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The wind whipped around them, howling with fury not unlike that which painted his rivals face, ears pinned against his dreads that fought to be free of the style he'd shoved it up in and tail lashing behind him.
It was a familiar sight, one that he'd grown accustomed to from more than just him; but him especially so.
Fighting was a pastime the two of them shared like desserts, loud moments in the middle of a fight bigger than just the two of them, curses and blows fired like it was the only thing they knew how to do. Quieter moments where there were less words and more clattering, a parry here, riposte there. Familiar, conversational, almost.
In a way, maybe it was.
In the same way a look could convey a thousand words, or a painting could express thoughts better than any poet, they shared combat.
Flame had grown familiar with combat long ago; spoke the language with fluency rivaled by few others, and frequency even fewer.
Wemmbu had caught up fast. Uniquely so. Nobody else could have, not even with their life on the line could somebody learn the parlance fast enough to have gone as undetected— although not in any way anonymous— as he had, and definitely not well enough to be gifted in it such that he could contend and win against Flame-The-Immortal-Demon-Frags.
It was mesmerizing; when he'd first witnessed it himself. Chaotic in a way that reminded him of a hurricane, and just as destructive. Something not even he, with all his proficiency, could predict. At first, anyways.
With time, like any seasoned outlaw, Flame had adapted to the menagerie of Wemmbu's fighting style, all unorganized and cast his way during any conflict. It had taken time, though, and in several an occasion had resulted in FlameFrags retreating to his base, den, home, wherever he resided at that point in time, with his tail tucked between his legs and his ears tense against his head; humiliation boiling ugly in his gut.
It didn't click during a specific encounter that he could pin point, only that after one fight he was bloodied and battered, and in the next he'd inflicted the same— if not more— upon his rival. Watched him struggle home barely standing, while he looked back in triumph. Neither of them said it, but something had been determined that day.
Here, though, was not the familiar whirlwind of chaos incarnate that he'd grown intimate with, nor the thrill of a close-call. It was the finality of something that's ending had already been determined.
This wasn't the high of adrenaline that he'd long since associated with their contretemps; this was desperation.
He could see it in the way Wemmbu never quite looked at him. Could feel it in how no blow that landed— and wasn't that absurd? A hit dealt by Wemmbu missing— didn't do a fraction of the hurt he'd ages ago learned how to mitigate.
Somewhere part way through, he'd given up too. No longer interested in the same way a cat would give up chasing dead prey, annoyed through lack of response.
The swings of his sword were half-assed and disorganized, lacking any of the ferocity he'd entered the conflict with.
"Just- go get some water!" He almost felt drawn to tears with the destitution of it all. "You have an elytra, why aren't you going and getting water!"
He watched as Wemmbu missed another hit, getting tangled in webs and having to pearl his way out, only to pretend the lack of water wasn't hindering his ability to fight back during the next blow.
It stayed like that for a while, the unsatisfying hit of a mace slamming against tree bark or the metal of his shield, only for the force to retreat and try again.
Someone a few million blocks away would've called it brazen, the way his swings were uncalculated and blind.
Right here, watching it happen, Flame called it a cry for help.
The next blow barely had any force behind it, momentum being the only deciding factor to how much damage he'd be dealt.
Almost as fast as it happened, the dragon was back in the skies, slamming back down with the force of a toddler throwing a spoon of peas.
It was when his legs were finally stuck together with webs that he stopped, standing on that branch like his feet were nailed to it, arms hung uselessly beside his head before he could even think about giving up any struggle.
Wemmbu's face was obscured with some annoyingly arachnidian fabric, hanging from somewhere underneath the crown that maintained its mount between his horns, flaying aggressively with every passing breeze, but never revealing what was underneath.
He let himself think back to a time when veils and ambiguity were something he chased after, almost frantic in his insistence to confirm the liveliness of his rival.
Now, though, it was vulgar in its insistence to lay claim to the person wearing it— to Wemmbu.
It clicked then, too late and maybe not harsh enough; still with the conviction of someone with far too little evidence to back up the magnitude of faith that hopefully, hopefully, he was wrong.
"Dude- I was going to give you the pearls whether you won or not, I just wanted a fight."
His heart sank when the man in front of him stilled.
"Like- what are you even doing?" He couldn't stop himself from asking. This was suicide. Maybe not outright or intentionally so, but passively, with so little care it almost didn't matter; with the way Wemmbu refused to restock, even as blood seeped through polyesters and down netherite, burying its way into dark oak in viscous puddles; some larger than others. "I know," because he did. He'd known, and had continued to provoke him anyways, "that this is not what you'd call a fight."
He felt as a lump was swallowed down his throat, watched as his rival's expression stayed hidden beneath chaste material; watched as he did the same. It took considerable willing of his mind to not focus on the irony of the cloth being the only unblemished article on him.
"…You were going to give me the pearls regardless?"
It was uncertain enough he was half-sure it wasn't actually a question. As if Wemmbu was only supplying him with the ammo to continue a loaded-weapon conversation. If Flame was a kinder man— a more emotionally attuned man— he might've dropped everything and apologized there and then. If he was a selfish man, he would've cried into Cindercrest's once-miracle weapon's shoulder and begged for forgiveness.
He stood still and did neither.
"Yes, I was going to give you the pearls back regardless."
Silence didn't last long. For all his selflessness, he couldn't bare listening to the howling of the wind, the sound of fallen leaves of varying age rustling against the ground while his friend— although he was now aware how hypocritical and unobvious it was to call him that now— waded through the conversation like it was a set-up; like anything he said would've made Flame change his mind. Or maybe Wemmbu assumed he was lying, and that thought, ugly and permeating, sat deep in the pit of his stomach; nestled right next to his heart that pulsed with such an overwhelming amount of grief it felt poisonous.
"Like, I know we're rivals and all," he began, desperate himself now, to prove that this wasn't some sick fib he was getting enjoyment out of, "right?
"But I… I would also say we're, like, friends." He saw it, then. In the way Wemmbu breathed in like he hadn't been, and held it like he was savoring the burn or waiting for it to be knocked out of him. "And y'know, friends don't… ban each others' friends, you know? That's not really… what friends do."
The only indication that Wemmbu had even heard him was the near-silent sound of his breathing. He'd witnessed first-hand how quiet the dragon could be if he wanted, had seen him sneak past what should have been impossible without invisibility potions. It was evident with the way that even as he stood there, fresh out of a fight, sweat beading down his jaw, and still remained silent enough that Flame could almost convince himself he was completely alone had it not been for the sight of him.
It was startling, then, when his inhales got louder. Less organized and too rushed to be relaxed, as he remained stuck to the cobwebs, shoulders now slumped and wrists still hung above his head.
Flame approached him with the familiarity of a friend, and the cautiousness of a rival; bucket in hand as he rinsed away the sticky substance.
He took care in trying to avoid drenching Wemmbu any further, blood that was mostly his own having gotten him part-way there. With the proximity, Flame could hear the rasp in his friend's throat as he breathed, listened to the hitch in the rhythm and how it evolved into wet sobs.
It was quick. The way his arms dropped to his sides when freed, head tilting to follow as Flame sat on the backs of his own calves and cleaned away the cobwebs keeping him still.
The Nether-borne made no comment when Wemmbu's breathing sped up, continuing his ministrations like he was cleaning off something fragile. Because to him, right now, he was.
It was easy to forget that. With how often they'd fought each other and laughed about it, the amount of times they'd brushed off injuries that'd leave a less battle-sworn player reeling, that they were only players. Maybe not as delicate in the way that most players were, with their reliance on time to heal rather than their faith that the right cards would be drawn when it came to skirmishes, but in the way that it didn't take an extreme amount of force to get them close enough.
He could see it now, in the way Wemmbu practically shook above him, body wracked with sobs and willing himself to stay upright and allow Flame to fix the mess he'd gotten himself into.
It wasn't long before the webs had been washed away, water dissolving the fibers that clung to his armour and held him in place like a bug, and permitted him to finally move.
There was no majesty in the way his body fell, no more strength left to give after being beaten out of him over the course of the week he'd been under the command of Arachnid.
Flame was there, arms open and entreating when he collapsed into him.
He eased Wemmbu's body to face him, coaxing his head to his shoulder from where they both sat on the tree's upside down canopy, legs tangled together and uncared about for the sake of closeness.
Wemmbu wanted to grab onto Flame, drag him and his inhuman warmth closer. He wanted to punch him and curse his name to the entirety of Unstable. Wanted, selfishly so, to remain here; face buried in the demon's shoulder, tears and spit and sweat coating the scruff of his hoodie, and let himself be dumb.
For once, Wemmbu wishes he was oblivious.
It would be so easy, to stay here, limp in his… friend's arms. Flame had called him friend.
Not in the implied way that Jaden had called him "pretty alright."
Not "weapon" with the joy not that of a man who'd just used him to terrorize innocent fisherman and merchants.
Not "insane" in the way Theo— and everyone else he'd betrayed, he realizes— had rightly called him.
But with such scientific certainty, like he'd never been more sure about anything in his life. Like it was something Wemmbu could keep with him, something immaterial that couldn't be stolen from him. Something real.
He felt exhausted. Bone-deep tiredness that pulsed through his veins and settled in his marrow.
Inevitably, he knew he'd have to get up; too soon for him to properly explain anything, too soon for him to rest enough that it mattered, and fly his way back to the caves. To the same place Arachnid had sent him and one-hundred or so players to fight to the death, back to fretting about carrying out a task flawedly and risking the death of Egg.
Presently, though— for the first time in an agonizingly long time— he could breathe. Erratic and shaky, interrupted only with hiccups and sobs, hiding from the world in the arms of the one person outside of Arachnid's civilization that had evidence of his unwillingness.
He allowed himself to hope. Hope that somehow, FlameFrags in all his flawed-ness would stay true to his claim of them being friends. That when Wemmbu was right enough to stand, the tiger would give him the pearls. Let himself have faith in the word "friendship" coming from someone who wasn't Eggchan meaning something.