurt too.
They packed up earlier than usual.
At the doors, Manepear hesitated. “You walking home?”
Wemmbu shook his head. “I should… I have something.”
“Oh.” Manepear nodded. “Okay.”
A pause.
“Same time tomorrow?” Manepear asked.
Wemmbu opened his mouth.
Closed it.
“I don’t think so,” he said.
The words tasted wrong.
Manepear’s smile faltered. “Oh.”
“I just—” Wemmbu stopped himself. “I need space.”
“Did I do something?”
“No,” Wemmbu said immediately. “No. This is—this is me.”
Manepear looked at him, searching.
“Okay,” he said finally. “If that’s what you want.”
It wasn’t.
They walked part of the way together anyway.
Silence pressed in.
Manepear kicked a pebble. “You know you can tell me stuff, right?”
Wemmbu swallowed. “I know.”
“You just don’t want to.”
Wemmbu didn’t deny it.
Manepear exhaled slowly. “I’m not good at… guessing.”
“I know,” Wemmbu said.
“That makes this hard.”
“I know,” Wemmbu said again.
They stopped at the corner.
Manepear shifted his bag. “Friends don’t just disappear.”
Wemmbu’s chest ached. “I’m not disappearing.”
“It feels like it.”
“I’m trying to keep things from getting complicated.”
Manepear laughed softly, humorless. “Too late.”
Wemmbu looked at him then—really looked.
At the crease between his brows. At the tired set of his mouth. At the way he stood like he was bracing for impact.
“I’m sorry,” Wemmbu said.
Manepear nodded once. “Okay.”
He turned away first.
That night, Manepear sat at the small table in their apartment, books spread out uselessly.
Flamefrags watched him from the doorway. “You’re not studying.”
“I am.”
“You’re staring.”
Manepear closed his notebook. “He needs space.”
Flamefrags frowned. “Do you?”
Manepear didn’t answer.
Across the city, Wemmbu stood in a room that was too bright, phone buzzing unanswered in his pocket.
He replayed the look on Manepear’s face over and over.
Friends don’t just disappear.
“I’m trying,” he whispered to no one.
The lie sat heavy.
The next day, the seat beside Manepear was empty.
And everyone noticed.