Work Text:
Wemmbu stepped through the broken security entrance to the End, shaking off the static tingle that always came with other dimensions travel. He moved up the staircase, eerily quiet except for the distant hum of the void below.
"Egg?" he called out, scanning the area. "Bro, you here?"
Instead of his best friend's voice, he heard a sound behind him, heavy wing beats. Minutetech descended from above, his dragon tail swishing behind him as he landed with practiced ease.
"Oh. It's you." Minute's voice was flat, unimpressed.
"Yeah, it's me. Where's Egg?"
Minute's eyes flicked to the side. "Not here right now."
Wemmbu frowned. Something was off. Minute shifted his weight, wings tucking closer to his back in a way that seemed almost... guilty. The dragon hybrid was usually unreadable, cold and nonchalant about everything, but right now he looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.
"Why do you look like that?" Wemmbu asked suspiciously.
"Like what?"
"Like you're hiding something."
Before Minute could answer, a violent coughing fit echoed from one of the End’s tunnels to the living space. The sound was harsh, wet, and absolutely miserable. Wemmbu's eyes widened as Minute grimaced, his tail doing that thing where it went rigid when he was caught doing something he didn't want to deal with.
"The hell is that?" Wemmbu started forward, but Minute moved to block him, one hand raised.
"Look, don't freak out—"
Wemmbu pushed past him, demon claws instinctively sliding out an inch before he retracted them. He saw a slumped over Flamefrags on the top step of the staircase leading down to the rooms below.
The blaze hybrid looked absolutely miserable. His usual fiery aura was dim, barely flickering like a candle about to go out. His skin had a grayish pallor that didn't belong on someone born from the Nether, all ashy and wrong. He was wrapped in what looked like Minute's spare cloak—a black one he kept for colder days—and he was shivering despite the fabric.
"You've gotta be kidding me." Wemmbu spun around to face Minute, his own demonic energy crackling slightly at his fingertips from sheer irritation. "Why is he here?"
Flame lifted his head weakly, eyes unfocused and glassy with fever. "Bro... everything's spinning..."
"He came through the portal about thirty seconds before you," Minute said, crossing his arms defensively. His wings twitched, another tell that he was uncomfortable. "Found him face-down on the floor. I thought he was dead for a second."
"So send him back!"
"To where? He said something about how he was stranded in a snow biome. Caught the flu or something." Minute's tail flicked with irritation. "He barely made it here. Could barely walk. I had to drag him from the portal."
Wemmbu stared at Flame, who had started coughing again, harsh and wet-sounding. Even his small flames sputtered pathetically with each cough, little sparks that died almost immediately in the End's strange atmosphere. His breathing was labored, wheezing between the coughs.
"Why is that my problem?" Wemmbu demanded, though even as he said it, he could feel his conviction wavering. Flame looked bad. Like, really bad.
"Because Egg is probably in the bathroom or something, I can’t find him," Minute said, and Wemmbu noticed he was already shifting his weight, getting ready to bolt. "And I need to go check the storage room. We're—"
"The storage room," Wemmbu interrupted flatly. "Right now. While there's a dying blaze hybrid on your doorstep."
"He's not dying. He's just sick." Minute was already spreading his wings. "And yes, right now. The storage is important."
"Minute—"
"You know what medicine he needs, yes?” Minute lifted off the ground, putting distance between them before Wemmbu could grab him. "Just keep him alive until Egg gets back. Shouldn't be hard."
"I am not a nurse!"
"Thanks, Wemmbu. I owe you one." There was the slightest warmth in Minute's voice, the kind he only used for Wemmbu and Egg. That tiny bit of affection that showed he actually did care, even if he'd never admit it outright.
"Don't you DARE leave me with him—"
But Minute was already gone, disappearing, rushing off.
Wemmbu stood there, hands clenched into fists, watching the dragon hybrid vanish. His claws slid out fully this time, a physical manifestation of his irritation.
Wemmbu turned to look at his rival, who was now listing to one side like a ship taking on water. "Don't you dare pass out."
"Not making promises, bro."
Flame's eyes rolled back slightly, and Wemmbu lunged forward on instinct, catching him before he hit the ground. The blaze hybrid was burning up—literally. Even sick, his body temperature was sweltering, hot enough that Wemmbu felt it through his clothes.
Flame mumbled something deliriously, then immediately went into another coughing fit that shook his whole frame. His body convulsed with it, and Wemmbu had to brace himself to keep them both from toppling over the staircase.
Wemmbu sighed, retracting his claws so he wouldn't accidentally slice his enemy open. This was going to be a long day. A very, very long day.
"Come on. Let's get you inside at least."
This sucks, Flame thought miserably. This sucks so much.
"Come on. Let's get you inside at least."
Flame felt himself being moved. Half-dragged, half-carried. He tried to help, tried to make his legs work, but they felt like jelly. Everything felt like jelly. Or maybe like he was moving through water. Or both.
"Talking's hard, bro," he heard himself mumble at some point. "Everything hurts."
Wemmbu said something in response, but Flame's brain couldn't quite process it. The world was a blur, and Wemmbu's face hovering in and out of focus, looking annoyed but also... concerned? No, that couldn't be right. Wemmbu didn't get concerned about him.
Flame's brain latched onto random details. The way Wemmbu's claws had retracted. The set of Wemmbu's jaw, tight with frustration. The careful way he was supporting Flame's weight despite clearly not wanting to be doing this.
He could just leave me, Flame thought distantly. We're rivals. He has every reason to just... let me deal with this myself.
But he wasn't leaving. He was muttering under his breath, irritated and grumpy, but he was helping.
Flame's sense of time and space was completely shot. A door opened. Interior. Darker.
"Alright, come on." Wemmbu's voice filtered through the fog. "Try to work with me here."
"Am working with you, bro," Flame protested weakly. Had he said that out loud? He wasn't sure anymore. "My legs just don't... don't wanna go."
His legs really didn't want to cooperate. They felt distant, like they belonged to someone else. Everything felt distant actually, like he was piloting his body from very far away.
Then he was falling—no, being dropped. He hit something soft. A bed. Flame immediately curled into a ball, trying to trap any warmth he could find, even though he was burning up. The contradiction didn't make sense, but nothing made sense right now.
"Cold," he muttered into whatever he was lying on. Pillow? Mattress? Both? "Why's it so cold?"
"It's not cold. You have a fever." Wemmbu's voice came from somewhere above him. "Stay there. Don't move."
"Wasn't planning on going anywhere, dude."
That was true. Flame couldn't have moved if he wanted to. His body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, pinned to the bed by exhaustion and illness. His flames—the ones that were usually a constant presence, flickering warm and steady beneath his skin—were barely embers now.
Am I dying? The thought floated through his head with surprising calm. Is this what dying feels like?
No. No, this was just the flu.
Flame heard Wemmbu moving around, the sound of a chest opening. Footsteps. More muttering. He sounded stressed, which was weird. Wemmbu didn't get stressed. Wemmbu was always calm and collected and irritatingly competent at everything.
Time did something weird. Skipped forward? Backward? Flame couldn't tell. He drifted in and out, consciousness slipping like water through his fingers.
At some point, he heard Wemmbu's voice again, but different. Talking to someone else? Flame couldn't make out the words. Probably Eggchan.
He dozed off again, or maybe passed out—he really couldn't tell the difference anymore. When he came back to awareness, Wemmbu was standing over him, looking simultaneously annoyed and concerned.
"Hey." A foot nudged the bed. "Don't die on me."
Die. Right. Flame forced his eyes open, squinting up at Wemmbu's blurry form. "Wasn't gonna."
"You went quiet."
"Talking's hard, bro." It really was. Every word felt like it took enormous effort, dragging itself up from his chest through a throat that felt like sandpaper. "Everything hurts."
There was a pause. Wemmbu's expression shifted into something Flame couldn't quite read through his fever haze. Not quite sympathy, but not the usual irritation either.
"Egg's coming with medicine," Wemmbu said finally, pulling up a chair. He sat down, keeping some distance but staying close. "Try not to get worse before he gets here."
"No promises." Flame coughed again, turning his face into the pillow to muffle it. When he turned back, his eyes were watering from the force of it. "This sucks, dude."
"Yeah, well. Maybe don't go wandering into snow biomes when you're literally made of fire."
Flame's thoughts were already scattering again, pulled apart by exhaustion. His eyes drifted closed. The question floated away, unanswered.
He was so tired.
Just gonna rest for a minute, he thought. Just a minute...
Time was doing that weird thing again.
Flame surfaced briefly to the sound of voices—multiple voices this time. Wemmbu and someone else. Egg? Yeah, that was Egg's voice. Calmer.
"—in the spare room. He's asleep. Or unconscious. Hard to tell."
Flame wanted to protest that he wasn't unconscious, just resting, but his mouth wouldn't cooperate. His brain sent the signal, but somewhere between thought and action, it got lost.
Footsteps. Getting closer. A hand on his forehead—cooler than his skin, which meant the fever was still bad.
"He's burning up," Egg's voice, quiet and worried. "This is bad, Wemmbu."
I'm fine, Flame wanted to say. But he wasn't fine. He felt like he was being cooked from the inside out while simultaneously freezing to death. His body couldn't figure out what it wanted to be.
More talking. Words he couldn't quite parse. Something about medicine and fever and fluids. Medical terms that slid right past his comprehension.
Then someone was shaking his shoulder. Gently, but insistently.
"Flame," Egg's voice, closer now. "Flame, you need to wake up for a minute."
No, Flame thought stubbornly. Sleeping.
"Come on, you need to take medicine."
Don't wanna.
"I don't care what you want." That was Wemmbu, sharper and more commanding. "Sit up and take the medicine or I'll hold you down and pour it down your throat myself."
That got through. Flame cracked his eyes open, managing to focus somewhat on Wemmbu's face. He looked serious. Dead serious. And knowing Wemmbu, he'd absolutely follow through on that threat.
"Bro—“ Flame mumbled.
"I'm not in the mood. Sit up."
With Egg's help—and a lot of effort that left Flame feeling even more exhausted—he managed to prop himself up against the wall. The world spun dangerously. He gripped the edge of the bed, trying to anchor himself.
Something was pressed into his hands. A bottle. Flame blinked at it, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
"Drink all of this," Egg instructed. "I know it tastes bad, but you need to get it down."
Flame brought the bottle closer, sniffing it cautiously. The smell hit him like a physical thing—sharp and chemical and absolutely vile.
"Dude, this smells like death."
"Probably tastes like it too," Wemmbu said, completely unhelpful. "Drink it anyway."
Flame glared at him, or tried to. He wasn't sure if his face was actually making the expression or if it just felt like it was. He brought the bottle to his lips and took a sip.
Immediately, he gagged. It was worse than death. It was like someone had distilled every terrible taste in the world and concentrated it into liquid form.
"Oh god, that's awful."
"Keep drinking," Egg encouraged, his voice gentle but firm.
Flame took another sip, his face scrunching up in disgust. This was torture. Actual torture. He got about halfway through the bottle before his stomach revolted, threatening to send everything back up.
"Can't. Gonna be sick."
"You have to finish it," Egg said. "The full dose or it won't work properly."
"Egg, seriously, I can't—"
Then Wemmbu was moving. The bottle was plucked from Flame's weak grip, and before he could process what was happening, a hand was on the back of his head and the rest of the medicine was being poured into his mouth.
Flame made a strangled noise of protest, but the liquid was already going down his throat. He had no choice but to swallow or choke, and choking seemed like the worse option. The medicine burned its way down, coating his mouth and throat with that horrible chemical taste.
When the bottle was empty, Wemmbu let go and stepped back.
Flame coughed, sputtering, glaring at Wemmbu with as much venom as he could muster through. "Dude! What the hell!"
"You needed to take it. You took it. You're welcome."
"I could've choked!"
"But you didn't." Wemmbu set the empty bottle aside. "Stop being dramatic."
Flame wanted to argue, wanted to protest, but he was too tired and too miserable. He slumped back against the wall, feeling even worse than before if that was possible. The medicine sat heavy in his stomach, that awful taste lingering on his tongue.
"I hate you, bro."
"The feeling's mutual. Now lie down before you fall over."
Egg helped him lie back down, his touch apologetic. Blankets were pulled up, tucked around him even though Flame was still sweating.
"The medicine should start working in about twenty minutes. Your fever should start to come down, and the cough should ease up."
"Great," Flame mumbled into the pillow, the word muffled. "Still tastes like death."
"That's the medicine working," Egg said with a small smile Flame couldn't see but could hear in his voice. "Try to rest. We'll be right outside if you need anything."
Flame didn't respond. He was already drifting again, pulled down by exhaustion. He heard footsteps retreating, the door closing most of the way but not completely. Voices from the other room, muffled and indistinct.
For the next 5 minutes, he bitterly cursed and prayed for Wemmbu to fall dead or get stuck by lightning.
Flame curled into the blankets, shivering despite the fever heat radiating from his skin. His thoughts were scattered, bouncing around like endermen teleporting randomly. But one kept coming back, persistent.
Why is he helping me?
They weren't friends. They were barely civil to each other most days. Sure, they'd fought alongside each other when circumstances demanded it, had each other's backs when it mattered for the server or for mutual survival. But this was different. This was personal. Intimate, almost.
Wemmbu was taking care of him. Actually taking care of him, not just keeping him alive out of obligation.
Maybe it is just obligation, Flame's fevered brain suggested. Minute dumped me here. What's he supposed to do, let me die?
But that didn't feel right either. There had been something in Wemmbu's expression when he'd grabbed the bottle, when he'd made sure Flame took all the medicine. Not just irritation or duty.
Concern, maybe?
I'm delirious, Flame decided. Fever's making me imagine things.
He let himself drift off again, too tired to think anymore. Too tired to do anything but exist in this state of miserable half-consciousness.
Time continued its weird skipping pattern. Flame would surface occasionally, aware of sounds or movement, then sink back down into fevered sleep.
At one point, he was vaguely aware of being alone. No voices from the other room. Just the distant hum of the End and his own labored breathing.
Later—minutes? hours?—he felt the medicine starting to work. The fever didn't break, but it eased slightly. The horrible pressure in his head lessened just enough that he could think a bit more clearly. The cough that had been tearing his chest apart settled into something more manageable.
Flame opened his eyes, staring at the End stone ceiling. The room was dim, lit only by the ambient glow that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere in the End.
His body still felt like it had been put through a meat grinder, but it was... bearable now. Less like he was actively dying and more like he just wanted to die.
Progress, he supposed.
Hypothermia. For a blaze hybrid. The irony would have been funny if it wasn't so pathetic.
Flame heard footsteps approaching. He quickly closed his eyes, feigning sleep. He wasn't sure why—didn't want to deal with conversation maybe. Or didn't want Wemmbu to know he'd been thinking about him.
The footsteps stopped in the doorway. Flame kept his breathing even, slow. Playing unconscious.
"Still alive, at least," Wemmbu muttered, so quiet Flame almost didn't hear it.
There was a long pause. Flame could feel Wemmbu's presence in the doorway, watching. It should have been uncomfortable, being watched while pretending to sleep. But somehow it wasn't.
It felt... safe.
That thought jolted through Flame like electricity. Safe? With Wemmbu? His rival?
But it was true. Lying here, sick and vulnerable, being watched over by someone who had every reason to abandon him—it felt safe.
The footsteps retreated. Flame heard Wemmbu settling back into the main room, the quiet sounds of him moving around.
He's staying, Flame realized. He could leave. Egg could come back and take over. But he's staying.
The thought sat heavy in Flame's chest, mixing with the congestion already there. He didn't know what to do with it, this realization that Wemmbu was actually, genuinely taking care of him.
We're going to have to talk about this, Flame thought. When I'm not dying. We're going to have to actually talk.
But not now.