Chapter Text
Technoblade dreams in red.
He dreams of war. He sees battlefields, littered with bodies, littered with bombs. Men fall to blades, they fall to arrows and spears and fists. He sees sorrow so whole he can taste it, metal on his tongue, rust in his veins. He sees it sweep a field, the static air of hopelessness, of tangible fear, turning the grass brown and bloody. He hears drums, rhythmic and foreboding, he hears a ringing, tinnitus like a bell, he hears people cry out. They sink to their knees and weep for the ones who were never meant to survive. War is about sacrifice, after all. There is no cause more just than victory. There is no price too high to pay.
He dreams of death. Scattered corpses, bruised and beaten down. He sees a scarred boy in a box, smaller than he’s ever looked before, curled up and marked with fire. Life stripped away, smiles fallen off lips, blank stares, and eyes that will always be open. The stench of it in the air, dusty and hollow, poisoning the wind. The blue, blue sadness of loss, screams of anguish, an ache in his own bones. To lose is to lose. There is nothing more to be said than that. To lose is to lose is to lose. And there is nothing worse than a hole where a body used to be.
He dreams of blood. Alters drenched in red, spilt chalices of spilt blood, whispers like insects between his ears, buzzing and screaming, a chorus of violence, a chorus of chaos. He sees the hands of children, tiny fingers stained red. War is difficult. When the old can no longer fight, the young do. And when the young can’t, they use the younger. He sees a boy in a tent with gray eyes that used to be blue. He sees a man with his sword through the chest of his son, with tears rolling down his cheeks. It’s the sort of thing that changes people, you see. For better or for worse, when the fighting’s done, nothing is the same as it was.
He sees blood behind his own lids, sticky and wet. It covers him, slick against his skin, unable to be washed away. He drowns in it, all he can smell is bitter iron, and all he can do is pray to the gods he’s killed for some sort of mercy.
Technoblade dreams in red. Needless to say, he doesn’t get much sleep.
But Philza Minecraft is a demanding man and a convincing one too. And Techno’s retired now, there’s really nothing to do but rest, so he does his best, and he gets by.
Today he wakes to a shatter-glass crashing against wood. He’s on his feet in an instant, snatching his sword from the table beside his bed and wrapping his fingers around the hilt with practiced ease.
Oh no, says a voice.
Not this fucker again, another.
I missed him
What happened to him?
I hate him.
What’s wrong?
What is he doing here?
He looks so small.
Techno jerks his head to shake away the nonsense. He creeps carefully down, steps light, avoiding stairs he knows will creak. He peeks into the front room of his little cabin, scanning it for the source of the noise.
His eyes narrow, annoyance swirling in his ribs. TommyInnit-the boy who broke his trust, the kid who took his help and spit on it, who looked at Techno and called him The Blade, reduced him to nothing more than a weapon, a thing to be tossed aside- is sitting on his floor. He looks more worn out than Techno’s ever seen him, which is saying something.
What happened to his hair?
Tommy!!!!
Is he okay?
Didn’t he die?
Who cares?
He’s in a big jacket that Techno could swear belongs to Ranboo, fluffy around the collar. It swallows his tiny form. His hair is longer than it was when Techno last saw him, just an inch or so above his shoulders and messy as ever, and there’s a streak of white in it that mirrors the one Wilbur has. (There’s also a smattering of new scars on the bits of him that are exposed, fingers on his neck, marks that curl like lightning across his forehead. When he squints he thinks he sees a chipped tooth. He pays these things no mind, of course, because the well-being of Tommy is of no concern to Technoblade).
He’s on his knees, hunched over a bottle that’s fallen from one of Techno’s brewing stands, shiny silvery liquid seeping into the wood. His eyes are blown wide, and his hands shake as he sweeps glass into a little pile, burning his fingers on the potion that’s spilled, but continuing to do damage control anyway. Techno gives himself a moment to watch.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Tommy says, before stabbing his palm against one of the shards and yanking his hand away.
Does he have any self-preservation skills at all?
All past information points to no.
The child is bleeding.
Help him!
Help him.
Help him!
Kill him.
Brother!
Traitor.
“Tommy?”
The kid’s head perks up immediately. His eyes go all shiny and open before he shrinks in on himself, jacket looking larger somehow. He glances nervously between the glass on the floor and Techno’s face.
“Technoblade,” he laughs awkwardly, and it doesn’t quite carry like Tommy’s laugh usually does. It sounds fake.
Don’t be naive.
It’s always sounded that way.
He tries to scoop more glass into his trembling fingers, “Hey, man! How’s it going?”
Techno blinks at him. “Tommy, what are you doing in my house?”
“I’m gonna be honest, big man. I thought you were asleep.”
“Well, I was.”
“Oh.” He says, then stares down at his own bloody hand, the sizzle of the potion against the open wound, mist rising from it. He winces. “Oh. Sorry.” His face goes red.
(The voices coo and Techno decisively tell them all to fuck off).
“I don’t ca-what are you doing here?”
Tommy goes to scratch the back of his neck with the hand that’s bleeding but stops halfway there, holds it at arm's length, and watches the blood drip off into the silver. “Well, um-Wil lives here.”
Techno stares at him, doing his damn best to convey the exasperated lump that’s settled in his throat. “So? Don’t you hate him or something? He blew up your country,” Techno grunts. He thinks the ‘don’t you hate me too’ goes without saying.
Tommy crosses his arms carefully, clearly trying not to get blood on his coat. “I do hate him.” He insists. “I’m not here for fun,” he says, but the way he rocks and fiddles with the glass in his hands begs to differ, and so does the smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “I’m just-a business associate.”
Techno considers this. He thinks of the way that revived Wilbur stands, and the way he stood in that wretched ravine. “Do you work with him or for him?”
Tommy bristles but doesn’t hesitate. “With him.” It says everything it needs to. Tommy’s always been putty in Wil’s hands. A shame that he shaped the boy the way he did. He could’ve been something.
Well, now you’re just being rude.
He is something. A bitch.
Give him a break.
Kill him.
Help him.
Techno gives Tommy a look. “Mhm.”
Tommy wrinkles his nose, his voice curving in that familiar pattern, volume rising just a bit. There he is. “Don’t hum at me, dickhead. I’m valuable. Wil needs me, he said so.”
And Technoblade thinks maybe Tommy’s more gullible than he thought. Wilbur doesn’t need anyone. He’s perfectly capable of completing his scheme all alone, whatever it is. But he doesn’t want to be alone. And no one is better company than a boy who can’t say no.
“He said so,” he deadpans.
Tommy huffs. “Yes.
“And you believe him?”
Tommy falters, his voice dipping again, back to that unfamiliar cold that shouldn’t fit so neatly into Tommy, because Tommy’s anything but neat. He’s a spitfire, chaos maker in his own right. He fought gods at fifteen and he won. He’s died and come back. He shouldn’t be cold, Tommy runs hot, it how he’s always been. (It’s the sort of thing that changes people).
“Yes-well...” he shakes his head like he’s trying to knock his thoughts away. “Yes.”
“Real sure about that one, are we?” It’s cruel he knows, but who gives a fuck? He doesn’t owe Tommy his kindness. (And there’s something in him that shrivels up sick. Because he’s not a monster, he’s a person. And there’s something in him that wants this to be familiar again. He feels like he’s talking to a wall).
“Shut up.”
He puts his hands up in a mocking gesture of surrender. “No, no, of course.” He says, and it tastes a bit like rot. “Don’t let me stop you from running to people who are never gonna love you back.”
Tommy’s eyes snap back to his hands. “I keep coming here,” he mutters, low enough that Techno can’t tell what he’s saying.
Oh, Tommy.
Poor thing.
He deserves this.
Techno’s ear flicks. “What was that?”
“I said I’m not doing that,” Tommy blurts. “He hurt me, I don’t need him to like me.”
“Don’t you?” It’s a near taunt.
Tommy’s like a little duckling. All he does is follow, blindly, hopelessly. Techno remembers the way he would trail just behind when they lived together. Not close enough to invade his space, but close enough to be assured that he was there. (When he was particularly tired he would clutch his coattail like a little child possessing a shattered teen. When he had nightmares he’d cling like a magnet).
Tommy needs people. Because he needs structure, he needs leadership. He's won wars under functional guidance. He’s only ever lead himself astray. And he’s practically programmed to need Wil. (That’s just how their family seems to work).
He furrows his brows. “No.”
Techno cards a hand through his hair. “These one-word answers are getting a bit tiring.”
Tommy traces the cut on his palm, wipes off the blood with his thumb. “Fuck you.”
Techno smirks. “Wow. Two words. We’re progressing so quickly.”
And Tommy’s a storm, brewing on the wooden floors of his foyer. Techno’s poking and prodding the buttons because he knows where they are, and he knows nobody else does, and he wants something from him, but he doesn’t know what.
Yes, you do.
Don’t be difficult.
“You don’t know anything about me Technoblade.” He says lowly. And if only that were true.
“And I don’t want to.”
Liar.
Liar.
Liar.
Liar.
Liar.
He rolls his eyes. “-So if you would, please get off my property.”
Tommy stands up, a stomp to his step that makes him look like he throwing a tantrum. Techno almost chuckles at the strangeness. “I’m not here for you, Technoblade. I’m here to see Wil.”
“Then go to his room, stop loitering in my foyer.” He nods towards the door.
“Fine.” He mumbles under his breath. “Meh meh meh, I’m Technoblade and I use big words like 'foyer.'”
Yeah. Real mature.
He’s like a baby.
He is.
Tommy!!
Tommy shifts where he stands but doesn’t walk out the door. He just sort of looks at it and then at the glass again, bouncing from foot to foot.
Techno starts digging around in his chest, but calls over his shoulder, “That doesn’t look like leaving to me.”
“I’m going,” Tommy says with faux confidence.
Technoblade spins and looks at him again. “You literally haven’t moved.”
Tommy takes a step towards the door, tiny and difficult. “I have,” he asserts stubbornly.
Techno bites back a groan. “You took a single step.”
Tommy shrugs. “Still moving, innit?”
“Every time I talk to you I remember why I want to kill you.”
This gets him moving immediately, he pushes himself against the wall furthest from Techno. “Are you going to?” He says it like he intends for it to come out casual, but it just sounds terrified. He feels a little pang in his chest.
He sighs. “No.” He tries not to think of the way that isn’t a disappointing thing. (Admitting he ever cared about Tommy would be admitting he lost him, and Technoblade doesn't lose). “Phil would probably be upset with me.”
Tommy sticks out his tongue. “Suck up.”
Techno feels unreasonable defensiveness rising within him. He supposes maybe Tommy knows where his buttons are too. “I’m not.”
“Mhm,” he tilts his head.
Techno crosses his arms over his chest. “No, you don’t get to hum at me, that isn’t how this works.”
Tommy smiles a bit, and if Technoblade’s chest soars just a little, that’s between him and the voices in his head.
Technosoft.
Big brother Technoblade.
Give him a hug.
Ew.
He tosses Tommy the bandage he pulled from his chest, and Tommy wordlessly begins wrapping his hand. (There’s a practiced sort of flourish to it that makes Techno a little sick, makes him remember that this kid's a soldier. Tommy’s so young. Sixteen years old. Started a nation but can’t even legally drink yet. He’s been through so much).
“Sure, sure.”
He shakes his head. “Stop that.”
Tommy’s grin turns biting, just a bit. The way he gets when he knows he’s won. “What are you gonna do, kill me?”
“I hate you.”
Tommy looks at his toes, tone dipping even further. “I know.”
“Are you going, because as enjoyable as this conversation is, I have things to do.”
Tommy’s eyes brighten just a fraction, interest like a spark in the blue. “Like what?”
“None of your business, that’s what.” He fights the urge to flick the boy in the forehead, though he’s not quite sure what’s stopping him. “Go bother Wilbur, or, excuse me, your ‘business associate.’”
Tommy’s nostrils flare and Techno thinks of how similar he looks to Phil (same eyes, same hair, same stupid little nose puff). “Fine.”
He watches him. “You’re still not moving.”
He throws his hands out in front of him, seemingly snapping. “I know, I know!”
“So... move?”
He shuts his eyes like he’s deliberating something, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sisters. “Um, I will-I’m... Can I ask you something Technoblade?”
Techno sighs. There’s no way he’s gonna get out of this. Tommy’ll talk anyone’s ear off. There’s no shutting this kid down (until Dream, he doesn’t think, until Dream beat him into submission with fists and blackstone walls).
“Knock yourself out.”
He sucks in a small breath. “Do you think I’m gonna get manipulated again?” He breathes, shakily. “Because I’ll be honest,” his voice breaks a bit, and Technoblade thinks this all feels very cold and very fallible and not very TommyInnit. “I’m really tired of it,” he says, and sounds it, “and Wilbur sort of knows he can make me do whatever he wants, because he’s my bro-my business associate, and I love him even though I hate him which is really confusing, but I feel that way about a lot of people, really.” He rushes to tack on the last bit, hardly pausing for breath, like he thinks the words will get stuck if he lets them. Maybe they will. “And I know you’re really smart and you’ve always been super good at reading people and a need an opinion from someone who doesn’t think Wil is some angel who can do no wrong.”
Techno nearly groans. He is not paid nearly enough to deal with this bullshit.
“I don’t know, I’m not your therapist, Tommy. If I was I’d diagnose you with being an annoying little prick.”
Tommy looks hurt and the voices cry out. “Why do you do that?” His voice sounds strained.
“Do what?” If Tommy’s allowed to be difficult, so is he.
“You’re always mean to me when I ask for help.” And the audacity of a statement like that is almost enough to knock Techno off his feet. Mean? Sure. But he’s honest. He’s not gonna lie, there’s no point in pretty untruths.
“You’re just sensitive.”
His nostrils flare again. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“Who was the one who had a panic attack after seeing a button again? Who was the one who broke into my house and wouldn’t stop shaking after I caught him? Who is was one who flinches away from touch because he died again or something? Oh yeah, you. Got hurt doing hero shit? Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
They’re low blows, he knows. But Tommy’s tugging on his last nerve. He’d rather not deal with this right now, he has better things to do.
“You’re an asshole.” Tommy's voice shakes and Techno doesn't care, he doesn't.
Stop.
Leave him alone.
Help him.
Blood for the Blood God
End this.
Stop being mean.
“I can live with that," he bites. "At least I’m not a traitor.”
A boy.
Not a traitor.
Too young to understand really, for anyone else at least.
But Tommy knows a traitor.
It was never meant to be.
We never really heard those words though, did we?
“I’m not a traitor!” Tommy protests, but he sounds dizzy, unsteady. “You were gonna destroy my home.”
Techno scoffs. “It was evil, they exiled you, they left you for dead.”
If you want to be a hero
Die like one.
“No, Dream exiled me,” he says hotly, "and you worked with him.” He points at Techno’s chest, taking a step towards him. “I trusted you and you were always one fucking second away from handing me over to the guy who ruined my life. I thought you were my friend but you weren’t. You’re selfish.” Techno tightens his grip on the hilt of his sword.
Let me tell you a story.
A man.
Called Theseus.
“You wanna talk about selfish, Tommy? I let you into my home, I defended you, I protected you, and you threw it back in my face. Don’t cry to me about loyalty.”
Don’t speak to me of loyalty.
Loyal to his homeland.
Not to his brother.
Blood for the Blood God.
“Why shouldn’t I?” Tommy spits, hot again. “Maybe I wasn’t loyal, but you weren’t either. You’re such a hypocrite,” he heaves. “Everyone’s always a hypocrite.”
Technoblade looks at the ceiling, traces the wood with his eyes, a tangible sort of frustration uncoiling within him. “Oh yeah, go ahead play the victim card. ‘I’m Tommy and my life is so hard.’ No shit everyone’s a hypocrite, that’s how life works. People lie.”
Maybe it’s immature, but fuck it. Techno was a kid once too.
“That’s not fair,” Tommy begs. There’s a hopeless sort of twinge in his words.
Fair. He almost laughs. Life isn’t fair. If life was fair he’d sleep at night. If life was fair, Phil would still have his wings.
If life was fair, you’d have a brother and not an enemy.
You’d live somewhere close, where people could see.
You’d have clean hands.
Tommy would have all his lives.
Ranboo wouldn’t be so skittish.
You’d have two totems, not one.
You’d have friends, lots.
If life was fair we’d be free.
And you’d be free too.
“You’re acting like a child,” he says, because his chest aches like an open wound and it’s easier to yell than to think about the damage.
“I’m not. They never let me be a child.” And it’s the fucking whine, that sorry little lilt in his voice, young and stupid and so fucking innocent, despite everything. Techno’s vision goes dark, blood rushes past his ears.
“So what? You think that makes you fucking special?”
“No.” Tommy leans back. “It’s not that, it’s just...” he trails off, breathes.
“What?” He pushes because he can.
Tommy takes a step back. “Nevermind.”
“No, Tommy,” he pushes further, waiting for the snap, waiting for him to reach the edge and dive towards him, lunge forward and go for the throat. Tommy’s a ruthless little fucker when he needs to be. He’s honest like breathing. And Techno just wants him to stop being so damn despondent. Anger is better than whatever the hell that was. “What? What is it? What do you have to say?”
There are tears at the corners of Tommy’s eyes.
Your fault.
You did this.
Blood blood blood.
Help him.
Tommy.
Brother.
“No one ever stays!” He says, his voice torn, despair sewn into the letters of the words. And that should be it. The pot boiling over, the explosion. By all means, Tommy, regular, normal Tommy should be off like a rocket, screaming at the skies, a little rampage.
But he isn’t. He’s stood with his back hunched and his fingernails digging into his arms, and there’s tears on his cheeks and something in Techno tears in two.
Don’t.
The voices warn, static in his skull. They don’t usually do that. But Techno’s always been a stubborn bastard. “Yeah, I wonder why.”
Tommy trips, eyes widening just a fraction. “Huh?”
Leave him be.
Stop, stop, stop.
End him. End this.
For the Blood God.
Blood.
Stop.
He laughs with mirth. “All you do is take, Tommy. You’re like a little fucking parasite, you kill things. Maybe, no one stays because you’re such a fucking pest, no one wants to.”
His head hurts, and the voices wail in his bones.
Tommy flinches away like he’s been hit. The little traces of persisting anger drain from his face in an instant, his body goes loose. He breathes out shakily, he looks dead on his feet. The tears fall faster, and he brushes them off with jittery fingers.
Techno’s heart skips, guilt already crawling its way across his skin, aching and itching.
Look what you did.
You want them to treat you like a person.
But where’s your humanity?
Where’s your pity for the boy thrice dead?
Blood for the Blood God.
Blood and blood and blood.
“Look,” he starts, I-“
“I know,” Tommy interrupts, voice clear and watery.
Techno short circuits. Because it’s honest. The whispers sing a tragedy.
“What?”
“I know,” and some of the anger comes back, though now it doesn’t feel like a relief. And it doesn’t seem directed at him anymore. “I know I’m fucking awful.” There’s a glaze over Tommy’s eyes, they glisten, and the hazy orange sunlight catches them through the window, makes them almost glow. “I don’t mean to be. I know I’m the way I am, so I’m aware I’ve got to compensate. But I try okay? “I try to help people. I want to help people. But I don’t know if I can give any more, Technoblade. I can’t save the server again, I don’t have it in me.” He laughs, choked and pathetic.
Not pathetic
Tired, he’s tired.
I would be too.
“I’m running on empty.”
He feels like he could puke. “Tommy I-“
He waves a dismissive hand, but it’s wobbly in its movement. “It’s fine. You’re right.” He smiles, a tiny, sad, little thing that makes Techno’s chest squeeze in a way he’d never admit to out loud. “I don’t have the right to ask anything from you. Thank you for not killing me.” He backs towards the door and Techno finds himself trailing after.
“You don’t have to save the world, Theseus.”
Tommy looks at him with an expression so impossibly grown it aches. “Yes, I do.”
“Good things don’t happen to heroes. You’re not an exception. I don’t want you to-you don’t have to die for them again. They’re ungrateful.”
“I have to help. It doesn’t make a difference if it eats me alive or it doesn’t, I have to be useful, I have to be there. It’s what Wilbur would’ve done.” He blinks. “Old Wilbur.” He blinks again. “Or maybe he wouldn’t have. I don’t know anymore.”
Help him.
Save him.
He has to save himself.
“What if they’re not worth it, Tommy?” His throat feels tight. “They’re not worth your life.”
Tommy shakes his head like it's simple. “It doesn’t matter.”
“They don’t deserve you.”
Tommy's face is bent in something like acceptance. “It’s not about deserving, Tech.” He’s sure. “It’s never been. Nothing about this place is logical. I’ve got to do it because I’ve got to. That’s the end of it.” There’s a finality to it. Their conversation is over.
“Well,” he reaches over and adjusts the bandaid on Tommy’s hand, to straighten it a bit. “At least stay safe, Toms. If you die, Phil will kill you,” he says. “Maybe Wilbur too, I’m not sure yet,” he tacks on. Because Wil isn’t what he was but he’s not that dissimilar either. He still wants Tommy glued to his side.
“Too late for that big man,” he tugs on the white strand in his hair, and Techno thinks of how he’s died. How Techno has all three lives, and Tommy doesn’t even get the luxury of rest is death.
“Tommy-“ he starts.
“Goodnight, Techno,” Tommy says pleasantly, but his voice cracks as the word falls from his lips. “Tell Wil...” he traces the scars on his arm with a finger. “Actually don’t tell Wil anything. Give Phil my best. For what it's worth I am sorry.” He nods to the glass on the floor, but they both know that’s not what it’s really about.
“I am too.”
And the door clicks open and shut, and the cold wafts in and is locked out again. Chat murmurs and argues. Techno starts sweeping up the glass.