Don’t come to my house

The afternoon sun hung low over the horizon, casting long, amber shadows across the rolling plains of the Unstable SMP. Usually, this was the time of day when FlameFrags felt most at peace—or at least, as at peace as a man known as the "Immortal Demon" could be. He was currently trekking across the grassy biome, his heavy boots crushing wildflowers beneath his heels. He had his netherite sword strapped to his hip, the purple glint of enchantments shimmering in the dying light. He didn’t need the sword for the trip to Lomedy’s, but his pride dictated he never leave home without the tools that defined his reputation.

His communicator buzzed against his wrist. Flame stopped, pulling up the interface with a practiced flick of his hand. He expected a message from Lomedy asking if he could bring some extra bone meal or perhaps just a greeting welcoming him to the farm. Instead, the text on the screen was a jumbled mess of typos that sent a jolt of genuine concern through Flame’s chest.

‘flme Im feelin under the we4ther don cme to my house I don’t wan’ u to gt sick’

Flame stared at the screen, his brow furrowing beneath the black blindfold that covered his eyes. He didn’t need physical sight to sense the weakness radiating from those words. Lomedy was the most meticulous person he knew; if he was misspelling words that badly, something was seriously wrong.

"Don't come to my house?" Flame muttered to the empty air, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "Like hell I won't."

He adjusted the strap of his armor. The idea of a virus or a common cold was laughable to him. He was the Immortal Demon. He had stared down Withers without blinking and survived falls that would have shattered the bones of any lesser player. He had endured hours of grueling combat where his blood stained the dirt, and he had always come out on top. A fever wasn't going to take him down.

He broke into a sprint, his pace fueled by a rare spark of anxiety. He usually prioritized the thrill of the hunt or the glory of a duel, but Lomedy was different. Lomedy was the one who patched his armor after a particularly brutal raid. Lomedy was the one who listened to his boasts about skill and honor without rolling his eyes, offering a warm meal and a quiet place to rest instead of a challenge.

As the familiar silhouette of Lomedy’s farmhouse came into view, Flame noticed the silence. Usually, the sound of a hoe tilling the earth or the rhythmic splashing of water in the irrigation channels filled the air. Today, the wheat swayed idly in the breeze, unattended. The cows lowed in their pens, sounding hungry.

Flame didn't bother knocking on the front door. He burst inside, the wooden frame rattling. "Loms? You in here?"

Silence greeted him, save for the ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner. The house smelled of dried herbs and soil—Lomedy’s signature scent—but there was an underlying heaviness to the air, the scent of stagnant heat.

Flame climbed the stairs two at a time, his cape billowing behind him. He reached the bedroom door and paused, his hand hovering over the handle. For a second, his pride warred with his worry. He wasn't good at the soft stuff. He was a warrior, a demon of the battlefield. What was he supposed to do if Lomedy was actually hurting?

He pushed the door open softly.

The room was dim, the curtains drawn tight against the afternoon light. In the center of the room, a large mound of blankets occupied the bed. Lomedy was barely visible, curled into a tight ball, his frame shivering so violently that the entire bed seemed to vibrate.

Flame took a few steps forward, his heavy footsteps muffled by the rug. He reached the bedside and looked down. Lomedy’s hair was matted with sweat, and his skin, usually sun-kissed from hours in the fields, was a sickly, pale grey flushed with unnatural heat.

Lomedy’s eyes fluttered open, squinting through the gloom. He looked disoriented, his gaze wandering before finally settling on the dark, imposing figure standing over him.

"Flame?" he whispered, his voice cracking. He broke into a fit of wet, heavy coughing that shook his entire body. "I-I told you to not come... I'm sick."

Flame reached out, his gloved hand moving with surprising gentleness as he pressed his palm against Lomedy’s forehead. Even through the leather, the heat was alarming. It felt like touching a furnace.

"That gives me more reasons to come," Flame said, his voice dropping the condescending edge he usually reserved for everyone else. "Loms, what the hell? You’re burning up!"

Lomedy let out a weak, shaky breath, trying to pull the blankets higher around his chin. "Flameee... you’re going to get sick. I’m contagious. Go back to your base. You have... you have things to do. Fights to win."

Flame scoffed, though there was no heat in it. "I told you, I don't care about getting sick. And I won't. I'm the Immortal Demon, remember? A little fever isn't going to bypass my constitution."

He looked around the room, his tactical mind switching from combat mode to caretaking. The water pitcher on the nightstand was bone dry.

"I'm going to get you some water because you sound horrible," Flame said, turning toward the door. "Do you need anything else? Food? More blankets? I can go kill something and make a broth."

"No killing," Lomedy murmured, a ghost of his usual pacifist self flickering in his eyes. "Just... water is fine. Thank you, Flame."

Flame disappeared down the stairs, his mind racing. He felt out of his depth. Give him a sword and a thousand zombies, and he’d know exactly what to do. Give him a friend with a fever, and he felt like a novice who had just picked up his first wooden pickaxe.

He filled a clean glass with cool water from the kitchen pump and grabbed a clean cloth, soaking it in the basin. He returned to the bedroom, finding Lomedy had drifted into a fitful doze.

"Hey. Drink this," Flame commanded softly.

He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under the weight of his armor. He placed a hand behind Lomedy’s neck, hoisting him up just enough to sip from the glass. Lomedy drank greedily, his hands shaking as he tried to help steady the cup.

Once the glass was empty, Flame laid him back down and placed the cool, damp cloth over his forehead. Lomedy let out a long sigh of relief, his eyes closing again.

"You're a terrible patient," Flame remarked, though he reached out to tuck the edge of a stray blanket back around Lomedy’s shoulder. "You should have messaged me hours ago. I could have been here sooner."

"Didn't want to... bother you," Lomedy whispered. "You were training. I know how much your reputation matters. Can't have the Immortal Demon... playing nursemaid."

Flame felt a pang of guilt. Was that how Lomedy saw him? Someone so obsessed with his own image that he couldn't be bothered with a friend in need? He tightened his grip on the empty glass.

"My reputation is built on strength, Loms," Flame said firmly. "And strength isn't just about how many people I can beat in a duel. It’s about taking care of what’s mine. You’re my friend. That means you’re under my protection. Even from a fever."

Lomedy managed a small, tired smile. "You're very dramatic, Flame."

"Shut up and sleep," Flame grumbled, though he didn't move from his spot on the bed.

For the next few hours, Flame stayed. He didn't leave to check his traps or to see if anyone was challenging his territory. He sat in the dim room, listening to the rhythm of Lomedy’s breathing. When the fever spiked and Lomedy started mumbling in his sleep—worried about the harvest, worried about the peace of the server—Flame was there to replace the cloth and offer more water.

At one point, Lomedy woke up in a shivering fit, his teeth chattering so loud it set Flame’s nerves on edge. Without thinking, Flame shed his heavy netherite chestplate, tossing the priceless armor carelessly onto the floor. He sat back against the headboard and pulled the shivering farmer closer, offering his own body heat to combat the chills.

"You're going to get sick," Lomedy muttered again, his head resting against Flame’s shoulder.

"Let it try," Flame replied, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "I'd like to see a virus try to take me down. It would be a dishonorable way to go, anyway. No Maces, no diseases. Just me."

Lomedy chuckled weakly, the sound turning into a soft hum of comfort. "You really hate Maces, don't you?"

"They're clumsy. No finesse. Just gravity doing the work for you," Flame said, glad to have something to rant about to keep Lomedy’s mind off the pain. "A true warrior uses his own skill, his own speed. Using a Mace is like... like using a cheat code. It’s beneath me."

"And taking care of a sick farmer? Is that beneath you?"

Flame paused. He looked down at Lomedy, who looked so small and fragile compared to the warriors Flame usually surrounded himself with. Lomedy represented everything Flame wasn't—patience, growth, peace. And yet, Flame realized he would rather be here, in this quiet, stuffy room, than anywhere else on the server.

"No," Flame said quietly. "This is a different kind of challenge. Endurance. Fortitude. I'm the best at those, remember?"

Lomedy didn't respond. He had finally fallen into a deeper, more peaceful sleep, his breathing evening out.

Flame stayed awake, watching the door as if expecting an invisible enemy to burst through. He was the Immortal Demon, the pride of the SMP, a man who lived for the clash of steel and the roar of the crowd. But as the moon rose over the farm, casting a silver light over the sleeping man beside him, Flame decided that maybe, just this once, he didn't need an audience to prove his worth.

He would stay until the fever broke. He would stay until Lomedy could walk back out to his fields and till the earth again. Because while Flame was immortal, he knew that his world would be a much darker, emptier place without the man who taught him that sometimes, the greatest strength was found in the quietest moments.

He leaned his head back against the wall, his hand resting protectively on Lomedy’s arm. The Immortal Demon was on guard, and for the first time in his life, he wasn't fighting for glory. He was fighting for a friend.