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There are very few things in the world that can sneak up on FlameFrags. This is only one of them because of how annoyingly unpredictable it is.
He feels it before he’s even fully awake, feels it without fully processing what it means for the rest of his day yet. In the lovely, fuzzy space between sleep and waking, Flame begins to register an ache.
The first place he notices is his wrists, which isn’t unusual. He can handle his wrists. Maybe he’ll have to wrap them up tightly in bandages, so stiff the gauze leaves red indentations in his skin and he can barely move his hands, but that’s a big maybe.
Whatever. Point is, the wrists can be dealt with.
The next thing is his shoulder, the right one. The very-inconveniently-sword-arm one. It’s currently at a ninety-degree angle from how he threw his arm up while asleep, and the more conscious Flame becomes the more pain the position is causing him. He tries to drag his arm down to his side. Hopefully, shifting his weight around will fix it, and he can roll out the discomfort with all the other symptoms of waking up.
Instead of fixing anything, movement makes it much, much worse. His shoulder, wrist, and now elbow as well scream in protest at the motion, forcing a pained whimper out of him before he fully registers what’s happening.
And that wakes Flame up.
He isn’t sure if it was the pain or the fear that someone might have noticed, but he’s awake now, and he immediately starts wishing he wasn’t. His eyes shoot open to find the bedroom quiet and still, warm and golden with rays of winter morning sun filtering through the curtains. Most importantly, Lomedy’s side of the bed is empty, which means no one was around to hear him.
Flame lets out a sigh as his head falls back against the pillow. He blinks, letting his eyes adjust to wakefulness as he tries to adjust himself to his body.
So, both his wrists, as well as the rest of his right arm, are basically out of commission. Great. That’s just great. It’s not like farmwork or combat require functioning fucking arms. Flame tells himself it’s fine, he’s pushed through worse, he can deal with some joint pain for the day and hope it’s better by tomorrow. Lomedy will notice, of course, but hopefully he’ll just chalk it up to Flame being sore from training or recovering from a fight.
Flame just has to get up first, and then he can get started on pretending everything’s fine.
He experimentally stretches his legs out beneath the covers, and that’s when he notices the rest of the problems.
His knees and his ankles. In both legs.
He winces and lets out a quiet, self-indulgent “Fuck.”
There’s no way Lomedy doesn’t comment on him avoiding using his arms and limping around the farm.
No, he can make this work, Flame tells himself. Maybe the pain will go away once he gets up and starts moving around. All he has to do is actually get up, which at the moment seems like an impossibly monumental task.
It’s with another embarrassingly pitiful sound that he finally pushes himself into a sitting position. His arm gives out once in the process, but he catches himself and manages not to collapse back onto the bed. See? He manages. He’s managing. He can manage to get through the day.
Flame takes a moment to steel himself as he swings his legs around and plants his feet on the soft rug beside the bed. This isn’t going to be fun, he knows, but if he stays in bed much longer Lomedy will definitely suspect something is up.
On the bedside table is his blindfold. He can at least do this, he thinks as he picks it up and begins to tie it around his head with shaking hands. He can cover his eyes, shield them from his friend’s careful gaze which would definitely pick up on whatever winces and microexpressions he couldn’t stifle.
He blinks a few times once the blindfold is secure. He’s pretending it’s to give his vision a moment to adjust, but he’s actually just stalling. The bed behind him is so, so welcoming, so much more appealing than the day he has ahead of him. But he can’t put this off anymore. Flame lets out one more quiet sigh, pushes himself up–
–and immediately finds himself on the floor.
Distantly, he’s grateful to the plush rug for cushioning his fall as he lays there and tries his best to ignore the way his ankles and knees are screaming at him. He stares up at the late morning light filtering through the curtains, now dulled by the fabric around his eyes, lamenting the fact that he now has to stand up again. This is ridiculous, he’s the Immortal Demon, he should be more than capable of getting out of bed. But right now it seems as if every inch of his body is actively fighting against him, and Flame feels his stomach sink as he considers the possibility that it’s a fight he won’t be able to win.
“You okay?” calls a voice from the kitchen.
That spurs Flame into action, panic and embarrassment finally giving him the motivation he needs to ignore the pain and stand up. The last thing he needs is his teammate opening the door to see him sprawled out pathetically on the floor of their shared bedroom.
“Yeah, just stumbled a little. I was like, half-asleep or something,” Flame manages as he scrambles to his feet. It hurts, everywhere, but Flame knows pain and can deal with pain and has pushed through worse pain than this. He stumbles over to the door and opens it, which puts pressure on his wrist in a way that is not pleasant, but he doesn’t let it show on his face because he suddenly finds himself face-to-face with Lomedy.
“Oh, hey bro.”
“Hey,” Lomedy responds with an amused smile. “C’mon, I made breakfast.”
Breakfast is something Flame can definitely get behind. Right now, anything warm and comforting sounds incredible. He can smell it now, a comforting mix of coffee and oatmeal and frying sausages. The smell of breakfast and the familiar sight of the farmhouse kitchen soaked in sunlight make something clench in FlameFrags’ chest, and he finds whatever he was about to say lodged in his throat.
He swallows it back with an “Oh, nice.”
This is ridiculous. All it takes is his joints acting up for Flame to start feeling all sappy and domestic. There’s no conceivable world where the Immortal Demon gets emotional over a comforting meal, but here he is, struck by emotion and now fighting the urge to just sway forward and collapse against his best friend’s shoulder.
Physically forcing himself to walk normally, Flame walks over to the freshly-brewed pot of coffee and begins pouring two cups. Cream and sugar for him, just sugar for Lomedy. Meanwhile, Lomedy is serving the oatmeal, and when they’re both done they trade one bowl for one mug so they both end up with one of each. There’s fried eggs, chili crisps, and scallions for Flame to add to his oatmeal, while Lomedy takes his with fruit and honey. It’s nice, relaxing even, if Flame ignores the way every joint in his body protests even the smallest movement or weight to support. Who would have thought that dishing up breakfast could be so painful?
His wrists are shaking as he carries the food to his seat, and he all but collapses into the chair when he finally makes it over. Maybe he should have wrapped his wrists before coming out, just to give them the extra support.
…No, actually. Lomedy would have definitely questioned it if Flame came out wearing his blindfold and wrist wraps while still in pajamas.
He wraps his hands around his mug and sits there for a moment, not drinking it, letting the warmth seep through his skin and soothe the aching beneath. It’s only once Lomedy sits down beside him that he carefully brings it to his lips and takes a sip.
They eat the way they usually do, with Lomedy talking idly about his plans for the day–tending to the animals, maybe making a soup with the leftover fall pumpkins–and Flame throwing around new ideas for training he’d like to try. Not that he’d be getting any training in today, but a guy can pretend.
It hits him in that moment that he’s thinking of this as their “usual.” Huh. When did that happen? When did Flame start considering that this, golden sunshine and easy breakfasts and a warm farmhouse with stupid soft rugs, was to be expected out of his day? Suddenly, he’s getting dangerously close to all those sentimental feelings from earlier, which is seriously not what he needs right now. Getting through breakfast normally has already been enough of a challenge.
Except now it’s in his head, and now Flame can’t stop thinking about it. He’s come to expect this, even grown to love the simple day-to-day routine of life on the farm. Training, farmwork, dealing with bandits and the occasional chungies that just want a fight. Simple. Easy.
Flame had never really put much thought into the future. Sure, he had his goals, there was always something to strive for or work towards. He liked that, and he’d gotten far with it. He’d earned respect, earned the title of Combat Master, and he wasn’t going to stop there. No, FlameFrags would keep going until there was nothing above him. And then…
To be honest, he’d never put much thought into the and then? of it all. Now though, sitting at his best friend’s table with thoughts of domesticity and routine running through his mind is causing him to consider options that had never seemed possible before. Realistically, he knows he can’t fight forever. That’s just how life inevitably goes. But he’s never thought about what he’ll do when that day comes. If he’s being honest with himself, he’s deliberately tried not to think about it. What would he even do? Retire like Itz? Start training younger players?
The thought forms hesitantly in Flame’s mind, almost like he’s resisting the idea as it occurs. He could retire to the farm, spend the rest of his time on the server helping Lomedy tend to crops and animals, and have a lifetime of mornings like this.
Something in his chest seizes at the thought. As wonderful of a retirement plan as it is, Flame doesn’t want a retirement plan. He loves combat, it’s what he’s dedicated his life to, and he doesn’t want to even think about having to give it up someday. Besides, who is he if not the Immortal Demon?
Whatever. He’ll cross that bridge when he’s forced onto it. It’s a long ways off anyways, so he doesn’t have to think about it.
Distantly, he realizes that he hasn’t been paying attention to the conversation, and it’s since lulled to a comfortable silence. At least, that’s how he interprets it until Lomedy sets down his spoon and says, “Okay, are you gonna tell me what’s up?”
Flame continues what he believes to be very nonchalant and normal-looking eating motions. “What? Nothing’s up.”
Lomedy is clearly unconvinced. “You got quiet all of a sudden. Plus you’ve been, like, moving weird all morning.”
Shit.
“I mean, I’m like, a little sore from training I guess.” Maybe it would have been more convincing if he hadn’t needed to stop eating for a moment to hide the shaking, but it works. Miraculously, Lomedy doesn’t press further, even though he eyes him with suspicion.
Desperate to avoid further interrogation, Flame quickly gathers up his dishes. He needs to get away from this conversation before his teammate gets any ideas. He’s always been able to see right through him, and Flame isn’t quite sure how he feels about that. On one hand, it’s nice to be seen and understood and all that, but on the other hand he doesn’t know if he wants someone to understand that much. Lomedy does this thing where he makes Flame feel vulnerable in ways that are very much not fitting of a warrior like him. He’s doing it again now and yeah, Flame needs to get out of here.
Unfortunately, his body has other ideas. In his haste to get up and get away from this line of conversation, he forgets to brace himself for the pain that immediately flares up when he stands. His ankles and knees are suddenly on fire, and he can’t force them to work. He hisses sharply as he sucks in a breath, knees giving out, and for the second time in a single morning Flame finds himself on the floor.
“Flame!”
Lomedy is beside him in an instant. Worried hands come to rest on his shoulders, whether to soothe or support he doesn’t know yet. Flame tries to push himself up to his elbows and inadvertently makes another pained sound. Now Lomedy’s supporting him, pulling him up to a sitting position because his currently-useless arms can’t hold his own weight. “Bro, are you okay?”
Concern laces his voice. Flame hates it.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, Lomedy wasn’t supposed to see this. No one was supposed to see this. Worry is evident in his voice, on his face, in the gentle but firm grip he has on his shoulders. It makes Flame’s stomach churn and panic flutter in his chest. He’s fine, he’s not physically injured, but here Lomedy is fretting over him like he’s dying. Like he’s weak.
“Stop, bro, I’m fine,” Flame says with more force than he needs to, shaking Lomedy off. He tries not to feel bad, and instead focuses on cleaning up the dishes that scattered around him when he fell. It doesn’t work. Guilt twists in his stomach, but he doesn’t apologize. A lump forms in the back of his throat, and he can’t bring himself to say anything else.
Lomedy scowls, still crouched next to him. “Bullshit.” His voice carries an edge to it, but he’s not unkind. He’s not forceful like Flame is. He carefully pries the dishes from his hands and sets them on the table without even taking his eyes off him. Then those golden, kind, all-too-observant eyes drift down to Flame’s hands. Maybe it’s surprise that froze him, or maybe it was the guilt, because they’re held up as if he were still grasping the dishes. Delicately, so delicately it makes Flame want to scream, Lomedy takes his hands in his. In a much softer–and still very kind–voice, he says, “Flame, you’re shaking.”
And he is. Has been all morning, in fact. But now Lomedy’s noticed, and now he’ll have to explain it, and now he’ll need to deal with that stupid pitying look he gets around fragile things like dying plants and injured animals.
Flame opens his mouth only to realize he doesn’t know how to respond. It’s usually manageable, and he can usually hide it, which means no one has ever found out before. Not even Manepear, because Flame could never bring himself to admit this kind of weakness to his brother. No one has ever seen him this vulnerable or in this much pain. He’s completely at a loss on how to deal with it. The thought of explaining it all fills him with dread, and he’s suddenly hit with the childish impulse to run away and hide.
But what’s the alternative? He can barely stand right now. As much as every nerve in his body itches to find a cave or a hole in the ground where he can curl up until this passes, he knows there’s nothing he can do.
For a moment, it feels exactly the way it felt to peel himself off the floor of the crater left by one of Wemmbu’s stabshots. It feels the same way it did to press himself into an alcove and pray that he went unnoticed. It feels like Wemmbu’s obnoxious voice above him, arrogantly telling him that he will never be the strongest player ever again.
Defeat. It feels like defeat.
But then he raises his eyes to meet Lomedy’s gaze. And what he sees isn’t pity. Concern, maybe, but not pity. Lomedy isn’t looking at him like he’s weak, he’s looking at him with concern and love and that stubborn determination that makes him one of the few people who can actually challenge FlameFrags.
Before he realizes what’s happening, a sob tears itself from his throat. He sways forward, pressing his forehead into his friend’s collarbone.
“Oh,” is all Lomedy says, loosening his grip on one of Flame’s hands to bring it around to the back of his head. He holds him close with a steady, grounding grip. They stay like that for a moment. Finally, once Flame trusts himself to talk without falling apart completely, he takes a deep, shuddering breath.
“My joints do this thing,” he starts. His face is still pressed against Lomedy’s shoulder, so the words come out a little muffled. He doesn’t move. It’s easier this way, if he doesn’t have to look or be looked at. “They hurt sometimes. It’s usually not a big deal. Like, it’s not too bad and I can just ignore it, y’know?” He takes another shaking breath. “But uh, sometimes it gets, like, really bad. And I can’t ignore it.”
Lomedy brushes his thumb over the hand he’s still holding. “And it’s really bad today.” It’s not a question.
“Yeah.”
“Where exactly?”
Flame hesitates for a moment. He still dreads the prospect of exposing himself like this. Of laying out every weak point, especially while there’s so many. After a moment he says, “My wrists, ankles, and knees, mostly. Plus my right elbow and shoulder.”
The exasperated sigh is felt more than heard. “And what, you were just going to hide it all day?”
He doesn’t answer. It’s answer enough.
“Okay, here’s what’s gonna happen.” Lomedy’s voice has taken on that no-nonsense edge that says he won’t be argued with about this. “You’re going to go lie down. I have work to do, but as soon as I’m finished, I’m coming back in here and we’re talking about this.”
Finally, Flame pulls away. “We’re talking about it now,” he argues, aiming for composed and nonchalant and wincing internally when he realizes he just sounds petulant. “I mean, we can be done here, that’s pretty much all there is to it.”
“Nope, don’t even. We are not done.” Lomedy gets to his feet and immediately reaches down to help Flame up. “But, uh, the cows are hungry.”
Flame should really be embarrassed at how much he relies on Lomedy as he stands, but he can’t find it in him right now. “The cows,” he repeats drily.
“Yes, bro. Plus the chickens and the sheep.”
Despite himself, he smiles.
Mercifully, Lomedy doesn’t try to help him walk. He does, however, hover slightly behind him the entire way. Flame isn’t sure if it’s to make sure he doesn’t fall again or to make sure he actually gets in bed. Both are possible. He doesn’t bother hiding the effort it takes to walk this time. Golden eyes burn into him with every step, but neither of them say anything.
The blankets have gone cold in the time he’s been up, but it’s no big deal. He runs hot anyways. Once he’s under the covers and Lomedy deems that he’s not going to make a sudden bolt for it, he leaves. “Be right back,” he calls from the doorway, clearly hesitant, before vanishing.
Time passes. Flame isn’t sure how much or how quickly. He’s ditched the blindfold (load of good it did him anyways), and is now too preoccupied with laying very, very still, because every movement sends pain shooting through his limbs. Actually, not moving hurts too, but it hurts less. It’s a dull, throbbing ache instead of the searing spikes motion or weight causes.
What would he do, he wonders, if bandits came right now? If some random chungies showed up on their doorstep demanding a fight? He wouldn’t just lay here, obviously, but he wouldn’t be able to fight his best either. Would adrenaline take over and let him push through the fight? Would his own body cooperate long enough for him to protect himself, protect his best friend?
He doesn’t know. Panic sets over him, heavy and awful, as he thinks about it. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to fight like this, and the realization is enough to make him truly, deeply afraid. There’s guilt, too. If anything happened to Lomedy because he couldn’t even hold a fucking sword…
He doesn’t register exactly when Lomedy returns. At some point, his teammate leans into the frame of the open bedroom door, startling Flame out of his spiraling thoughts.
“What do you usually do?” Lomedy asks, unprompted. “Like, to manage it?”
Careful not to use his arms this time, Flame manages to sit up. “Pressure, mostly. And heat,” he replies. “We have bandages somewhere, I usually just wrap my wrists in some of those. Not much I can really do about the rest.”
Lomedy frowns. “No regen potions?”
“Doesn’t help.” He hesitates before adding, “This is, like, a me thing, you know? Not an injury.”
The frown deepens before Lomedy disappears again. Flame isn’t sure where he does, but he can hear him walking around, opening chests and cabinets, and rummaging through them. By the time he reappears his arms are full of supplies, most of which Flame can’t identify.
“Scoot over,” he commands, perching on the edge of the bed and dropping most of the items beside him. Flame obliges. “You said heat helps, but I’m guessing the fire thing doesn’t work?”
“Not if you don’t want the bedsheets to catch.”
Lomedy hums, and picks up a thin bag, lumpy and misshapen. Full of rice, by the sound of it. Flame stares at him in confusion. “For your shoulder,” he says as if that explains anything. Flame takes it anyway and is surprised to find it hot to the touch. He drapes it over his right shoulder, and immediate warmth and relief seep into his bones.
“Oh,” he says astutely, because he isn’t sure what else to say.
Beside him, Lomedy giggles. “See, bro? Sometimes it helps to not do the whole suffering in silence, lone-wolf thing.”
“Okay, so that’s just not at all what was happening–” His protest falls on deaf ears, but it’s okay because now they’re both laughing. Laughter is good. If Lomedy thought he was fragile, he wouldn’t be laughing at him.
Next, Lomedy picks up a jar and unscrews the lid. Handing it to Flame, he says, “Here, use some of this on your knees and ankles.” Inside is a cloudy balm, barely used by the looks of it. When Flame brings it to his face to examine it, he’s hit with the smell of something distinctly medicinal and minty.
Scooping out a small amount with his fingers, he carefully pushes the covers down and tugs up one of the legs of his sweatpants. As he rubs the balm over the spots where it hurts the most, Lomedy begins unfurling the roll of gauze and cutting it into long strips. By the time he moves on to the other leg, the spots where he’s applied the balm have started to prick with a subtle heat. Some kind of liniment then, he determines.
Once both legs are finished, Flame expects Lomedy to hand him a strip of gauze, and holds his hand out expectantly. Lomedy pushes it away. “Nope, I’m doing this part.”
Flame makes a face. “Bro, what?! I can do this,” he says, almost incredulously. His closest, most trusted ally blatantly ignores him and scoops out more of the liniment with his fingers. “Seriously, I’ve been patching myself up for years, bro–”
“Yeah, I know, I’ve seen your work. That’s kind of exactly why I’m not letting you do this.” Lomedy raises an eyebrow and expectantly holds out his hand that’s not currently covered in balm. After a moment (and a truly admirable final stand from Flame’s dwindling dignity and willpower), Flame acquiesces and drops one of his hands into Lomedy’s waiting palm.
Carefully turning his hand over, Lomedy begins rubbing the balm into his wrist. His hands are warm and soft, and Flame once again finds himself physically resisting the urge to melt into his touch. Here is someone who knows all of his greatest weaknesses, but instead of using them against him is easing them away with careful hands and the smell of mint.
Firm yet gentle fingers brush over his pulse point, over veins and tendons and the calloused skin of his palm. These hands have personally killed so, so many people, but here Lomedy is holding them without fear. Here Lomedy is calmly working a soothing balm into his skin, just to help ease his pain.
The balm successfully spread, Lomedy picks up one of the strips of gauze. “Tell me if it hurts?”
Flame nods wordlessly.
Unlike when he does it himself, the bandages don’t dig into his skin. Lomedy is deliberate in his movements, wrapping tightly but never tight to the point of pain. The Immortal Demon doesn’t know what to make of it.
Suddenly, it’s all too much again. The fear from earlier is back, weighing on his chest and he needs to address it or it might eat him alive. “I can’t protect you,” he blurts out guiltily. “Not like this. I can barely move. What kind of combat master can’t even get out of bed to fight?”
Lomedy pauses and looks at him. After a beat, he sighs and resumes wrapping. “I…see what the problems here are. Like, I’m not saying I understand what you’re going through or anything, but I know why this is hard for you.” There’s another beat where Flame can tell that he’s searching for the right words. “But like, I also know you feel like you have to push through it. Don’t worry about me, I have my mace.” He shoots him a look. As if he could ever stop worrying about his wonderful, quick-drop of a teammate. “I know you’re not going to stop fighting, even if that would definitely help with some of the pain issues. But I also know that you don’t have to make that kind of decision right now. Nothing is gonna be resolved today. Get better, get back to fighting, don’t push yourself until you collapse anymore. You can figure out the rest later.”
It’s not perfect, but it’s grounded and reassuring and exactly what he needs to hear right now. It’s also so much more than he deserves. Seriously, how did someone like FlameFrags wind up with someone like Lomedy as a teammate?
Eventually, Lomedy finishes the first hand and moves on to the other. His bandaging skills are much better than Flame’s, that’s for sure, and the liniment is already doing its job. The finished wrist is snug with the perfect amount of pressure to ease the aching and provide support. Unlike when Flame does it himself, the gauze doesn’t dig painfully into his skin. He didn’t know it was possible to achieve both those effects at once.
They’ve fallen into a comfortable silence. Flame hadn’t even realized that he’d forgotten to reply, but it seems to be fine. He’s not even sure how he would have responded, especially without something embarrassingly sappy accompanied by a generational aura loss.
…Actually, fuck that. It’s not like he has any aura left to lose at the moment. Besides, the pain has been making him sort of tired and loopy all day. Surely he’s allowed to indulge in a little physical affection right now.
Careful not to interfere with Lomedy’s work, Flame shifts until he’s able to rest his head on his shoulder without craning his neck. This is nice, he decides. Only because it’s Lomedy, and only because he’s not completely in his right state of mind. Obviously.
“The Immortal Demon, everyone,” Lomedy mutters.
“Shut up.” There’s no force to it this time.
In the quiet of a slow winter morning, Flame’s best friend in the entire world takes his blood-soaked hands in his and bandages them with the same care he shows to young sprouts.
Maybe Flame can’t fight forever. Maybe he’ll eventually have to consider a future that looks very different from the present he’s spent his whole life building. But for right now, he’s content to let warm yellow blankets, the smell of mint, and Lomedy’s comforting presence lure him back to sleep.