Prompt: Sickness

Dadza gets sick and his sons have their own ways of helping out

Philza Minecraft did not have time to be sick.

Not when he had three kids to look after. Kids who – when left to their own devices – were notorious for stirring up trouble. Even with Phil looking over them all the time it felt like he was continually avoiding imminent disasters, plucking Tommy from the counter before he could fall headfirst into the wooden floor and crack his skull open while also stopping the other two from coming up with schemes to scam the local villagers at the same time.

If raising kids was hard then raising Phil's kids was like trying to empty the ocean with a thimble.

So when he woke up with a profound headache, no appetite, and a dull pain settled deep enough in his bones to physically keep him from getting out of bed, he knew he was in trouble.

He stayed lying down for as long as he could manage and then there was a crash from the kitchen and the sound of ceramic shattering. Phil sighed as he dragged his miserable self from the blanket, knowing there would be little opportunity to rest once the scoundrels were awake. He found Tommy hastily sweeping up the shards of a broken mug from the floor, freezing like a deer caught in the headlights when he heard his father enter the room.

"This is not what it looks like," Tommy said.

Phil raised one skeptical eyebrow. "Really? Because it looks to me like you broke one of my mugs trying to get at the cookies that I've told you you're not allowed to eat for breakfast."

"Okay, maybe it's exactly what it looks like."

Sitting down on a chair heavily, Phil opened his eyes to see his youngest peering at him curiously. Tommy seemed surprised at his mild reaction to his mischief, head tilted to the side to observe him with scrutiny. Once he was done disposing of the evidence of his crimes, he trotted over and braced his hands on Phil's knees to look closely at him.

"Wow, you look like shit!"

"Language, Tom," Phil chided half-heartedly. But in the few minutes he'd been up he was starting to feel increasingly squeamish, the mere thought of eating made nausea pool in his stomach. He was pretty sure he also had a fever. "I'm just feeling a little under the weather."

"You're sick?" Tommy asked, pressing his hand up against Phil's forehead with a frown. "You're never sick."

"There's a first for everything."

Tommy's lips pursed in deliberation. Never a good sign. Phil had learned from experience that this particular expression usually preceded his son coming up with a grand idea that would inadvertently lead to trouble. But instead, he got a big smile and a heartfelt "Get back into bed then, we'll take care of you" from Tommy.

Trying not to let his dubiety show, Phil hesitated. "I don't know if-"

But then Tommy was already grabbing his arm, pulling him back towards his bedroom with surprising strength for a nine-year-old. Or maybe it was just that the sickness was making Phil feel weaker than usual.

"Oh c'mon, you're always doing it when we're sick," Tommy insisted. "Least you can do is let us return the favor, old man. I'll even be on my best behavior all day!"

Phil huffed at the nickname but didn't resist as he was pushed back under the covers. He simply didn't have the energy to put up much of a fight.

How bad could it be to leave them without direct supervision for one day?

He woke up to the smell of burning.

Phil was seconds away from scrambling out of bed in a panic when Wilbur burst in with waving arms. "Don't worry, don't worry, it was just the eggs."

Slumping back onto the mattress and feeling several years closer to his untimely demise by stress-induced heart attack, Phil rubbed one hand down his face. "What'd you do?"

"I made breakfast," Wilbur said. "Or I tried to. We threw it out the window before anything important could catch fire, don't worry."

"It's hard not to worry if you repeat that I shouldn't be worrying three times. That in itself is pretty worrying, Wil."

Wilbur laughed, walking around to flop onto the bed instead. He buried his face into the other pillow, groaning in frustration then. "I was just trying to help. Being the oldest sucks, too much responsibility. They can just eat bread."

Phil rubbed his back in an offer of comfort. "I'm very grateful you tried, though."

"Soup," Wilbur mumbled woefully.

"What?"

Tucking his arms beneath his face so Phil could actually hear him, Wilbur spoke again. "I wanted to try and make you soup too. You know, because Tommy said you couldn't eat?"

"Aw, mate." Phil shook his head. "I don't think I could stomach it anyway, but tea would be nice?"

Wilbur perked up at his words. "I can do tea!"

Mere minutes later Phil was relaxing with a warm cup in his hand. Wilbur finally looked relieved at being able to help.

"Oh uh, thank you?"

Phil took the blanket from Technoblade's hands. It was the third one he had been offered so far. Techno nodded in approval as he spread it out on the bed, then scampered off in search of more. By now Phil was growing quite the collection, with enough pillows to nearly submerge in and a knitted quilt he was pretty sure was stolen from the couch.

When Techno came back with yet another one he simply couldn't let his curiosity stay unanswered any longer.

"What are you doing, Tech?" he asked, watching the teen rearrange to covers meticulously. His red eyes were narrowed in concentration, but when he was done he looked at Phil with a blank expression and shrugged.

"I dunno." He went off in search of more soft items without elaborating any further.

It was actually all the answer Phil needed. From past occurrences, he had learned that whenever Technoblade was doing something without being able to pinpoint why that urge was there, it most likely was some kind of abstruse piglin ritual, spurred on by unknown instincts. His knowledge regarding these customs might be lacking at times, Phil had done all the research he could and as such would easily be able to connect the dots.

Techno was building him a nest because he was sick.

It made the most sense. The Nether was a hostile environment, the most important thing you could offer for an ailing or injured family member was a place for them to heal up in peace.

So when his son came back with what Phil was pretty sure had to be an old rug, he took it without complaint.

"Will you sing for us?"

Wilbur picked up one of the numerous pillows nearby and chucked it at Tommy's face. "I'm not gonna sing, Dad already has a headache."

The entire family was packed together on Phil's bed now. After Techno was finally done smothering Phil with every soft thing he could find in their house – most likely because he ran out of items – the three boys joining him had seemed like the natural outcome. Techno did kinda steal all the couch cushions after all.

It was cozy, Phil wasn't about to complain.

"Please?" Tommy whined, managing to drag out the word so that it lasted an entirety.

"I wouldn't mind," Phil chimed in. He liked it when Wilbur sang to them. He used to do it all the time, but age had made him more self-conscious about... everything. It pulled at Phil's soul sometimes, but he supposed it was simply a part of puberty. His kids were growing up. "Might be nice, actually."

Wilbur bit his lip, waiting for a second to see if Phil would change his mind. Then he nodded and got up to go grab his guitar. Tommy let out a small cry of victory before stretching out fully, shuffling to get into a better position. Phil reached out an arm to pull him closer and cover him with the blanket, Techno already tugged into his other side in a similar way and half-asleep. He brushed some long hair from the sleeping piglin's face, amused.

Phil was pretty sure the nest-building had given him the urge to hibernate or something.

Coming back with his instrument in hand, Wilbur sat on the end of the bed. He strummed the string a few times, getting into the rhythm. "Any requests?"

"You could play the lullaby?" Tommy suggested, already subduing a yawn. "The one you played for me when I was little?"

"Sure." Wilbur smiled, fond that his brother would remember that. He cleared his throat.

As he started playing, Phil closed his eyes, allowing the melody to drift him back off to sleep.