Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tommy is not lonely.

He is alone , yes, but he didn’t think of himself as feeling lonely. The paintings scattering his messy, torn-up walls were always there to keep him company. He created the art with his own bare hands through and through, beginning with the stretching the canvas around the wooden planks, to the final varnishing of the completed piece. He is not lonely.

He sits on the tops of countless hills, just him, an easel, and his skill. Beautifully quiet atmospheres around him, landscapes that beckon and call to be immortalised through the paint. He thrived in it, and he adored the money from too-rich merchants that undersold him. 

The praise was a plus, even if just for a fleeting moment. Some recognition from someone bigger, older, smarter than him. It gave him purpose. It was not pathetic, not even a little bit. How could it be? He had a gift that people flocked towards. Sue him for enjoying it.

That being said, he practically scrambles to every knock on his door. Every face that motions him to work, he happily obliges. Today was no different, even though he was sitting in the middle of his kitchen with an easel already on his lap and a ring on the table that he was trying to get the reflections of just right . 

He jerked a bit too close to the left at the noise, the paintbrush then falling directly onto his knee. The denim of his pants was now splotched with an annoying grey. Fucking God damn it, it’s oil. That shit is never coming out. He trudges to the sound in a bit of a hissy fit, throwing the door open.

There is a knight in his doorway. With shimmering netherite armour across his body. His helmet was turned up, exposing his face to Tommy. He thinks for a moment that it was unusual for him to see the knight's face so directly, but he doesn’t exactly have a basis on the etiquette of knights, seeing as this was the first time he’s ever seen one this up close.

His face was unexpectedly soft. Eyes sloped downwards, as was the rest of him. He didn’t look sad, per se, but he did have an air of exhaustion around him. His shoulders were wide and sturdy, as are all knights. Small, delicate engravings laid across his armour near the collar and wrists. Tommy fixes his posture. Only knights close to royalty have that kind of artistry.

“Hello,” The knight begins, and his voice matches his face. “I am looking for one Theseus Simons?”

 “Uh, I usually go by Tommy. What’s up, big man?” he replies, feigning casual. 

His heart was pounding at the sight of the man. In a totally brave and manly type of way, of course. It seems to work, the knights demeanour lightning for a moment.

“King Eret has requested your presence.” The knight looks him up and down. “Do you need to get dres—?”

“King Eret!?” Tommy guffaws, nearly falling over and eating shit. He catches his balance against the door handle. His mind begins to race, mostly filled with fear, what the fuck . “I haven’t been convicted of any crimes, ‘ave I?”  He asks, because although he does make a good amount of money from his various clients, it's so fun to steal shit from people.

Sure, it's unrealistic that King Eret the Efferecent would care if some seventeen-year-old orphan painter was stealing desserts from the local bakery, but Tommy can never be too sure of what this world will bring to him. The knight shakes his head, but squints at him suspiciously.

“I’ll let their majesty explain when we see them, okay?” The knight says, letting a smile begin to settle across his face. “You should probably wear something a bit nicer. No offence.”

Tommy takes a look at himself in the mirror, and immediately agrees. He lets the man inside as he strides to the clothing line strung across his kitchen. He doesn’t think he has anything nice enough to wear to the market, let alone the King . He settles on a simple white button up that he’d cover the paint stains with his favourite ruby poncho. “So what’s your name, then?”

“Awesamdude, or just Sam. I’m one of the King's personal guards.” He says, turning and taking in Tommy’s small home. The metal of his gloves graze against an opened sketchbook on the counter, and he flips through some of the pages slowly, a look of awe falling across his features.

His chest swells in pride at it. “Well, Sam, could you do me a favour and turn around as I change my pants?”

“Of course.” Sam says, turning around to face the door.

Tommy quickly changes into a new pair of pants, and then shoves his feet into the cleanest pair of shoes that he’s got. “You can turn around now.”

Sam does, nodding at the boy. Tommy shoves a bandana over his head and pulls it to cover his hair. He would attempt to brush it, but he knows from experience that the curls always betray him. Sam motions for him to take the sketchbook, and confusion begins to spread across Tommy’s face. “Why would I need to bring that?”

“You should bring some of your art supplies.” Sam suggests with a knowing glint in his eye. “Do you have a bag to carry it?”

Strange way to avoid the question, but he does as he’s told. He grabs a bag and shoves a plethora of things into it -- Charcoal, pencils, sketchbooks of different textured papers, watercolour. He can't imagine that the King expects him to carry the things needed to make a canvas, so he opts without his beloved oils. He’s still reeling a bit at the fact that the King even knows he exists. 

Maybe this’ll be his most expensive commission yet. If he’s being asked to bring his supplies, certainly this is what the King is asking for. 

Tommy’s mind swirls with ideas. He’s always wanted to paint the careful architecture of the castle, just because of how beautiful and intricate it is. A wicked smile begins to spread across his face as he imagines how hefty of a paycheck he’ll get for creating something for the King personally. His business will certainly thrive afterwards. If the King has something custom made by someone, all of the rich folk want it too. Oh ho ho, this is going to be good .

Sam is waiting for him outside his house, and Tommy follows eagerly. Sam’s armoured horse looks unnatural in Tommy’s little garden, but very beautiful. 

Her snowy hair was a waterfall against her neck as she leaned down and got a mouthful of the sweet grass below. Sam walks up to her and places his hand against her speckled shoulder. “You ready to go?” he asks.

Tommy realises never been on a horse before. He stiffens his face into a deeply serious expression. “I’m always ready,” he says, two octaves lower for emphasis.

Safe to say, he was not ready.

Nobody told him that being backseat on a horse would be so fucking terrifying, and that he would immediately embarrass himself with a squeak as he gripped on Sam’s waist like his lfe depended on it. And Sam had the gall to laugh ?

“Fuck you, you fucking bit— Oh my gods I almost fell off and died.”

Sam is a sicko. He’s laughing at Tommy like this is funny, when it isn't funny at all. He’s almost died, like, five times already and it's only been about ten minutes on horseback. “You have fuckin’ armour and shit so if you fall off, the horse wouldn’t fuckin’ clot you to death with her hooves! It’s not fair.”

“I’ve been riding this horse for six years. I’m not going to fall off, and neither are you.” He says through a titter. This is a shit way of consoling someone. “Just hold on.”

Tommy stares at the cobblestone beneath the horses hooves as they slowly trudge out of the village. Was he getting some strange looks from the townspeople? Yes. But he didn’t care. “She’s gonna crush my head like a fuckin’ watermelon.” He says shakily.

Sam just shakes his head, idly petting the horse as it trots steadily down the cobblestone road. Tommy didn’t live too far from the kingdom’s castle, but it would take a few hours to get there even though the horse was fast. The village was on the poorer, east side of Esempe, but scenic nonetheless.

It was stuffed with people selling the things that it already offered but some couldn’t do, like countless butcher shops and grocery markets filled with berries and vegetables. Tommys profession of art was rare in places like these, and for good reason. There was no market for it here. That is, until the mayor started advertising the place as a tourist attraction a few years back. 

Since then, countless shops have opened up of clothing with cheesy, ugly slogans plastered all over them. What was even worse is that some of the townsfolk actually wore these clothes! Tommy understands a bit, wanting to find some community to be proud of. But it seemed a bit ridiculous when a local wearing a shirt that read ‘ Explore the quiet side ’ was slouched against a dirty brick wall, heaving up copious amounts of liquor outside of a furs shop at ten in the morning. 

Tommy is not one to complain. The raging alcoholics and escaped convicts that shouted and sang throughout the night was part of its charm. To him, at least.

He could do without the pitiful look in some of the rich folk’s eyes as he handed over his artwork though, his face much too young and thin to be anything but a poor orphan, but it usually meant they were going to tip him more, so he doesn’t let it bother him. Well, he tries to not let it bother him. He knows that he is not praised by others because he is who he is, but because his work is damn good..

After a few moments of silence filled only with terrified mutterings of death via hoove clobbering, Sam starts small talk. “When did you start doing art?” He asks, trying to make the grip on his waist loosen. It doesn’t.

Tommy shrugs. “I dunno. Since I was a kid, I guess. Not much else to do when you’re bored.” He replies, not delving into the specifics of adoring the way he can melt away hours at a time, his mind clearing for a while as he falls into a state of complete and utter focus . A focus that can drown almost anything out, including the shouts of matrons and the cries of newborn babies. 

He does not delve into how this focus is the reason why others find him off-putting, as he doesn’t quite know how to articulate in a way that makes sense to others. How maybe, just maybe, this focus is the reason why Tommy doesn’t have any friends.

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re bored most of the time then, hey? You’ve got a real talent.” Sam says. Tommy looks at the back of his neck. His green hair was sprouting from under his helmet, and it curled around the bottom like grass. There was an instinct to tug it that Tommy was only barely holding back.

“Well, you must’ve been bored a lot as well, to be such a high-ranking knight.”

“I… I don't think so,” Sam replies, his voice a little strained. “I was always working towards being this. It took me years to crawl up the ranks. It was all learning a skill. I just got lucky that King Eret liked me enough to choose me to be her head stead.”

Tommy’s eyebrows draw together. “What, you think I was born painting like Mozart or something?”

Sam chuckles. “Mozart wasn’t a painter. I guess you do have a point, though.”

“I always have a point,” Tommy agrees. “I’m the smartest boy in all the universe.”

The knight rolls his eyes at that. “You’re something alright.”

Tommy grumbles an illegible retort under his breath. Sighing, he tries to focus less on the fear and more of the ride. He honestly doesn’t go out too much, despite the lack of anything else to do, so the fresh air felt nice against his face. The sun was beginning to crest lower, and a soft hum of a song was coming from Sam. He sounds tone deaf, but it's more endearing than anything else. Excitement is still fresh in his stomach.

He begins thinking about the things he’ll buy with the King's money. He has a faint idea that perhaps he’ll steal something valuable from them, but quickly dismisses that thought, on the principle of him being quite fond of his head being attached to his neck and not toppling over on the floor. A shiver runs up his spine at the thought, having once read a story about a man who blinked after being decapitated. He wonders if that was a myth.

“Have you ever cut someone’s head off, Sam?’ Tommy asks, watching the clouds darken with the sky.

Sam jumps in surprise, “What?! Why would you ask that!”

“Dunno,” Tommy replies honestly. “Just wondering how long you stay alive for, since everything is cut clean off. You know, there’s this doctor in town who has a scar all ‘round his wrist because his hand got cut clean off in battle, but because the sword was so sharp it didn’t cause too much damage to the important bits. They re-attached the nerves n’ shit. He actually got mobility in his hand! Not a lot, mind you, but still. Fuckin’ nuts that’s even possible.”

“That’s… Neat.” Sam replies as a realisation dawns on him that Tommy might be an insane person. He’s always heard that artists were weird, but he thought it was more in a sensitive kind of way. “And yes, I have cut off someone’s head before, but I’m pretty sure a person dead the second the blade goes through their spine.”

Tommy finds it hard to believe. Sam seems too kind. “Whose head did you cut off?” 

Sam stiffens. He coughs awkwardly. “I, uh, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know whose head you lobbed off? I feel like that's a pretty big thing—”

“Stop talking.” Sam demands, his voice thick. 

He flinches, his jaw immediately snapping shut. He did not ask for him to stop talking, he told him to. It’s an authority Tommy’s all too familiar with. He is sobered by this, his grip a little weaker around Sam’s waist. He knew he was pushing it, being all buddy-buddy with an adult. He should know better by now, but he’s always so susceptible to it. It’s hard not to be, in Tommy’s position.

The knight notices this shift. “I didn’t mean to snap like that. Just… Let’s not talk about that stuff anymore, okay?”

Tommy nods. “I’m sorry.” He says, because it’s the only thing he can think of saying. “I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s a sore spot for me, is all.” Sam says. The shuffling of the horse fills the dense silence. “I used to be… a really different person.”

Conversation dulled out after that. Tommy was partially confused as to why his heart was still beating so fast, even after Sam had acknowledged that he wasn’t in any sort of trouble. It could’ve been nerves. That had to be it. He was going to see the King of the Esempe, and all.

The sky was beginning to bleed out when the silhouette of the castle came into view. Tommy gasps, even in the budding darkness he could still see some of the details of the place. It's larger than he was expecting, which says a lot. He can just make out the shape of it, the intimidating yet beautiful black gates surrounding it, four tall towers dwarfing everything else in comparison. 

Tommy’s mind began to reel at the thought of getting a composition down of it— a bird would be good to fill the white space between the pillars, or perhaps some blooming clouds as the sun set behind it. He’s sure this place would become ethereal looking with a sky the same colour as the roses messily curling around the gates.

That could be an issue if King Eret himself wanted to be in the painting. They would look much too small if everything was to be fitted in, unless the castle would serve as a background to a portrait. Tommy hopes that isn’t the case. No offence to their majesty, but he can't imagine she’s as beautiful as this , no matter the favourable things he’s heard from the townsfolk.

As they cusp towards the castle, unfamiliar faces come into view as well. Sam recognises them, often sharing short nods with fellow knights and other people he knows. Their faces are pulled to confusion at the sight of Tommy, but some share a knowing glance with him. He doesn’t care for that shit at all.

The castle up close was not disappointing. Two guards opened the gates for them slowly, revealing the lush garden and centuries-old, yet still strong and stable architecture. The path was made of mossy cobble, which was surprising and welcome. Tommy loves moss and mould and everything that the earth gives the people who live on her. The horse ceases trotting as they near the door of the castle. Sam slides off of his horse gracefully, then holds out a hand for Tommy to grab onto.

His cheeks warm in embarrassment, but he takes the knight's hand as he gets off the horse. He comes off much less gracefully than Sam did, but still a bit proud that he didn’t immediately fall on his arse. “Is this all there is?” He says sarcastically. “Bit small, innit?”

Sam huffs. “I’m surprised you’re so relaxed. Most commoners are nervous before this kind of thing.”

“There’s something you should know about me, Awesamdude,” Tommy begins with a smile. “I’m not like most commoners.”

The mans face falls to a half bewildered-half amused type look, and this expression pulls at something in Tommy’s chest. He shakes the feeling away. That kind of feeling is reserved for people who are lonely, he thinks. And he is not lonely.

His shoes betrayingly squeak against the floor as he walks directly behind Sam, as if the knight was shielding him from the reality that seems more and more like a fever dream the longer it goes on. 

The castle seems barren, almost. While it is filled with a plethora of delicate furniture and regal curtains, it is empty of people. He keeps biting his tongue filled with snarky remarks. He’s never been one for self-preservation, and he's not good at being quiet.

They pass what feels like countless corridors before they come to the Eret’s throne, and Tommy has asked Sam a million questions as they go by each room— Who lives in here? The King's doctor. Who’s sleeping in here? Her childhood friend. He looks dead. He’s just sick. Who painted this? That’s been there for hundreds of years. Who is it of? Eret’s great-grandfather. Why are his eyes white? Is he blind? I don’t know.

They come to a large red door scattered with handprints laid upon it. Tommy gazes at it in wonder. These are the handprints that go back generations of royalty, under each with their signature beneath the press of their palms. Sam grabs the handle of the door, and opens it before Tommy could begin reading.

King Eret the Efferestent is sitting on his throne. Their clothing is long and imposing; a velvety red dress that cascades to the floor, even from the height of their seat. Long, wide sleeves fall from their wrists as she pushes up the golden bridge of small, circular glasses. The pigment of the glass was so dark that it makes their eyes indiscernible.

“Your majesty,” Sam begins. His voice is almost humorous as he says this, as though calling Eret by their title is not something he does often. This is interesting to Tommy. “I brought the artist.”

The King gives a short wave. “Bring him in.” He says. His voice is deep yet still carries a soft tone. It wasn’t as booming and authoritative as the blond expected it to be.

Tommy steps forward, keeping his eyes to the floral pattern of the tiles on the floor. He bows to the King, his heart pounding in his chest.

Eret tilts their head. “You’re Theseus, the painter?”

“I go by Tommy.” He corrects.

“You’re just a kid.”

“I’m not a kid! That’s very fuckin’ patronizing.” Tommy slaps a hand over his mouth, then winces. “Your gracious majesty.”

Eret, thank Aether, just smirks at his shenanigans. “How old are you, then?”

“...Seventeen.” He responds begrudgingly, heat firing in his cheeks. He feels a bit stupid.

Eret taps their fingers against the arm of his throne thoughtfully, rings shimmering against the fading light. “I was made king at your age.” 

Tommy meets his gaze. Though her eyes are covered by the ebony tint of her glasses, he can tell that they’re making contact. Her face is unreadable. It’s unsettling. He breaks the contact, and his gaze lands on the stained glass windows to his left. The low sun barely surfaces light past, but it still pools colour onto the marbled floor. The design appeared virtually luminescent against it, an image of a single man with his hands raised in the air, a golden circle encompassing him. The man looked as though he was praising the sun.

The King rolls her shoulders. “I have a proposition for you. But I’m not sure if I should tell you about it just yet.”

“Quick question, bossma— your highness , how do you know who I am?” Tommy asks. The question was heavy on his mind the entire ride here, he couldn’t bear to go another moment without knowing.

They shrug. “What can I say? I’m a fan.” Eret replies, blissfully unaware of the insurmountable amount of ego he just bestowed upon the younger boy.

He beams unexpectedly. “Are you really?”

“Yes, I am.” Eret nods, getting up from their seat. “It’s interesting, though. Every merchant I buy your work off of tells me you’re an idiot.”

“The fuck, I’m not an idiot!” Tommy guffaws, too offended at first to notice the king just said that they own his work. It catches up with him. “Wait, did you say you’ve bought my art?”

“I did just say that.” Eret says. Tommy’s never going to live this down. “The merchant’s I speak to, they tell me that you’ll paint for scraps, and then they re-sell your work for quadruple what they bought it for. It didn’t sit well with me.”

Tommy's brows draw together. "That doesn't sit right with me, either." He mumbles.

“I didn’t think it would.” A small, genuine smile spreads across the King's face. It falls on his features as though it rarely sits there. “Why do you undersell yourself?”

Something seems off in the way he phrased the question, and it strikes Tommy that the King was testing him to make sure that he wasn’t the idiot others claimed him to be. He tries to conjure a response that would prove his competence, but ironically it never comes. He squints at the floor. “I need to paint and be paid to live. I don’t fuss over the price, really. As long as I can survive off it, I’m happy.” He replies. When all else fails, he chooses to be honest.

Eret looks thoughtful at this, sharing a short glance with Sam for confirmation of something. “You shouldn’t settle for less than your worth, you know.”

“Well, what would that be?”

“What?”

“My worth.”  He replies. His question is one of genuine interest. “What is my worth to you, my King?”

Her face turns to an unreadable expression, a paleness settling across her cheeks. The emptiness of the room seems too big, then. The darkness of the halls leak into the room, cascades over the throne and the crown that sits on Eret’s head. “I guess we’ll see soon enough.” She responds. “I’m looking to get a few commissions from you. You’ll be paid tenfold of whatever you’re used to, but it will be unlike anything you’ve done before.”

Tommy wants to say, this is already unlike anything I’ve ever done before , but doesn’t want to interrupt their speaking.

The King has a sly look on their face - As though they’ve gauged Tommy enough to know his response. “What do you think about being a biological illustrator for a project that requires you to leave Esempe with two others, and enter possibly dangerous situations?”

His heart pulses in his ears as the words fall upon them, pupils expanding as adrenaline thrums eagerly in his chest, he was made of electricity. There was so much potential he barely knew how to contain himself. For so long, the drive and pull to adventure was quietly lingering in his chest, but an invisible chain had held him back. Eret just gave him the key on a silver platter.

“I think…” Tommy begins, a wide grin blooming across his face. “That this is gonna be fun.”

The King smiles, and the sun plummets below the skyline.

The dew of morning is slick against grass as Tommy walks around the castle the next day, the wind whispering softly against his ears. Eret told him to wake up at the ass crack of dawn so he could meet the other two that would join and guide him on his expedition, with no other sort of elaboration on who these people were, or what they would be doing.

He stops near a tree for a moment to look at a crow that settles there, and the feathered thing tilts its head at Tommy. He pats his pockets flat to show he has no bread to spare, and the crow squawks and flies away. “What a gold digger.” Tommy murmurs to himself.

As he’s rounding the back of the castle where Eret told him to meet for some unforsaken reason, he lets himself be overwhelmed by the castle again. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times he is stricken by the massive thing, it fills him full of inspiration each time.

He sees the back of the King's head before the other two. Her hair was pushed back over her shoulders, the light of the morning sun colouring it a golden hue. The sound of Tommy’s shoe breaking a stick underneath causes her to turn their head to him, revealing the two men standing in front of her.

Eret waves him over. Tommy tries to not let himself be intimidated by the muscle of the shorter man of the two strangers. His pink hair was in a long braid that fell over his shoulder, thick arms crossed below his chest. Where the pink-haired man is looking, Tommy isn’t sure, but it’s not at him. The taller on the other hand, gives Tommy a thumbs up and a kind smile, anticipation radiating off of him. Tommy returned the gesture, making his way up to Eret.

The King looks over at him and puts their hand on his shoulder. “This is the artist I was talking about. I think he’d be the perfect addition to your project.” he says.

“Hello,” The taller man extends his right hand, his left occupied with a large book. “I’m Wilbur.”

“Tommy.” He replies, shaking Wilbur’s hand. His eyes land on yellow flowers curling around a pink braid. “What’s his name?”

Wilbur drops his hand, and nudges the shorter. When he only receives a deadly glare in response, Wilbur sighs. “This is my brother, Technoblade.”

His breath catches in his throat. All at once does he notice the scars across the mans arms and face, the way light hits his eyes and colours it ruby. He asks a question he already knows the answer to. “ Technoblade Technoblade?”

This is amusing to him, it seems, as a small smirk begins to form across his face. Otherwise, Wilbur appears bored. “Yep.” He confirms.

An amazed laugh escapes his throat, completely starstruck. It’s quite funny that he’s having this reaction to an infamous fighter and not the literal king of his country, but he can’t help himself. Technoblade is the stuff of legends. Real legends. The kind that end up where they are from hard work and perseverance, not from privileged bloodlines and long-lasting monarchies.

“Wilbur,” Eret speaks, interrupting Tommy’s ogling. “I’ve left the details of this expedition for you to explain, since you’re the expert in this.”

Wilbur immediately lights up, opening his book to a dog-eared page and turning it towards Tommy. “There’s been some sightings outside of Esempe of otherworldly creatures,” he begins. “I’m talking total freakshows. Multi-legged animals with humanesque faces, wings on creatures never meant to fly, you name it!”

Tommy peers down at the opened page, which lays too-long descriptions of scientific terms that makes his vision spin. He quirks an eyebrow up at the man. “And you want me to illustrate them.”

“Yes, our draughtsman!” He replies eagerly. He seems a bit mad in the head, but his passion is contagious. “I’ve been wracking my brain for ages trying to figure out what’s going on, but the only way to really understand it is if I get in the shit with it.”

Eret shifts uncomfortably at Wilbur’s excitement, a lock of his hair falling in front of his face as he blinks down at their feet. It seems unnatural for someone so dignified to act so scared. The sun shines against the jewels in his crown, a glimmering light. “There are rumours of a sorcerer.” They say, a disgust lacing his tone.

Techno chooses then to be interested in the conversation with a grim expression. His hands twitch at his biceps. Wilbur disregards this as serious as the other two make it out to be. He does not falter at their distaste. “The specifics of how aren’t the point,” He says. “I’m interested in the neurology of it.”

A horror begins to settle against Tommy’s shoulders. “A sorcerer is making monsters.” he whispers in disbelief. “What the fuck, man?”

Wilbur gives a brittle chuckle, running a hand through his hair. He turns through the pages of his book, uncaring of the terror that noises in the air around them like static. At Wilbur's troublesome behaviour, Techno looks at Tommy. There’s almost an apology in it. 

“Nobody will blame you if you don’t want to come.” Techno finally speaks. His voice is flat and low, eyes honest.

Tommy rolls the thought around in his mind for about three whole seconds before shaking his head. "No, I'm not pussying out." He says.

Techno frowns, but doesn't retort. Eret pats him on the shoulder slowly, as though trying to hammer in his answer.

"Good." Wilbur says. Tommy likes the sound of it. "We'll leave at noon. Gather whatever necessities you might need. Do you have a horse?"

He pales. "I don't know how to ride one."

Wilbur waves him off. "That's fine. You'll ride with me."

Tommy realises that he might enjoy having a plan written out for him more than he thought that he would. Maybe it's because this time he chooses it instead of life forcing it onto him. Maybe it's because Wilbur looks at him as though he's valued in a way that he never was before. Either way, Tommy gives the man a two-finger salute and begins trekking back to the guest room Eret so generously let him stay.

"And Tommy?" Wilbur pipes up, just before he's too far to hear it.

He turns to face him, squinting as the sun shines in his eyes. "Yeah?"

"I think we're going to do something extraordinary."

How could he possibly do anything but utterly and completely believe him?

Riding horseback with Wilbur is a lot less anxiety-inducing as riding with Sam. That’s not to say Wilbur is good at consoling his ever-present anxiety whilst being jostled around, they’re both shit in that regard, but Wilbur makes it fun.

Sure, the guy is absolutely off his rocker, but he's nice and he laughs at Tommy's jokes. Techno on the other hand has that too-cool-for-school attitude that makes his reactions to Tommy's antics almost always resulting in eye-rolls, but there's the odd chuckle here and there that makes Tommy surge with determination to make it happen again.

He knows not to trust them, he doesn't let himself get that far, but he can't help but at least like them. He tilts his head as they pass by yellow wheat fields, the evening sun still warm on his cheeks. It's only been a few hours, and there's a good few more to pass through as they travel. He hopes they don't rush, he quite likes it here. Enjoys gazing down at the small blooming red deadnettle that trails just near the road, curling and wonderful.

"After we get near the forest we need to head north." Techno says, barely sparing a glance at the map in his hand. He's titled himself as a 'human compass', something Tommy finds both awesome and bizarre. More than anything, he hopes it's accurate.

Wilbur moves to the side, opening a bag attached to the horse's saddle. He keeps his eyes forward as he slowly pulls a bow from it, and then an arrow. He beckons the horse to stop trotting, fixing his posture and drawing the arrow into the bow precisely. Techno slows behind them.

“What are you doing?” Tommy asks, a little unnerved. He tries to see what Wilbur is aiming for, but his fat head is in the way.

The sound of the arrow cutting through the air makes a thwip sound as it flies, and then it plummets into something. “Getting us lunch.” Wilbur responds, smiling back at Tommy. He quickly shuffles off the horse and into the bright fields, picking up a freshly killed chicken by its wing, unmoving with an arrow straight through the breast; Wilbur is a good shot.

“Oh, wot? How did you even see that?” Tommy asks. Wilbur beams proudly and says something about being top of his archery classes, but Tommy honestly isn't listening. He smiles, but the dead thing twinges something in Tommy. 

The three pause for a moment, tying their horses to a wooden fence that trails the dirt road. There's some dead wheat for them to chew on beneath their hooves, and they relish in it. 

Techno seems to be the more competent of the two. This doesn’t come as a surprise, but it is entertaining. Techno gathers a few sticks and rocks as he sets up a fire pit, then he digs his hand in Wilbur’s bag and pulls out a lighter. Wilbur’s face looks a bit guilty at this, but he doesn’t say anything. When Wilbur asks if anyone brought a pan to cook the chicken with as he’s defeathering it, Techno sighs in disappointment and sets his axe over the pit.

“Have you ever done this?” Wilbur asks, tilting his blade against the feathers of the chicken. Tommy shakes his head. “I can teach you, if you’d like.”

The chicken's head flops to the side, unblinking eyes looking straight at him. Tommy grimaces. He hates death. “It’s a bit gruesome, don't you think?" He replies. 

“Not if you do it the right way,” Wilbur says, shucking his blade against the chicken, feathers swirling as they fall to their feet. “You can nick the thing if you’re not careful, but it’s closer to a haircut.”

“Yeah, a haircut on a dead person. Not gruesome at all.” Techno chimes in, voice monotone. “I actually prefer to be dead when I’m gettin’ my hair cut.”

“It’s life skills.” Wilbur says as he shrugs, dagger pointing directly at Tommy. He scootches back a bit. “But you do need a haircut, Technoblade.”

Techno flicks the lighter under the collection of sticks and wheat, sparks colouring his face orange. “I like it like this.”

“Isn’t it a bit improbable for fighting?” Tommy asks.

“That's a non-issue.” Techno responds. “Nobody gets close enough."

Well, if that isnt fucking terrifying.

Wilbur finishes up soon after that, the chicken's pink skin beginning to warm on top of Techno's wide axe. The three of them sit around campfire-style, and it makes Tommy feel strange. Sure, he’s eaten scraps and stolen meat from butcher shops over flame before, but never really accompanied by others. A comfortable silence fills the space around them, despite the buzzing of a few pesky mosquitoes— damn things are perpetually everywhere.

Wilbur extends a sketchbook and a pencil to Tommy, one that's still new, and Tommy gives him a strange look. Wilbur nods forward, and Tommy follows his gaze. Technoblade has his head in one palm, and a stick in the other, poking at the chicken. Tommy holds in a laugh.

One of, if not the most renowned fighters in the entire world is sat across from him, poking a dead chicken like a child. He begins sketching him onto the page, focusing on the general figure of him. Hunched over wide shoulders, ankles crossed. He can focus on the small things later, like the way his eyes are half-lidded as he stares into the fire, or how his belt buckle has the image of a pig in it.

Perhaps he’d even paint it with watercolour later on. Techno’s long, cherry-blossom coloured hair falls over his eyes in long streaks, he’d imagine it would be fun to do. Fire always lures colour into vividness, and the man looks as though he is made of fire itself. A part of Tommy thinks that maybe he is.

Techno notices Tommy’s flickering gaze after a beat. “Are you drawin’ me?” He asks, lifting his head from his palm. Tommy wants to curse him for moving.

“Yes, so be a good model and be still.” He says quickly, dragging his eraser across a too-dark line and swiping away the shavings. Wilbur’s been staring at his page this entire time. It’s stressing him out. He's not used to being seen.

Techno raises his eyebrows, but compiles. He’s looking at Tommy now, too, which is all wrong. He looked peaceful, looking into the flames. When he looks at Tommy his expression changes. 

He’s a very guarded man, and the entire reason Wilbur motioned him to draw his twin like this was because he looked almost vulnerable. Tommy huffs, going off his memory for the slope of his eyelids and the tired expression whilst it’s still fresh in his mind.

Wilbur tilts his head. “How did you…” He tries to find the right words. He can't. “Get him?”

“His likeness?” Tommy tries.

He shakes his head, brown curls flopping against his forehead. “His heart.”

That’s a bit dramatic. He’s not quite sure how to answer. Techno leans forward, as if trying to peek over the paper. “Do I look cool?” He says pathetically. It strikes Tommy that he’s saying it sarcastically, but it falls flat because of course he looks cool. He's Technoblade, for Gods sake.

“You look how you look when no ones looking.” Wilbur responds, then exhales. “Try saying that ten times fast.”

“He didn’t mean it literally.” Techno cuts in as Tommy opens his mouth to try. He takes his axe off the fire and sets it on a log. “Chicken is done.”

The chicken is… Well, it’s edible. He’s had worse, but he’s certainly had better. The leg he sunk his teeth into was unseasoned, as was the rest of the chicken, because who would’ve thought to bring seasoning on a road trip? Not these three.

It’s a mess. But his belly was full and when he showed Techno the drawing he did, the man muttered a praise that looked like it pained him to say. If he has nothing, he at least has that. He follows Wilbur back on the horse, and tries not to die from boredom.

It’s not a terrible thing to be bored, knows it’s intrinsically a privilege to feel. This does not change how it sinks into his bones and drags him, like he fell off the horse and was being pulled by only his fist around the tail with dirt in his mouth. Him and Wilbur attempted to play a few old games to pass the time, none of which did the pink-haired man ever join. Christ, he’s antisocial.

Wilbur isn't though, and for that Tommy is very thankful. He pesters and pokes and prods at the man like all hell, and he hasn’t yet gotten annoyed by it like everyone else does after a few minutes. It’s kind of freaking him the fuck out, if he’s being honest, but whatever. 

Wilbur’s a bohemian and a weirdo. He talks about everything and nothing at the same time, a bunch of factoids about biology and neurology and a bunch of other ology-ies. Tommy knows fuck-all about any of it, but at least it’s somewhat interesting and makes him want to turn his brain into a melsh pulp less.

He learns some interesting things from their conversations, like how if you measure yourself in the morning and at night, you’ll be taller in the morning because the cartilage in your bones compress from gravity throughout the day. Or that one person's blood vessels could circle the entire globe. Or that sometimes when you listen to music, your heart will sync with the rhythm. That one seems too poetic to be true, but Wilbur seems to know what he’s talking about, so he believes it.

He’s been doing that a lot, recently. Believing. Something about Wilbur makes it easy to. He reckons it's something in his expression when he speaks, as though the words he says are a secret he’s admitting for the first time, like it’s something sacred and true. Maybe it's passion. His choice of phrasing, the images he conjours. 

He talks like he’s had the time to think about it, even if it’s a random, silly question Tommy has wondering how people don't feel the microscopic mites on eyelashes. To which, the answer is given with wide eyes and a fairytale tone, they’re too small to feel! But they’re alive and they’re moving!

It both grosses him out and makes him feel an indescribable amount of happiness. The fact that he is alive, and there are alive things living on him. 

No matter how small they are, he thinks they’re important. He wonders if they know he loves them. He wonders if (hopes, pleads, begs) something out there feels the same way about him, too.

The trees surrounding them get thicker and thicker until they're at a crossroads, and Technoblade leads them north. It’s quieter here, somehow. The forest is so huddled together that it’s unlikely there’s many big things that can fit past the crevices of woods. 

It’s still eerie, though. The huffs and puffs from the horse is the loudest sound, along with the crushing of leaves and sticks as the wide road turns into a path; Techno in front, Wilbur and Tommy behind. He looks up, the parting of trees leaving a sliver of the sky wide enough for Tommy to just see the shapes of the clouds as they roll past. They’re pale and flat, and they tell him that they will not rain.

“I don’t think we’ll make it to the village in time.” Techno says. “We need to figure out if we want to travel after it gets dark or set up our tents now.”

Wilbur’s throat makes a noise. “I’m not sure if I want to sleep in the forest”

“Agreed, but it’s dangerous to travel after it gets so dark.” Techno turns halfway to them.

“They’re both shit options. Why didn’t we leave earlier if this was going to be an issue?” Tommy asks, his fist balling up some of Wilbur’s cloak.

He’s afraid of sleeping in the woods. He’s never done it before. Back in his town, the streets are long and the alleyways are longer; there’s brick walls and old stained mattresses, a fire in a garbage bin to keep the other homeless warm. He hasn’t been homeless in a few years, but he remembers it well. It might be strange to prefer sleeping in a skinny alley in a street rather than on the side of a dirt road in a tent, but he can’t help it. The streets are familiar.

Sometimes he’d wake up to a kind stranger pressing a sandwich into his hand in empathy, other times he’d wake up with less change in his pocket than when he fell asleep. These options are both better to him than the prospect of sleeping in the woods, especially knowing that there’s supposed to be unnatural creatures lurking in the shadows. He shudders.

Techno sighs a long, drawn-out thing. “I didn’t exactly calculate that we were goin’ to stop and eat. I only accounted for a couple bathroom breaks.”

“That was fucking stupid, then.” Tommy says. “We should just travel as it gets dark. Find our way to the village, and sleep there.”

“It’s risky to stop here, but there’s nothing to be afraid of.” Wilbur says, attempting to calm some of Tommy’s nerves.

It fails. “If there’s nothing to be afraid of, why is it risky?” Tommy retorts, rolling his eyes. Wilbur must think him simple. He turns away from them, eyes behind the horses, watching the path slowly fade into the forest.

“He’s got you there.” Techno says. “Both of our options are… Not great.”

“And whose fault is that?” Wilbur asks, jutting his hands out in front of him, exasperated. “Who the fuck doesn’t consider eating?”

Techno clenches his jaw. “You’re the one who wanted to leave this week. We were practically scramblin’ to get all our things.”

“Uh...Guys?” Tommy taps at Wilbur’s shoulder.

The man pays him no mind. “Because you said you had a timeline set out! We could’ve waited until tomorrow morning if it meant we didn’t have to sleep in the creepiest fucking forest ever!”

“Wilbur, be real. If I told you that this expedition had to wait another second you would’ve bit me.”

“Bit you?!” Wilbur barks incredulously. “When have I ever–?”

Techno glares, eyes zoning in on Wilbur. 

“You’re still mad about that? Aether, Techno!” Wilbur laughs with no humour. There’s a lot to unpack there.

“Guys?” Tommy tries again, a little more frantic this time.

Techno scoffs. “You left a scar, a permanent scar, and didn’t even apologise.”

“Fuck, you keep a grudge!” Wilbur swears. “We were, like, fourteen!”

Techno brings a hand up to his ear. “Oh what’s that? Huh, that’s weird, I don’t hear an apology comin’ out of your mouth right now, but that can’t be right.”

“Prime,” Tommy mutters. He takes in a deep breath and does what he knows best. He screams. “Guys! There’s a fucking– thing behind us!”

The horses halt. The twins jerk their heads to look, and there it is. The creature.

It’s shaped like a person, but it’s heaving as it crawls to them, hands and feet on the floor, scrabbling. Techno jumps off his horse swiftly and unsheathes his sword from his belt. The creature's eyes are… Pleading, almost. Its face is animalistic, pokes out like a wolf, razor teeth and too-long hair covering its shoulders. It’s hand – a furry, human thing – reaches towards them.

Tommy squabbles to Wilbur, who clings him closer. Their breaths become laboured in fear. The creature makes a pained noise, something between a howl and a cry, and it sounds like it hurts. Like the vocal cords are frayed and torn and ruined. Frothing at the mouth, white spit drooling out onto the dirt below. There’s a shirt loosely hanging around its shoulders. It seems to be blue, but it’s stained with blackened, reddish mud almost so completely that the original colour of the fabric is nearly indecipherable. 

Techno points his sword towards the thing, but doesn’t move to kill it yet. He sends a questioning look at Wilbur, then at the creature. It doesn’t move, completely frozen. Techno falters. The eyes are so… So…

“Is that a fucking person?” Tommy whispers, terrified. It’s impossible. It’s unimaginable. Wilbur’s arm wraps around his chest and squeezes them flush together so Tommy’s back is against his side, his shaking breath echoing in his ear. Everything else is silent. 

The air feels dead. As though the birds stopped chirping, as though the globe stopped spinning on axis and everything has ceased altogether. Time has stopped completely, leaving them in a void empty of humanity, empty of everything. It’s Tommy with two strangers and a monster that has tears and saliva running down its mutilated face.

The creature motions forward, hand grabbing at the blade of Techno’s sword. Techno steps back, about to yank it away, until the thing brings the point up to its throat. Another noise rips from its broken voice; one that sounds a lot like begging.

“What…” Techno’s voice is thick with nerves. His shoulders are raised. Fear is not normal for him. He doesn’t know how to feel it.

Wilbur swallows. Tommy looks up at him. Wilbur’s eyes and hair are wild, hand on Tommy’s collar trembling. There's something else in there. Something akin to fascination, it twists in his gut. 

“Do it,” Wilbur is quiet when he says this. “It wants you to.”

Tommy closes his eyes. He can’t look, he can’t. He hears it anyway. In some ways, that only makes it worse.

The sound of a blade slicing through skin and meat, a scream of some sort; a mixture of pain and relief, all at once. A horrible, horrifying sound that Tommy hopes he’s lucky enough that he’ll never have to hear again. 

The sound of its legs going slack and its body hitting the ground, the weight. The atmosphere around them let's go, gets looser. There’s one less breath in the air. A terrible part of him thinks, at least it wasn’t alone. The comfort is fleeting.

It’s so quiet. So quiet it feels as though silence is stuffing his ears like cotton, like nothingness surrounds him.

A hand is on his cheek. He flinches away from it. It returns, softer. “Hey,” A whisper emerges from the cotton. “Hey, you can open your eyes now. It’s dead.”

“I don’t want to see it.” He says, and it comes out shakier than he thought it would. Embarrassment pricks at his cheeks. The arm around his chest goes slack and pulls away. Tommy knows he must look ridiculous, still as a statue with his eyes tightly shut, but he doesn’t care. Wilbur turns him so he’s facing forward again.

“I have a tarp in my bag. Put the body on the back of your horse, Tech.” His voice is void of all the things Tommy feels. He is reminded that he doesn't know Wilbur, not really. Not yet.

Techno doesn’t speak. Tommy wants to puke. He can feel the heat of bile in the back of his throat. Swallows the feeling down, a mantra of don’t be a pussy, don't be a pussy barely holding him together at the seams. 

He doesn’t open his eyes. He hears the sound of Techno rolling the body in tarp, the sharp crinkles. He hears Techno huff a small strain as he lifts the tarp. Hears the sound of dirt beneath his boots as he passes them. Hears the weight of the creature settling on the back of the horse as he binds the body to the rear. Tommy wonders how the horses didn’t startle at the monster. Maybe they thought it was human, his mind supplies. It’s too harrowing to comprehend.

Everything was so lovely only moments ago. How is it possible for things to change so drastically?

“I guess we’re heading to the village, then?” Techno asks. Tommy wants to scream. He doesn't. His nose pressed flat between Wilbur’s shoulder blades ground him.

“Yeah.” Wilbur replies. “Yeah, we’re going to the village.”

The sky has well since blackened when Tommy opens his eyes again. He talked and talked the entire way there despite this. He isn’t sure how much time has passed since the encounter with the creature, too busy focusing on anything but. His heart has quieted, the overwhelming feeling of blood rushing past his ears now bearable. He let his words carry him into absurdity.

Absurdity is a wonderful, bright thing that Tommy frequently finds refuge in. He goes into it hearty and vulgar, loose ideas that he pulls from nothingness and stretches until it snaps against the middle of his palm, leaving his skin red and raised. It’s underrated in its effectiveness to drive the mind, to delve away and into itself. In the absurdity, he can control when he thinks things, things he can sort through and move away from if he thinks it not interesting enough.

He’s pretty sure Techno’s checked out of the conversation completely, only popping into Tommy’s ramblings periodically with uhh’s and what are you guys even sayin’ anymore-s. Wilbur is the opposite, engaging enthusiastically to Tommy’s slightly-worrying rambes. There seems to be a theme there, the twins being black and white in their differences. 

Some things are the same. Tommy almost immediately noticed that they are both intentional with their words, and the way they decide to use them. He envies this trait, though in this the twins are still different – Wilbur speaks nearly every thought in his head with eloquent, borderline poetic diction. He cares for every thought, every emotion he feels and thinks as though they are all equally important. He carves a story chock-full with emotion and sensitivity, even when short and concise (he recalls Wilbur telling him, as they trekked across the border of Esempe:  “Techno and I aren’t blood, instead we share a heart.”, and Tommy felt something that can only be described as ripping).

Techno is quiet. His voice summons attention because he uses it sparingly. He is to the point and deliberate. He doesn't make his motivations or feelings known, shadowing them with his dry humour and confidence. This is not to say he is emotionless, while Tommy hasn’t seen much of it, it’s obvious he cares. It shows in the way he doesn’t hesitate to promise protection, doesn’t hesitate to pass Wilbur a bottle of water after he notices the taller man hasn’t drank in a while, doesn’t hesitate to speak on what he thinks is the right thing to do even if it's controversial. He is quietly gentle with the horses, quietly gentle with Wilbur. 

A part of Tommy pulls him to this, to become one of the things Techno is quietly gentle to, but he pushes the want away. He doesn’t handle rejection well, so he will not give it a chance for it to bloom into the poisonous flower it is destined to become.

With the sky the colour of coal as the blond finally opened eyes, Technoblade leads them to a gate that opens up to the northern village known as Snowchester. While it is summertime, it’s as though Snowchester is in its own pocket of the universe with the way the temperature shifts. From mellow summer night weather to holy-shit-my-hands-are-going-to-fall-off cold. 

It’s the kind of cold that cannot go unspoken, must be shouted and sworn at, hands wrapping around shoulders as you curse Old Man Winter’s name. There is no snow laid across below their feet though, instead the dirt is frozen solid.

A short man with a cigar in his mouth and an eyepatch over an eye greets them amicably, and when he charms them with a grin some of his teeth are dripped with brilliant golden caps. He is not dressed for the weather, an undone bow tie around his neck, suspenders holding up black dress pants. 

Despite this, he looks comfortable. “Fellas,” The man says. His voice is sharp, the singular eye available to view a deep black colour. “It’s a pleasure to have you. Make sure you tell the King I said that too, hey?”

Wilbur dips his head to the man. “Your generosity will not go unnoticed in the kingdom, Mayor Q.” He replies, though his tone is swift and unenthusiastic.

Mayor Q, who Tommy had not once heard of before, takes the cigar out of his mouth. Smoke drips from his lips and curls up past his face. 

He smells of tobacco and money. “If I’m honest, your reputation precedes you two. I’ve heard many things. Good things, bad things. Just things.” He says, shrugging. “Who’s the kid?”

“For fucks sake, I’m seventeen.” Tommy huffs. Mayor Q squints, unrelenting. 

Wilbur tilts his palm, as though presenting him. “This is Thesus Simons, or Tommy. You know the–”

“–The painter. No shit.” the Mayor interrupts with a sly smile. He waves his hand, motioning them to follow. They comply, mimicking the smoke trail he leaves behind. “This project you guys have going on is very secretive, you know that? The letters I got back from General Sam were very vague.”

Techno hums. “That's the government for you.” He says, attempting to shut down Q’s inquisitivity. If Q notices this, he doesn’t show it.

“Yeah, well. I’d like to be in the know, even if you can’t tell me all the nitty gritty details. This is my village. What can I say? I’m protective.” He replies, glancing back at the trio. 

It strikes the three of them that his demeanour is a performance, the Mayor fiddling with cuff links that have the village’s flag colours on it. He leads them down a dirt road to a stable where they can put their horses.

Wilbur is interested. He’s got a suspicion that the man’s patriotism runs a bit deeper than the surface he’s showing, and he finds it compelling. “You seem like an honest man,” He says, and it’s sarcastic. “But if I’d told you what we were doing, I’d have to kill you. Realistically, Technoblade would have to kill you, but you get the point.”

Q’s eye flicks towards the pink-haired man in recognition. He rolls his shoulders, straightens his posture. His expression is recognisable; he’s bracing himself for something. A frown tugs at his false perpetually-smirking face, and it settles across his features like it’s an old friend. “I do get the point." 

"Good! Could you show us where we'll be staying?" Wilbur chirps, hopping off the side of the horse. 

The Mayor grimaces at Wilbur's height. He breathes in deep, the act washing over his mannerisms again. “You’re right near a lake. It’s beautiful in the mornings when it just begins to frost over. I’m sure Tommy would like that sort of thing.” Q says, eying the boy. 

Tommy hops off of the horse, steadier now. He’s getting better at it. Techno doesn’t get off his though, steering his mare to continue following. It’s only then that Mayor Q notices the very obvious dead body wrapped up in tarp on the back of it. He stiffens, Wilbur's words seeming much more of a threat than the joking prod it originally came across as.

The youngest averts his eyes away from the dead thing. They walk quietly across the village. Homes are more frequently cottages and dirt shacks than anything extraordinary. He cannot imagine Mayor Q living in any of these places, but it seems to be the case. Not many townsfolk are out tonight, people coming few and far between. 

People that are around are weary, fluttering gazes and introverted body language. If things like otherworldly creatures are common, he can’t blame them. Childrens toys laid haphazardly on top of lawns, forgotten bikes and scooters rested up against stone steps. He isn’t sure if this is comforting or the opposite. 

Q is not as talkative since he’s seen the tarp. Tommy tries to spark up conversation, but the man’s responses are short and final. He is still questioning, though. Asks Tommy about where he’s from, what his mothers name is. Tommy thinks he asks these things because he knows that he wont have an easy answer. It’s cruel of him.

The man snuffs the bud of his cigar underneath this boot, tilting on his heel and displaying a small cottage in front of a pier. He was right; Tommy appreciated the view. He pushed his dark hair behind his ear. “Mi casa es tu casa. I hope you three find what it is you’re looking for.”

Q turns, then his firm hands land on Tommy’s shoulders, and his gaze is so heavy it almost looks through him. “Tommy,” He begins, his voice breaking from the previous inflection. This is real, now. The show is gone. “If you ever want out of this, you tell me, okay? This is not your obligation.”

“Okaaay?” Tommy replies, taken aback. The sentiment is nice, sure, but he’s too busy being freaked out to notice. Q’s look is restless, attempting to show that his words are genuine. Unsettling, to say the least.

Tommy steps away, and turns to enter the house. Wilbur gives him a deranged look for some reason, as though he had somehow prompted that weird interaction. He was the first to enter the home, immediately greeted by a grey living room that had a few chairs surrounding a fireplace. It was cute to imagine, the three of them huddled around it. Seemed impossible, but a cute idea at least. He kicked his shoes off his socked feet to explore the rest of the home.

The layout wasn’t too far off from Tommy’s shack, one floor, low roof, open concept. This one was much less lived in, that was obvious enough, but it wasn’t too different. He could work with this. His hands trailed down the wall of a hallway, enjoying the texture of old white paint against the tips of his fingers. On his left there were two doors, and on the end of the hall there was a third on the right. All of these were bedrooms.

He prefers the first room. He slugs his bag onto the bed and lets himself breathe around the room. The closet is empty, a sheen layer of white dust sits on top of the bedside dresser, the bed’s blankets are heavy and almost stiff. It’s lovely. 

Tommy trails back to the kitchen just in time to see Techno hurl the body on the table with a loud thud. The thing’s hand rolls out from the tarp and limps off the table. Techno doesn’t notice this, moving past Tommy to scope out the halls.

The hand is human. His eyes are locked. He takes a step forward and despite himself, he reaches out, just for a moment. It’s dead now, it can’t hurt him. His palm meets the creatures. Its skin feels thick and calloused and like a person. He slots their fingers, an act of kindness that feels foreign to him. He knows it's pointless to be kind to a corpse, but it has to be worth something, somewhere, to someone.

He stays there for a while, unwilling to move. Strange, to be emotional like this. He feels an incredible amount of sympathy. A person's hands are usually what they see most of themself, without reflection and without the covering of cloth. Many people feel as though they can recognise their hands faster than their face. If this was a person (and there is a deep, dreadful, sinking feeling that this is), what an awful fate to lose something as sacred as your humanity.

“I’m sorry.” Tommy says. He does not know why he’s apologising, only that he’s got this feeling that it’s his responsibility. He needs to know how this happened to prevent it from happening to others. Tommy knows that despite his experience, there are kind people in this world.

He thinks of a boy in the orphanage, curly hair and a wild smile, Tommy’s first and only friend. He would’ve shat himself if he met Techno. Tommy laughs to himself at this. Outside the window, the lake begins to still as it freezes over. His friend would’ve made such a great knight.

Mayor Q said this was not his obligation, but he disagrees. If he has the chance to change this from happening to anybody else, then he’s going to take it. He has to, simply because it’s the right thing to do. He is determined to be good.

Chapter Text

“Well look who crawled out of his coma!” Wilbur squawks, much too loud for how early it is. “I checked on you at twelve and was scared you died. But no, our little maverick was simply getting his beauty sleep.”

“That's why I get so many women. Countless, countless women. I’ll kill you.” Tommy says as he sleepily smacks his mouth, squinting at the clock that hung over the kitchen sink.

Oh hell, it’s well into the afternoon. Prime almighty. He’d forgotten how dependent he is on his little red alarm clock.

Technoblade hums as he chews on a raw potato the way one would eat an apple. He sits on a wooden kitchen chair, throwing his foot over his knee to zip up his boot. What an odd sight to see. 

Speaking of sight — There’s currently no dead body on the table as there was the night before.

“Where’s the… thing at?” Tommy asks, swinging his arms. He makes his way to the open window, curling his hands over the ledge and pushing his head through. The cold is much milder today, but it still sends goosebumps over his arms and stings his nostrils.

Wilbur leans against the counter to look at his face. “About that. Tommy, you wouldn’t even open your eyes yesterday. I thought I made it clear what I wanted you to do here.”

“Wha?” Tommy tilts his head, inquisitive. “No– No, I am! It was just a lot for me to handle right at that moment. I didn’t exactly know that the creatures you wanted me to illustrate would be fucked-up people.”

The brunet sighs, a frown pulling at his mouth. “We don’t know if they’re human, but that’s fair. I didn’t warn you well enough that we’d be having some lovecraftian monsters around, that’s on me. I apologise.”

“Do you think you can handle it now?” Techno asks. “Because I moved it to the living room couch and I kinda want to bury it before the stink is permanent.”

Tommy leans away from the window. “Oh.” He breathes. Can he handle it now? He thinks of his shallow breath against his collar, the throb of his heart in his throat.

Only one way to find out.

“Let me get my shit from my room.” He replies, turning on his heel and going straight back from whence he came. He digs around his bag and pulls out his pencils, ink, and his favourite fountain pen for lining.

He smiles as he twirls the pen around his fingers, then hauls a fat sketchbook into the crook of his arm. He shoves a pencil behind his ear and trails back out. There is orange juice and a slice of toast with jam waiting for him on the table.

Techno sits across it. "I'm headin' out. Gonna try and scope out the place for some information." — He nudges the plate with his knuckles. — "Eat this. It's not a lot, but I promise I'm a better cook than Wilbur."

Tommy blinks at him. "Weren't you the one who cooked the dry ass chicken?"

"Eh," Techno shrugs. "That's a technicality. Was I the one that put it over the fire? Yeah. But I promise you I've got real skill , okay? I'm a cookin' god ."

The blond hums sarcastically, slowly nodding. "Yes, I'm sure this slice of toast with strawberry jam is going to change my life."

"Mind blowin'. You'll never be the same."

"I'd expect nothing less from you, Technoblade."

Techno bares his teeth in what Tommy suspects is supposed to be a smile, but it looks more like a grimace than anything else. He gives a short nod and goes out the back door.

Tommy stares pointedly at the toast for a moment, then absolutely demolishes the thing in a few seconds. It wasn’t incredible, but the fresh jam and golden toast was a sweet gesture that he isn’t used to. He sets the plate aside in the sink, and sets his back straight. Then the dread comes.

He knew what he was getting himself into, truly. He isn't completely draft. But alas, the dread still comes, and it feels like it's supposed to be unexpected. He crosses his fingers as he walks past the wall blocking his sight from the inevitable.

The first thing he sees is Wilbur prying open the wolven mouth with gloved hands and a masked face, tapping the thing’s teeth with the back of a pen as he counts each individual one. Its head is limp as the skull rests on Wilburs knee. His eyebrows drawn together.

“Hi.” Tommy says.

Wilbur jerks up, startled by Tommy’s presence. He hesitates, passing Tommy a mask for the smell. Prime, it reeks.

“Twenty-eight teeth.” He says, like that’s supposed to mean something. His thumb presses deeper into the thing's mouth, putting pressure on the gums. His expression plummets. “Thirty-two. Wisdom teeth haven't come in yet.”

Tommy shifts his weight nervously. “What’s that mean?”

He takes a deep breath in, then a short exhale. His gloved hands cup the creature's face. “It means that your hypothesis may have some meat to it. People have thirty-two teeth.”

“C’mon, Wilbur. The thing’s very obviously some kind of human.”

“Humanoid. Not necessarily human. I'm going to pry a couple of these chompers out. Can you put the teeth into the jars on the counter? Don’t worry about the labels, I’ll sort them out later.”

This is so fucking grotesque. It’s also a little bit cool, but Tommy feels guilty for that. Wilbur pulls out a pair of pliers from his jacket pocket (which, side note, what the hell ), and Tommy sits impatiently as the teeth pile onto the counter with soft plunks. He brings each tooth out to the kitchen and rinses them with water, then drops them into the small glass bottles. They all have a yellowed-blank label on them, waiting to be correctly sorted.

Then the good stuff comes, Wilbur instructing him to first draw the entire body, and then more detailed works of the hands, eyes, shoulders, feet, and ears. Anything that could be of importance. It would be much more difficult if Tommy didn’t completely sever his reality from his work.

It's a certain state of focus that can double as a kind of complete depersonalisation, to become unaware of his surroundings. There is only him, paper, his tools, and anatomy. He is familiar with it, has studied it for a long time. From his own mirror to nude models that he was lucky enough to convince and shit-talk his way through despite his age. There is no beast in front of him, there are only shapes and curves, there is only skin, hair, muscle, and eyes. 

Dark, lifeless, desperate eyes. Fur clumping together above the thorax where blood has drained and dried on the skin. The skin he listened to as it was torn apart. The smell.

Focus. There is no monster. Think in shapes and measurements. Draw what you see, not what you know. He’s read that before, a long time ago. He needs to change it. Draw what you see, not what you feel.  

He forces himself to think: Right now, you are a draughtsman, not an artist.

Wilbur sneaks looks between taking notes of the physicality that he witnessed, the way it moved and sounded. He mentions something about taking a look to see if the vocal cords would still be intact and Tommy shudders. Wilbur compliments his inking style to suppress this, the encouragement that does not go unheard. Tommy persists.

They’re sitting around a dead body for hours, small mutterings and loose threads of a conversation. It's rounding on six hours when Wilbur forces himself to take a break, tapping Tommy on the shoulder and telling him to come with. He nearly objects, being in the middle of cross hatching underneath some ribs with his fountain pen, but then reality comes back with an air of exhaustion and he eagerly obliges.

Wilbur chucks Tommy’s jacket to him as he explains that they deserve to go out and get lunch, shaking a small baggie of golden coins side to side. He holds a toothy smile, but Tommy can tell he's a bit exasperated from working too. 

They both shove off their masks as they leave, basking in the fresh freezing air. Wilbur tugs a beanie over his head. Tommy thinks he should probably get something similar.

He's sure that they must reek of death, but he can’t quite see it in him to be arsed into doing anything about it. He chatters about the texture of the dry dirt as they walk down the roads, slowly making their way to the centre of the village. A few old shops in their path, a glass-windowed cafe shop Wilbur looks much too eager about. They find themselves going there first.

The inside had a nice atmosphere, chocolate-brown walls with hanging lanterns, a piano in the corner. It looked too fancy for the warn-in village it was settled at, but it wasn’t like anyone was going to start complaining. He follows Wilbur as the man’s hand traces the walls, tilting his head to the side to get a look at him. “You drink coffee?” He asks.

Tommy shakes his head. “Smells awful.”

The taller waves his hand dismissively. “It’s good that you don’t, honestly. What about tea?”

“Tea’s nice. I like green tea, I think.”

Wilbur smiles. “A man with taste. I’ll get us some, go find a seat and I’ll come back with it.”

Tommy rings his hands together, nodding. He turns the corner as Wilbur walks up to the bar. Looking for a seat is an important job. The window seats would be optimal, people-watching is always a fun activity. Plus, the booth seats are more fun than the regular one-person chairs.

He slides across the puffy seat, falling back to lay on it completely. The roof is a smooth dark oak wood with white support beams running across it.

He breathes a long breath, but doesn't let his mind settle. Soon enough there is weight next to him and a cup being pressed into his hands.

Tommy brings his nose up to the mug and laughs at the smell of green tea flooding his senses. It’s beginning to become terribly difficult for him to keep his guard up, to ignore all the lessons and lesions of his life that he previously learned. 

There's a chance that this is a good thing, but the alternative is much more practical and a lot more painful. Wilbur’s tongue sticks out as he stirs his coffee.

“You’re a real weirdo, you know.” Tommy says.

Wilbur looks horrified. “Coming from you… Wow.”

He scoffs. “Oh, fuck off.”

“ Me , fuck off?” Wilbur snorts. “ You, fuck off!”

Tommy opens and closes his hands as he mocks Wilbur’s voice. The gesture is deeply childish and immature. Wilbur just giggles, taking a sip of his coffee. The edge of his mug clicks against the table as he sets it down.

“I ordered some soup and sandwiches, it should be coming soon.”

Tommy’s stomach growled. “Can I have some?”

Wilbur’s eyebrow quirked up. “Um, yeah. I ordered soup and sandwiches for both of us.”

“Oh, well. You didn’t say that.” He crosses his arms across his chest.

“Why would I just randomly mention what I got to eat before it even came?”

“I dunno.” Tommy replies, feeling a bit stupid. “Like I said, you’re weird.”

The eyeroll he receives as a response is record breaking. It looked like it hurt, even.

Tommy sits up in a fit, his shoulder bumping the brunets, causing Wilbur’s arm to wobble and some of his coffee to splash out of his mug, right onto the seat. Tommy grimaces. Wilbur doesn’t mention it, simply grabbing at a napkin and sweeping the liquid up.

Oh. A thought begins to form at that. The kind of thought that comes without permission. It's a simple action, — The silent wiping of the coffee on the seat — that action changes things. It makes him think: Wilbur is easy.

But there’s more to that. Easiness is not something that comes commonly, and not in this form. Easiness is letting the sun warm him up in the mornings. Easiness is biting into a free cinnamon roll given to him by a kind-hearted girl who runs the bakery, just south from the orphanage. Easiness is finally moving into his home. Easiness is safe.

Tommy is not used to people being safe. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. He sits stiffly, uncomfortably, unable to comprehend what this means for him. Unable to comprehend what this means for their work, what they will do after this is all over.

The image of tanned skin and curly hair conjures in his mind. Standing hip-to-hip, hand to hand, heart to heart. Fondness of the moment clouded by a bittersweet breaking. He cannot lose this. Not again.

Wilbur is ignorant to all of these thoughts. He has no clue that he has won the younger boy’s trust. He doesn't know that Tommy has very simply, and very finally, decided that he will not lose him. He doesn't know of the weight that has been shakily placed in his hands, a young boy with a clenched jaw and a bleeding heart on his sleeve.

To Tommy, Wilbur is safe. And ironically, that makes him dangerous.

Midnight begins to creep closer to the horizon, their faces becoming lit by flickering streetlights and yellow candles. Three rounds of coffee, two bowls of soup, and four slices of various sandwiches pass them by fleetingly. They are both still tired from working. But, it’s quite difficult to feel upset when there is bread in your belly.

Wilbur tilts his head in thought, a mannerism that’s becoming increasingly familiar. “I wonder what dear old Techno is up to.” He puts forth, stuffing his napkin into his emptied mug.

“I hope he’s sitting in the kitchen, just having to deal with the smell.” Tommy says, stuffing the last of the crust into his mouth.

The man’s eyes widen. “Oh, shit. I wasn’t done with my writing. If he went home he would’ve buried the body.” He says, jumping up. He throws a random amount of golden coins onto the table as a tip, hurriedly leaving.

Tommy hops after him quickly, following him as fast as he can. By the time the chime of the cafe door’s bell rings the sound is distant. His feet meet cobble ridden with patchy grass. His breath feels dry in his throat, the cold air much brinker than when they came.

Wilbur’s running like a madman, the smack of his boots heavy against cobblestone path. He momentarily looks behind him to make sure Tommy is there. He is, his feet whacking against the ground as he tries to keep up. Curse Wilbur for having slightly longer legs.

Wilbur scales up the steps of their house swiftly, throwing the door open and shouting “Oh, thank fuck!” when he gags at the smell. 

Tommy spares himself of this, instead floating around the house, hunched over with his hands clasped to his knees as he huffs and puffs. Wow , he’s out of shape.

Worry then begins to seize them. Wilbur’s eyebrows draw together, biting the inside of his cheek. Technoblade isn’t here. It’s a simple thing. It shouldn’t cause such profane anxiety, and yet, it does. A simple question with too many answers, and none that they know as true.

Why hasn’t Technoblade come home?

There is an angel that instead of living in the sky, dives underground. Long, black feathers that puff and smooth. There is an angel that sits under the dirt, with a cane in his hand and a lighthearted disposition in his eye. 

Low-lit lanterns hang from the ceiling with an assortment of various nicknacks laid across the dirt walls. Shelves filled with potions and animal skeletons, books stuffed with the names of people and diseases. There is a round engrained wooden table in the centre of it all, with a patterned tablecloth and a purple vase off-skew.

Technoblade is sitting with his hands on that very table. And there is the angel across from him.

Angel of Death , a whisper had said to him hours ago, from a wide-eyed woman that was intimidated by his title. She’d told him that’s who he needed to talk to about the creatures.

With that name, he wasn’t expecting… A man. Sure, yes , this man has wings. But he is just a man. 

A plain, palpable man. With huge overbearing crow’s wings attached in between his pale shoulder blades. If anyone would know about these creatures, it would certainly be him.

And yet…

“No, mate. Nothing like that,” He says. “I haven’t heard of any monsters.”

Techno visibly deflates. “D’you have any idea how many people I had to talk with to get here? It was awful.”

The angel — Phil, Techno had learned his name in great disappointment, laughs softly at his nonsense. He nods, deeply sympathetic. “You're right. The townsfolk are all such easy going people, it must’ve been so hard to talk to them.”

“I’m not a people person.” Techno grumbles. It would be around this time that he would impose extreme interrogation tactics (i.e, violence), but horribly enough he quite likes Phil. 

In the short amount of time they have spoken, the man has made a wonderful impression. He was lax and welcoming, but not overbearing. He didn’t push Techno to talk when that’s all that has been happening in return. 

The angel smiles toothily, crows feet scrunching near his eyes. “I’ve gathered that,” Phil says. He rests his head in his hand, the shadow of his hat covering his expression. “Shame. I miss talking to people normally.”

Techno side-eyes him. He keeps doing this, mentioning how he can’t go outside, and how he can’t talk to others. But here’s the thing: it doesn’t seem to be completely true. If he hasn’t been able to speak with others for as long as he’s been alluding to, then he seems awfully happy. While Techno isn’t the most socially competent, isolation is torture for any human.

Then again, Phil doesn’t seem to be all that human. His eyes are just a little bit too bright in the shadows.

Techno straightens his posture. “Not to intrude, but I gotta ask. How did you get those wings?”

Phil’s expression flattens, his palm pressing his cheek into his face. The question appears boring to him. “Depends on who’s asking.”

“Uh, me. I’m askin’.” Techno replies, leaning back in his chair. It squeaks loudly against the old wood floors. He scrunches his nose.

“Are you?” He says, meeting Techno’s gaze. He doesn’t waver. “Or are you asking for someone else?”

His sudden shift in attitude is unsettling, but it doesn’t phase him. “Are you scared?” Techno tries, hopeful that Phil has an ego.

He doesn’t. Phil sighs, pressing his mouth against the epicentre of his palm. He breaks eye contact to settle on the tablecloth. His thoughts are clear on his face: he’s mulling over telling the truth the way one rolls a pearl in their hand. Phil pushes himself back in a stretch, pressing his closed wings flat against the chair’s top rail. 

“Yes,” He admits, breathlessly. “Gods know what someone lacking morals would do with someone like me. All the poking and prodding. I won't be made into an experiment, or a pet. I’d rather die.”

He says it like it’s final, as though he would have control in that sort of situation. Techno would think someone naive for saying such a thing, but again, there’s an atmosphere around Phil that’s near plummeting into uncanny valley. Instead of naivety, it suggests a certain intimidation. He’s not sure what to do with it.

“You’re not the only one with these zoomorphic attributes, you know.” Techno murmurs, aiming for the implications of his words to be killer.

By the way Phil’s expression falls, his aim lands. Phil sucks in a sharp breath, hand twitching. There's more than fear there; he looks angry. Techno finds this intriguing. The angel clenches his jaw, tilting his head down. “Where.”

Techno humms, he knows that Philza will not take kindly to any games or mischief regarding this. It’s a little disappointing. “I dunno.” He replies, honest. “They just crawl around and scare people. Most of them aren’t as human as you. A lot of people thought there was some sorcerer messing around with mobs.”

Confusion dawns on Phil’s face, shifting his shoulders uncomfortably, “Mobs!” he guffaws. He’s got his hands in a fist now, leg thrumming underneath the table from nerves. “They’re human fucking beings!”

Humans. Techno’s stomach turns. “I haven’t seen human beings that act like that.”

“Act, or look?” Phil spits. His fist curls around a cane, and he shoots himself up with a low flap of his ruffled wings. He shakes his head in disbelief. “I owe you no explanation on how I got my wings.”

Techno leans forward, elbows resting on the table. He tilts his head. “Here’s what I think. I think somehow, by some grace of the Gods, or Aether, or something else, you got your hands on a spell. Of course, you give yourself wings. But for others?” Techno tries not to antagonise the man, but his disgust is thickening by the second. “You wanted to test out how far you could push the bounds of the human body, to find the line of what makes a person a person.”

Philza stares at him in horror. Techno continues. “Maybe you’re a philosopher, maybe you’re a scientist, or maybe you’re a monster. That’s not up to me, and honestly, I don’t really care. What I care about is the why and the how, and then stop anyone from ever doin’ that to someone again. I don’t like killin’ innocent people.” He says.

All Techno can see are that thing’s eyes, as it pleads for the ground. Hands curling around the base of his sword, dragging it up to its throat. “I don’t like assistin’ someone’s suicide. You put me in that position, you see? So now we have a problem, and so you do owe me an explanation.”

Phil’s knuckle rapps the table as he pushes forward. “I’m not a philosopher, or a scientist. I’m a man.” He says it gravely, his voice a chisel, the air marble. “I’m a healer . So I need you to tell me right now what the fuck you’re talking about.”

There is silence for a moment, where Techno is staring Phil right in the eye and looking right in his soul. There is more than anger, there is righteousness, and there is fear . Techno knows the difference between fear of losing yourself and the fear of losing others. Phil is not afraid of dying. He’s being honest.

“Huh.” Techno huffs. “So you haven’t been disfiguring a bunch of people?”

He’s about to blow a gasket. “I have a duty of care! That night– I was alone, there was nothing. No people, no light. I could feel Death start to take me, cradle me into her hands.” Phil says, and he can’t stop himself from spilling open, about everything.

He releases about how he can almost still feel Death’s fingertips against his cheeks, the light voice curling around him, encompassing him. She came down with a flock of black birds on her shoulders, and they hopped down her arms and onto his chest, poking at his barren heart. He knows he should be wary of speaking so truthfully of that night, but he can’t help but feel a tug at his being urging him to, and he knows better than to go against his gut instinct.

Phil tells Techno about how she laughed at the bird’s antics, and despite himself Phil thought that her laugh was the sweetest thing he’s ever heard. Only he didn’t hear it, not really, because he no longer possessed ears, or eyes, or skin.

There were thousands of eyes looking at him, but yet he didn’t feel anything. Gods, he wished there were stars when he died. It was so terribly isolating to die in the darkness of the night sky, even the sliver of the moon too small to keep him any sort of company. 

Perhaps that’s why Death decided to give him back to his body. Perhaps it was pity.

He violently rejects that train of thought, crushes it beneath the heel of his boot and feels the pop of it crunch apart. He’s met too many who have gone through much more than him and been given much little. Death pities no tragedy, no child, and certainly no man. It would be ridiculous to entertain such a reality.

And yet… “Oh, pretty colours,” Death boomed, her voice a song in his ears. She curved his soul in her hands. “I think this is the one.”

His universe was filled by a cathedral of flapping feathers and crow’s caws, beaks and talons hopping all over his raw soul. Death shooed them away, bringing Phil up to her face.

“I’m going to tell you a secret,” She whispered. “And you have to promise that you’ll do whatever it takes to keep it.”

He had no mouth to form words, no voice to speak from. It did not matter. She understood, humming an affirmative that rumbled like thunder around him. “I think I take too much, sometimes.” She said, the deepest sorrow in her tone.

Phil had the strangest desire to interject, to disagree, but she did not allow it. “You’re very human, and very kind. I think you can choose the right ones to stay. Your soul looks like a sailor’s sunset, you’re all heart.”

Phil didn't have enough time to think about that, to feel the weight of it as it was said. Though, the most important things take time to grow heavy.

She plucked a feather from one of her birds and placed it into his soul. It was not corruptive, nor changing. It simply became him, an extension of him. As she lowered him down to his corpse, she muttered a spell into his being. 

The spell buzzed in his veins like a soft static, sparked at his fingertips as he became one with his body again. His hands had a mind of their own, fishing a pen from his pocket and scourging out a book from his satchel. Words began appearing onto the page with no conscious thought behind them, just the sound of his heart beating in double, as though there were suddenly two behind his ribs.

He wrote, and wrote, and wrote, until the book was full and slammed shut.

Phil tells Techno this (other than her secret), and his ears the first to ever hear it. He’s hoping Techno knows how important this all is to him, how close to his chest this information has been for so long. Still, there are pieces that he does not utter. Parts that he thinks are just for him to remember.

He does not tell Techno how tortuous it was to be held away from his body, how he was completely and utterly ripped open and splayed out towards her. Death’s face was arrestingly beautiful and the most grief-stricken thing he ever saw, her arms curled like branches and her hair a black waterfall, she was mountainous. A part of him thought that Death was the universe itself.

He does not tell Techno how after the book closed against his will, a voice that was too sweet to be his own ejected from his lips. Death's voice came from his mouth, and said, “This is my word, and you are My Angel. I only ask for you to keep it, and yourself, safe.”

He does not tell Techno that it took seconds for him to remember people who deserve to live more than he does.

When he finishes his story, he slumps down into his chair, suddenly exhausted. That took a year off of him, for sure. He rests his head back, eyeing Techno’s silent reaction.

Honestly, Techno just thinks this is above his pay grade. Listen, he loves Wilbur and he wants to help his brother achieve greatness and discovery, but this is a whole new realm of information. The personification of Death came down to this man, who is literally just some guy, and gave him the ability to… Keep people alive? Techno wants to think him insane, but his wings are too noticeable to ignore. 

“How do animal features come into play, then?” He finds himself asking, because he is nothing if he’s not at least a bit curious. 

Phil blows out a laugh. Death didn’t phase him, who the hell is this man with scarred skin and vibrant hair? His obsidian ring ticks off the table as he stretches his hands across it. “We are animals. When I was put back into my body, a piece of me stayed with Death. She used her crow to fill in the gaps.” He says, extending his black wing out. The lanterns made the feathers shimmer, a supernatural aura welling the atmosphere.

Techno isn’t sure how he feels about all of this. He’s gathering all of the information, but it’s so much. He can’t say he was expecting this when Wilbur said he had a proposition for King Eret all those weeks ago. He’s certain all this could drive a man mad.

“So you’re… A hybrid.” He gives, his brain short-circuiting for the time being. That's most likely for the best. Fucking hell, he does not want to deal with Wilbur’s monolouging after this. He’s already got a migraine.

Phil breathes in a long breath with a short nod. “I guess so,” he responds. The space falls quiet around them after this. There’s no words left to say. Well, that’s a lie. Techno has about a million more questions yanking at his tongue, but he feels he’s already asked too much.

“You’re strange.” Phil says to him out of the blue, disrupting the contemplative silence. “For some reason, I told you all that stuff. It doesn’t quite make sense to me yet, but… Do you feel it?”

Techno’s shoulders tense. He does feel it , and it’s really beginning to sketch him out. There’s something about Phil that seems so strangely familiar in a way he can’t completely describe. It’s not as though he’s met the man before, no, he would remember something that obvious. It’s more of an intuition, an invisible reflex in the centre of his chest that says trust him. 

He isn’t sure where it comes from, if Phil is putting a spell on him to make him plaint enough to turn him into one of those things, so he lies. “Uh, no?” He questions with a tilt. It’s easier to say than the alternative, to admit that his world is becoming something foriegn to him.

Phil’s face tightens in disappointment, but he smiles. “Ah, that probably sounded odd. Maybe it’s the bird part of me.” –He shakes his wings, feathers ruffling.– “But Techno, you need to understand that I never intend to hurt people. I want the opposite.”

“What if somehow you’ve been messing the spell up? Like, you got one tiny detail wrong, and it messes up the entire thing.” Techno says. He’s trying to interrogate him slowly, to get him to admit one mistake so he can catch him on a big one, but he’s lacking experience. 

He’s not got the patience for this. He misses waterboarding bitches. The thought of doing that to Phil puts a knot in his stomach. Weird. Techno really hopes he doesn’t have some spell on him that makes him immediately like people. That’s just cruel. He needs at least a year before he considers someone an acquaintance.

“Not a possibility.” Phil retorts, not elaborating. He crosses his arms over his chest.

Techno doesn’t have it in him to argue. It’s late, and he still needs to dig a hole big and deep enough to fit a body into. He groans as he stands, stretching his legs. Phil follows his movements.

“Where are you going?” Phil asks. 

Techno wants to laugh. He scrunches his face. “Ehh… Not a possibility.”

Does it make sense grammatically? Not really. But sometimes being petty is more important than making sense, so it’s worth it. 

Phil sighs at him like he just said the most annoying response he’s ever heard. “You little shit.” he says, though really he doesn’t seem all that bothered.

“That sounds accurate.” He says, then pauses. He shifts his weight on his feet. The wooden flooring creeks below him awkwardly. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Phil lightens. “I’ll make some extra tea, then. See you tomorrow, Technoblade.”

“Yep.” He responds, not sure how to go about leaving a conversation with someone he actually quite likes for once. He floats by the door for a moment before mentally punching himself in the head and just leaving. Cold air bristles past his arms. The sky is coal, but the stars light the cobble roads nicely, street lanterns guiding him with pools of yellow.

He gazes up at the constellations with a strange feeling in his gut. It is one thing to believe in Gods and goddesses. It is another thing entirely to know the otherworldly exist. Death itself, as a being, exists.

As Techno’s footsteps echo down vacant streets, he feels something unprecedented. He feels small.

Death as a concept doesn’t scare him. He’s come close to it countless times and each time has been left, for the most part, physically unscathed. He is used to seeing others die. It doesn’t phase him much at all anymore.

The Goddess of Death, though? Yeah, that’s a bit much for any person to handle. He forces his breath to slow, his chest to untighten. Stuffs unsteady hands into his pockets. Tells himself he isn’t afraid. He’s Technoblade, he can’t afford to be afraid. He’s seen what fear does to someone, knows it to latch onto the psyche like barbed wire. Unrelenting, unforgiving. He refuses to go down that path.

As he begins to crawl up the steps to their cottage, a crash of an all-too familiar and all-too rancid smell saturates his nose. Nausea floods him. “Eugh.” He groans, waving his hand in front of his face as he enters the home.

Wilbur is in his personal bubble in a second, with a hand shoving his shoulder. “Where the fuck were you? It’s three am!”

“It’s wha..?” He responds, eyes widening. That can’t be right. He glances at the clock on the wall. He grimaces. “Oh. Yikes.”

His brother scoffs loudly, ever the dramatic, and shoves him a second time. Techno thinks that was a bit unnecessary, but whatever. The glare Wilbur’s got on his face is killer. “You scared me, man.” He admits.

Techno puts his hands up. “The traffic was crazy. I mean, look at it out there.” He points to the empty street. “Absolutely packed!”

Wilbur rolls his eyes, making his way to the kitchen and slumping back in a wooden chair. It’s dark, only a single lamp illuminating the two. Tommy’s bedroom door is closed, which is probably a good thing. It’s late. It shows on Wilbur’s face. “For Prime’s sake, tell me you found something .”

Techno huffs out a laugh, feigning monotony. “Just whispers. Nothing detrimental.” He says. It feels wrong to lie to him, as though his tongue would suddenly be coated by a sickening tar. He sits across from him.

His brother collapses into himself, hands running down his face. “I’ve been writing all day. I think my hands are going to fall off my fucking wrists.” He smacks his palm against a leather-bound book and opens it, flicking through countless pages. They’re all full .

“What the hell, Wil.” Techno mutters in disbelief, grasping at the edge of the leather book and running his thumb past the pages. The writing halts past the middle of the book, Wilbur’s handwriting tilted and lazy. His last sentence is half-finished, a testament to his fatigue. “You’re a powerhouse.”

“It needs editing.” Wilbur replies dismissively, setting his chin on the back of his hand. His eyes are blinking sluggishly.

Techno smiles. “ Oh . I was under the impression that you stayed up because I wasn’t home yet. I almost felt bad.”

“I was under the blah-bleh-blah-bleh-blah. Screw you.” He says, jamming his pointer finger into Techno’s chest. “You think you’re so smart.”

Techno laughs at this, slapping Wilbur’s hand away. “What’d you guys have to eat?”

“Soup ‘n shit. There was this little cafe down the corner. Tommy and I went together. Y’know, he’s actually pretty nice when he’s not…” He flails his hand around. “Doing all that.”

He hums, unsure of how much he quite believes Wilbur. “Alright. Well, I’m gonna go bury the body now, and then probably faint from sleep deprivation. You should go to bed.”

Wilbur yawns loudly, stretching his arms and legs out. “Thank you for not making me help. And sorry you didn’t find anything out there today.” He stands from his chair, clapping Techno’s shoulder before trailing off into his room. “Maybe you’ll get some juicy info tomorrow, hey?”

“Yeah.” Techno says, after he hears Wilbur thud against his bed down the hall. “Maybe tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

The next week passes swiftly for Tommy, after the creature was buried there was nothing for him to draw except Wilbur’s ugly mug and the exterior of the cottage.

Don’t get him wrong, he adores the view, but there's only so many times that a man can draw a cool rock on the shoreline before going a little mad.

They would go out to town each afternoon to eat. It was the highlight of the day each time. Just him and Wilbur sitting in various cafes and restaurants, mindlessly talking to each other about the stupidest things possible. 

He was unaccustomed to having company so often, and even more so for that company to actually want him around. It was lovely.

At home, he’s spent hours at Wilbur’s side, watching him write. The sheer magnitude of things he had to say was intimidating and terrifying, along with the theories he workshopped then scrapped. Day in and day out. They were practically joint at the hip at this point.

Tommy has no fucking clue where Technoblade goes all day. Wilbur mentioned that the bubblegum-haired bitch is trying to find some information but keeps ending up short with it. He doesn’t care much, he’s just happy the man makes the three of them breakfast each morning. He’s quite the good cook too. Though, Tommy could be biassed.

He sits on the steps of the patio with a sketchbook on his knees and a pencil in his hand as he stares at the empty house across from theirs. It’s abandoned, it seems. The windows are boarded up and the door is locked (on the second day he tried to open it to no avail).

He begins to doodle a little thumbnail of it, smiling when he gets to drawing the tree on the left. Branches are always fun, random sprouting lines that can go in any direction his hand wants to go.

As he begins shading in the side of the neighbours mailbox, it dawns on him that he’s never checked their own. Maybe the mayor sent them something, though it’s unlikely.

The shorter man had been checking up on them periodically, but it was rare and always from a distance. It’s quite sad, Mayor Q can be pretty funny when he doesn’t have a massive stick up his arse.

He walks down to the edge of the yard where their mailbox sits. It's a rusted metal, flakes of it fluttering off when Tommy opens it. He peeks inside of the box, and there’s a thin envelope sitting within it.

He grabs it with his index and thumb, trying to avoid touching the sides. The envelope is light in his hands, and Tommy flips the thing around to find an address attached but he comes up with nothing.

Weird. The rocks crunch beneath his feet as he makes his way back to the patio. He looks around for a moment, making sure the culprit is nowhere in sight. Curiosity takes a hold of him. He rips the top straight off, and snatches what looks to be a letter from within. The page is lined and a bit wrinkled at the edges, with small scribbles at the side where the writer tested their pen’s ink.

A chicken-scratched ‘ for Tommy’ is at the top of the page. He doesn’t care for that shit at all. He stands, leans forward as he gazes down the street. He hasn’t met anyone here except the Mayor, and he’s certain that the man’s handwriting doesn’t look like that . He shifts his weight, unsure if he should immediately tell Wilbur. He thinks Wilbur is probably sleeping, and he does not take kindly to being woken up for unimportant reasons. Biting at his lip nervously, he begins to read.

for Tommy

Hi. You don’t know me. I seen you at the cafe and followed you home to give you this letter. Sorry.

Something really depressing. I have 1 friend. And he told me NOT to write this because it's ‘borderline illegal’. But the day at the cafe you made a joke about the owner and it made me laugh so hard I stubbed my toe. So I think we should be friends. Sorry if this is creepy. 

If yes, write back and I’ll check your mailbox for it in 5 days.

If no just leave it empty and I’ll leave you alone forever. But I’ll be upset because I really like that cafe.

From Tubbo.

P.s. you seem a bit lonely

Tommy frowns. Now, he doesn’t have the energy nor the will to unpack everything jammed in such a short letter. He folds it back up and stuffs it into his jacket pocket. The corner pokes out a bit. Afraid that the wind will take the note, he buttons the pocket shut. 

Tommy lets the offer settle in his mind for a moment. His first instinct is to be offended by the last part, but it doesn’t seem to come from malice.

He slumps back onto the patio and throws his sketchbook back over his legs. He’s too lazy to finish that drawing, suddenly uninterested in something as simple as a house. 

He twirls the pencil around his fingers absentmindedly, pink nose sniffing in the brisk air. What kind of name is Tubbo, anyway? Surely, someone with that name can’t be evil, right? He isn’t sure why he thinks this, but he does.

For some god-forsaken reason, the note strikes more endearing than anything else. The idea that someone heard one of his little quips and thought it was comical enough to go out of their way to try and become friends was… nice, if not a little intriguing. He could’ve gone without the stalking part, but hey. We all make mistakes.

He wants to write back. Even if it’s just because it would be something to do. He isn’t dying of boredom out here, not by any means, but it would still be good entertainment. Plus, writing someone a letter admitting that you followed them home and then asking to be friends is a ballsy move.

But for fuck’s sake, he always goes to the cafe with Wilbur. How could he possibly seem lonely when he’s around a person, let alone Wilbur? That just isn’t calculating in his mind. The maths ain’t mathing, if you will.

Who’s Tubbo to say that anyway? He said in the letter that he’s only got one friend. Tommy feels rather bad for him, honestly. Only having one friend? Well that’s just downright tragic.

A grimace forms on Tommy’s face. He’s only got one friend too.

Well, that settles it then. He’s writing Tubbo back. He presses the tip of his pencil against his sketchbook paper. Nerves begin to prick at his skin, so he bites the inside of his cheek to stifle them. No words form in his mind.

Pencil and paper smack against the patio, Tommy decides to pace back and forth on the cobble path. What the fuck is he supposed to say? He needs to make a good impression. What if he fucks it up and Tubbo decides he doesn’t want to be friends anymore? He needs to be funny.

"What does a nosey pepper do?” He starts, a disastrous beginning. “It gets jalapeño business!” 

Tommy’s never particularly thought that he was close to the Gods, but that would certainly be what sends him down to hell. He smacks his arms against his sides, walking in circles.

It’s at this point that he remembers that he’s quite dashing, so he truly has nothing really to be nervous about. Him? Insecure? Nah, no way. He’s not nervous, no. He’s excited.

So he writes. He tells Tubbo the basics, tells him about Wilbur. He doesn’t say what they’re here for, only that he’s an artist and he’s working on a huge project. One that kind of grosses him out, to be honest. 

He says things he doesn’t say to Wilbur. He’s not sure why, maybe it’s because writing it down feels like he’s doing a journal entry. He tells Tubbo that he kind of misses his own home.

He’s happier here, and he loves the company, but… He worked hard to have his own house. It’s something that is intrinsically his, that he has for himself. He’s a bit scared that by the time he gets back, there’ll be some snotty-nosed brat throwing away his bug collection, and he’ll be all alone on the streets again.

Maybe not. If it comes to that, surely Wilbur would take him in for a bit, even if it’s just for a few weeks. Right? Tommy knows he’d do that for him in a heartbeat.

He has a few rooms that could easily be turned into bedrooms. He’d be open to sharing some drawers for Wilbur’s writings, open to stuffing his fridge full of the food Techno likes.

Oh, that… That sounds quite nice, actually.

He imagines an undimmed morning, a moment well after everything is over. At his table would sit Wilbur, leaning back into his chair as he plucked on the strings of his guitar. His ankles would sit atop Techno’s legs, whose reading glasses fall halfway down his nose as he read some book about anarchism.

The image sits carefully in his mind, not unlike the way a bird does a branch. It’s nice. It’s impossible.

He erases those lines away, the lead now a ghost of a forbidden thought. He writes more about home.

Back home, the people let him ramble his throat raw. They aren’t listening, of course, nobody but Wilbur ever listens, but at least he can get things off his chest without feeling like an absolute madman yelling to the clouds.

Maybe this isn’t a great first impression Tubbo’s going to have on him. He continues. He writes about the way Techno swallowed thickly before announcing he’s off to the town again, a strange look in his eye with a black feather between his fingers. 

He could write a whole lot about Technoblade, that thick-skinned man with a bloody history and a flower braided into his horse’s mane; Tommy looked up to him back when he was a kid.

He remembers stumbling his way into the orphanage’s library. That library is a faded memory, unclean and torn. It was a goldmine for little Tommy, stacks on stacks of picture books that he obsessively studied.

At the front of the library held a pile of newspapers in a red box, old on the bottom, new on the top. He barely knew how to read at this point, but outside of the orphanage was always intriguing, if not daunting. 

Tommy’s too-thin hands scooped up the newest one, and he read about him. Technoblade. The man was only a teenager back when he wrote a letter to the king challenging him, telling his highness that he could beat any of his noble, regal, perfect knights in battle. Tommy remembers reading his letter and only understanding every third word. The orphanage didn’t teach them words like dogma and martyr.

Eret’s father was a very proud man, and an even prouder king. He expected Technoblade’s head at the foot of his throne.

This is not what happened.

Tommy remembers his eyes blowing wide as he read of Techno’s actions, remembers his stomach swaying in excitement as he read. He could practically see him. Sword in one hand and the bloodied helmet of the head knight in the other, their severed neck protruding from the bottom.

There are many ways the King could have reacted. For once, things turned in favour of an orphan. He offered to give Techno a place in the castle, as long as he acted as a trainer for the Knights of Esempe.

Technoblade, a teenager who was awful just to see, didn’t accept until there was a room for Wilbur.

Wilburs name was not written in the newspaper, instead dislodged by the word ‘closest friend’. At the time, Tommy didn’t think much of it. Now, it feels sacrilegious to think of Techno and Wilbur as anything but brothers.

He tells Tubbo that he hopes that someday he’ll have something like that. He doesn’t tell Tubbo that he hopes it to be Wilbur.

The pages of the letter for a stranger sit light in his palm. Tommy folds them up and stuffs it in the letterbox. He hopes that he did this right, that he didn’t say too much or scare Tubbo off. Maybe he should rewrite it so he’s less… Himself.

He shakes his head. There’s no point in attempting to be someone he’s not. He’s never been good at that.

The front door creaks as he sways it open, the soft clicking of it closing the only sound inside the house. Wilbur lays on the couch where only a week ago laid a monstrous corpse.

His arms are crossed over his chest, his glasses perched on his forehead. He looks contemplative, which is never a good sign.

“You’ll get all wrinkly if you keep that expression. I can already see the lines.” Tommy says as he takes off his jacket. He hangs it on the wall and drops his sketchbook onto the coffee table with a loud thud.

Wilbur turns his head, but doesn’t meet his eyes. “I’ve got no wrinkles. I’m as youthful as the day.”

“You’re being a prick.” Tommy pokes the line between Wilbur’s brows. “What’s in that old wrinkly head of yours?”

Wilbur presses his cheek to his shoulder, biting his tongue. His eyes slowly trail up the wall left of Tommy before looking at him straight on. “There hasn’t been a sighting in a while,” he says.

Tommy huffs in relief, slumps forward as he sits on the table. “Are you really being a mope because nobody’s been traumatised by a fucking monster recently?”

“Yes!” He exclaims, arms flopping against the couch. “There’s only so many theories I can string up with the one lead we got. Techno hasn’t come back with anything at all. This is supposed to be my thing, man.”

“Well, if my beautiful mind serves me correctly, which it always does, you’ve gotten pretty deep in with that one lead.” Tommy says, nodding his head. “Just go with the flow, big guy. There’s no rush to this shit.”

“Sure, fine. That’s easy. Just relax. I can do that. I can relax.” Wilbur says, wiggling around to loosen the tension from his muscles. “There’s nothing at all on the line here. This isn’t the biggest moment of my career. I mean, monsters? Real life fucking humanoid monsters? Yeah, that’s just boring. I’m not itching to understand the anatomy and neurology of them. The mere thought of genetics with these things don’t keep me up at night. I don’t need to know anything and everything. It’s not making me lose my mind .”

“That’s right. Manifest sanity.” Tommy replies calmly, though quite terrified. He pats Wilbur on the shoulder, and his eye twitches.

The dramatics never end for this tall twat, does it? Tommy doesn’t mind. He can’t help but laugh at Wilbur’s disgust when he pinches his cheek.

Wilbur flails pathetically, committed to being angsty, “Never do that again.” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Pay attention to me. Let's go to the… Music store. You can play a guitar on the corner and… People will throw coins at you.”

Wilbur glares, his expression nothing short of ‘are you fucking kidding me’. This does not stop Tommy from tugging at Wilbur's wrist. The older man does not make an attempt to move, and Tommy snatches him right off the couch with a booming thunk.

“You insolent pinhead child,” Wilbur huffs as he winces in pain. “Oh, fuck. I can’t believe you’ve done this.”

Tommy howls in laughter, Wilbur lays on the ground miserably, he looks like a dead spider for christ's sake. Tommy really doesn’t mean to laugh so hard, but every time he opens his eyes he notices something funnier, like Wilbur’s glasses falling askew on his nose, or him huffing a piece of hair out of his face.

After the wave of hilarity begins to settle, he takes Wilburs hand again and helps him stand.

He looks borderline homicidal. It’s brilliant. He smiles up at him and Wilbur cracks a smile back. There he is, that motherfucker, Tommy thinks. Wilbur rolls on his heels, cracks his knuckles against his leg.

He’s itching for a cigarette, but it’s getting increasingly harder to indulge in that deeply unhealthy little habit while constantly being followed by a feral raccoon. He rubs the shoulder that struck the floor particularly hard, but doesn’t find it to ache all too bad.

At least that's something he doesn’t have to worry about. Tommy coaxes him outside with the promise that he’ll pay for the food this time around, though Wilbur knows when it comes around that the blond bitch will pat his pockets and feign forgetfulness (and Wilbur will try to act mad, he really will, but every time he thinks it’s funny. He really doesn’t mind buying food for the scrawny kid, anyway. Even if he can be a bit of a pest).

His shoes meet cobble with a smaller pair leading him down a familiar path. A worrying realisation dawns that Tommy’s the only thing getting him out of the house these days. He feels a bit pathetic. That feeling’s familiar, too.

Brisk air awakens him, the sun does fuck-all for heat around here. He shoves his jacket closer around his body. He envies Tommy’s puffy one.

Wilbur should buy one of those for himself, honestly. It’s a bit ridiculous that Tommy has one and he doesn’t.

They make their way through the town, sticking to the path that’s grown accustomed to them this past week. Some faces on the street are becoming recognisable.

A bald man with two-toned sunglasses spitting his mouth off at some minor inconvenience, a shorter pink-haired girl laughing joyously at his agony.

Wilbur could swear that he’s spoken to her before, has a faint image of them talking like friends, but for the life of him he just can’t seem to remember when. Oh well.

The music store is worn down and practically empty. Greyed yellow walls, creaking floorboards, cracked window sills. Some guitars and other stringed instruments are leaned up against the wall due to a lack of stands for them.

Tommy’s hand is curling around the neck of one of those guitars like it’s made of pure gold. He plucks a string with the pad of his thumb, and the note is so horribly out of tune that it makes Wilbur wince. Tommy chuckles in amazement like it was the best thing he’s ever heard.

“Why do you love the unlovable?” Wilbur asks, exhausted. He takes the guitar from him and sits on a flaking stool. “I’ll tune it.”

Tommy hunkers on the dirty floor campfire style, and watches expectantly. Wilbur raises a brow, but Tommy doesn’t move. He begins plucking each string and twisting the pegs accordingly. It would be more efficient if he had a tuner and not just the memory of his ears, but he’s done this enough times where it’s not too foreign.

He strums the guitar a few times to make sure everything sounds correct, then passes the thing back to Tommy. He looks up at him in wonder. Tommy messily strums chords that do not exist, and they sound awful. He’s ecstatic.

Tommy says, “Not so unlovable now, is it? Prick.” and wow. Wilbur’s not sure what to do with that. 

He stuffs his hands into his pocket and walks in the opposite direction, gazing down at bongos and didgeridoos. He prays that Tommy doesn’t get his grimy hands on those.

The strained sound of the guitar isn’t much better. He wipes dust off a shelf carrying ukuleles with his fingers, finding solitude in the floating dust that glows as it falls.

A man comes up to him, his face tense and wary. He’s wearing a name badge that Wilbur doesn’t bother reading. He hesitates before speaking. “Sorry to bother you,” he says, voice high and sickly-sweet. “But could you please ask your brother to quiet down a bit?"

“Techno…?” Wilbur asks, bewildered. He scopes the place out quickly but no head of hair is as candy-coloured as his brothers.

The man’s face tilts. “The.. The kid over there?” He points to Tommy, who was currently making a terrible racket.

A wave of emotions crashes against his chest, sweeps him up, and slams him so hard that it splits him in two. “Tommy?” He chirps. “Oh, um, sure! I can do that, yeah.”

The employee gives him a concerned look, but turns and walks away. Wilburs left with that feeling now. He looks over to Tommy, who either doesn’t notice people glaring at him or doesn’t care. Most likely the second option.

Wilbur straightens his back, strides up towards him like he normally does. He convinces himself that his chest does not pull at the sight of Tommy smiling up at him as he comes closer, convinces himself that the idea of being a big brother isn't something that he feels sick from happiness over. 

He wants to fall to his knees in this stupid guitar shop, in front of Tommy’s stupid half-broken guitar and all these stupid people, and say you know, when all of this is over, I still want you around.

Instead, he says, “Oi shithead, can you keep it down? People's ears are bleeding.” and in some funny way, it’s almost the same thing.

Tommy scoffs. He hands the guitar to Wilbur. “You play something, then.” He says, but there's a spark in his eye that makes Wilbur think he was playing badly on purpose to get him to try. He huffs, taking the guitar from Tommy and whumping down into his seat. 

He begins plucking some tune from the recess of his consciousness, the faint rumbling of rails and the scent of barreling smoke. He hums along a quiet melody, so as not to be so loud that the other people hear him. He’s not sure where this song came from, but he thinks it belongs to him.

He watches as Tommy listens intently, even shutting his eyes trying to get a good hear of it. He thinks this song belongs to Tommy now, too.

Philza flattens the tops of his feathers with his worn palm, smoothing tufts calm. The hanging lanterns from his ceiling colour his skin warmly.

He should really dig out some more space so he can try lifting himself from the ground, it’s really a shame that he hasn’t gotten to fly much. He places his knee on the kitchen chair, stretching his wing below his arm so he can smooth and place the feathers comfortably.

A mug ticks against the kitchen table as it sits, Techno draws up the teabag from the mug and places the steaming thing straight into the bin.

He slumps against the chair opposite to him, warming his palms with his own cup. His hair is half undone from his braid, a testament to the rest of him. He is far away as he circles the liquid with a spoon.

“I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong,” Phil says, hooking his fingers around the handle and taking a sip of his tea. It burns his tongue, he quickly drools it back into the cup. 

Techno huffs out a laugh. “I just took it off the kettle, Phil.” He tilts his head to the side. “There’s still steam comin’ off it.”

“Whatever.” He says, and places the mug back onto the table. Phil stands, stretching his wings out fully. The tips of his feathers reach and touch his collection of paperback books behind him. He both feels as though his wings are entirely new and yet he somehow can’t imagine what his back looks like without them. “You don’t have to do everything alone, is all.”

“I can make tea by myself just fine.” Techno replies, which was quite annoying. Phil knows that Techno knows what he meant, but Phil also knows not to push.

He pads his way over to his side of the table, eyeing the tangle of hair resting in a clump on Techno’s shoulder. He doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable, but Phil’s been antsy all day.

Cleaning. Organising. Re-organising. Re-re-organising. He’s a organisational guy. The matty long hair is practically screaming at him. His fingers twitch.

Techno side-eyes him in a squint, ducking his head to his mug. He sips loudly. Phil scrunches his face, lips tightening in a line.

“Can I fix your hair, please?"

Techno looks at him like he’s insane. Grabs at the mess of his braid. “Uh, maybe some other time.”

“It’s all matted,” Phil strains out. “You look like a stray.”

“Technically speaking, I am.”

Phil waves his hand, though a bit tense about crossing some invisible line as he says, “No you’re not. You’ve got Wilbur and Tommy, don’t you? And if not them, you’ve got me. That doesn't sound like a stray."

Techno honest-to-God winces. Phil feels a bit like falling into the pits of the earth to shatter some of the embarrassment that creeps up his cheeks, but he's glad he said it. He had the awful feeling that Techno didn't know that Phil liked his company, and he can't have that.

So fuck embarrassment. He'll let Techno know that he likes him, even if it's a one‐sided friendship. Techno’s frowns as his thumb pushes up against a knot in his hair, suddenly becoming aware of how tangled it’s become.

This is… Strange, Techno thinks. He wants to let Phil do this. A rock begins to curl up in his gut, lodging itself in his throat. His arms are stiff. “I can’t.”

“It’s okay, mate. You don’t have to.” Phil swiftly responds. He can see the wave of relief fall across his shoulders as he says it, and he pretends like it doesn’t make him twinge. He pads back around the table and warms his hands with the mug. 

Techno is not used to being the one taken care of. The realisation comes unkindly, with a frown tugging on Phil’s face. He blows a bit of air over the steaming liquid and takes a sip. It’s still too hot for his liking, but it doesn't burn anymore.

He splits open a book on the counter and begins reading a new novel. Techno’s been plenty help with getting some new literary finds. The book he opens is one of an old, old, story about Gods and beasts. Techno’s taste is apparent, indulging in the mythic and magical. Phil supposes it makes sense. That’s how he got here in the first place.

The two men sit in a still silence, Phil mulls over the story he’s reading and Techno takes the time to snoop around, picking up and examining each and every artefact placed around Phil’s home. Down the hall and to his left is a door half-open.

He can see Phil’s made bed, with billowing blankets and a chest at the end. He doesn’t go in there, it feels too personal.

There are quite a few things he takes his time on, like the small collection of various animal skulls sat atop a shelf with bundles of scrolls, or just the unskilled doodle of Phil with a coffee-stain in the corner and the name Ranboo sprawled in neat handwriting at the bottom.

He picks it up gently, afraid that somehow his calloused hands would immediately render it destroyed. Turns the paper so the ink catches the light. It’s not a terrible drawing, he can tell that it’s supposed to be Phil, the wings and light hair give it away.

He turns his head, but keeps his eyes steady on the paper. “Hey, this isn’t half bad. Maybe we should’ve got this guy instead of Tommy.” He jokes, though there is something intriguing about it all.

Phil humms shortly, his thumb running across the thin of the page. “It’d be nice if Tommy made one for me. Though, from what you’ve told me, I’d have to get a frame.”

“Yeah,” Techno dismisses this with a wave of his hand. “This Ranboo is alright, though. Who are they?”

He shifts in his seat, pressing the book down and turns to face Techno. The light is low, a shadow scarcely crowning over Phil’s eyes. “He’s one of the kids I healed. That drawing was how he paid me back. I’m pretty stacked.” He replies with a smile.

Techno humms, his thumb tracing the signature. “A kid you healed. He was going to die.” He says as it dawns on him.

“Life is not kind. You of all people know that. I found them on the side of the road half-dead, his parents gone. I don’t know if they died or left, he doesn’t talk about it.” Phil pauses for a moment, his expression is tight and empathetic. “I can tell it’s hard for them to talk about how it was before.” 

He could see Ranboo in his head, a bandana covering half their face to stop his nose from bleeding.

Pale hands coming up to grip at Phil’s wrists, a miserably tired look in their eyes. He was only getting weaker, with rattling breaths and a heaving chest. It would’ve been days, if that, before they would die. This is when Phil came in. This is when Phil read Her book.

“I can’t imagine this is easy for you, watching people go all the time.”

“If I have anything to do about it, they stay.” Phil replies, swaying in his seat. He stands, makes his way over to the sliver of a window near the roof of his home and looks at the light that scarcely passes through. Most of it is speckled in dirt and grime and grass, and it's impossible to see anything out of it, but the comfort is still there.

Sometimes he forgets there's an entire world out there, that his home is not the universe. Techno has been helping him remember, Phil thinks, because he wants to go out. He savours the natural light as it dimly glows from the pathetic windowsill.

“Still,” Techno says. “That’s heavy.”

He thinks of friends, long before he had wings and a name, long before he had something to stay for. He thinks of them, low smiles and thick knuckles.

He knows that even if he had the ability back then, that they’d refuse. With a shaky laugh and a shake of his shoulder, the answer would still be I need to go.

It breaks Phil’s heart. “Don’t worry about me, mate.” He says, “I can make tea myself just fine.”

Techno huffs, courteously placing the drawing back where he found it. “Yeah, we all say that.”

Phil’s gaze descents to the brown of the wall. He’s unsure of what to say, whether he is to speak something of agreement or offer comfort in some way. He waits too long and says nothing. Techno rolls his sleeve up to the crook of his arms and takes his half-empty mug from the table. He carries it to the sink and begins rinsing it.

“It’s alright, I can wash the dishes.” Phil says, because he really hasn’t done much of anything for him recently. Usually Techno comes bearing endless questions, to which Phil answers to the best of his ability, but for a good few days now they’ve just been enjoying each other's company.

“I like doing the dishes.” He replies adamantly, shooing Phil off.

Phil huffs, poking his head back into his line of vision. “You like doing everything, Techno. I need to repay you somehow.”

“You repay me with information.” Techno replies simply. It’s a little frustrating. Phil feels idle and a little restless, his feathers begin to ruffle in annoyance. Techno smiles a bit at that, the little shit.

“I haven’t given you good information in three days.”

“Not true,” Techno says with a point. “I’ve got to learn about Ranboo. They're important.”

Phil flattens his lips, deadpan stares at Techno who pays him no mind. He huffs and puffs dramatically. The edge of Techno’s eyes crinkle, a small smile tugging at his lips. It’s a bit extraordinary.

“Oh the theatrics, you’re remindin’ me of Wilbur.”

Phil cackles at this, wobbling over to the dish towels and drying off the freshly cleaned plates and mugs. He opens up a cupboard above his head and places them in their respectul places. “I’d like to meet them.”

“Wilbur?”

“Yeah, and Tommy. It’d be nice, the four of us. Don’t you think?”

Techno tries not to. That all-familiar pool of guilt begins to twist in his gut again. He knows that keeping Phil hidden from Wilbur and Tommy is the length of a rope, and the longer he lets it curl around him the more tangled in it he’ll become, but he lingers on a hitch that splits into vulnerability.

There’s an invisible vein between him and the angel, one that thickens with each day they laugh and eat and read with each other. He can feel it with Tommy too, though that one is different. With Tommy, he feels a desire to pick him up and pack him out of harm's way. With Phil, he wants to defeat the harm by his side and say this is all yours now, this world is for you.

He thinks this invisible vein existed when he first met Wilbur, too young at the time to notice a particular draw unexplainable by nature. Something close to a gut feeling that says I know you, somehow.

He thinks that it says more, divulges in a clanship that runs bone-deep, he thinks it says something about family.

He couldn’t imagine anything more terrifying than that. 

Well, except maybe a monster.