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The days following their return from the Mist are filled with relief Flame can't measure or describe with words. Knowing his best friend is not only alive but by his side again is enough to calm his soul and slow the beating of his heart back to its normal resting rate. Even Lomedy, as bitter as he was about the whole ordeal, has returned to his regular old self.
For the next couple of days, they stay within the confines of their new home, and Flame is glad for it; they've had enough adventures for the time being. He reckons a few days of rest would be good for the both of them.
The base that Law built for them is large, the largest both of them have ever owned. Wide floating bridges connect the circular pillars, an entire base in the air to protect them from ground attacks. Traps are set up around the perimeter for maximum security and everything they would ever need for battle is at their disposal across various storage rooms.
Still, it's not enough, none of it feels nearly enough.
Their bedrooms are in the central pillar, two iron doors right next each other with an identical layout. The proximity gives Flame comfort, but when Lomedy isn't in his room—which includes the majority of his time awake—it becomes easy to lose sight of him.
(Flame recalls their time before wars and betrayals and destruction, how easy it was to find his best friend across the vastness of their farm base. He didn't have to look for him long; Lomedy would either be by the wheat fields tending to the crops, or inside the barn feeding the animals, or plucking flowers from the garden—the latter being a weekly routine he never skipped. Every Sunday morning, he would carefully pick an assortment of flowers to put in the vase on their little kitchen table, a pretty bouquet for them to look at during their shared meals, a different combination of colors every time so their little ritual never lost its magic.
Every week Lomedy would ask him for advice in choosing the flowers, so Flame could have a say in the little things around the farm. After a moment's consideration, Flame would land on dandelions.
"You always pick dandelions," Lomedy would complain with a grin that betrayed his amusement, his bright yellow eyes glinting under the early morning sun.)
Calmness is always followed by a persistent jitter. Ever since their return, Flame has been keeping a close eye on Lomedy. He doesn't follow him around, not exactly, but he doesn't stray too far behind either.
Now, Flame tries to be subtle, he really does, and he thinks he's been successful so far. He sharpens his swords one room over to where Lomedy sorts through the potions in their brewery. He pretends to walk up and down the halls, looking for something he might've lost while Lomedy spends the afternoon gazing out the window, sat on the makeshift nook he padded with red wool and two white pillows.
During their shared activities, like Flame helping Lomedy with training and Lomedy giving Flame farming lessons, Flame makes an effort—always subtle—to be physically close to Lomedy in small ways. A brush of fingers as Lomedy hands him a pack of sunflower seeds, Flame's hand encasing his as he shows him how to properly hold a sword; these are enough to convince his mind that Lomedy's right there with him, that he won't fall from the sky and leave Flame behind again.
Things have been good, peaceful even. No wars breaking out, no warriors showing up to challenge Flame to death matches, no explosions or attempts on either of their lives. Still, the feeling of imminent danger has been hanging above Flame's head like a guillotine ready to drop. He doesn't know if anyone followed them back from the Mist, if he left any survivors that would eventually seek revenge. He doesn't have the luxury to think about possibilities, though, only their countermeasure; he has to become stronger, even stronger than before, more vigilant. He has to be ready for battle even when he doesn't feel ready.
Growth over stability.
So, over the course of the next days, his training becomes more intense, sometimes going hours before exhaustion renders his body useless. One of the seven pillars of their base is used as their training ground, a large circular arena with static and moving targets spread across the room, armor stands, chests filled with potions and tipped arrows and gapples. It's suitable for solo and group training alike, although it's more common for Flame to train alone.
By the end of sessions like this one, he sits on the stone ground of the arena with his limbs trembling and muscles cramping and head pounding from the cocktail of potions he splashed on his feet, and all he can think about is how little time his mortal body needs to reach its limit. It's not enough, and he's afraid it will never be.
When he spots a glint of yellow from the corner of his eye, his feet launch him forward before his brain can process the action. He's out of the room in a heartbeat, looking ahead to where Lomedy idly walks towards the bridge connecting this pillar to the center.
With every step, Flame tries to come up with an excuse for when he reaches Lomedy's vicinity, an answer that will change depending on where Lomedy will end up. If Lomedy lands on the farm, Flame can say he needs warts for potions. If Lomedy decides to enter the brewery, then Flame needs to repair his armor. Always one room over, never too far and never too close.
They've walked halfway across the bridge when Lomedy turns on his heel to face him, making Flame freeze in place. "Dude, you need to stop doing that."
"Wh- What am I doing?" Flame asks immediately, leaving no room for Lomedy to doubt his innocence.
But Lomedy pouts, eyebrows furrowed, and it's an expression Flame hates seeing on his best friend's face, because it's clear that Lomedy sees right through his fake cluelessness.
"You know what. You think I don't notice you following me around all day?" he asks, rhetorically, and presses an accusatory finger against Flame's chest, which in turn makes Flame take a step back, worried that Lomedy will be able to feel the frenzied beating of his heart.
"I'm not following you. I was just heading to-" His words fall flat, finding no possible reply satisfactory. A breeze travels through the open bridge, raising the hairs on Flame's left arm and dimming the fire sparks on his right. The same wind causes Lomedy's hair to fall in front of his eyes and he doesn't bother pushing them to the side.
"You know, I really don't appreciate you talking to me like I'm stupid."
"I don't think you're stupid," Flame blurts out, not trying to hide his slowly building irritation. It's the only truthful thing he's said so far and he'll do anything to prove it.
"But you talk to me like I am," Lomedy snaps back before a sigh escapes him. "Whatever. I'm going to sleep," he says instead of goodnight, and Flame can do nothing but watch as Lomedy disappears into his room. He looks at his own closed door and supposes he needs some sleep as well.
A sudden, piercing cold fills Flame's bedroom, like the walls are made of ice and his mattress of snow. He shoves his blanket to the side and sits up in one quick motion. He tries to find his balance, but when he climbs out of the bed, there's no floor for his feet to step on. An explosion? As he feels himself falling, a dozen of questions pop in his head. How much of their base is blown up? Is this the doing of Mist survivors or entirely new enemies? None of these questions can be answered while he's at gravity's mercy, so the only thing he can do right now is try to survive.
He has no items in his inventory he can use to counter his fall, which is unlike him—when has Flame ever been underprepared? It seems he spent so much time training that night that he forgot to restock. It's unacceptable, foolish, but there's no point in wallowing in his disappointment now. He's lucky enough as it is, because when he finds ground, his feet sink into a small puddle of water.
Although there's a thick darkness surrounding him, he can safely assume he's underground. The damp smell of water on stone and the chilly air leads him to that simple conclusion. But there's also a stench in the atmosphere, one Flame doesn't instantly recognize but it repulses him nonetheless.
Carefully, Flame steps out of the puddle. It takes two steps until something cracks under his foot. As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he spots something smooth and white, shattered in dozens of pieces. A bone. There are bones everywhere, scattered all across the floor. Femurs, ribs, scapulae, joints, spines. Some remain completely intact, others are so shattered they've become unrecognizable.
Then comes a sound Flame knows too well. The sharp draw of a sword. He turns to the source of the noise and spots two figures in the distance. Flame doesn't know if he should approach—he doesn't want to admit he's scared to—but he does so anyway.
Streaks of light leak through the holes in the stone walls, making the scene in front of him clearer the closer he gets. Flame's breath hitches at the sight in front of him, now distinguishable enough to fill him with terror. Lomedy is on his knees, beat and bloody; a cut on his lip, a black eye and purple spots blossoming on his cheeks and marks on his neck in the shape of fingers. Flame has to swallow down a wave of nausea.
Behind Lomedy stands a man he doesn't recognize, despite his features looking eerily familiar. It's someone with Mistrul's eyes and Flow's complexion and Ash's grin and Lettuce's nose and a dozen other body parts that don't seem to belong with each other. The man holds a sword lazily in his right hand, one that Flame knows by the dark leather wrapped around the hilt and delicate markings on the blade. Fragger.
The monster in front of him grabs a tuft of Lomedy's hair to raise his head up, before lifting Flame's sword and resting it against his neck, putting just enough pressure to draw blood.
"Don't take another step," the monster says, his voice distorted and horrible to listen to. Flame stops, not realizing he'd been approaching in the first place, a gravitational force pulling him towards Lomedy that's almost instinctual.
Let him go, he tries to say, but the words can't get past the lump in his throat. He thinks that if he tries to force them out, he might puke out all his organs in the effort.
The monster scoffs. "You think your little friend deserves to live after everything you've done?" he asks, a rhetorical question coated in mockery. The sound of bones cracking echoes in the cave.
Flame swallows. He tries to glance down at his inventory for anything he can use to get closer, to get his best friend away from the monster, better yet, to kill the monster in one swing, but one wrong move could lead to Lomedy's head rolling on the floor. Flame can't possibly risk that.
"Just know one thing, Flame. His blood is on your hands."
He stares down at hands calloused and scarred and responsible for far too many deaths, at his palms stained red with blood that hasn't yet dried. It's then that the monster drags Fragger across Lomedy's neck with agonizing slowness, spilling blood down Lomedy's yellow sweater in splattering waves.
A strangled noise is ripped out of Flame as the world darkens around him. He moves forward without knowing why, what's done is done. Lomedy is dead and Flame was was once again too late, too useless to save his best friend from the very violence he brought upon him. Only this time he really is dead, and Flame can do nothing but watch Lomedy's lifeless figure on the ground, watch the blood oozing from his neck and his mouth twitching with postmortem spasms.
Flame wakes with a start, unable to distinguish between reality and his own personal hell. He clutches his bed sheets with trembling hands, trying to ground himself from the feeling of falling further and further down. He can't feel the softness of the mattress under him, and it's too dark to recognize any of his surroundings. For all he knows, he could still be underground.
Which means he has to find Lomedy, quickly.
When he gets up from the bed, he's so relieved to step on the cool stone floor that the feeling of not falling almost unsettles him. With no time to waste, he crosses the threshold of his room and turns to the next door over, ignoring how the walls are spinning and his stomach is churning and how he might throw up despite barely having eaten today.
He opens the door to his best friend's room with trembling hands, and he doesn't know what he'll do if he doesn't find Lomedy inside. It will take too long to find him across the expanse of their base, and if he's been captured, he could be anywhere in the word and Flame would have no idea where to start looking.
The door opens with a light creak, its hinges somehow already rusty. When he sees Lomedy with his limbs spread on the bed and lightly snoring, he releases a breath he didn't know he was holding until now. He rushes to his side and shakes him lightly but urgently.
"Lomedy, wake up. Wake up."
Lomedy lets out an annoyed whine, clearly not sensing the seriousness of the situation. "Flame, what-"
"Quick. We have to go. We have to go now, Lomedy."
"Hold on," Lomedy mumbles, still trying to wake up, but Flame can't do what he's asking. He takes Lomedy's wrist, trying to get him out of bed and far, far away from here, away from danger and war and death and all the things that define Flame's existence.
"Flame, dude." Lomedy twists his hand away from Flame's grip—which wasn't a strong one in the first place. "What is up with you?"
Flame feels breathless, struggling to understand a question that would normally be so comprehensible.
Lomedy's eyes widen as a flash of recognition crosses his face, and it makes his mouth twist into a small grin. "Don't tell me the immortal demon is dying over a panic attack."
Flame jerks his head in refusal. "It's not- I'm not having-" Another short inhale. "I just came to check that you're okay."
"Why wouldn't I be?" Lomedy asks. His question is accompanied by a buzzing that makes Flame want to burst his eardrums with a needle.
"Be what?"
Lomedy raises an eyebrow. "Okay. Why wouldn't I be okay?"
Flame lets out a shaky exhale. He really needs to focus.
But Lomedy only smiles, his expression softening. He goes to sit up properly before opening his arms and saying, "Come here, you big baby."
Stripped of all shame and second thoughts, Flame collapses into the bed and right in his best friend's arms. Lomedy makes a small oof sound as Flame crushes him with his weight, but he otherwise doesn't complain.
Flame nuzzles against Lomedy's shoulder, letting the soft fabric of Lomedy's shirt against his cheek and the floral smell of his detergent drown his senses and weigh his eyelids down.
Lomedy places a hand on the back of Flame's head, moving it in gentle, soothing motions. Little by little, his lungs feel less deflated, and he can finally breathe with more ease.
Flame doesn't want to open his eyes, afraid that he might wake him from this wonderful dream only to find himself underground again. He feels his pulse start to quicken, the feeling of it is horrible, something he doesn't want to experience ever again, but Lomedy—perfect Lomedy—has already picked up on his new wave of panic, and starts to hum softly. It's the same melody he sings while he's farming or doing chores or picking flowers under the afternoon sun. The noise fills the room until it's all Flame can think about, and it lets him float in the nostalgia of nicer memories.
And now Flame opens his eyes to the present, to Lomedy rubbing a hand up and down his back and telling him You're here, you're here with me and I'm not going anywhere without actually saying anything. Slowly, he tries to make out the details of Lomedy's room—as much as the darkness allows him to—to maybe prove to his own brittle mind that he's really here and not somewhere else.
Although their rooms follow the same interior, they couldn't be any more different from each other. For one, Flame keeps his room as minimal as can be. He doesn't bother with a lot of decorations, he likes to keep his belongings neat and organized. His personal chests are strictly sorted according to item type, and he does monthly cleanups so everything stays consistent. This simplistic approach directly clashes with Lomedy, whose room is chaos encased in four walls. Little tiny objects are scattered all across the room, from books about gardening and leftover seeds to animals made out of carved wood. Opening any of his chests gives Flame a headache; they follow no coherent pattern of storing and certain types of item can be scattered across multiple chests. Nothing is in its right place—then again, who is Flame to tell right from wrong?
Lomedy hums a final dragged-out tune as his song comes to an end. "You promised that after the Mist we'd do something I want, right?" he says then.
Flame nods against Lomedy's shoulder. "I did."
"Let's build a better farm for the base. With animals and more crops—and flowers. Lots of flowers. Think we can make a flower field on the roof?"
Flame thinks of their new dining area made of stone and devoid of any vibrancy. He recalls the little wooden table they had in the farm and the vase filled with flowers of every color. He thinks of the dandelions and the warmth in Lomedy's eyes and the sun kissing their skin while tending to crops in the farm and running under the sprinklers to cool off after all that work and he thinks of the cold lemonade Lomedy used to make and how it all used to be so simple.
"How are we gonna bring animals up here?" Flame asks, picturing the spiral of stairs and planted traps around the perimeter.
Lomedy laughs, a short, sweet sound that bounces around Flame's head until he's dizzy with it. "You'll figure it out. You always do."
You always do, Lomedy tells him. Flame—who's nothing but trouble, burning hot, too dangerous to touch—will figure it out. And Lomedy—bright as a sunflower, turning to him anyway—trusts him to do so. Maybe that is enough.