Archive of Our Own

It started with Mumbo, oddly enough. One minute he was fine and suddenly… everything was spinning and his legs were shaking, this painful prickling, burning sensation chasing itself up and down his arms and chest. He swayed, tipped, and Grian was suddenly yanking him upright before he took a head first dive off the bridge that connected their bases.

The only logical thing to do was take him to Stress, the server’s go to doctor. They found rashes all over his shoulders and arms when Grian brought him to the little infirmary they have set up near spawn. Though they didn’t look like any type of rash Stress had ever seen before, red lines and splotches criss crossing up and down, around like a complicated circuit. The irritated skin would sparkle, flashing faint little light. 

A hour later, Gem and Pearl were supporting Impulse between them both as they stumbled into the little clinic. The dwarf’s feet dragged on the ground, eyes half lidded as he dozed in and out of a feverish sleep. The two found their neighbor slumped over a shulker box, empty bowls and mushrooms all around him with a blank expression on his face. Just as Stress was pressing a cold cloth to his forehead, the chat suddenly flooded.

Rendog: dudes we got a problem at the perimeter

Rendog: doc’s got all these weird rashes up his arm and a really bad fever

Rendog: he’s not really responding to me 

Stressmonster: Him too?

JoeHills: You mean Doc isn’t the only one sick?

Stressmonster: I’ve got Mumbo and Impulse at the infirmary with the same symptoms

JoeHills: oh no

Rendog: what? What’s wrong with doc and the others?

ZombieCleo: What do you mean oh no?

GoodtimeswithScar: Is there a reason Tango and Zedaph are napping in the Shopping District?

Stress turned away from the chat as Mumbo suddenly shot straight up off the bed, face pale and slightly tinged green. She hurried to grab a trash can over as Grian rushed to get Mumbo to the edge of the bed. 

“Shhh,” Grian murmured, steady hand on Mumbo’s back, “We’ve got ya.”  

It takes a few minutes before Mumbo’s stomach settles enough. He coughs weakly into the bucket, but is able to swig a bottle of water around his mouth and spit it into the garbage. He slumps against Grian, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. Stress helps ease him back onto the pillow.

“Joe and the others are on their way here with Doc, Zed, and Tango,” Pearl says quietly, adjusting the cold cloth as Impulse squirms, “He put a call out across the server for regen and health pots.”

While Pearl and Grian monitor the two bedridden hermits, Stress and Gem quickly hurry to prep more beds. Even though they have the space, and more than enough beds for all the hermits, it’s not often that they actually need it. Despite the fact that most, if not all of them honestly, have a messed up sleep schedule and can be obsessive with their massive projects, the hermits don’t really get sick or hurt in a way that warrants the infirmary. Save for the typical cold and flu season, the infirmary doesn’t see a lot of action. And even then, it’s only if someone’s really been hit bad and can’t take care of themselves at their own base.

“Are you going to tell us what’s going on?”

Stress, Grian, Gem, and Pearl all turn their heads at once, Cleo shuffling with Zedaph slouched against her. The blond’s head hangs low to his chest as Cleo tries to gently maneuver him to the nearest available bed. Her head is still turned towards Joe, waiting for an answer as him and Ren carry Doc between them.

More of those red rashes stretch across Doc’s normal arm and face. The creeper hybrid stumbles on his feet as he blinks blearily around, attempting to weakly pull away from the two helping guide him to his new resting spot. Ren murmurs quietly, trying to explain to Doc what is happening as Scar shuffles awkwardly into the room with Tango. Stress rushes to help Scar, who is clearly struggling to keep Tango upright.

Tango gives a pained whine as Stress slides his arm around the back her neck to support him. His red eyes are glassy, the rash branching up past his neck and across his jaw. Together, they ease Tango in the bed between Zedaph and Impulse, knowing from experience that when any of these three are sick they tend to seek each other out for comfort.

“Joe what are you doing?” Ren watches with wide eyes as Joe suddenly yanks Doc’s labcoat off of him.

“We need to get them out of these clothes, now!”

“Can you tell us what’s going on?” Grian asked, voice tight, “Clearly something’s wrong with them but you won’t tell us what!”

“Rubrum Pulvis Febris,” Joe says, tossing the lab coat to the floor as he yanks the blanket Ren draped over Doc off to remove the man’s pants, “Commonly known as Redstone Fever. I haven’t seen cases like this in… void probably forever. It’s an old disease, I thought it was wiped out.”

“Then how do these idiots have it?” Cleo demands, quickly following Joe’s lead. She starts unbuttoning Zedaph’s shirt as fast as she can. And yanks his arms out through the sleeves, staring wide eyed at the rash that spreads across his shoulders, back, and stomach.

“I don’t know,” Joe’s voice is a little snappy as he answers. His eyes go wide as he presses the back of his hand against Doc’s forehead, “Has anyone heard or seen Cub? What about X and Iskall? Etho?”

Grian’s eyes go wide as well, realizing what Joe was insinuating, “You don’t think…”

“Scar, go find Cub!” Stress orders, “Someone message Beef and Keralis to check on Etho and Iskall! Cleo-”

“On it!” Cleo chucks Zedaph’s shirt on top of Doc’s labcoat before she rushes from the room to go find Xisuma. Scar follows after her, typing away on his communicator.

“Gem, in the hall closet are stacks of clean clothes!”

“On it!”

Stress turns her gaze back to the five sick hermits in front of her, blowing a strand of hair out of her face, “Ren, Pearl, go fill up some buckets with ice water and grab us a few rags.”

“And potions!” Joe shouts, “Instant Health and Regen II!”

Joe quickly resumes the task at hand, helping Stress quickly strip and redress all of the sick hermits. The pile of cloths in the center of the room grows as they methodically work in their own, slightly disorganized and rushed way. No one in the room mentions it, especially as Grian helps Ren apply cold cloths to Zed, Tango, and Doc’s heads, but there’s no shaking the heavy sense of dread and worry that is bunching knots in all their stomachs. Or the silent, if not childish hope they have that maybe, just maybe, Joe’s hunch will be wrong.

___

Joe’s hunch was not wrong.

For as long as Stress has been on Hermitcraft, she has never seen the infirmary as full and as hectic as it was in this instant. Nine hermits down for the count, half conscious or fully out of it, all at the same time from the exact same thing. 

It was all hands on deck at the moment, everyone pitching in to try and get their redstone experts as quickly on the mend as possible.

“Rubrum Pulvis Febris,” Joe called it. Redstone Fever, “Ever since the 1.5 big redstone update years ago, outbreaks have been few and far between. You only really see it these days on worlds with unregulated, spotty, unstable mods or in Alpha.”

The only way to get it, according to Joe, was through corrupted, tainted redstone. Which didn’t make sense to any of them really. Xisuma was always diligent in making sure every data pack they used and every update released would be safe for their world. That nothing dangerous would happen, nothing fundamental would break. They all worked way too hard on their homes and farms and this server for something uncontrollable like that to ruin it all.

And yet… here was the proof right now that something slipped through the cracks.

“We’ve got to break their fevers,” Stress said, staring at around 10 different pairs of worried eyes, “If we don’t, and it damages their code, I don’t know what will happen.”

If only it were that easy though. There was only so many potions you could force someone to drink, that you should force someone to drink before they stopped having an effect. But they couldn’t risk adding redstone and extending the time. Whether the redstone was actually corrupted or not, it would only exacerbate the illness and make it worse. But that meant that, as strong as the Instant Health and Regen potions were, they only had a small effect window. One that could potentially get smaller and smaller if the illness started becoming tolerant to the potions.

Even with the cold wet cloths, covering their friends in ice, or trying to feed them some oxeye suspicious stew, this fever was relentless.

---

“Where’s Keralis with that ice?” False shouts. Well, not really shout. But she’s definitely talking louder than she normally would, her voice tight with stress and worry. 

She wrings the towel of as much excess water as she can before placing it back over Iskall’s forehead. Iskall winces at the volume of her voice, giving a quiet moan of discomfort as the painful prickling, burning sensation starts up once more from the action. 

 Despite the fact that the water in False’s bucket has gone luke warm, Iskall still shivers at the droplets that roll down his scalp, behind his ear and down his neck. He reaches blindly, cringing at the way the soaked towel feels against his fingers as he attempts to pull it off. But False’s hands are gently around his wrists, her voice a lot quieter now as she pulls his arms away and back down to the mattress. Iskall squirms, tears pricking at the pain this causes him.

“It’s there to help Iskall,” False reassures, but the words swim through one ear and out the other. They sound like gibberish to him, like utter nonsense.

The world swims before him, as if he’s staring through a fish bowl or a powerful magnifying glass. False floats in and out of the edge of his vision, just a bit of yellow in the very corner of his peripheral. He feels the tears rolling down his cheeks, a whine tearing itself weakly from his throat as he struggles to parse words together. Nothing comes, nothing coherent at least, and it’s followed by a more frustrated whine as he tears his arms out of False’s gentle hold, tossing the cold cloth away.

He’s so cold. He’s so cold that every little shiver, every trail of goosebumps hurts like there’s an army of fire ants marching underneath his skin. He doesn’t want the dang cold cloth darn it! He doesn’t want to be cold anymore! It hurts so much to be like this and- and-

“Iskall.”

Stress. He wants Stress. Iskall’s face scrunches up as the prickling flares up along his neck when he turns his head, her face distorted in his wavering and unreliable vision. His hand shakes as he weakly tries to raise it, making a grabby motion in her direction. 

“Stress,” He whines, no, pleads in a weak voice. He needs her right now. He needs her. He wants Stress like his lungs need air and the fish need water. Because if there’s anyone who can make this stop it’s her. His eyes continue to water as he reaches for her, “Stress.”

“I’m here darlin’,” Both her hands clasp around his, so warm against the cold that’s helping make him miserable, “Shhh, I’m here.”

“‘M cold.”

One of her hands presses against his cheek. He leans into it’s warmth, eyes closing as it presses against his forehead, pushing his water and sweat soaked hair out of his face. Her and False’s voice float around his head, incoherent to his addled, over exhausted mind. 

“-just had one fifteen minutes ago.”

Even if he wanted to, he didn’t have the strength to try to focus and decipher whatever it was they were saying.

“-lis should be back soon. I’ll sit with ‘im.”

He’s too focused on Stress brushing some of the tear tracks gently away with her thumb to notice False’s footsteps. His head lolls a bit, right cheek pressing against his pillow when that cursed cloth is suddenly atop his head again. The moan starts up again, Iskall’s eyelids weakly fluttering as he struggles to open his eyes.

“I know,” Stress sounds so sad. So… worried? “I know Iskall, but I got to try an’ break your fever.”

He says…. Something. Iskall’s not sure what exactly. His lips were moving, at least, he’s pretty sure they were. But it’s getting really difficult to pay attention, even to Stress as she whispers reassures quietly to his ear like they’re some important secret. She’s right here. She’s here. Stress is…. Here. His hand goes limp in her as her voice suddenly fades away, exhaustion finally wrestling control of his fever addled mind.

Minutes later, when False returns with a bucket filled with clean, cold water and a clean, new rag, Iskall doesn’t even wrinkle a nose at the cold.

---

At some point, the retching noises turned into hysterical sobs and Mumbo’s not entirely sure when that happened. Tears run down his cheeks and along the side of his nose as he clutches the garbage bin to his chest, nose blind to the retched smell of his own vomit. 

His shoulders shake violently, arms tightening around the bin as a familiar hand settles in the center between his shoulder blades and starts rubbing slow, soothing circles into his back. Mumbo squeezes his eyes shut, gasping for air in an attempt to calm himself. But then Grian starts talking again, starts reassuring him for maybe the hundredth time today and Mumbo dissolves into another hysterical mess all over again.

“Hey,” Grian lightly scolds, in that kind hearted way of his when he’s comforting you, “None of that now.”

Mumbo chokes on a sob, gasping for air as his stomach does another somersault. The sound that comes from him turns into some grotesque noise combination of a gasping wail and a choking gag. The soothing circles suddenly turn into firm pats.

“Breath Mumbo. You need to breath,” Grian forcibly pulls Mumbo’s left arm away from the bin to set his palm against Grian’s chest, feeling the steady rhythm as it rises and fall, “Breath with me Mumbo. Nice and slow.”

Mumbo hiccups, takes a slow, deep breath in just as Grian instructs… and blinks his eyes open to see Grian quickly stripping the sheets off of the bed. There’s a sour, repulsive taste lingering on his tongue, xB pressing the cool bottle of water to his lips. Mumbo groans, realizing as he sips from the water what just happened. The water swishes slowly and carefully through his mouth, methodical and second nature to the redstoner at this point. He spits it out a moment later.

He stares blankly ahead at the foot of his bed, nose crinkling as xB pulls the garbage bag out of the bin with a yank. When did xB take the bin out of his noodle arms anyway? Why could he still smell that disgusting, sour odor? Was it permanently seared into his nose and memory now? Is this going to be the only thing Mumbo will ever smell again?

Grian’s hand cards gently through his disheveled hair, trying to push it back away from his forehead. There’s a sad little frown that seems permanently fixed onto the builder’s face, brows creased together. The hand at the top of Mumbo’s head suddenly eases back to its usual spot along his spine, while another starts tugging the bottom edge of his shirt. Another set of hands, Mumbo can only assume it’s xB again, steadies the mustachio man as Grian starts working Mumbo’s shirt off over his shoulders.

“At this rate, we’re gonna have to put him on an IV line to keep him from getting too dehydrated,” xB lifts Mumbo’s arm, trying to gently push it through the sleeve. His arm drops back down to his side like a limp noodle as the two work together to carefully shimmy the shirt over his head. 

“If only he could just stomach something!” Grian sighs in frustration, “Just a little bit of soup or some potion.”

The shirt comes off with a final tug, Mumbo shivering at the not-cool infirmary air sending goosebumps racing down his spine. Grian holds Mumbo’s shirt as far from his body as possible, tossing it onto the floor on top of where his bed sheets have gone. He blinks, mouth forming a silent o as xB forces a new, clean shirt that isn’t covered in his sick over his head.

“There we go,” Grian says, “That’s a little better, isn’t it?”

A weak hiccup suddenly escapes the sick hermit, fat tears rolling down his cheeks again at the gentleness of Grian’s voice. Another hiccup escapes him as he watched xB grab the soil shirt and sheet off the floor. When had he grabbed a pair of gloves to wear? It doesn’t really matter, as xB dumps the two items into a massive laundry bin to be washed. Or maybe burned later. Mumbo still isn’t really sure, but a third hiccup rings in his ears.  

Why does he have to feel so darn miserable? His head feels like a ton of obsidian. His limbs feel like they’re moving through packed soul sand. His stomach twists and turns, ties itself into knots and turns itself inside out while his body lights up in pricklish pain. He can’t even bring himself to utter a single thank you, words dying before he can even think to utter them. 

“Oh Mumbo.”

The bed dips slightly as Grian sits down on the edge, arm wrapping cautiously around his shoulders. If it causes Mumbo any discomfort (which, admittedly it does), he’s too busy dissolving back into hysterical tears. And as wonderful as it feels, to have Grian comfort him and dote on him the way only a best friend can, it only causes the tears to fall even harder. Because Grian doesn’t deserve this. He ought to be working on his projects or causing mayhem with Scar. Restocking the entity or playing TCG! He shouldn’t be here, taking care of him. Being so patient with him, trying to help him when his entire body refuses to accept anything Grian tries to give him.

“Shhhh,” Grian whispers, looking up at xB with wide, worried eyes when he returns with a clean blanket. 

xB frowns, draping it lightly over Mumbo’s legs. His head rolls against Grian’s shoulder as he blinks between tears at xB, shaking as he wails. He didn’t deserve either of them. They shouldn’t be making such a fuss over him. They shouldn’t be here fretting over him at all! Mumbo absolutely didn’t deserve them. 

The bed dips on the other side of Mumbo as xB takes a spot beside him, brushing the tears away as quickly as he can with his thumb as his other hand clasps firmly around Mumbo’s. Mumbo hiccups, almost gasping for air between each painful sob as Grian and xB’s voices suddenly start to fade to the background. Their words pass through him, the meaning of each syllable lost to him despite how clearly he can hear the fear and worry in their voices.

---

She can’t not see it in her mind. 

The ventilator whirs in a quiet, steady rhythm. Air goes in, filling Xisuma’s lungs with cool, clean, life-giving oxygen. Thin air, so light and faint it is barely there. The kind of air that makes you dizzy, that stalls your thoughts and fills your head with fuzz. The kind of air that fills the Void. And then the air goes out, forcing an exhale from the admin’s lungs.

He’s far too pale for Cleo’s liking, dark circles ringing his eyes. He felt so clammy against the back of her hand, skin uncomfortably hot and sweaty. The ventilator whirs, Xisuma’s chest rises in response. His chest falls, a barely perceptible wheeze passing through his teeth, air mask fogging as he exhales. His nose crinkles just the slightest bit.

She can’t not see it, playing out like a movie when she closes her eyes. The way his body was sprawled out at his witch farm, legs bent and arms out like a collapsed puppet with its strings cut. The phantom sounds of X’s ragged breathing echoed in her ears, drowning out the rhythmic white noise of the ventilator. His chest heaved with each breath when she touched down beside him, pulled his head into her lap. His entire body shaking with each deep, heavy, bronchial cough as she lifted him off the floor.

Xisuma gives another wheeze, a little harder than a second before. Cleo frowns, pulled out of her thoughts to see discomfort lining his face again. Her eyes immediately flick to the ventilator, staring at the numbers as they flash and change, their meaning lost on her. And then to the IV bags hanging off to the side. One full of water and another still full of a bottle’s worth of regen. 

Cleo doesn’t know whether to take comfort in the repetition of the ventilator’s sound. Of the constant rise and fall of Xisuma’s chest as the discomfort slowly vanishes from his face. Whatever cough or congestion that was caught in his chest seems to be gone, at least for now. She has to remind herself that X isn’t on the ventilator because it’s super bad, but because it’s helping him breath and heal. Even though it looks so wrong for him to be hooked to a machine.

“How’s his fever doing?”

“Same,” Cleo mumbles, turning her head to look at Jevin, “Just changed the rag out ten minutes ago too.” 

Jevin looks about as shit as Cleo feels. The stress and exhaustion is transparent on his face (and not because he’s a slime hybrid). The way his shoulders hang lower than usual, his eyes dark and wide like he hadn’t gotten any sleep (he probably didn’t, not that Cleo blamed him). His whole body seemed to droop, not unlike the way it does when he’s caught out in a bad storm for too long. Even though they’re hidden in the pockets of his hoodie, Cleo can see the slight shake in his hands. 

“Damn.” Jevin falls silent, staring down at the sick admin with a quiet, closed off expression.

There’s nothing worse than feeling so entirely helpless or useless. It’s a feeling the two of them can agree upon, whether they want to acknowledge that they could ever agree in the first place. And for it to be Xisuma of all people, one of the kindest and most patient friend one could ask for, it just twists the metaphorical knife all the more.

“Joe wants to know if you’ve eaten anything yet?”

Of course he does. That’s typical Joe, looking out for all of them and taking care of them. And no doubt being a hypocrite too if Cleo had to take a wager, she’s absolutely certain Joe has been neglecting himself just as much as they all have.

“I’m fine.”

“I’m not saying you weren’t.”

Except Cleo knows Jevin well enough to know that he is. But she can’t bring herself to care right now, to find her usual dry, sarcasm that usually comes so naturally to her when she’s around the blue slime hybrid. An uncomfortable silence settles between them, neither of them really sure what to say. Honestly, they’re both far too stubborn for their own good to be honest or vulnerable right now. It doesn’t feel fair or right, not when their friends are so miserable. 

 “Do you think he’s dreaming?”

"Excuse me?”

“X,” Jevin’s stare doesn’t leave their friend’s face, “Do you think he’s dreaming?”

Jevin cringes at the way his voice gets tight, the way his hope intermixes so easily with his fear. He wants to reach out and take Xisuma’s hand, to squeeze it so that he knows he’s not alone. That his friends are here, his family is taking care of him. For some reason though Jevin can’t bring himself to do it. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t think he can handle being that vulnerable in front of all the hermits, especially Cleo right now. Or because he’s scared X’s hand will be cold and lifeless, and something like that will definitely haunt him.

He knows Xisuma isn’t really sleeping, but part of him wanted to pretend that he was. That the crease in the admin’s brows were because of an unpleasant dream. Or because the mattress wasn’t comfortable enough. Not because he was sick, body slowly trying to heal itself and recuperate as it fought the illness running rampant through his body.

It’s such a dumb question though, Jevin doesn’t even know why he said anything out loud to-

“I don’t know,” Cleo’s voice is a lot gentler than Jevin anticipated. He blinks, confused, unsure if he heard her right. She doesn’t turn her head to look at him, reaching for Xisuma’s hand, “I’d like to think so maybe. Dreams of phat parrots and millions of diamonds whilst the two of us bicker until we’re purple in the face. And then he’d make us sit down and have a cup of tea.”

She traces a circle into the back of X’s hand with her thumb, watching the way his chest rises and falls. He inhales. He exhales. In and out. This rhythm will forever be engraved within their memories. It’ll be the rhythm they hear at night, trying to sleep. The in and out as the ventilator whirs and whirs, pushing thin air into the Voidwalker’s lungs. 

Jevin squeezes Cleo shoulder, because he doesn’t know what to say. Is there anything to say to that? Xisuma gives a sudden wheeze, brows creasing together. His somewhat blank expression morphs to one of serious discomfort as the wheeze persists, his chest shaking as it dissolves into a hideous sounding coughing fit. Painful coughs, the kind that leaves your sides aching and your lungs burning. 

Jevin reaches for Xisuma’s arms as Cleo supports his back, the two of them sitting him upright in one fluid motion. Jevin sits on the edge of the bed, right beside X’s feet. Cleo pats X firmly on the back, trying to help him through the coughing fit as Jevin’s hands cup either side of the admin’s face, holding his head upright and still. Neither of them notice Joe suddenly rushing over or really hear what he’s saying, too focused on Xisuma as he continues trying to hack up his lungs.

And the worst part about it? There’s so little either of them can do to make the pain go away.

---

The groan that manages to worm its way out of Zedaph is almost exaggeratedly drawn out as he rolls over, burying his face into Tango’s shoulder. He makes grabby hands as he throws his arm across Tango, not satisfied until his hand closes around fabric. 

His mind and body feel at war with both each other and themselves, pulling at him like he’s the rope to tug-a-war. He may as well be made of obsidian from the way he sinks into the mattress, limbs dragging as he squirms and struggles to find a comfortable position. It’s far too much effort to open his eyes, especially when he feels the warm embrace of sleep trying to drag him into its arms again. But at the same time, it’s almost like he’s too exhausted to go back to sleep. Zed wants to go back to sleep but he also… doesn’t? Or at least, it feels like his body and mind want him to wake up and sleep at the same time and it’s… not the greatest feeling.

His eyes flutter slightly, never really opening as someone brushes the hair out of his face. Knuckles press gently against his forehead and then the side of his neck, accompanied by some shuffling in the background. His collection of mobs are bouncing from their tethers, panic glistening in the eyes of the special “Australian” sheep Pearl gifted him as it does a 360. Hands gently lift Zedaph’s head, away from Tango with a high pitch whine.

“He feels like he’s burning up even more.” Zed can’t stop the little hum that leaves him, half aware that he knows that voice. He just… he can’t think of who. But it calls to mind someone kind, someone sweet as honey with wavy red hair that loves building cottages. Overalls and a green jumper and a strange love of birch.

 Something starts dabbing across his forehead, cold and wet as he’s settled back down against Tango and… something very, very cold. His forehead creases and his nose immediately wrinkles but he has creepers to gather. Many, many creepers to gather for his special project with Etho. Oh he’s already dreading the task at hand because he knows, with their luck, there’s going to be so much destruction. 

Zed’s head rolls slightly away as Tango practically bucks off the bed with a cry. The blaze hybrid’s back slams down onto the mattress with the protest of a few, very loud, squeaky springs. His eyes shoot open in time to see Wels hovering above him, hands firmly pressed down on his shoulders as Tango kicks and squirms. His face swims in and out of focus, sharp and piercing gaze locked on Tango and then blurry edges and smudgy details that almost vanish.  

It was so damn cold. Tango gasped, kicking wildly as he threw his head back against the pillow. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes as he screamed. It hurt so damn much it burned, this horrible prickly pain like a bazillion needles stabbing along his ribs and stomach. It burned and ached, his bones throbbed from the cold. 

“-ry Tango,” Wels’s voice seemed to float over head, heavy with remorse as he pushed Tango further down onto the mattress, “Need to lower your body temperature though buddy. The ice will help break th-”

Zed’s arm suddenly tightens its grip around Tango’s chest, as if he can feel Tango’s stress and confusion even in his fever induced slumber. Impulse suddenly rolls over, practically laying on top of him, Tango’s arm trapped just under the other man’s head. They both press down on the ice, trapping it against Tango even as their own noses wrinkle and they grimace uncomfortably at the unexpected cold. 

Tango gives a meek little moan, his efforts to escape the cold quickly exhausting him. Wels looks down at him, slightly more in focus for a split second. Just long enough for Tango to see the worry in the knight’s eyes before they start looking like blue smudges again. He blinks, long and slow as it becomes a sudden struggle to keep his eyes open. Air thick with smoke as the woodland mansion goes up in flames for a second time. The weight of Wels’s hands lessen just slightly as his breathing even out a bit. Tango struggles to blink his eyes open, when did he even closed them? What should be a familiar face swims in and out of focus, gently laying a thin blanket across him and his two best friends. 

They tuck it up to Tango’s chin, making sure it covers both Impulse and Zed evenly. Tango tries to manage an appreciative smile. Even from the tower Tango can see the smoke rising, and if he were to close his eyes he’d think someone had a campfire set up somewhere. It’s almost comforting, if the smell weren’t so bitter, burning wood mixed with the scent of wool rotten flash from whatever zombies and carpet got caught in the blaze.

The hollow sounds of the wither skeletons were all he could hear, the rattling of brittle bones as they shuffled through the wither roses, undeterred and unaffected. Every so often the thorns of the flower would prick his thumb or catch his ankle. With every row of wither roses place, more and more skeletons spawning on the platform. Impulse was slowly nearing the edge of the platform, the last few wither roses in his hotbar for quick and easy placing. Out of the corner of his eye, a flash of dark bones and the swing of a stone sword-

Pearl’s face swims into focus as Impulse opens his eyes, the sickly sweet smell of an instant health potion wafting over him. He blinks up at her, eyes half open and glassy as she stares wide eyed at him. His eyes pull themselves closed again -clatters noisily against his shield. There are too many of them to fight all at once. His hand immediately flies to his rockets as a sword catches his arm. Another hits his shoulder and suddenly the sound of hollowed breathing is filled with the noise of rockets as- something cool presses up against Impulse’s lips. He forces his eyes open again to see Pearl supporting his head just enough to tip the potion into his mouth.

He takes little swallows, confused what is happening but lacking the strength to pull away or fight for the time being. He can hear Tango right next to him, mumbling nonsense in his sleep. The blaze hybrid’s arm stretches just slightly from behind Impulse, fingers twitching for a brief moment.

“Hey sleepy head,” Pearl’s voice is so quiet, Impulse isn’t sure he heard her. She gives him a smile that is so full of joy and so uneasy and shaky it doesn’t look right, “You gave me and Gem a nasty scare.”

He tries to tilt his head in question, only managing to turn his head into her palm. Everything aches in a way that suggests that Impulse tried to take a nap on a bunch of anvils. Which… that doesn’t sound right. He hadn’t… he hadn’t fallen asleep on anvils. And he didn’t fall asleep here, at least… he doesn’t think. He - nearly hits a cluster of netherrack in his hasty escape, trying to catch his breath as he hits the ground knees first. His health ticking away from the withering - was making soup before, in his base. The room started to spin and then… and…

“You caught quite the nasty bug,” Pearl continues quietly, pulling the half full bottle away from him. It disappears somewhere off to the side, and her hand finds itself against his forehead. She makes a tsking sound, “Feel a little cooler, not by much though.”

He doesn’t know what she means. It’s difficult to keep his eyes open and focused on her though, exhaustion trying to pull him back down again. His head hits his pillow again, hand absentmindedly finding the one Zed has stretched across Tango. Impulse forces himself to turn his head, to try and find Zedaph in the dark haze and blurriness trying to commandeer his vision. There’s some tufts of blond hair sticking out from the other side of Tango. 

Pearl squeezes his free hand reassuringly as his eyes closed, munching away on golden carrots to counteract the withering. 

---

“LET ME GO!” 

Doc can’t help the agitated hiss that escapes him, thrashing violently against the restraints holding him down. Pain shoots up his spine, sharp pinpricks as if there are needles slowly pushing their way deep beneath his skin. Digging, digging, digging through every little nerve ending, his left hand spasms at the pain while his right hand lays motionless against the metal bed frame. Doc doesn’t want to stare at it but at the same time he can’t tear his eyes away at the remnants of what can only be described as a technological massacre.

His head crashes back against the pillow, the entire bed shaking with each frantic tug and squirm. His feet kick wildly against the mattress, pulling the top sheet out from underneath him by sheer force and panic. It crumbles off the mattress with a final kick, falling from the foot of the bed to join Doc’s other blankets on the floor. They tore away most of the metal plating of his arm, ripped open the panel and tossed it aside. Gears bent out of shape and alignment, metal grinding against each other in a desperate attempt to move, to respond to his desperate pleas for just the slightest twitch of a finger, a wiggle of his thumb, a shift of his wrist. Wires stuck out in all directions, a majority of them hacked to absolute pieces. 

“LET ME GO!”

His eyes flicker wildly around the room, trying to distract himself by counting all the little individual cracks in the mossy stone. Counting each little drip of water that splashes down from somewhere behind his head. Drip. Drip. Drip. An incessant beeping filled the silence though, the heart monitor’s tempo continuing to pick up as Doc’s heart continued to beat frantically in his chest. His eyes flicker anxiously across the room, breathing heavily as he listens to every little creak, every little step, every little noise that was and wasn’t there.

His gaze skips blankly over Ren, eyes glassy with fever and bloodshot from lack of sleep and unstoppable panic. Then blankly jump across the room to Gem as she helps ease Zedaph upright, handing him a cool glass of water as he struggles to stay awake for more than two minutes. He doesn’t notice the tug of the IV in his arm as his arms jerk slightly against his restraints, and Ren can’t help but feel relieved despite how clearly out of it Doc is. 

Even though he also feels incredibly guilty at the same time. He shouldn’t be glad Doc is out of it, trapped in the machinations of his mind and panic. But Doc also tried to bite Hypno’s fingers off and headbutted Ren in the nose when they forced the IV line on him so…. It really was for the best that Doc didn’t remember it was there. 

Ren slowly reaches for the wet cloth, lifting it carefully from where it had been flung to the floor. Every tiny little action is slow and overly cautious, eyes locked on Doc. Waiting for the moment when that blank, empty stare turns into rage. It never comes though, Doc’s focus is frantic and fleeting as his eyes dart wildly around the room. He doesn’t notice Ren as he stands, as he slowly approaches the bedside. Or the cool touch of the washcloth as he settles it carefully across his forehead between the horns.

There’s a persistent, sharp pain near the base of his horns. Doc moans as he throws his head back, trying to catch his horns against the wall or something equally as hard. He can feel the sharp, rusty teeth of the saw pressed against the keratin digging tiny little grooves into the surface. The saw isn’t even moving, but the mere pressure of it as it presses down waiting for the first stroke is enough to make Doc scream. His chest hurts from the constantly rising panic gripping his sensibilities. He strains against the restrains, screaming as he tries to lift his back up off the mattress. Struggles from side to side as if he can maybe loosen them if he tries hard enough.

Hands… Hands. Gripping his shoulders, pressing down. Forcing him to hold still with his back pressed against the uncomfortable mattress. They’re shrouded in shadows, eyes wide and a blank as could be. Blank, empty, soulless white eyes. Ren’s trying to be gentle, he really is. But there’s a certain amount of strength that needs to be applied to actually be able to hold Doc down, before he does something stupid like tip the entire bed over it his very sudden and frantic struggling.

“Doc, Doc brother please.”

“LET ME GO!” Doc screams.

“Stop him.” So many hands. So many eyes, all of them staring at him. Staring at him with such loathing and contempt. And sadistic curiosity, as if he’s nothing but a curious experiment to be run over and over and over again. Something to tear open and study, regardless of how he feels. Like he’s just a mob and not an actual person.

“Take a deep breath for me Doc, please?” And Doc screams, terrified screams as his eyes dart all around the room, trying to find Ren. But there’s just the shadowy figure holding him down. Those massive empty white eyes as another pair of hands grab at either side of his face. Try holding him down. Doc throws his head as far back away, tries to bite at the hands reaching for him.

“Why do you have to constantly try to bite me?” Hypno mutters under his breath, narrowly avoiding sharp teeth as he regains his hold on Doc.

“Doc,” Ren can feel everyone’s eyes on them, the silent worry and fear that everything is not fine whatsoever. Everyone waiting for some sort of sign from either of them for help, whether that be getting a potion or helping hold this incredibly stubborn creeper goat hybrid down, “Doc listen to my voice. Focus on my voice dude.”

Doc doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand where is Ren? Where is Ren? Where are they holding him? Why do they sound like Ren? Why is Ren here? Why isn’t he helping? Why isn’t Ren helping him! Why doesn’t his friend see how scared he is? How much danger he is? They’re hurting him! They’re hurting him and Doc doesn’t understand why Ren won’t do something about it.

“Where are you?” He cries, “Ren where are you?”

And if that doesn’t just feel like a knife right through the heart. Ren, despite his better judgment, reaches down to squeeze Doc’s left hand as tight as he can. As if maybe that will help ease the fog of fear his fever has put him under, “I’m right here Doc. I’m right here.”

“Make them stop!”

Doc screams, trying to yank his hand out of Ren’s as if the touch burns. All Ren can do is stare, speechless at the terror in Doc’s voice, the desperation in his eyes as he suddenly tries to throw himself forward to headbutt Hypno. Hypno yelps, stumbling away with a hand clasped firmly over his nose.

“A little help please?”

“STOP!!!” There are too many of them now. Grabbing hold of his arms, pressing their hands against his face and grabbing ahold of his horns. A shadowy figure sprawls against his legs, pressing their weight down so Doc can’t try to fend them off. “STOP! LET ME GO!” 

“Hold still!”

“REN!”

Keralis gives a pained wheeze as Doc manages to somehow kick him in the stomach. And Wels nearly loses his teeth as he takes over trying to hold Doc’s head steady. Cleo pulls Hypno aside to tend to his bloody nose as Joe pinches Doc’s jaw, trying to keep it open as he bites the cork off of a potion bottle. He hands it to Ren wordlessly, who stares at the sleeping draught with wide eyes.

“REN!”

“I’m right here,” He doesn’t know how he manages to keep his voice so calm and level. Ren feels terrified right now, not sure he’s ever seen Doc like this in his entire life. One hand rests against his friend’s forehead, but Doc doesn’t seem to notice the touch. 

His eyes flicker back and forth, all over the room. Ren pours the concoction carefully into Doc’s mouth, some of it dribbling down the corner of his mouth. Just as quickly as Joe had forced Doc’s mouth open, he forces it shut so Doc has no choice but to swallow it. 

The fear in Doc’s eyes suddenly dim, eyelids drooping halfway. His struggling comes to almost a full stop as the tension drains from his body. All at once, everyone backs away as Doc’s breathing evens out. Doc gives one long slow blink before he gives a quiet sigh, eyes sliding shut to what Ren hopes is an uneventful, dreamless sleep.

---

Beef doesn’t know who opened the windows to the infirmary, but he gives them a million thanks as the cool, fresh air blows in. It makes the infirmary feel less claustrophobic and stifling. And helps drive out the strange combination of vomit, soup, and potions lingering in the air. 

He finds it difficult not to stare as he stands in the doorway, taking it all in like Beef doesn’t fully believe this is happening. He thinks a part of him is still in denial to be honest. Grian fusses over Mumbo, adjusting the blanket and pillows as the man sleeps soundly. There’s a little more color in the brit’s face than there was before. Jevin’s passed out in the same chair Beef recalls seeing him in when he left, a blanket draped over his lap and his legs carefully propped up on Xisuma’s bed. False is sitting besides Iskall on the bed as Stress works across the room to replenish their stockpile of potions. Iskall’s head can barely stay upright as he leans into False, eyes fighting to stay open. The rash that stretches across his skin doesn’t look nearly as irritated, and Beef can see the stubborn determination on Iskall’s face to stay awake just a little longer so he can hear the end of whatever book False is reading to him.

He quietly clears his throat as he crosses the room, loud enough for Stress to hear him but not loud enough to disturb any of the hermits who are passed out at their friend’s bedsides. Stress turns her head, a grateful smile brightening her exhausted face as Beef hands her the blaze rods and ghast tears he spent most of the day collecting.

“How are they?” He asks softly, turning his head to gaze at the crowded infirmary. The massive bruise covering Hypno’s nose is new. Keralis is absentmindedly playing with Scar’s hair as he sleeps, eyes locked on Cub’s sleeping form. Tango shifts, just enough to pull Zed and Impulse closer (how they could get any closer though Beef has no idea) before settling again.

Stress shrugs, “We’re getting there. Slowly but surely. Hopefully with this next patch of potions, these fevers will break for good.”

“And Etho?” Beef hates how his hands immediately fidget with his apron, gripping the fabric nervously, “H-how’s Etho?”

Her smile falters, sadness taking its place in her eyes, “Still the same.”

She turns her head to look back, and Beef follows her gaze. Etho stares blankly ahead at them, half upright and leaning back against the small pile of pillows Bdubs had carefully stacked. If you didn’t know better, you’d think Etho was simply lost in thought or deep into a day dream. His hands rest quietly in his lap, hands atop his knees palm down. Bdubs’ is hunched over the side of the bed, face half buried into Etho’s blanket, looking seconds away from falling out of his chair.

Except Beef knows better.

“We tried feeding him a potion,” Stress murmurs softly. That explains the curious new stain on the collar of Etho’s shirt, “I don’t know if we got enough in him before…”

Beef nods, grabbing one of the blankets stacked besides them as he slowly makes his way to Etho’s bedside. He gently shakes out the bright yellow blanket, pretending it still doesn’t hurt how Etho’s eyes don’t so much as blink at the sudden movement, and drapes it over Bdubs so he has more than just his mossy cloak. Bdubs gives a sleepy little hum, shifts just the slightest bit so his head is pillowed more comfortably on his arms.

“Hey there Ladders,” Beef says quietly as he takes the empty seat across from Bdubs.

It’s terrifying seeing his friend like this, a hollow shell void of life and energy save for the steady rise and fall of his chest. He just stares blankly ahead, at this invisible point like there’s something happening no one else can see. He doesn’t flinch when they wave their hands in front of his face, doesn’t look away or notice them when they stand directly in his line of sight. He barely reacted when Joe flashed a light in his eyes, doesn’t speak a word.

He doesn’t even sleep for crying out loud! They can barely keep most of the other sick hermits awake long enough to eat some soup but Etho just… stares out at nothing.

“Sorry I was gone for so long,” Beef whispers softly, “Had to get Stress more glowstone and ghast tears. We were starting to run low on those regen potions.”

There’s no way of knowing if Etho can hear him. They could scream in his ear or play a juke box as loud as possible, but it doesn’t change anything. Not even Doc’s panicked screams seem to shake Etho out of this weird trance he’s in. There’s no shift in his gaze, no twitch of his fingers or legs. It’s truly as if someone took away everything that made Etho, well, Etho and left behind an empty body. 

“I hope you haven’t been sitting here too long without much company. You know Bdubs can’t help it though, he can’t stay awake for days on end like we can.”

Beef sits in silence, not entirely sure what else to say. He listens to Stress quietly fill bottle after bottle with fresh regen potions and Xisuma’s ventilator whirs in its steady rhythm. He listens to Jevin snore and the quiet melody of False’s voice as she reads to Iskall even though he’s definitely asleep now. He listens to the wind as it blows from outside, the rivers that run through spawn, and the gentle pitter patter of creepers. 

He traces each little line of red that mars Etho’s face, hands, and neck with his eyes. It’s not too much different than trying to trace a complicated line of redstone. The large splotches branching off into thin line, connecting together in a strange looking picture of connect the dot. The way they twist and bend around his arm, flaring up as if to mimic a redstone pulse except they don’t travel too far. 

It’s too peaceful, in Beef’s opinion. It shouldn’t be this peaceful when everything feels so wrong and messed up. It’s like the world doesn’t realize how awful everything is right now, like it’s completely normal for one of his dearest friends to feel so far away. 

“Pause messaged me earlier,” Beef whispers, feeling like he was about to suffocate in the silence, “While I was in the Nether. He-he asked about you, h-how you were doing.”

“H-he misses you,” Beef continues after a moment, trying and failing to get the tremor out of his voice. He folds his hands anxiously in his lap, looking away from Etho to stare at the blankets, “I-I do too. S-so does Bdubs and… and everyone.”

Stress and Joe won’t say it, none of the hermits will, but Beef knows. Etho’s not doing well. He wonders if any of the other sick hermits have picked up on it, because all you have to do is look at the man and you can just tell. 

The thought of losing Etho is incomprehensible. Beef can’t imagine a world without Etho being a mischievous trouble maker or diving headfirst into danger and excitement whether that’s being chased by ravagers or facing his friends in an intense game of TCG. But the possibility is there. As much as Beef wants to deny it, the reality of what might be happening is staring him in the face. And Beef can’t help thinking that… somehow… they failed Etho.

What if they were too late? What if there’s nothing they can do to save Etho now? What if the illness is tearing their very code to shreds and causing irreparable damage none of them can stop? Is that why he won’t look at them? Won’t sleep? Won’t even flinch as Doc screams bloody murder or Mumbo gags into a garbage bin?

Is that why they can’t touch Etho without the detached horror filling his face as he descends into a heart shattering panic attack?

Beef squeezes his eyes shut, not wanting to think about the terror filling Etho’s eyes. The way his body tenses like the string of crossbow ready to release. Despite the terror, despite the fear, Etho’s eyes never stray from where he’s been staring for what feels like forever. He doesn’t even scream or make a noise. But Beef can’t forget the way how his entire body shakes in a desperate effort to get away from them. How Etho squirms when they try to press a washcloth to his head or press bags of ice against him. The way he gasps for air, hands clasping over his mask with tears in his eyes whenever they try to force feed him soup or potions.

Tears shine in Beef’s eyes as he blinks them open again, not wanting to think about how helpless he feels. It was like this stupid sickness was using Etho to thwart their attempts at stopping it. Like it knew the hermits weren’t emotionally or physically strong enough to force Etho to suffer like that despite how badly they needed to break the fever.

“I-I don’t know if you can hear me. Or know that I’m even here honestly. I-I hope you do,” Beef tries to wipe the tears away with his palm, “It-It’s not good buddy. It’s not. Y-your fever isn’t breaking. It’s a miracle in itself it hasn’t continued to climb with how little we can actually get into you.”

There’s the clink of bottles, False suddenly stops reading.

“I can’t-I don’t- Etho please. Don’t-don’t let this win buddy. I-I can’t- I’m not strong enough to handle it if you-” Beef’s voice breaks in a sob. The weight suddenly shifts against the mattress as Bdubs’ head shoots up, “Please Etho. Please. I-I don’t want to lose you. We can’t lose you too.”

Arms wrap themselves tightly around Beef’s shoulders, pulling him firmly into a hug. His cheek brushes soft moss, the yellow blanket he draped over Bdubs suddenly around his shoulders too. There’s another hand carding through his hair soothingly.

He can feel Bdubs shake silently beside him, silently crying with him. Stress sniffles, and if False’s eyes look red around the edges no one comments on it. Beef has to grab False’s hand with his right hand and grab a hold of Bdubs with the left, clinging to them tightly, crying until he’s too exhausted to lift his head. 

If Etho could, he’d cry right alongside them.

---

“I hate this.”

“You’ve said,” Keralis says, wringing out the damp cloth in his hand before placing it back across Cub’s forehead, “You’ve mentioned it three times already.”

Today is a good day. A really good day. Mumbo’s gone two whole days without throwing up. Impulse is awake, even if he is still far too groggy to hold a conversation. Zedaph is already trying to plot an escape attempt or two so he can sneak back to his projects and experiments. He is constantly betrayed by his own shaky legs and the concern of his fellow hermits. Jevin and Cleo are starting to act a little more like Jevin and Cleo, snark and sarcasm making rare appearances once again.

It is a good day. Not the bestest day of course, because fevers still aren’t fully breaking. Doc is still hallucinating. Xisuma is still on his ventilator. Etho is still not doing well. But it is a good day. Today is a good day, especially because Cub is doing good. And Keralis couldn’t be more happy, no matter how much Cub complains. 

Cub huffs, rolling his eyes. And then immediately regretting it when the room tilts slightly. His hands clench around the blanket as he waits for the room to stop moving, focusing on his breathing instead of the way his stomach tries to flip flop without permission.

He feels like he’s still sluggishly working his way through soul sand though, maybe even soul sand on top of swimming through lava. Everything feels like it’s moving far too slowly, like every minute is dragged out longer than it should be. Every few minutes it feels like he can’t take a breathe without falling into a coughing fit. He’s struggling to keep up with Scar’s rambling more than usual. 

Yet somehow this is the most clear headed Cub has felt in days. 

He doesn’t realize his eyes closed until they suddenly fly open, Keralis flashing him an apologetic grin as he lays the cold cloth back across his forehead. Cub doesn’t have the energy to fight the chill that races up his spine or the wave of goosebumps that irritate the rash creating strange constellations across his skin. 

“Keep your eyes open just a little longer,” Keralis pulls the blanket higher up so that it’s practically tucked under his chin, “Scar will be back soon with some soup.”

Cub groaned, “‘m not hungry.”

“I know, but you need to eat.”

No argument comes to mind, even though Cub really isn’t in the mood to eat right now. The room may have stopped moving, but his stomach still twists and churns as if he’s been caught out in rough waters. He’s scared that any attempts he makes to try and eat will end up with him hunched over a garbage can. He feels tempted to close his eyes anyways, when Scar suddenly appears besides him.

“Soup Time!” Scar grins, plopping down into the empty chair at Cub’s bedside. He immediately starts lifting a spoonful up for Cub to take, “Pearl just made it too, so you know it’s fresh and delicious.”

Cub barely manages to stifle a groan, squeezing his eyes shut and turning his head away from Scar. His nose scrunches as he tries to bury his face into his pillow in an attempt to block out the smell. As delicious as it probably smells, it makes Cub’s stomach roll uncomfortable. The wet rag slides over his eyes, and another chill races along his spine. 

Scar gives a low chuckle, setting the bowl gently down on the bedside table. The bed dips slightly as Scar kicks his feet up, no doubt reclining back, “Maybe a little later then. How about a nap instead?”

That… shouldn’t sound as nice as it does. But Cub can’t find the strength to open his eyes again. He feels like he drank three or four bottles of turtle master potions with how sluggishly he tugs at the blankets. He feels like he’s sinking into the mattress, like a water elevator with magma at the bottom. Cub is eternally grateful that Keralis doesn’t try to push him into eating a few spoonfuls, though he knows from past experience it means there will be no escaping or prolonging it when he does wake up again.

 He’s content to just lay there, back to his friends as he listens to Scar and Keralis talk. Cub doesn’t really hear the words, merely takes comfort in the soothing sound of their voices. He knows they’re talking about him, because every now and then he’ll hear his name. But he doesn’t have it in him to try and pay attention. 

---

Rubrum Pulvis Febris, also known as Redstone Fever, is an old disease that has long been thought to be extinct or wiped out. What used to be a very common illness hasn’t been seen since the 1.5 redstone update. Before the update, redstone was unpredictable. One could never guarantee that the redstone generated in a world was safe. Redstone, just like the terrain of any new world back in the oldest versions of minecraft, was finicky and easily corruptible. Exposure to corrupt redstone, especially in large quantities, almost always led to Redstone Fever outbreaks.

 Not only did the update introduce new items such as the daylight sensor, redstone blocks, comparators, and hoppers, it brought stability to redstone.

In order for someone to contract Redstone Fever, they would have to be playing on an older world, untouched by the 1.5 update. Or with unstable, sketchy, and unregulated mods. How an outbreak of it managed to spread on Hermitcraft, amongst all the redstoners on the server, was an absolute mystery.

It’s an unforgiving disease, relentless in its attack on a player and their code. Dangerously high fevers, nausea, weakness, painful prickling rashes that looked almost reminiscent to basic redstone circuitry. Very few players are ever able to fully recover without facing some sort of consequences.

Redstone Fever never had to deal with a force quite like the hermits though.

It starts with Mumbo, just as it did in the beginning. He wakes up in the middle of the night, frantically tossing the blankets to the side of his bed as if they’re on fire. Him and Grian give each other quite a scare to be honest. Grian wakes up, at what he guesses to be one in the morning, to all the blankets suddenly thrown over his head and nearly suffocating him. His scream, of course, scares Mumbo because the silly spoon hadn’t realized Grian was slump over his bedside fast asleep. His fever breaks just as suddenly as it had set in, which Stress takes as a very good sign before immediately dragging herself back to bed.

Cub’s fever breaks only a few hours later, the sun just rising over the horizon. His face is still paler than usual, but his eyes and mind are alert to his surroundings. He’s oddly silent though, despite feeling more and more like himself. His eyes flicker around the room, to Etho and Xisuma and Doc. To the rash that’s taken up nearly every square inch of his body. If anyone notices the way he clings a little more to Scar and Keralis, they don’t say. 

Now that the fog is gone from his mind, Cub is acutely aware of just how bad things could have been. How bad things could still be.

Zedaph’s fever is third to break, which isn’t surprising considering he’d already been trying to escape back to his projects. The sun is a quarter of the way through its journey in the sky by this point. He squirms in Wels’s grasp as the knight drags him back to bed, complaining about how hot and sweaty he feels. He groans, annoyed that his friends won’t let him leave quite yet. But it’s really hard to stay like that when Gem can’t stop smiling and hugging you. It isn’t until the hermits let Zedaph take a shower in one of the infirmary’s bathrooms does he realize that his legs don’t shake nearly as much as they did before in his failed escape attempts. And that the prickly sensation of the rash is nearly as painful anymore, so long as you don’t scrub too hard with the soap.

Iskall’s fever break by mid morning, when the sun is at its peak, as does Impulse’s. Tango’s by early afternoon, the sun only has a quarter of the way left before its journey is finished. They complain, just as loudly as Zedaph about the sudden temperature change. One second they were freezing and suddenly they can’t stand to be buried under all the blankets they’d been slowly collecting for days. Tango’s hands are finally steady enough for him to drink a potion on his own. The room no longer spins when Iskall turns his head too quickly. Impulse is coherent enough to sort through the weird menagerie of memories and dreams he’d been having on and off for days. He leans into Pearl’s hug and ruffle’s Gem’s hair as they scold him for scaring them. 

What it really comes down to, of course, is Doc, Xisuma, and Etho. It doesn’t take long for Iskall to ask about why Doc is in restraints, and learn about the violent hallucinations plaguing the man. Or for Impulse to go scarily quiet when he spots the ventilator working its medical magic. Tango goes pale when he realizes that Etho’s lack of response isn’t because he’s deep in thought or sleeping. There’s still this tense fear stringing through all of them as they wait for some sort of sign. 

The sun slips below the horizon, the moon rising to take its place when Etho goes absolutely limp. The tension rolls off of him in one massive wave as he sinks into the pillows. His eyes for the first time in days finally fall close and he sleeps. He sleeps, peacefully, as Bdubs and Beef change out cold cloths, breathing still just as steady as it’s always been. Stress presses her hand against the crook of his neck and then his forehead, astounded and confused. It’ll still be at least another day before Etho wakes up, before Stress and Joe can let themselves fully believe Etho is going to be okay. When he does though, it’s surrounded by friends. Heavy with exhaustion as he tries to process where he is and what has happened and piece together what he does remember (which admittedly isn’t much).

The moon is at its peak when Doc opens his eyes and sees Ren struggling to stay awake instead of the shadowy figures his feverish mind convinced him were there. His voice is hoarse from days of screaming, helped only slightly by a cool glass of water after Ren hurries to remove the restraints. There’s a wariness in Doc’s eyes, questions he doesn’t have the energy to ask or any urgency to know the answers yet. His fever may be gone but it’s still very late at night, his body urges him to keep sleeping even though the worst is behind them. There will be time in the morning for questions and apologies. Hypno carefully readjusts the blankets as Doc gets comfortable.

The moon is sinking down towards the horizon when Xisuma smacks Cleo clumsily in the arm. He blinks bleary eyed around the room, confused about his lack of helmet and the air mask pressed to his face. Cleo blinks sluggishly at him for half a second before she connects the dots and yells for Joe. It wakes nearly everyone in the infirmary, as Joe rushes to help Xisuma replace the air mask with his helmet. He sits up with a groan, confused as he gives a weak cough into his arm. It’s far too late… or is it technically early?... for anyone to give any kind of explanation. Not one that would make sense or be remembered when it’s daytime again. Despite the insane hour though, Xisuma refuses to rest until he sees with his own eyes that everyone is truly as okay as Joe insists they are. 

It’s still days later until the rashes have vanished, until the exhaustion has faded and replaced with impatient and uncontrollable energy to build and explore again. It takes longer for the worry to fully go away, but that is to be expected with such a chaotic group of builders and trouble makers. They’re a family, more than anything. And the idea of anything bad happening to any of them is terrifying. So if the majority of the server tries to limit the amount of redstone their newly recovered friends are exposed to, well…. That’s an entirely different, significantly less stressful story.