As father as son

The sun had barely begun to crest over the jagged obsidian spikes that guarded Minute’s base, casting long, pale shadows across the reinforced walls. Inside, the usual chaotic energy of the Unstable SMP was muffled, replaced by the low hum of a furnace and the rhythmic clinking of iron pans.

Wemmbu groaned, the sound vibrating painfully against the back of his teeth. His head felt less like a part of his body and more like a lead weight someone had poorly glued to his neck. Every time his heart beat, a dull throb pulsed behind his eyes, echoing the rhythmic scratchiness in his throat.

He kicked off his blankets, shivering as the cool morning air hit his skin, only to pull them back up a second later when a wave of heat rolled over him. He felt like he was being cooked in a smoker and kept in a freezer all at once.

"Stupid," he muttered, his voice cracking. "I don't have time for this."

He was Wemmbu. He was the loud one, the one who kept people on their toes with a sharp tongue and a sharper sword. He didn't do 'sick.' But as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, the world tilted dangerously to the left. He gripped the edge of the wooden frame until his knuckles turned white, waiting for the room to stop spinning.

Across the hall, he could hear the muffled sounds of Eggchan waking up—likely already organizing his inventory or checking on their communal chests with that annoying, calm efficiency of his. Usually, Wemmbu would burst in there with a sarcastic comment about Egg’s pacifism, but today, even the thought of talking made his throat feel like it was lined with sandpaper.

Moving with the grace of a newborn calf, Wemmbu shuffled out of his room. He bypassed the stairs to the training grounds and instead followed the scent of toasted bread and mushroom stew toward the kitchen.

Minute was already there. He stood by the stone counter, his back to the door. Even in his casual attire, without the full weight of his enchanted armor, Minute carried an aura of absolute stability. He was the anchor of the group, the man who had stood his ground to protect the End when the rest of the world seemed intent on tearing it apart. To Wemmbu and Egg, he wasn't just a teammate; he was the person who made sure the world didn't collapse under their feet.

Minute turned as the floorboards creaked, a spatula in one hand. A small, rare smile touched his lips.

"Morning, Wemm. I made breakfast," Minute said, his voice steady and grounding. "The server is quiet today—hardly anyone’s logged on. I figured we’d take the day off. No raids, no griefing, just a quiet morning."

Wemmbu didn't respond with his usual witty retort. He didn't complain about the lack of action or demand they go find someone to bother. Instead, he crossed the kitchen with slow, deliberate steps.

Minute’s smile faltered, his brow furrowing as he watched the younger man approach. "Wemmbu? You okay?"

Without saying a word, Wemmbu reached out and leaned forward, letting his forehead drop onto Minute’s shoulder. He let out a long, shaky breath, his shoulders finally slumping as he allowed Minute to take his weight.

The heat radiating off Wemmbu was immediate. Minute felt it through the fabric of his shirt, a dry, unnatural warmth that shouldn't be there. He dropped the spatula onto a clean plate and instinctively brought his hand up, pressing his palm firmly against Wemmbu’s forehead.

"You’re burning up," Minute murmured, his voice dropping into that protective tone that usually meant he was about to face down a Wither. He moved his hand to cup Wemmbu’s cheek, tilting his head up. "Wemm, look at me. Are you alright?"

Wemmbu’s eyes were glassy, struggling to focus on Minute’s face. He tried to swallow, but the scratchiness in his throat won out, forcing a harsh, dry cough that made him wince.

"I’m... not feeling well," Wemmbu whispered. The admission felt heavy, a rare moment of vulnerability from someone who usually used sarcasm as a shield.

"Oh, Wemmbu..." Minute sighed, his expression softening into deep concern. He shifted his stance, tucking an arm around Wemmbu’s waist to keep him steady. "Come on. Let’s get you off your feet."

Minute guided him toward the living area, where a large, plush couch sat facing a fireplace that was currently crackling with a gentle flame. He settled Wemmbu into the cushions, grabbing a nearby wool throw and draping it over him.

Eggchan appeared in the doorway, holding a stack of books. He stopped dead when he saw the scene, his usual composed expression flickering into worry.

"Is he okay?" Egg asked, stepping into the room. "I thought I heard him coughing."

"He’s got a fever," Minute explained, tucking the blanket around Wemmbu’s chin. "A bad one. Egg, can you go to the brewing stand? We need some weakness-cleansing pots and maybe some regeneration just to soothe the aches. And bring some water."

Egg nodded solemnly, his pacifist nature manifesting in his immediate desire to help. "I’ll get the honey and lemon, too. It’s better for the throat than just potions."

As Egg hurried away, Wemmbu let out another ragged sigh, sinking deeper into the couch. The bravado was gone, replaced by a tired, shivering boy who just wanted the world to stop spinning. He looked up at Minute, who was kneeling by the side of the couch, checking his pulse with a practiced hand.

"Sorry," Wemmbu muttered, his voice barely audible over the crackle of the fire. "Ruined the day off."

Minute paused, looking Wemmbu straight in the eyes. There was no judgment there, only the fierce, quiet loyalty that had made Minute a legend on the server.

"You didn't ruin anything," Minute said firmly. "Thanks for telling me, Wemmbu. And thanks for trusting me."

Wemmbu blinked, a bit surprised by the weight of the words. In a world like the Unstable SMP, trust was the rarest resource of all. People betrayed each other for a handful of diamonds or a laugh. But here, in this quiet base, surrounded by the people who had become his makeshift family, it felt different.

"I didn't really have a choice," Wemmbu tried to joke, though it lacked its usual bite. "My legs were turning into jelly."

"Even so," Minute replied, reaching out to ruffle Wemmbu’s messy hair. "You usually try to hide it until you pass out in a hole somewhere. I'm glad you came to me instead."

Egg returned a moment later, carrying a tray with a steaming mug and a glass of cool water. He set it down on the low table with a soft clink.

"Here," Egg said, his voice light and encouraging. "Drink the water first, then the tea. I put extra honey in it. It should help with the scratchiness."

Wemmbu reached out a shaking hand, but Minute was already there, steadying the glass as Wemmbu took a few sips. The cold water felt like heaven against his parched throat.

"Thanks, Egg," Wemmbu said, leaning back and closing his eyes.

"We’re going to stay right here," Minute said, settling into the armchair next to the couch. He picked up a whetstone and a dull iron dagger, the rhythmic shink-shink of the stone providing a soothing background noise. "Egg’s going to keep an eye on the perimeter, and I’m staying here. Nobody’s getting through that door today."

The sense of security in the room was palpable. Minute was a man who had defended an entire dimension; a common flu didn't stand a chance against his vigilance.

Egg sat on the floor at the foot of the couch, opening one of his books but keeping his eyes mostly on Wemmbu. "You know, wars can only produce more wars, Wemmbu. But a fever? A fever just produces a very grumpy Wemmbu who has to sit still for once."

Wemmbu gave a weak, tired snort. "Shut up, Egg. I’m not grumpy."

"You’re literally pouting," Egg pointed out with a small smile.

"I am not pouting. I am... strategically resting my facial muscles."

Minute chuckled, the sound deep and resonant. "Whatever you want to call it, just keep resting. We’ve got you."

The morning wore on in a haze of warmth and quiet conversation. Every time Wemmbu stirred or coughed, Minute was there with a cool cloth or a fresh drink. Egg occasionally read snippets from his book aloud—mostly peaceful histories or philosophical musings that he knew Wemmbu would usually mock, but today, they served as a gentle lullaby.

For Wemmbu, the fear that usually hummed in the back of his mind—the need to be the strongest, the fastest, the most dangerous—slowly faded. He didn't need to be a warrior today. He didn't even need to be the comic relief. He just had to be himself.

As the fever began to break, leaving him exhausted but no longer shivering, Wemmbu looked at the two of them. Minute, the guardian who chose morality over power, and Egg, the pacifist who chose kindness over conflict. They were the most unlikely trio on the server, yet here they were.

"Hey, Minute?" Wemmbu asked, his voice sounding a little more like himself.

Minute looked up from his work, his sharp eyes softening. "Yeah?"

"Don't tell anyone I was... you know. Soft."

Minute smiled, a genuine, warm expression that reached his eyes. "Your secret is safe with us, Wemmbu. But remember, there’s nothing weak about needing your team."

Egg looked up from his book, nodding in agreement. "Even the sharpest sword needs to be put back in the scabbard sometimes, Wemm. Otherwise, it just gets brittle."

Wemmbu rolled his eyes, but he couldn't hide the small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "That was the most 'Egg' thing you’ve ever said."

"I try," Egg chirped.

Wemmbu settled back into the cushions, the weight of the blanket feeling less like a burden and more like a shield. The Unstable SMP was a dangerous place, full of betrayal and chaos, but inside these walls, under Minute’s watchful eye and Egg’s quiet care, he was safe.

He closed his eyes, the sound of the crackling fire and the rhythmic scrape of the whetstone lulling him into a deep, healing sleep. For the first time in a long time, he didn't feel the need to watch his back. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Minute and Egg were already doing it for him.

Minute watched Wemmbu’s breathing even out, the tension finally leaving the younger man’s frame. He glanced at Egg, who offered a small, knowing nod.

"He's going to be okay," Egg whispered.

"He is," Minute agreed, leaning back in his chair. He looked toward the door, his hand resting instinctively near his sword, though his posture remained relaxed. "He’s got us."

And in the quiet of the morning, as the sun climbed higher over the obsidian peaks, the three of them remained—a fortress of their own making, held together not by blocks or enchantments, but by the simple, unwavering strength of a family.