Chapter Text
“Flaaaaaaame,” Lomedy grumbles. “I need your help.”
“Loooooooom,” Flame shoots back. “With what?”
“C’mon, help me with this rice,” Lomedy yells, waving up at Flame with a bundle of freshly-harvested rice plants in his hand.
Flame is perched on the roof of their barn - their soon-to-be barn, to be exact. He’s finished the walls - oak, with red paint - and he’s laying down tile after tile of deepslate for a roof. Maybe he’ll add a white trim - maybe quartz? Hard to get, though, with the monopoly on nether resources - around the edges later. “Coming, bro,” he says, quickly climbing down Lomedy’s ladder.
Rice paddies have always been one of the more beautiful aspects of Lomedy’s farm; during the day, sunshine reflects off the still water, as clear as a mirror. On most days, Flame can see a million reflections of himself amidst the green fields of rice. During the night, the vast starry expanses of the night canvas are doubled, tripled, quadrupled in the paddies. Sometimes, Lomedy drags Flame out at midnight, pointing out the constellations in the night sky and then showing Flame their reflections.
“Flame, so what I need you to do is to harvest the rice, okay? I’ll go, like, clean the rice up and stuff.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get the hardest work,” Flame mutters good-naturedly, already heading off to get the rice.
“Well, can’t the Immortal Demon handle a bit of farming?” Lomedy teases back. “Didn’t know I was stronger than a combat master, bro.”
“Aaaaalright,” Flame laughs, “you’re cooked, bro. You’re so cooked.” He sprints after Lomedy, who’s already cackling as he balances on the ridges of the paddies. Laughter rings through the farm as the sun slowly tilts towards the horizon.
“Gotchu,” Flame pants for the third time about two hours later, pushing Lomedy into the shallow water. A few tadpoles dart past his best friend’s face as he splutters underwater, a few air bubbles rising to the surface. He emerges from the water with a splash, laughing as he protests.
“Oh my - oh my god, bro, you’re going to pay for that-” he yells, and then Flame is the one who has to run.
All in all, it’s sunset by the time they get anything done.
“Bro, you started it,” Flame grumbles, holding a basket full of rice in each hand.
“Naaaah,” Lomedy stretches the vowel out cheerfully, swinging his own hand-woven rice basket, “you did.”
“No, you genui-”
“Flame, watch out!” Lomedy says, not quite yelling but not quite talking, either. Flame whips around, hand automatically going to a sword that isn’t there, quietly cursing himself for letting his guard down, he doesn’t even have armor on- “Look at the poor butterfly,” Lomedy murmurs sadly.
“Butterfly-?” Flame directs his gaze downwards, spotting the pale gold butterfly lying on the path. Its wings flutter shiver a little in the cool evening breeze, then go still. (It’s the color he imagined Lomedy’s dead eyes would be in the Mist.) “Is it-?”
“Dead,” Lomedy confirms. “Poor thing.”
“Oh.” A simple word; he’s not sure what else to say.
“I’ll be right back, bro,” Lomedy mutters absentmindedly, picking up its still body.
Three days later, there’s a tiny grave for the butterfly; one of the many things different between Flame and Lomedy.