Chapter Text
“Flame!” Wemmbu shouts, because he kinda has to, otherwise his voice won’t reach his teammate from a hundred blocks below him.
Flame yells back, something hazy and irritated that gets blown away with the wind. Wemmbu rolls his eyes. When he returns to the earth next, he breaks his fall with a water bucket in lieu of macing another Law soldier, before sprinting over to Flame.
“Bro, what?” Flame asks, voice strained in the way it gets when he’s fully concentrated on something else.
There are so many Lawmen milling around him that Wemmbu can barely make out his silhouette against the sea of identical Netherite armour. Then, Flame’s head finally pops out of the crowd as he windcharges into the sky.
He lands, rough on his feet, near Wemmbu, who reaches out to steady him.
“What?” Flame repeats.
Wemmbu says, in a rush, “We gotta restock. I—”
He’s rudely interrupted by the other mace user in the Law’s army, who, upon seeing the two of them in one concentrated point, seems to have decided he wants to make Wemmbu as irritated as possible.
When he glances up, out of instinct, __venthatguy is accelerating towards them, his weapon angled in a direct beeline into Flame’s skull. Meanwhile, Flame is still staring at him, off his guard and, most importantly, without a totem in his hand. Wemmbu doesn’t have one either—he popped it minutes earlier—but that isn’t his concern at the moment.
He whirls forward, shoving Flame behind him as he brings his shield up. The shield that is, now that he realises it, on 1 durability.
Needless to say, it shatters immediately. The stupid piece of wood barely absorbs the impact, and the rest of it accelerates down, down, down, landing in his helmet. Wemmbu was looking up to suss out the angles, after all, and even netherite armour can’t do much against a mace strike to the face.
If he hadn’t the helmet, his head would probably look like a well–mixed bowl of spaghetti and meatballs right now. As it stands, the netherite bevor and visor—thank you, Eggchan, for the random armour trivia—have worked together to mitigate some of the damage. Therefore, his jaw hasn’t been completely fucking demolished. Which is great.
Flame curses loudly behind him. Wemmbu can taste blood. Ven is soaring skywards again, readying himself for the next strike.
Not on his watch. Blinking away the pain by sheer force of will, he grabs Flame by the hood of his jacket, ignoring his protests as he flies them both away to the nearest rest spot.
They land in a heap, and after a bit of coughing, Flame scrambles up.
“Jesus. Jesus. Are you good, bro?” he asks rapidly.
Wemmbu nods, not trusting himself to speak; his bottom lip feels numb. That’s probably not a good sign, but no matter.
He pulls a gapple out of his inventory as Flame sits back down roughly beside him, seemingly satisfied by what he saw in Wemmbu’s face. He looks like a mess, cuts and tiny patchy burns all over him, so Wemmbu offers him another gap. Flame raises his eyebrows, but accepts it regardless.
Wemmbu bites into his own—or tries to, at least—before pain lances through his jaw. Note to self, hard golden apples do not pair well with fucked up teeth. His vision whites out for a second, and he makes a strange choked-off noise at the back of his throat, all high and squeaky and completely against his will.
“What the heck?” Flame asks, having finished his own.
Wemmbu shoves the gapple back into his inventory and stands up abruptly, vision swimming, which he refuses to acknowledge.
“It’s nothing,” he brushes it off. He grazes his tongue against the inside of his teeth, testing them— yep, same pain. Through the metallic taste, he can feel them, jagged and definitely more uneven than they should be, against his swollen cheek. Fucking fantastic, they broke his damn teeth.
“Why aren’t you eating the gap?” Flame presses him. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Wemmbu repeats.
“If you can’t eat the gapple, I can get you a health pot. Do you need one?”
And indebt himself to Flame even more? No thanks. Wemmbu shakes his head and makes his way to the exit, expecting Flame to follow him back to the battlefield.
A hand circles around his wrist, stopping him dead in his tracks.
“What the hell do you want now?” he sighs.
“Bro,” Flame hisses at him. “You need to heal. I saw that blow you took to the face not even five minutes ago.”
Wemmbu shrugs, “I’ve got a thick head, it’s fine.”
“It won’t be fine when you collapse mid battle and I have to carry your sorry ass back here!” Flame shouts. “Do. You. Need. A. Health. Pot. And you’d better say yes.”
“We need to go— we need to get back to the battle, or Lettuce’s gonna find this hiding spot,” Wemmbu says. He struggles against his grip, but it’s like hot iron against his skin, unbending and tightening with every passing second.
“We don’t need to do crap, bro. Take the pot before I lose my mind.”
“I don’t need it!” Wemmbu says, frustrated.
Flame’s glaring at him. It’s obvious. Even though he’s wearing a blindfold, Wemmbu can see it in the way his fingers are gripping Wemmbu’s arm like he’s trying to kill him through blood constriction alone.
He’s gotta approach this from a new angle, then. He pauses, collects himself, and shoots Flame his usual shit–eating grin (at least, that’s how Egg has described it to him).
“What, you worried for me, immortal demon?” He smirks.
There’s something wet on his chin, dribbling down his lips and splashing onto the ground. They both glance down at the small red puddle, growing slowly with every passing drip, before Flame sighs roughly again, though this time it sounds more like a growl. Exasperation alone undermines how irritated the guy looks.
“Take the pot.”
Wemmbu wipes his chin roughly. “I’m fine.”
“You’re being selfish. Why won’t you take it?”
“What, and owe you even more than I already do?” He snaps.
He didn’t mean to say that. It’s the concussion. It’s gotta be the concussion.
“Huh?” Flame says.
“Shut up and fight,” Wemmbu tells him, voice low.
“No, wait— what do you mean, owe me?” He says, incredulous. “You don’t owe me anything, what?”
“Really.” Wemmbu deadpans. “You expect me to believe that? All you’ve done for me, all the resources of yours I’ve been eating up— you expect me to believe I can just get away with it?"
“…Yes?” Flame says.
“Yeah, nice tr—”
And as he finally turns back to look at Flame, he sees his teammates expression, and it is somehow completely genuine. His words die on his (split) lips.
“Bro, you’re overthinking this,” Flame says, confusedly. “Just take the potion. No— debts or anything. What the heck? If anything, I owe you for your orbitals, since they’ve made our job, like, exponentially easier.”
“Wait, are you serious?” Wemmbu can’t help but ask.
Flame lets his hand go to rummage through his satchel, before pulling out the aforementioned potion. “Yes, bro. There are no debts between teammates. We’re equals right now— allies.”
“…Oh,” Wemmbu says, and takes it. “Uh. Thanks, I guess?”
The glass is cold against his fingers; within, swirling blood–red liquid. He uncorks it gingerly.
“You’re welcome. Hey, can I ask something?” Flame questions.
Mid–gulp, Wemmbu makes a hum of affirmation.
“How are you so strong if you’re also so stupid? How does that even work?”
He splutters, choking on the potion.
“Hey!” Flame says with mock outrage. “Don’t waste that, it was expensive. Have you seen the inflation rates Clown’s been raising with the Nether items?”
“…Asshole,” Wemmbu mutters, after he swallows the final drop.
“Yeah, you’re welcome again, bro,” Flame says.
“Are you done with your check-up now, Doctor Flame?” Wemmbu asks, because nobody is allowed to taunt him more than he can others.
Flame definitely rolled his eyes at that one. He swears it. “Let’s just get back to the fight. Ol’ Letty probably misses us.”
“That he does,” Wemmbu agrees.