Work Text:
Technoblade knows it’s too late the moment he sees him.
He would never know if the fall to his knees was anticipation or grief- an urge to save him or a mourning period already started. All he sees is red red red. Red anger, red shirt, red blood. All of it hot. All of it smothering, suffocating, ripping Technoblade apart at the seams.
He’s so young. He’s so young. He’s brimming with impossible youth and somehow, unfeasibly, he was once younger. Somehow, impossibly, this is the oldest he’s ever been. Techno takes in red and red and red and thinks that this might be the oldest he’ll ever be.
Technoblade doesn’t know how long the kid has been out here, staining the white tundra with bright red- a barely noticeable speck nearly buried under the snowfall. His knees hit freezing snow and sickeningly warm blood, fingers touch ice cold skin and a burning hot forehead. Techno can’t even tell where he’s bleeding from. He can’t find a wound. His hands slip a bit in the horrible wetness, limbs slightly wavering in a way they have always been unfamiliar with, as he searches for the fatal blow.
Tommy is dying, practically already dead in the snow at Technoblade’s feet, and all he can do is tremble.
Finally, finally, hands slicked with red find the wound- a slash of a sword or maybe an axe, right across his back. A strike from behind, the worst betrayal. The injury is soaked through with melted snow and more blood than Technoblade could’ve even thought possible. Tommy must have been out here for hours, less than a mile from his cabin- dying with Techno none the wiser. He wonders how he got here, how he got such a wound in the first place, how he’s even still breathing right now.
He wonders if Tommy will survive, or if the kid’s eyes stay shut forever.
He has a horrible feeling that he won’t, and they will.
He rushes into action anyway, his heart pounding in his throat. If there’s even a chance, no matter how miniscule, how impossible, he has to try. He sees himself move like a stranger observing from above- watching his arms slide under Tommy’s thin body, watching his knees straighten as he picks the kid up, watching his feet begin to move- to run- and watching Tommy groan in pain at the jostling.
It’s too late. Technoblade knows this. He’s fought a thousand battles across a thousand battlefields, watched soldiers and civilians and children die all the same from equally tragic deaths, felt the warmth of blood trickle between his fingers and stood helpless as life drained from eyes and limbs and hearts. Death is not a stranger to him. Grief is a close friend, tragedy his oldest companion. He knows what a fatal wound looks like, knows what this amount of blood means. He recognizes the chill of Tommy’s skin, the hollowness of his cheeks, the faintness in his breath. He recognizes it and he hates himself for it, hates that he’s helpless to it, hates that it’s Tommy.
It’s Tommy. This can’t happen to Tommy.
He runs across the tundra, desperate to reach his cabin. He thinks that if he’s fast enough, strong enough, clever enough, he can save Tommy. He can reach a healing potion in time. He’s beaten the odds before.
He’s Technoblade, patron warrior of the Blood God and unstoppable force of nature, and this is Tommy. He’s done the impossible countless times. He can do it again.
He has to do it again.
Techno runs.
Techno runs.
Laughter trails him like a shadow and he grins over his shoulder. He spots wide brown eyes and an even wider smile, and he barely has time to blink before he’s tackled from behind.
They topple to the ground in a pile of choked laughter and dramatic groans. Techno rolls over and Wilbur follows his movement, readjusting so he is staring at the sky above them and Wilbur is splayed out across his torso like a bony blanket.
The brunet waits a moment before rolling over as well, elbowing Techno in the stomach as he moves. Technoblade groans in mock pain as Wilbur’s eyes also meet the sky. His brother’s cheeks are tinged pink from the sprint, his chest rising and falling breathlessly as he gulps down air.
“I caught you!” He gloats to the clouds.
Techno snorts and makes a weak attempt to shove the taller off him. Wilbur stubbornly refuses to move and he concedes, letting his arm fall to the side. His fingers absentmindedly grab at blades of grass and pull the strands free of the soil. “I let you,” he shoots back teasingly. “You would’ve run yourself to death if I didn’t.”
Wilbur barely has the energy to feign annoyance. His smile is wide, face flushed with life and youth, eyes reflecting the sky above them. Techno watches him contentedly. He hardly minds being used as a mattress with his brother so thrilled with the day.
A shadow looms over them, darkening the world around them for just a moment. He doesn’t have time to react before a third body plops onto the pile, landing on Wilbur’s chest. Techno lets out a puff of breath at the added weight across him.
“You didn’t wait for me,” Tommy pouts, lower lip wobbling in fake betrayal.
The sun catches his hair and alights his face. He’s a child of red and gold. Techno watches with a strangely sentimental heart as Wilbur groans and squirms under the smallest of them. Tommy squeals when he reaches to poke at his sides, sending the kid into a whirlwind of thrown elbows and knees. Techno finally sends both of them off him when a stray hand smacks him in the face, both boys landing in the grass beside him.
Tommy whines as Technoblade sits up and Wilbur throws a stray arm over him. “That hurt,” he grumbles.
“No it didn’t,” Techno replies easily, brushing the dirt from his shirt sleeves. “You’re so dramatic.”
“You ran off without me!” Tommy rebuttals, voice pitching in a way that proved he wasn’t actually upset. He whines in the way only a six year old can, eyes bright with childish delight.
“You’re slow,” Wilbur supplies unhelpfully. He stretches like a cat, tilting his chin up towards the sun like he can absorb the rays directly into his skin. “You have little legs. You just can’t keep up with grownups like me and Techno.”
Tommy shoots upright, little fists tightening around blades of grass. “You’re only twelve! That’s not grown up! You’re being mean!” He glowers, soft cheeks puffing out in his anger.
Wilbur reaches over and ruffles golden hair, drawing another unsatisfied noise from the child. Techno hums. He hears rustling high in the trees above them and knows Phil isn’t too far behind.
“When you’re older, you’ll run laps around Wilbur,” Technoblade tells him earnestly. “You’ll be a fierce warrior.”
He feels his ears warm at the way Tommy’s entire face brightens. He believes Techno wholeheartedly, and the worst part is that Techno doesn’t even think he’s lying. Tommy is small but quick, begging to hold Techno’s swords or to train with Phil whenever he has the chance despite his crippling youth.
Tommy throws his arms in the air and lets himself fall backwards into the grass once again. “Hear that Wil?” He gloats with a wide smile. He’s missing a tooth. “I’ll be faster than you. Faster than Techno, too!”
Techno snorts. “I don’t know about that,” he mutters. Technoblade is… different. He’s strong in a way a human really shouldn’t be. Certainly not in the way a twelve year old should be.
Phil calls it a blessing, bestowed from a god. Which god- no one is sure yet. Techno doesn’t know if he’s excited or anxious to find out. He fears something dark in his future that the goldenness of childhood can’t shield him from.
Tommy is painfully human, through and through. Strong, but human all the same.
“You’ll see,” Tommy says breathlessly. His eyes are on the sky.
He sounds so sure that Techno almost believes it.
Techno reaches for him, another quip ready on his tongue. He reaches, ready to ruffle hair or brush a cheek. He reaches for youth, for blissful ignorance, for family. They are not blood related, but brothers all the same.
Blood has never concerned Techno before. He reaches.
Blood has never concerned Techno before. He reaches. His fingers come back dark red.
Tommy is unconscious but his teeth rattle as he shivers, defrosting by the fireplace. Technoblade has laid him out on his stomach across the kitchen table. He works desperately. He doubts his instincts have ever been as lost as they are right now. His hands fly to cabinets and medical supplies, potions and golden apples. Something, anything.
Techno is not a healer. His hands have always done more harm than good and that’s not something that has ever bothered him before right now. His fingers fumble in his haste.
He wishes Phil was here now more than ever before. He’s never been so unsure in his entire life. Phil is the healer, Techno the fighter. But Tommy needs healing now more than anything, and Phil is long gone. His cabin is cold and empty- just Techno and the cold shadows that follow him around. And now a dying teenager on his kitchen table.
It’s too late. Techno knows it’s too late. The gash on Tommy’s back is thick and deep and hours old. He can’t stop the bleeding, and at this point it’s almost pathetic to try. Still, he moves with the speed of the god that has blessed him- cutting bandages and brewing potions. He dumps a healing potion over the wound messily and winces when Tommy doesn't react at all.
Technoblade hates to admit it, but it had been months since he thought of the youngest of them. Since their disagreement over L’manburg, since the terrible loss of Wilbur, since Dream dragged him away to exile kicking and screaming. A strange anger courses through Techno’s veins as he works. He hadn’t thought much of Tommy’s exile and he honestly hadn’t cared. Technoblade had been preoccupied with L’manburg’s hunt of him, of grieving the death of his twin and best friend, of comforting and resenting Phil all the same until the man finally took off to the skies- unable to deal with the guilt any longer.
And maybe a small part of him blamed Tommy for what happened to Wilbur. Maybe a terrible part of him thought he deserved the exile a bit.
Or maybe Technoblade blamed himself, and it was easier to deflect it onto Tommy. Maybe Tommy was the strongest of them all along. Maybe Techno killed two brothers instead of one.
Techno doesn’t know much about the terms of Tommy’s exile. He knows that Tommy was sent far away to a place only Dream knew the location of and he knows that no one was permitted to look for him. Technoblade will never know if he would’ve searched for Tommy if that rule wasn’t in place. The horrible truth is that he probably never would have thought of it.
Technoblade doesn’t know much, but he knows how to read an injury like a book. He knows what kind of mark an axe leaves behind on human flesh, and he happens to know a man who uses an axe as his main weapon.
What a fool- both Dream and Techno alike. Both of them idiots for different reasons, and both of them destined to regret their choices until the end of time.
But there’s no time for revenge now.
Techno stitches the wound up. He doesn’t use any anesthetic, but Tommy still doesn’t react at all. That’s the worst part of it, perhaps. The kid’s breathing is slow and shallow, barely there at all. He’s nearly grey. The familiar flush of cheeks or tinge of life beneath his skin is gone- drained out of him.
Child of red and gold- reduced to a bleached and faded shadow of what he once was. The red staining him is the wrong kind, dark and flaking as it dries on ice cold skin. The gold that always followed the kid wherever he went is nowhere to be found.
The sight makes him nauseous.
Technoblade doesn’t know when Tommy got so tall. When did he get those scars on his hands? His face is thin and gaunt in a way that’s completely unfamiliar to him. His golden hair looks dull- unwashed and lifeless.
He looks like a corpse. The only proof otherwise is the rattling rise and fall of his chest, barely visible.
There’s nothing left to do. Techno sits at the side of the table and gently wipes away drying blood with a washcloth soaked in healing potion. It’s the best he can manage. It’s not enough.
“Toms?” Techno finally finds his words for the first time. He doesn’t recognize the uncertainty in his voice, the shake in his tone.
Tommy doesn’t move, but Techno doesn’t expect him to.
“When you were little and you got scraped up while playin’ outside, you always came to me,” Techno murmurs to deaf ears. “Wil used to make fun of you, and you were always so scared of Phil gettin’ mad at you.”
Techno reaches out and touches his brother’s cheek. The skin is cold.
“Old habits die hard though, huh? You dragged yourself here from however far away you were so I could patch you up.”
Outside, it begins to snow. The sun is starting to rise on a new day. Techno doesn’t want to see it.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t do it this time. I’m sorry I failed again.”
Tommy sighs.
Tommy sighs.
The air is cool with autumn wind and full of music from Wilbur’s guitar, but somehow Technoblade can’t bring himself to enjoy it. He stands with his sword in hand- his fingers fitting perfectly around the grip.
“Fix your stance,” Techno instructs.
Tommy sighs again, instead swinging his own sword lazily at his side. “I don’t want to train anymore,” he complains.
A breeze ruffles the blades of grass beneath their feet. Leaning against a tree, Wilbur snorts and strums a major chord. “You wanted to learn,” he reminds him, voice light.
The blond groans and tilts his head back in annoyance. Techno watches emotionlessly. It was Tommy who wanted to learn to sword fight, pestering him day in and day out to train him. And now he’s given up less than two hours in.
But really, what was Technoblade expecting? Tommy has the attention span of a twelve year old and the maturity of someone even younger. He should’ve known.
Tommy kicks at the ground halfheartedly, frustrated.
“How will you defend yourself?” Techno finally asks, voice carefully monotone. He shouldn’t care so much about what Tommy does. He’s still just a kid, and he’ll have Wilbur to watch after him even when Techno leaves. He shouldn’t hold Tommy to such a high standard, and he should let the blond do as he pleases with what time is left of his childhood.
Maybe he’s annoyed that Tommy dragged him and Wilbur all the way out to the fields for nothing. Maybe he’s worried about leaving his family behind when he starts his journey alone. Maybe he’s jealous that Tommy still has so much time left, so much youth in his limbs, so much ignorance and warmth and childhood to enjoy.
He takes a step towards Tommy and the kid straightens in alarm. “What will you do?” Techno demands, harsher than he means to be. “When someone holds a sword to your chest and demands something you can’t give? What happens when you can’t protect the people you love, when you can’t protect yourself? You’ll just lay down and die?”
The music in the air has stopped and Tommy’s blue eyes are wide. Wilbur clears his throat. “Techno,” he warns quietly.
But Technoblade takes another step towards the younger and grips his sword tighter. “How will you defend yourself?” He repeats, voice hard.
Tommy blinks. “I can defend myself,” he mutters, though he sounds unsure. “I can protect myself, and I can protect Wilbur too.”
“Prove it,” is all Techno says before he swings his sword.
Tommy barely blocks the attempt, bringing his own sword up with both hands to deflect the blow. He doesn’t have the strength to stop the swing in its tracks, but he doesn’t need to. He needs to learn how to fight people who are bigger than him, stronger than him, faster than him. He needs to know how to find an advantage in even the most impossible situation or he’ll never make it.
Wilbur makes a noise of protest as Techno attacks again. Tommy leaps out of the way, rolling in the grass and getting back to his feet with his weapon held in front of him protectively.
“Stop,” Wilbur says firmly.
Technoblade slashes, meeting Tommy’s blade in a horrible clash of metal on metal. The blond is panting, face flushed red with the effort. Red and gold, red and gold, red and gold. Techno swings again, feeling a terrible anger and jealousy in his veins, hardly seeing his little brother’s face in the enemy before him.
“Technoblade, stop!” Wilbur shouts, getting to his feet and setting the guitar aside.
It’s unfair and Techno knows it. Tommy deflects again, ducking under a loose swing and pushing Techno’s sword away with his own.
Technoblade has a mission, a destiny to fulfill. He’s set to leave his childhood house behind, to abandon his family in favor of more noble pursuits. Such is fated by his patron god- Technoblade is going to leave. He’s going to participate in the Hypixel tournaments to hone his fighting skills and to make a name for himself. To satiate the violent urges in his veins. He’s going to journey far away, fight in battles foretold ages ago, bring honor to the Blood God. He’s going to leave Phil, Wilbur, and Tommy behind to do it.
And he’s wickedly jealous of them for staying, for not having such a burden to bear, for having the chance to remain together and whole. He’s angry that he must fulfill this destiny he never asked for while his brothers can stay together, can enjoy the gentle presence of family, can stay blissfully ignorant. It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair.
Technoblade is eighteen years old but he still feels so young, so lost. He feels wise beyond his years and a child all the same. Isn’t that the horrible fate of adulthood?
An undeserved anger takes hold in his limbs and Techno swings with a strength he shouldn’t-
His sword meets new metal, stopping his slash in place. The edge of his blade is barely two inches from Tommy’s neck. Technoblade blinks, red in his vision clearing, and he drops his sword in horrible realization.
A hand- Wilbur’s, surely- grabs onto his shoulder and yanks him away with no gentleness. Techno stares at Phil, who made it just in time. Phil, who had managed to block a potentially fatal blow with seconds to spare. Phil, whose wings are still spread out wide in a protective stance- protecting Tommy not from an enemy but from Techno. An enemy all the same.
Technoblade clenches his fists, a desperate apology already on his lips, but the words die in his throat as Tommy grins.
“I lived,” he points out, voice surprisingly steady for just how close he came to an untimely demise. “I defended myself. I told you I could.”
Phil glances over his shoulder at the younger boy with a strange expression. Tommy is looking at Technoblade with a triumphant smile, the sword still tight in his left hand.
Wilbur mutters something cold in Techno’s ear, but he doesn’t hear it.
Technoblade doesn’t know if Tommy just doesn’t fear death, or if he truly didn’t believe Techno would actually hurt him. He doesn’t know which is worse. It’s smothering him, suffocating him where he stands.
He shrugs Wilbur away, turning on his heel to stalk back down the hill. The farther, the better. Maybe the isolating journey ahead of him isn’t such a bad thing, after all.
Techno can’t drag his eyes away from the sky. He has a thousand wishes to make.
Techno can’t drag his eyes away from the sky. He has a thousand wishes to make. He has a million regrets to lament.
Tommy gets worse as the sun rises.
Technoblade wishes there was someone he could talk to. He wishes there was someone out there that he could update on Tommy’s condition. But who does Tommy have now? Wilbur is dead. Phil is long gone and their brother’s murderer. Tubbo exiled him, and Techno knows that most of Tommy’s friends supported the decision. Who does that leave?
That leaves Technoblade, who Tommy probably never would have wanted to see again prior to this situation. Techno destroyed Tommy’s home, raised a sword against him, and then left him alone in the wake of a lost brother surrounded by new enemies. It had been a long time since Technoblade and Tommy were brothers.
Techno wishes it was different. There are so many choices he would have made differently.
He sits at Tommy’s side and talks. He holds his little brother’s hand and tells stories of childhood, recounts adventures of the tournaments, battles he fought in and people he’s met. He talks because there’s nothing he can say.
Tommy is unconscious through all of it. It's a miracle in itself that his chest still rises and falls. Techno can’t tell if it’s a blessing or a torture- to drag out an end, to draw out the pain and chill. It might be a mercy to die quickly.
Still, Techno talks and holds his hand and makes a million wishes. It’s all he can do.
“-and Wilbur told me that he spent the whole summer down by the lake, just in case she ever came back,” he babbles on. “He’s an idiot, but you gotta appreciate the effort, eh? He said it was the most alive he’d felt in ages, just sittin’ there and waiting. Playin’ his music. It sounds kinda nice when you think about it- spendin’ a summer down by the shoreline. I prefer the cold, but I know you love the sunshine.”
Maybe across the world, Phil is having a better time than him right now.
“I don’t know. Phil used to say you were like a plant, remember? That you needed the sunlight to grow. But there was no sunlight down in that ravine, and you still must’ve grown a whole six inches. Maybe more. I don’t know if Wilbur ever noticed. I think he would’ve been sad if he did. I think he would’ve been upset that his baby brother was almost the same height as him.” He pauses. His tongue feels too big in his mouth. “But maybe not. Turns out I didn’t really know Wilbur like I thought I did. Or maybe he was always like that, and I was too blind to see it until it was too late. Another failure to add to the list.”
He runs his thumb along Tommy’s knuckles and ignores the bruises painting them. “But what do I know?” he murmurs. He doesn’t have the time or the energy to wonder how he got the markings- who he was fighting or for what purpose. He has a long list of things to do after the sun goes down, when Tommy’s chest isn’t slowing rising and falling anymore. At the top of the list is hunting down Dream, finding out the truth and serving justice. Maybe after that he’ll go to L’manburg, take revenge on the government that started this and ended it. Maybe he’ll go after Phil. Maybe he’ll punish himself for his sins.
There’s endless possibilities, and there’s time to think about it later. He’s on a ticking clock right now. Any passing second could be the last.
“I couldn’t forgive Phil,” he admits softly, a horrible secret coming to light. It’s not like Tommy can hear him, or has anyone to tell. “I understand why he did it. I might’ve even done the same, if I was in his position. It's impossible to say. I’ll never know.” He swallows dryly, looking over his shoulder as if the avian could be listening right behind him. “I tried to forgive him. I tried to help him grieve. But in the end, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t stop lookin’ at him with blame, and I don’t think he could forgive himself either. He ran. How can I fault him for that? I’ve been runnin’ my whole life. I ran from my family, ran from my destiny, ran from my home. I ran from you, Toms. How could I ever expect you to forgive me when I couldn’t do the same?”
The sun rises, the last hues of red and gold dissolving into the still blue of early morning. Child of red and gold, too defeated to enjoy his last sunrise. A horrible feeling twists through Techno’s chest, leaving him sick with guilt and grief.
Tommy’s eyelids flutter briefly. He doesn’t know if the action is from pain or consciousness. Techno squeezes his brother’s hand so hard it must hurt, desperate to steal another glimpse of movement.
Tommy’s mouth moves slowly, gently, so small that it’s hardly noticeable at all. His lips form words, eyebrows creasing in discomfort. He takes a breath, exhales.
He lets out an incoherent whine, barely audible. It almost sounds like Techno.
He doesn’t inhale.
Technoblade stares. There’s something building in his chest. It’s impossible to identify. It’s a feeling so grand and terrible that it leaves his limbs shaking in the effort to contain it.
A tear hits his cheek. Techno brushes it away before it can fall even further. There isn’t time for grief.
A tear hits his cheek. Techno brushes it away before it can fall even further. There isn't time for grief. Not here, not now. Not with so many eyes watching them. Technoblade wipes away the single tear tracking down Tommy’s face and reaches over to draw him close, to hide him in his chest where spectators can’t see.
“I didn’t think you would come,” Tommy mumbles into his cloak. He sounds so miserable that Techno’s heart nearly shatters into a million pieces.
Technoblade glances around, glaring at any eyes he can meet. Pogtopia’s resistance is full of good people. That’s what Tommy told him in his letter, at least. Now, though, Techno can’t help but hate the people who are watching his brother break down. Their eyes look hungry, desperate for leverage that they can use in any situation. He can’t even imagine how they must look at Wilbur.
It was Tommy who reached out to him, swallowing his pride to send him an urgent letter. He thinks Wilbur is sick, he thinks their cause might be doomed, he doesn’t want his friends to die for nothing. Tommy thinks Technoblade can help them. Technoblade knows he can.
He spent days traveling back, exploring the country his brothers love so much, and then another few days tracking them down to this little hidden ravine. It’s the first time he’s seen Tommy in four years. It would have been longer if Tommy hadn’t taken the first step.
Techno guides Tommy farther into the ravine, away from prying eyes and strangers. The kid’s fists are wrapped so tightly around his cloak that he wouldn’t dare try to pull him off. They walk together, a firm arm around Tommy’s shoulders, into the shadows.
He smells cigarette smoke and rot. This can’t be where his brothers have been living. This can’t be what they gave up their safe cottage far away for.
They find Wilbur tucked away in a corner, a cigarette hanging from his lips. Technoblade can only stare for a moment. They’re twins, after all. He sees his own face reflected back at him, but it’s corrupted by something dark. He’s overwhelmed by a sudden feeling of wrongness. He thinks Tommy might have been right. Wilbur isn’t well. His skin is nearly grey, eyebags dark and hair pulled to stick out at all ends.
They look at each other and nothing sparks in Wilbur’s eyes. Techno thinks for a moment that he doesn’t even recognize him.
The moment passes. Wilbur pulls the cigarette from his lips and grins in a way that seems insincere. “Technoblade,” he greets. His voice is sweet like honey. Techno almost sighs at the sound. There had been too many nights to count where he fell asleep imagining his brother’s voice. He waits, but it’s all he says. Wilbur sticks the cigarette back in his mouth and takes a drag. The smoke blows in his face. Tommy muffles a cough in Techno’s cloak.
A strange feeling worms its way through his heart. Slowly, he reaches over and plucks the cigarette from Wilbur’s lips. His brother is so surprised by the action that he doesn’t even react until Techno tosses it to the floor, stepping on the flame to finish it. Wilbur stares at him incredulously- almost offended, and Techno tilts his head in response- almost a challenge.
“You told me you would take care of Tommy,” he says, carefully emotionless. It’s an accusation in all but name. He left his family whole and intact, his brothers to look out for each other and Phil to watch over them all. But Phil is nowhere to be found now- what else is new?- and both of his brothers are perhaps the worst he’d ever seen them. Tommy is taller but so skinny, covered in new scars that Techno can’t even start to predict the origin of. Wilbur is paler, his hair is longer, and there’s an unrecognizable look in his eyes that Technoblade hates.
Tommy’s letter had been vague- maybe as a subconscious effort to shield Wilbur from Techno’s protective wrath- but he’s beginning to put the pieces together, and he doesn’t like what he sees.
“You told me you would be back soon,” Wilbur shoots back easily. His voice is also carefully crafted, a well-made lie that Techno sees right through. It’s angry, judgmental, and bitter. It’s not a tone suited for Wilbur- his easy-going and passive brother who always reached for an instrument before a weapon.
“I’m here to help,” Techno says, more gentle this time. It’s not a surrender. He’s still incredibly pissed off and worried, but he knows Wilbur won’t back down unless Techno offers him this small victory.
“We don’t need your help,” Wilbur snarls, crossing his arms across his chest. His trench coat pulls at his wrists, revealing more pale skin and bruising across his knuckles.
Tommy finally pushes away from Techno’s chest, leaving his safe space behind in favor of glaring hot daggers at the brunet. “We’re starving,” he snaps. Again, Techno doesn’t recognize the tone. It’s bitter and desperate, angry and defeated. It’s not a voice made for Tommy, his little brother, child of red and gold. Technoblade wonders how it got to this point, and if this is his fault.
He thinks it might be.
The accusation startles Wilbur and his arms drop to his sides in surprise.
“I’m going to help,” Technoblade repeats firmly. “Lead your little movement however you want. I only want to make sure you both stay alive while you do it.”
Wilbur stares at him angrily, a retort or a refusal ready on his tongue. The look dies when Tommy muffles another quiet cry.
Technoblade and Wilbur can be angry at each other all they want, but neither of them would jeopardize their little brother in the process. They can throw passive aggressive insults endlessly, be mad at one another for leaving or for changing. It would never matter. They can always stay united on one front- an overwhelming urge to protect Tommy.
The brunet melts, shoving his hands into the pockets of his dirty coat and glaring at the ground like it had personally offended him. “Whatever,” he concedes begrudgingly. “Do what you please. Just leave me alone.”
“I’m going to make a farm,” Techno offers. An olive branch of sorts.
Tommy snorts at that, sniffling and looking up at Technoblade with watery eyes full of amusement. “A farm?” He repeats.
Techno nods. Even Wilbur can’t hide his curiosity, or perhaps his growling stomach. “What kind of farm?” He asks.
He rolls his eyes good-naturedly, throwing a loose arm over Tommy’s shoulders. His little brother leans into the touch immediately, pressing himself into Techno’s chest. “A carrot farm,” he replies, all sarcasm, all teasing, all familiarity. “Who do you think I am, Wil?”
Wilbur lets out a choked laugh at that, knowing a vast potato farm was soon going to be constructed. Techno is glad he can pull such a reaction, that his brother is still inside that shell. At least for now.
The ravine is smothering, but his brothers are home. Technoblade didn’t realize how desperately he missed them until they were right in front of them. Four years too long, with who knows how much time left to make up for it?
Tommy mutters a choked thanks into his cloak. Technoblade doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to. The gentle touch between them is enough. All is forgiven.
None of them know a hard betrayal is in their near future- one from each of them. One from Phil. One from countless others. An endless list of death, of grief, of heartbreak lays in wait. The warmth of childhood has never been farther, the safety of family never a more unfamiliar luxury that none of them can afford.
Not right now, though. There’s time for that later.
Technoblade draws Tommy close. Everything is grey and cold, rotting and wrong, but being here at all is a blessing Techno can enjoy. There isn’t time for grief right now. Not yet.
Tommy doesn’t move. Techno waits patiently. He has all day.
Tommy doesn’t move. Techno waits patiently. He has all day, but it doesn’t matter. All the time in the world won’t bring the blond back. Technoblade paces for hours, until the sun is high in the sky and then low again. Until the world is once again painted in pinks and purples, reds and golds. Until he’s sure that Tommy’s pulse is still and not coming back, that his chest won’t rise again, that his little brother will never enjoy the sunset.
Technoblade buries him in the tundra.
He hates every second of it, of digging through icy soil that doesn’t want to move beneath him. He sweats and curses, his heart beating in his ears. The whole world is red. Everything is red, red, red. He doesn’t know if it’s his anger or if the world is mourning- if the entire universe is grieving the child of red and gold. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know. What has Technoblade ever known? Not enough.
Not enough to save him. Not enough to save his family. Not enough to save himself.
Tommy lays beneath the tundra and Techno resents it. He hates that Tommy will forever rest in the place that he hated- in the snow, in the cold, under the bleak grey sky. He hates that he couldn’t bring him to L’manburg. He hates that he couldn’t bring him to their childhood home. He wants to bury Tommy on a grassy hill under a warm sun, allow him to sleep in a place that he loved with all his heart.
Technoblade is a wanted man in L’manburg though, and it would take days of travel to reach the home of their youth. The thought of riding a horse for almost a week with the corpse of his brother in his hands had made Technoblade retch into the snow.
So now Tommy rests under the snow and ice, with a smooth gray stone to mark him. Soon Technoblade will take the time to make an intricate headstone, with beautiful carvings and a proper name. There isn’t time for it now.
There’s never enough time.
Techno’s mind races, thoughts flying by too fast for him to catch. It’s just him once again, alone in his cold cabin without any family left. It’s not unfamiliar, and he hates that too. What is home to him if not loneliness?
He starts to light a fire in the fireplace before he stops himself, thoughts flying in a new direction. He begins to gear up before a horrible pang rings through his chest and he has to stop. He paces back and forth, unable to do anything else. The silence is intoxicating and stifling. He hates it. He’s grateful for it. He just can’t decide. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything at all.
And isn’t that the story of his life?
Technoblade is a hardened warrior, a skilled fighter whose name strikes fear in the hearts of enemies across the lands. He’s watched countless deaths, struck down armies without second thought, committed sin and gained honor alike. But nothing, not a single second of it, could’ve prepared him for this. Not even the loss of Wilbur could’ve prepared him for this.
Half brother, half apology, all red and all the wrong kind of love. Is there anything else so undoing? Grief lays heavy in his heart, a familiar friend and entirely new all in the same breath. The heaviness in his chest is grounding, binding, permanent. It whispers of wrongness, the fact that this is not how the story was meant to go. And in response the world has grabbed him by the throat and snarled: but this is how it is. There is no changing the plot.
Technoblade thinks of childhood, of warm suns and gentle touches and innocence. He thinks of adolescence, of confusion and anger and forgiveness. He thinks of after, always after, always the moments succeeding that slip through his fingers like grains of sand. He had blinked, and it was all over in an instant.
He fingers the sword at his side thoughtfully. There’s no bringing his brothers back, and Phil is long out of his grasp now. He could search all his life, but he would never find childhood again. There was no safety outside his memories, no warmth beyond the fireplace of his shadowy cabin, no innocence in his blood soaked hands. He could stumble on forever, a vine searching for a wall, and never find a scrap of life that compares to his family as they once were. Whole, together, loving. They were gone, lonely silhouettes to add themselves to his lonely walls.
And in the end, he could forget all of it. He could throw the memories away and move on peacefully. He could leave his grief behind and trudge forward dutifully, diligently, onward and forever. But he would still be left with his hands.
He scrubs them forever and still swears he sees red painting his skin.
Finally, finally, he gathers his thoughts together long enough to strap his gear across his body. Getting ready for a fight is second nature to him, as natural as living and breathing. He forces golden apples and potions in his pack, stocks arrows and pearls. This will be the fight of his lifetime, and Technoblade doesn’t lose.
Technoblade doesn’t die, either. But that’s a horrible truth for another day.
Revenge is a temporary mercy, but it’s one that will allow his blood to settle just a bit. It’ll dampen the roaring in his ears, the pounding in his heart, the rage trembling its way through his limbs.
Technoblade knows exactly who last saw Tommy in his exile, and he knows exactly who uses an axe as their main weapon. He knows exactly who struck the fatal blow to his little brother, a knife in the back to extinguish the brightness. He knows exactly where to go, what to do, and how to end this.
He pauses at the front door, sword draped across his shoulders. How can he possibly end this? An ending is moving on. Moving on is not an option here. Not now. Not to Techno.
He blinks the daze from his eyes and the anger from his brow. If he squints in the doorframe, he can make out the grey headstone sitting at the edge of his property through the snowfall. It’s jarring. It shouldn’t be there. This is not the way the story goes.
Techno breathes in. Breathes out. Reshoulders his axe. Steps through the door.
He thinks, one thing at a time. He knows it’s an impossible feat. It’s all he has.
He thinks, one thing at a time. He knows it’s an impossible feat. It’s all he has now.
He hears of the exile through the crows.
Technoblade should really care more. Tommy is his only remaining brother now, despite all their differences. Techno should do something. Get him back. Protect him in the way he always should have before.
But somehow, perhaps cruelly, he can’t bring himself to produce even an ounce of pity. He wishes it was different. It should be different. If Technoblade was a good brother, a good person, he would rise to the occasion. He would charge in with a fury, swords raised and battle already won.
Technoblade is not a good person, and he’s perhaps an even worse brother.
The loss of Wilbur is too fresh. The grief in his heart is too unbearable. He sits in his little cabin in the tundra and listens to Phil tell the story- the betrayal, the decision, the exile. The crows don’t know where Dream has taken Tommy. Technoblade knows it wouldn’t be too difficult to find out.
But a horrible part of him might think Tommy deserves it. At least for a little while.
Techno knows it’s his own fault. He couldn’t protect Wilbur or Tommy. He couldn’t do what he set out to do, and he’s bitter for it. He’s angry that he failed Wilbur so badly, and he’s resentful that he lost Tommy in the process. He knows that the argument over L’manburg was futile and the fight was pointless. It only served to cleave the two of them apart when they should have been driven together. They both lost a brother to the explosion.
It’s his own fault, but it’s easy to blame Tommy. So he listens to Phil and can’t exactly bring himself to care the way that he should. It might be that he wants to punish Tommy for his own wrongdoings. It might be that he thinks Tommy is strong, stronger than he’s ever been, and will survive it. It might be that it’s Phil that’s telling him, and Techno hasn’t been able to look at Phil with anything but bitterness since that day.
Phil knows it, too. He has the decency to not resent Technoblade for it.
And if Tommy is Theseus then Technoblade is Icarus- always reaching farther, higher, away from the people he loves in search of better pursuits. Never fearing the consequences until it’s staring him in the face. And even during the fall, he doesn’t regret the flight until he hits the ground.
Phil stares at him silently, studying the lack of emotion painting him. There’s something sad in his eyes- the same look that has been there for weeks now. It’s guilty and knowing and terrible. Techno hates it. He thinks he might see the same expression in himself if he could bear to look in a mirror.
“How many apologies are enough?” Phil murmurs across the wooden table. He already looks defeated. His words echo around the empty room, ricocheting off lonely walls and taking up space in Techno’s solitary life.
“Could there ever be such a number?”
Phil sighs at that, dragging a stray hand through the ends of his hair absentmindedly. Technoblade hasn’t offered to braid it since they both retreated to the tundra, and thus the blond locks have hung loosely around Phil’s face. The man refuses to braid it himself- maybe out of grief. Maybe out of stubbornness. Techno doesn’t know, and he can’t bring himself to ask.
Because what exactly could Phil apologize for that Techno is not also guilty of? Phil killed Wilbur, but Techno couldn’t save him before that. He couldn’t protect his brother from himself. And maybe Phil’s sword was a mercy in comparison to the storm that was Wilbur’s mind.
He wonders how life could have come to this. Wasn’t it just yesterday that two brothers were running through the grass, a child on their heels and a protector flying overhead- always watching, always ready to swoop in when needed. He wonders when that time passed by, how it possibly managed to slip away so quickly.
But he knows that’s the wrong question. It isn’t time that passes. It’s Technoblade. It’s Phil. It’s Wilbur and Tommy and everyone else that manages to pass by in the blink of an eye.
And he thinks maybe this was the way it was always supposed to go. Technoblade’s destiny had been predetermined for as long as he could remember, and who’s to say this isn’t just part of the plot? Maybe every version of the story ends up this way- Wilbur dead and Tommy gone and Phil right across from him but still so far away.
There’s a grief settled in his chest that Technoblade has grown long familiar with, but he doesn’t think it has rooted there in his sadness. He thinks he grieves that there is no choice but to go on living this life that has twisted in such a cruel way, that there is nowhere else to go, no other world to choose, nothing else to mourn besides absolutely everything.
They say Technoblade never dies and he thinks that might be a terrible truth. He has done nothing to deserve such a mercy.
“Will you forgive me?” Phil finally asks.
“No.”
“Will you forgive yourself?” Phil tries again.
He stares at the other man and sees himself reflected in a guilty frown. “No,” he answers. It’s the truth, no matter how much he wishes it was different. He could spend a thousand wishes and never be free of his condemnation.
Phil nods like he expected the answer.
Technoblade knows Phil will leave soon. He knows the regret will eat at him until he flees far away, and then Techno will truly be on his own.
He could track down Tommy to save himself from his loneliness, but he thinks he might deserve to be alone. Exile is Tommy’s punishment, and solitude is Techno’s. Things should be different, but they’re not. Technoblade thinks that is the horrible reality of life.
So he sits at a wooden table across the shell of a guilty avian, surrounded by accusatory shadow and cold snow. He sits and waits for something to change, knowing that nothing will. He sits and understands nothing at all.
He’ll find Tommy eventually. When the grief in his heart isn’t so raw, when his anger at Phil isn’t so bare, when he can at least pretend that he’s forgiven himself. For now, though, he thinks Tommy is strong. Stronger than Phil. Stronger than Techno. He thinks Tommy will survive the exile, and he thinks he’ll deal with the consequences of leaving his brother behind at a later day.
And if he’s wrong?
(He will be wrong.)
One thing at a time.