Don’t come to my house

The morning sun usually signaled the start of a productive day for the residents of the Unstable SMP, but for Flame, the light felt unusually intrusive. He was already geared up, his armor polished and his sword strapped to his hip. He had planned to spend the day at Lomedy’s farm, perhaps helping with the irrigation or simply enjoying the rare peace that seemed to radiate from the golden wheat fields.

His communicator chimed in his pocket, a sharp, digital trill that broke the silence of his base. Flame pulled it out, expecting a message about a trade or a challenge. Instead, his brow furrowed as he read the garbled text.

‘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 thumb hovering over the glass. The typos were the first red flag. Lomedy was usually meticulous, his messages as steady and calm as his personality. For him to struggle with basic spelling meant his focus was completely gone.

"Don't come over?" Flame muttered to the empty room, his voice a low growl of concern. "Like hell I won't."

He didn't care about viruses or fevers. He was the Immortal Demon, a man who had stared down the most terrifying mobs and players alike without blinking. A common cold wasn't going to bring him down, but it clearly had Lomedy in its grip. Without a second thought, Flame grabbed his cloak and headed for the door, his pace brisk and determined.

The walk to the farm was shorter than usual, or perhaps it just felt that way because Flame was moving with a sense of urgency he usually reserved for the battlefield. When he reached the perimeter of the farm, the silence was unsettling. Usually, he could hear the rhythmic thwack of a hoe hitting the earth or the gentle splashing of water. Today, the fields were still, the crops swaying listlessly in the breeze.

Flame entered the farmhouse without knocking, his boots clicking against the wooden floorboards. "Loms? You here?"

Silence greeted him. The air in the house felt heavy and stagnant. Flame moved toward the stairs, his concern deepening with every quiet second. He reached the bedroom door and gave a sharp, yet uncharacteristically soft, knock.

"Lomedy? I’m coming in."

He pushed the door open. The room was dim, the curtains drawn tight to block out the morning light. On the bed, a massive mound of blankets shifted slightly. Lomedy was buried deep beneath layers of wool and linen, his form curled into a tight ball. Even from the doorway, Flame could hear the ragged, shallow breathing and the occasional violent shiver that racked the other man’s frame.

Flame stepped closer, his heavy footsteps muffled by the rug. As he reached the bedside, Lomedy’s eyes fluttered open. They were glassy and bloodshot, struggling to focus on the figure standing over him.

"Flame?" Lomedy’s voice was a mere shadow of itself, hoarse and cracked. He broke into a fit of wet, heavy coughing that seemed to drain what little energy he had left. "I-I told you to not come... I’m sick."

Flame looked down at him, his expression hidden behind his blindfold, yet the tension in his jaw and the downward turn of his lips betrayed his worry. He reached out, his gloved hand resting gently on Lomedy’s forehead. He recoiled slightly at the heat radiating from the skin.

"That gives me more reasons to come," Flame said, his voice dropping an octave in concern. "Loms, what the hell? You’re burning up!"

Lomedy let out a weak, shaky breath, his head lolling back against the pillow. "Flameeee... you’re going to get sick. I’m contagious. Go back to the base."

"I told you, I don't care about getting sick, and I won't," Flame replied firmly, tucking a loose corner of the blanket around Lomedy’s shoulder. "I’m the Immortal Demon, remember? A little fever isn't going to touch me. But you... you sound rough. Do you need anything?"

Lomedy closed his eyes again, another shiver running through him. "Painkillers... and cough drops, please." He punctuated the request with another round of coughing that left him breathless.

Flame sighed, a sound of frustrated affection. "Okay, bro. I’ll be right back. Don't move."

"Not like I can," Lomedy murmured, but Flame was already out the door.

Flame moved through the house with a new purpose. He wasn't a doctor, and he certainly wasn't a farmer, but he knew how to survive. He remembered the times he had been pushed to his limits, his body broken and his mind hazy. More importantly, he remembered his older brother, Mane.

Years ago, before the SMP, before the titles and the legends, Mane had been the one to look after Flame. He remembered the feeling of a cool cloth on his head when he was delirious with fever, the way Mane would force him to drink bitter tonics that eventually made the pain go away. He hadn't thought about those moments in a long time, but as he rummaged through Lomedy’s storage chests, the memories came flooding back with crystalline clarity.

He found the medicine chest and pulled out a bottle of painkillers and a tin of herbal cough drops. He also grabbed a lingering potion of regeneration—a mild one, just enough to help the body fight off the infection without the overwhelming rush of a standard healing pot.

Returning to the kitchen, he filled a glass with cool water and grabbed a clean washcloth, soaking it in a basin of cold water. He moved back upstairs, his movements efficient and quiet.

Lomedy hadn't moved an inch. Flame sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight.

"Alright, Loms. Sit up a bit. You need to take these."

With a groan, Lomedy tried to push himself up, but his arms gave way beneath him. Flame caught him, his strong hands steadying the farmer’s trembling shoulders. He propped Lomedy up against the headboard, piling the pillows behind him for support.

"Here," Flame said, handing him the pills and the glass of water.

Lomedy took them with shaking hands, his teeth chattering against the rim of the glass. Once he had swallowed the medicine, Flame took the glass back and set it on the nightstand. He then picked up the damp cloth, wrung it out, and carefully placed it across Lomedy’s forehead.

Lomedy let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief at the contact. "Thanks, Flame. You didn't have to do all this."

"Shut up," Flame said, though there was no heat in his words. "You’d do the same for me. Probably have done it, actually."

He reached for the regeneration potion, uncorking it with a soft pop. The sweet, magical scent filled the air. "Drink this. It’s not a full heal, but it’ll help your strength."

Lomedy took a small sip, the golden liquid bringing a faint bit of color back to his pale cheeks. He looked up at Flame, his gaze softening. "You're surprisingly good at this. Who taught you?"

Flame paused, his hand lingering near the edge of the blanket. "My brother. Mane. He used to do this for me when I was a kid. I was always getting into trouble, getting hurt or sick. He never complained. Just did what needed to be done."

Lomedy smiled weakly. "He sounds like a good man. You remind me of him sometimes, even if you try to act all tough and 'immortal'."

Flame scoffed, but he didn't pull away. He took a thermometer from the bedside table—a simple device Lomedy kept for his livestock that worked just as well on humans—and checked the farmer's temperature. It was still dangerously high, but the medicine was starting to take hold.

"You're still roasting," Flame noted, his voice low. "I'm going to stay here until the fever breaks. Don't even try to argue."

Lomedy didn't argue. He was already drifting back toward sleep, the exhaustion of the illness finally winning out over the discomfort. "Okay... thanks, Flame."

For the next several hours, Flame was a silent sentinel. He changed the cloth on Lomedy’s forehead every time it grew warm. He made sure the fire in the hearth downstairs was stoked to keep the house warm, but not stifling. He even went out to the farm for twenty minutes to feed the animals, moving with a begrudging efficiency that would have made Lomedy proud.

Whenever Lomedy stirred, Flame was there with water or a quiet word of encouragement. He watched his friend’s breathing level out, the violent shivers subsiding into a peaceful rest.

As the sun began to set, casting long, orange shadows across the bedroom, Lomedy finally woke up feeling more alert. He shifted under the blankets, finding Flame sitting in a wooden chair he had pulled up to the bed, sharpening his sword out of habit.

"Flame?" Lomedy whispered.

The Demon looked up instantly, the whetstone clicking against the steel one last time before he set it aside. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," Lomedy admitted, his voice still a bit raspy but much clearer than before. "The headache is mostly gone. I think the fever broke."

Flame reached out, checking Lomedy’s forehead with the back of his hand. It was cool and damp. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Yeah. You're not a furnace anymore. That's good."

Lomedy looked at his friend, truly seeing him. Flame looked tired, despite his claims of immortality. There was a softness in the way he adjusted the blankets, a gentleness that he usually kept hidden behind layers of bravado and armor.

"You really stayed the whole time," Lomedy said softly.

Flame shrugged, turning back to his sword to hide the slight flush of embarrassment. "I told you I would. Besides, someone had to make sure you didn't accidentally farm yourself into an early grave while you were delirious."

Lomedy chuckled, the sound turning into a small, harmless cough. "I appreciate it, Flame. Really. You're a good friend."

Flame stood up, sheathing his blade. "Yeah, yeah. Don't get mushy on me. You still look like a drowned rat. Get some more sleep. I’ll make some broth or something downstairs. And don't think you're going back to the fields tomorrow. You're on bed rest until I say otherwise."

Lomedy leaned back into the pillows, a genuine smile touching his lips. "Yes, doctor. I wouldn't dream of disobeying the Immortal Demon."

Flame rolled his eyes, but as he turned to leave the room, he felt a sense of satisfaction that no victory in combat could ever provide. He might be a warrior, a demon of the battlefield, but for his friends, he would always be the one to hold the line—whether that meant facing an army or just fighting off a fever.