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Flame would like to think he had a good pain tolerance; one he could pride himself in and use to his advantage on the daily. There's always been one too many instances because of it, though.
Ones where, in the past, Mane was the one forced to bully a much younger, and even more stubborn, version of himself into a corner. Checking Flame for any broken bones while he sat almost unmoving on his bed. Staring at the wall until Mane finished.
That was long before the Zam Empire days. Even before Flame learnt the basics of what flowers helped soothe joint pain. Or which poisoned him and gave him nausea. Frankly, he still struggled to this day a bit, but no-one was required, let alone needed, to know that.
Eventually, he grew out of having to be pinned down. At least for the most part. He still had a few hiccups here and there.
There were a few cases of it during his Zam Empire days. But Zam never knew of them, fortunately. No-one did. Just Flame, then the one person, who was able to read him like an open book from any distance, knew.
A single twitch or stumble after a fight, where adrenaline began wearing off for them all, Mane’s ear would turn to Flame's direction. Listening, waiting. Watching as his own injuries had been taken care of, yet Flame conveniently lacked his own share of bandages.
Insisting that the blood that soaked his shirt was someone else's, and that the aching pain in his arm was simply nothing but bruising that would pass in a few days. None of it stopped his brother eyeing him down from a distance.
Gaze, even with the blindfold, burned into the back of Flame's neck as he tried his best to keep still on a rocky horse ride home. It never worked in the end, Mane knew him too well. And now Flame also knows that his stiffness, combined with his constant looks back at Mane to see if he was still looking, certainly did not help.
Taking all that into consideration, Flame would say it's fair to think he's improved since then because of it. In hiding his injuries, he means.
Because Flame feels fine.
Sure, sometimes it would lead to him being light-headed. Days where he was forced to peel away his pants to treat a nasty gash he had left alone, one that he had first thought was only an itchy, barely burning rash to begin with.
It was annoying, but Flame didn't care much afterwards. He moved on just as long as he got what he wanted, or came to do, at the finish, he was fine with it. It would be just a minor step back he could easily work through and ignore. Especially now that he was no longer part of any faction.
If anything, it allowed Flame to boast. Enabled him to push through fights where typical bandits would be forced to escape if they had not already doubled down in pain. A trump card that let him win more often than not, and that was enough for Flame to turn a further blind eye to its downsides.
———
Flame was embarrassed to an unprecedented degree as he curled up inside his bed.
Knees pressed into his chest, and hands eagerly pulling the sheets tighter around him. Trying to cocoon himself away from the rest of the world as his stomach was fucking killing him from the inside out.
It was that time of month. Which means it's also Flame's reminder that his tolerance, despite everything, does not extend to the heights of pain that his cramps reach.
He felt like shit, to put it lightly.
Legs aching, and joints rigid at every shooting pain that etched through his body at the slightest movement. Trying to quell it by making himself smaller, curling up further, did nothing in the long run. It gave a brief moment of soft reprieve before he was reminded harshly of his reality.
Blindfold tossed to the side, curtains drawn shut. The only light in the room were the flickering candlelights that stood atop the table next to his bed. Yet even the erratic flickering of their fire annoyed him. Which felt weird, because he had always preferred them to any other means of light.
Another searing burn ran through him. His muscles ached further, and he's sure his knuckles were white from how tightly he was gripping them. His eyes pricked with tears that he tries desperately to blink away.
He hated it. He hated everything about it, and therefore today; therefore himself. Because Flame should be able to handle this, for crying out loud.
Flame swore he must've handled worse before, but at this moment it feels like he had met his match. Again. And because of his own body, no less, fighting against him.
It made him feel weak. He hated that. It made him feel icky, and nothing more than a punching bag, because he was supposed to be strong. Yet here he was succumbing to something as stupid as a biological function.
Briefly, he debates ripping out his organs. Half a joke to try make himself feel better, half serious, but that'd solidify his death for sure. Something Flame actively did not want, but he'd be a liar to say he didn't think for a moment that it might've been more forgiving than this tragedy.
A whimper slips past his lips as he attempts to move onto his other side.
His current position was too uncomfortable, body demanding for a change. Despite that, though, it didn't want to be kind enough to give him a moment to do so without a downright pathetic sound leaving him.
So he gave up midway, flopping back down and squeezing his eyes shut as he groaned at the smallest impact of him hitting the sheets. Flame really wanted for this to be all over with now. His earlier debate with what to do with himself was already beginning to start up again.
Flame felt dirty, unwashed, and he's certain he must've bled onto the bed by now. His body was sweating profusely, regardless of himself feeling like he was just dumped in the middle of a snowstorm with how cold he physically felt.
It makes him feel sticky, and uncomfortable, and everything hurts like hell. He can feel something churning inside him, body too weak to move properly, before–
He throws up.
He throws up, and Flame wasn't fast enough to go anywhere else other than be able to pull himself over the edge of his bed, just in time. The sounds of vomit hitting something filling his ears, and the pungent smell of it drowning out the rest of his thoughts.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
That's what Flame felt when he finally stopped gagging on the bile that had been forced out of him. Throat sore, arms weak as he barely held himself up, and he didn't even know when he had started crying through it. But he had.
Now his eyes were burning from the hot tears that had escaped them. Trying to blink away the remnants of them, and he wouldn't be surprised if they were bloodshot by now.
Fuck his pain tolerance, then. That was useless now. It proved to be nothing but a fad when it came to his period.
He groans in relief, however, when he finally allows him to collapse properly. Arms giving out, and eyes lidded as he watches the bucket he had been throwing up inside be placed to the side. Still close enough in case Flame needed it again.
Body tender, muscles still stinging, but his nausea was gone for the most part, currently. Only the faintest tinge of it plagued him now, leaving his vision blurry as he stated ahead.
Maybe the feeling of sickness would come back later, but for now he can't help but let out a hum as a wet cloth wiped away at his face. Appreciative of its warmth as it cleaned him with such an unfamiliar gentleness, he felt like he was in a dream. He likely was.
Flame pouted as it moved away, his head trying to follow it before being stopped abruptly. It was by something that felt, although rough against his cheek, more comforting as it cradled it. Slowly guiding him to lay more adequately under his sheets as they were pulled up to envelope him once more. Careful of not straining Flame’s body too much.
He felt himself getting tucked in, head too fogged up to even process by who, or what, other than it was comforting. Lulling, as his cheek continued to be caressed over and over; touch featherlight with a thumb brushing away the previously brimming tears.
It's a welcomed moment of respite, and he can't help but slip into slumber because of it.
———
Lomedy. It was Lomedy that had helped him to bed; had nursed Flame while he felt like he was on the verge of doing something drastic just to ease whatever part of him he could.
Sitting up against the headboard, Flame watches as said person was adjusting the flowers on Flame's windowsill. Something about the aroma of them helping, or whatever he had said. He was honestly too out of it to care.
The only thing that really mattered at the moment was that, for the most part, his nausea was gone. And while his body would still tighten on occasion, it was… Fine. Better than before, at least.
A sock filled with rice was given to him. Warm, efficient, and a constant pressure on his abdomen that had made him almost melt on the spot when he had first woken up. Lomedy was already in front of him and offering it up as if it were a valuable gift in Flame's eyes.
It was – he didn't question how Lomedy had gotten inside his house in the first place because of it.
“You should probably get some more rest, Flame,” Lomedy says finally, turning to face him, jug of water in hand.
Not a bad idea. If anything, it's smart and definitely is what Flame should be doing, but it made something in his chest twist at the idea of letting his guard down.
The first time he did so around Lomedy, it was both the first time they met, as well as an accident. A memory of crimson mess and him showing up on his doorstep by coincidence. Flame was lucky it wasn't anyone who actively had it out for him, which was a lot more people than he'd like to admit.
Each time after was unwanted from Flame's end – even if he did soak it up each time with a grin on his face by the end of it – because he didn't do vulnerability willingly. Those who do don't last long.
So Flame frowns, presses the sock closer, and continues watching as Lomedy resumes the domestic tasks around his house as if it were normal. Like he lived there and hadn't probably picked his way inside through his front door.
While Lomedy wasn't the strongest when it came to tactical fighting, he knew damn well how to sneak into places. Flame will give him that.
He can't help but count the time in-between each visit Lomedy does into his room as well. Once with laundry bundled in his arms that Flame had forgotten all about, another with a replacement sock for him once his old one began cooling.
Whatever the reason he had each time, Flame could still tell which was actually a task, and which was done just to check in. Flittering glances that left him grumbling once Lomedy left about how stupid it all was. He could probably hear him through the walls, but Flame didn't particularly care. He was on his period. Everything was shit, and it gave him all the more reason to complain.
The next time Lomedy strolls in, he's carrying a tray. A small bowl in the centre with a spoon to the side, steam emitting from it in conjunction with the smell of beef.
Alluring, and for the first time in two days, the aroma didn't make him want to puke out half his guts multiple times over.
“Is that for me?” He asks. Which is a stupid question, but he doesn't really know what else to say within the moment, not when he can feel the muscles around his stomach already beginning to tighten. He needed s distraction.
Lomedy hums. “Yeah. Beef stew, I had started making it when you first passed out.”
“First?” Flame says, confused and accepting the tray, setting it on his lap. He vaguely remembers the feeling of hands on his face, the relief in his bones, before he supposedly collapsed. But he was under the impression he hadn't awoken in-between. “How many times did I pass out?”
The other joins Flame on his bed and pushes himself up to sit next to him. “Three times, if I counted correctly. Two of those times you were mumbling about fighting,” Lomedy continues.
That makes sense. He's been told that before, many times actually, but it still doesn't stop the sheepish look that crosses his face afterwards each time due to it.
“Something about having a mane,” Lomedy adds distantly, taking out an apple from his pocket. An inquisitive look on his face as he thinks out loud. “Or fighting someone with a mane? Or was that–”
“Did you even season this?” Flame cuts off, face scrunching up as he pulls away from the stew, spoon in hand.
“What? Yes, who do you take me for?” Lomedy basically gasps out. “Give it here, let me taste.”
Shrugging, Flame hands it over in an instant. He was lying when he implied it was bland; it was delicious in reality. Warmed his insides, and dulled that pain in both his joints and abdomen greatly even after only a few spoonfuls.
However, he wanted his mind off things for reasons he refused to confront for months. Forcing a new topic was always a good escape.
“This tastes fine,” Lomedy sulks, offended.
Flame grins, taking back the bowl. “I know. I was just joking. Don't worry,” He hopes his tone conveys enough sincerity.
Rolling his eyes, Lomedy shuffles off the bed after. Saying how he needed to finish off some chores, and then he'd be back. Flame has no reason to say no, so he goes back to eating the remainder of his food, basking in the satisfaction it offers.
———
“Shh, you're fine.”
No, Flame was not fine.
His body was being all weird again, and each heave into the bucket made him feel more terrible by the second.
It feels like another hour before it all stops and Flame is ushered to collapse on top of Lomedy. Head falling into the crook of his neck, and legs folded up to his chest. Quiet murmurs of consolation as he groaned at each small readjustment.
There was too much movement. He wanted to just curl up and be still for the rest of the night, and he feels too many things at once.
“ ‘m gonna punch you after this,” Flame mumbles, wincing when Lomedy presses down too hard on his arm.
“Sorry,” He smiles, and Flame can't tell if it was out of amusement or shame. “I thought a massage, or something like that, would help.”
“It is. Just do it slower.” Flame mutters.
Lomedy's smile turns into a grin, nodding, then continuing, albeit more carefully than before as he presses his thumbs into the muscles of his arms. More measured, and therefore slower; just like he said.
Flame wants to say more, but he doesn't. The contents of the stew he was given had apparently contained herbs that were supposed to help, at least according to Lomedy, yet he had just vomited out pretty much all his insides again. Oh well.
He presses his cheek further against Lomedy's skin, soaking in his warmth and sighing as he hugs the sock close to him.
God, Flame would do anything right now to not have to go through this shit ever again. But he's already dreading the next month the more he thinks about it, and this one wasn't even over yet.
As if reading his mind, Lomedy hums. “Y'know you can come to my house next time you start cramping. Saves having to trek all the way back to your home and doing this by yourself.”
“Shut up,” Flame hisses. He’s already half asleep and as soothing as Lomedy’s actions in the moment are, his words sound fuzzy and much too loud for him currently.
Fortunately, he does.
They fall into silence, Flame half asleep and eyes lidded as he watches Lomedy move onto his legs. Attentive as he made sure his sock didn't move too much from its position on his abdomen and kneading the muscle with care. Occasionally glancing up to see if it elicited any reaction from Flame that showed pain.
It didn't. And enough time passes, with Lomedy finishing up, for Flame to be stable enough to move without wincing.
So Lomedy helps him inside his bed, and Flame feels ridiculously stupid when he grabs Lomedy's sleeve.
“Sorry,” He says quickly, letting go, but the other smiles warmly and gets the jist regardless and slips inside alongside him.
The covers being pulled over them, trapping the heat of both the sock and now each other's. It makes Flame melt, especially when Lomedy spoons him, careful to not touch anywhere still tender.
It's good having that contact, he realises. Really good.
Makes some other part of his mind pleased, and he can't help but shuffle closer, pressing himself into Lomedy's touch just to be able to savour it further – any embarrassment long forgotten and thrown out. That'd be a problem for him in the future, where he wasn't actively being killed from the inside out, and bleeding for days.
For now he'll savour this, and ignore the biting voice in the back of his head that protests about weakness.