Chapter Text
Technoblade was an only child. Most memories of his childhood were murky, but this much he knew to be true. It usually evoked pity from people—the thought of a boy without companionship—but not once had Techno ever expressed a longing for siblings growing up.
“A sibling would’ve been a distraction,” began his justification during interviews, “and if I’d been distracted, I might’ve never started writing.”
Above all else, he was a writer. Before he was American, he was a writer. Before he was an anarchist, he was a writer. Before he was Technoblade, twenty-two-year-old Ivy League student, he was a writer—and he was damn proud of that fact. He knew it in his heart, and he told himself that’s all that mattered, but he also delighted in his earned title of New York Times Bestselling Author.
While he couldn’t remember a time in his life when he hadn’t been telling stories, he only began sharing them when he was twelve. The realisation that he could post his work online was mind-blowing. He’d hauled all of his notebooks, filled to the brim with stories, into his father’s study and began the long, tedious process of transferring work from diary to Word document. By the end of it his fingers had formed calluses, but that pain couldn’t hold a candle to the euphoria experienced as he saw his first book uploaded online. He felt on par with literary heroes like Hemingway, basking in all the glory of his ten hits and two kudos.
Those numbers felt so meagre compared to his current standing, but at the time, it was sensational. People wanted to listen to him ? Lonely little Technoblade, the silent freak of his sixth grade class—did he finally have a voice? Ten hits wasn’t enough for him. Why play it safe when he knew the possibility of more was within his reach? From there his empire grew, and along with it, a dedicated fanbase.
Dedicated or not, Techno never understood why his readers’ fascination extended beyond his fiction to the point where he was peer-pressured into making a Twitter profile. His fans were obsessed with him. Each message, no matter how short or stupid, garnered an astounding response.
Technoblade @technothewriter
Technoblade
8K Replies 14K Retweets 39K Likes
@ulfvaee
Replying to @technothewriter
so true
@SummoningFailed
Replying to @technothewriter
his writing blows me away everytime. this has to be one of his best works.
@scrdrvr
Replying to @technothewriter
banger tweet
It was no surprise that when he announced the professional publication of his first novel, his fans were over the moon. Then, when they found out the book was semi-autobiographical, there was another burst of enthusiasm. Techno had to admit that he saw the value of Twitter when his fans banded together to buy copies for those who couldn’t afford it, and the subsequent joy of those fans when their books arrived.
When the book was finally released, he allowed himself one sappy tweet. Just to commemorate the event, that was all. A quick message and an image of the inside of the hardback sleeve, where his portrait and modest biography were printed.
Technoblade is the bestselling author of Ringing the Bell. It is his first novel. He lives in New York, where he studies English Literature at Columbia University. When he is not writing, he’s enjoying a book with a warm cup of coffee.
And what else could he caption that image with, but “Thanks for helping me have the best job in the world.”
The fans went wild.
The post-publication high was good—great, even. His online works received renewed attention from the new readers who’d come from Ringing the Bell and he had a whale of a time watching glowing reviews flood in. His parents had even sent him a celebratory bouquet of red roses and a bottle of champagne. That had made him smile; though he wished they’d remembered he didn’t drink.
The celebration period came to a close harshly at the hands of his roommate Dream. They were walking home from the cinema one night when they’d noticed Techno’s book displayed front and centre in a bookstore window. They stopped to gawk and, before Techno could express his pride, Dream said, “Guess you need to start working on the sequel now.”
In the dark reflection of the window glass, Techno saw his world shatter. The sequel? His next book? But how could he ever write anything as good as (never mind better than) Ringing the Bell?
That brought him to his current position: Techno was hiding underneath a dozen blankets and pillows, cowering in fear of his empty Word document. The blinking caret mocked him. Was this writer’s block, that dreaded beast? Every time he even entertained the notion of reaching out to his keyboard, his mind flared with panic. He was convinced that Ringing the Bell came from a rare bout of genius that had come and gone, and now that he’d ridden out its wave of popularity, his career would go into decline. It almost seemed better to not try at all than to face failure. All there was to do was reminisce on past glory and eat junk food.
Writer’s block was a pain in the butt.
With an exhausted groan, Techno wrestled out from underneath the mountain of blankets, and padded out of his bedroom, taking his phone with him. To escape this slump, he’d need something good to write about. Something extraordinary.
Wilbur was not an only child. Well, technically he was , but part of him liked to believe that, despite everything, there was someone out there with whom he shared the same markings on his fingertips; the same carvings on his soul.
Wilbur was quite open about his childhood. Bouncing from foster family to foster family, a shadow of otherness following him without rest, was rough. For as long as he lived he would never forget being shuttled around England, peering out of the windows of rattling tin buses and out to happy homes: little detached buildings with triangular roofs and yellow windows, oftentimes seeing children running around in the garden or a congregation laughing at the dinner table. It was a life he longed for—and one he’d never have. In the foster system, there was no opportunity to settle, to lay down roots, to find a home.
That was until he found solace in the strings of a stolen guitar. He’d never forget that day on the pebbly Brighton beach when Tommy had run over to him, panting, sweating and lugging with him an acoustic guitar the colour of sand. Memories of Tommy’s face were all but painted in smeared oils; a photograph faded from the sun. But never would he forget those gorgeous golden curls that bounced with such life. He’d presented the guitar with a wide grin, telling Wilbur he’d nicked it from a boy at their current foster home who he’d deemed undeserving of such a fine instrument.
“You know that’s you kicked out now, right?” Wilbur spoke around his cigarette. With a fond pat delivered to his head, he took the guitar by the neck. The weight felt surprisingly right.
“Don’t need ‘em. Not when I have you.” Tommy sat down on the pebbles and looked up at Wilbur adoringly.
They’d met the night before in a home Tommy would indeed be booted from later on but, in the short time they had together, they’d loved each other fiercely. Their bond was the kind that could only be forged in the darkest of times, created beneath moth-bitten blankets, nurtured by gentle singing to dry tears in the night.
His fingers twitched on the strings. An experimental pluck resulted in a wince and Wilbur took a moment to fiddle with the tuning. The cold waves of the sea crashed against the shore, overhead gulls broke out into wild cries, and then Wilbur strummed.
And he changed the rhythm of the world forever.
Coming from his kind of background, fame felt bizarre. It started with being recognised from busking, then it was pub gigs, and all of a sudden he was on the BBC Live Lounge singing songs from his debut EP. By the time he was twenty-two he was sipping his morning coffee with a prime view of the London skyline. Sometimes Wilbur thought about the existence of guardian angels and Tommy’s golden halo of hair. Wherever he was now, he knew the boy would be proud of him.
It was great. Really, it was. For the first time in his life he had expendable income, he could travel wherever he pleased—the sky was the limit. Money could buy him a penthouse. Hell, money could buy him two penthouses. But, despite all it could, it could never buy him a feeling of belonging.
Being a celebrity was like being in the still centre of a hurricane while everyone else was caught up in the wind. A million hands reached out to him for shaking, there one second and gone in the next, while pens purposed for business deals blew around him frantically. Remembering the whirlwind of faces was an impossible feat and, oh man, all the names. The constant praise had turned into humdrum, feeling hollow and fake, their movie star smiles overwhelming saccharine. And every time Wilbur heard a comment that resonated with him, every time he thought he’d built a connection to last, he was forgotten, hopes drowned by the fake-cheery “have we met before?” he received far too often during second, third, even fourth interactions. It was like being trapped in a revolving door, just constant spinning, spinning, spinning—
It was frighteningly similar to his experience in the foster system.
When that realisation hit, it hit him hard. Most inconveniently, it struck during a private soirée for members of the record label he was signed to. His grip tightened on his champagne flute, his eyes widened, and a pained ‘Oh, God’ was just barely breathed out of his trembling mouth.
His trip home was a whirlwind, becoming instantly forgotten as he stumbled through the front door. Clothes were frantically removed and he launched himself into the shower. The icy water was a shock to his system but it was exactly what he needed—something to wash away his panic until clarity could shine through.
Every good thing he had in his life, he’d had to fight for. He’d screamed and cried and skipped a thousand trains trying to find a job that would take a homeless teenager with no education. He’d shredded the skin on the tips of his fingers, dripped red spots onto silver strings, drove himself half mad to master that damned guitar. The things he’d done to break into the music industry. A gasping sob broke out from his mournful mouth. The things he’d done.
Didn’t he deserve something won not through blood and begging, but was his because that was how it was meant to be? Something instinctual, something ancestral, something—
In his mirror, he watched realisation dawn on his face. It’d been a while since he mourned the chasm in his heart left by the angel with the golden hair.
He knew what he wanted because it was something he valued higher than anything else in his life—and something more unattainable than any other dream he’d ever had.
A brother. Miserable tears rolled down his cheeks. He wanted a brother.
Two weeks had gone by, and Technoblade was still starved of creativity. Every time he thought he had the bravery to begin a new line, the spark died before he could reach his keyboard, and his fingers felt foolish as they grappled for line of thought. It was a disaster and Dream was not being very helpful about it.
“Can’t you just…” he waved his hand through the air before bringing it down to rest on his thigh. Dream was sitting at his computer (set up in the living room with all kinds of fancy tech attached) with one leg resting on the desk and the other tucked into himself. The repetitive strumming of a guitar sounded out from the chunky headphones hanging around his neck.
“Just write?” Techno finished for him.
“Well, yeah.”
Both roommates were artists and that was what brought them together—and caused many of their arguments. Dream’s ideas about music rarely translated into Techno’s literary language well. Biting back a snide comment about the banging of laptop keys sounding more melodic than whatever amateur rubbish Dream was currently experimenting with, he instead asked, “What are you even workin’ on, anyway?”
“You heard of Wilbur Soot?”
“Doesn’t ring any bells.”
Dream unplugged his headphones and the recorded strumming played out of a set of speakers.
“Yeah, well, he’s a big deal in the UK, but they think his stuff needs a little bit of remixing before it can reach the charts here.”
A voice joined in with the guitar, soft and wrought with emotion.
“He’s from England?”
“Pretty sure. Lemme check.”
Techno mainly listened to video game or movie soundtrack pieces, but he could see the appeal of this. Wilbur’s voice was raw: he could hear his pain as he sang about London subway suicides. Techno struggled to make sadness tangible through similes and metaphors but Wilbur wore his heart on his sleeve, singing unrefined lyrics that spoke truth to every listener’s soul.
“T-Techno?”
He hummed out an acknowledgement and turned to look at Dream’s monitor. He was on the Wikipedia page for Wilbur Soot, musician, born on the 1st of June 1999.
“Oh neat, same birthday.”
“No, Techno—his face.”
His eyes flickered up, then—
Oh.
Oh.
“What the heck?”
“Heck? Heck? You’re the writer here, you have to know a word better than heck—”
“Shh. I’m tryin’ to take this in.”
Brown eyes, straight nose, skin speckled with moles. A head of dark waves that Techno knew were a nightmare to brush and even worse to accept pink dye each month. How strange it was to see his own visage with lips curled into song, hands cradling a guitar, in a place so far away while they’d also never been closer.
Because they were twins. Identical. There was no other explanation, they had to be. Techno sat on one of the kitchen bar stools, anxiously tapping his foot against the tiles while he stormed through Wilbur’s profile.
With every similarity he found, he excitedly yelled about it to Dream, who was lying on the couch with a dumbfounded expression and a cold towel pressed to his forehead and occasionally mumbled out curses.
“He drinks coffee!”
“He’s ambidextrous!”
Then, with a fond smile, “He’s a reader.”
A few hours ago, Wilbur had tweeted a picture of a book with the caption “a little bit of backstage reading.” Instinctually, Techno scrolled down into the replies
@mambodork
Replying to @WilburSoot
Are you performing La Jolla tonight?
@lvrkaz
Replying to @WilburSoot
wait that’s one of my faves hello-
@susanfox
Replying to @WilburSoot
good luck with tonight’s show :)
@ranbooba
Replying to @WilburSoot
Looks like you’re close to finishing that one! You should check out Ringing the Bell by Technoblade next :D
Wait—what? In a moment of panic, he swiped the tweet away, returning to a home page of cat pictures retweeted by Dream.
Wilbur’s tweets received thousands of replies as soon as they were posted. It was unlikely that he would see the one message mentioning his book. It would be like dunking a hand into a haystack and pulling out the needle on the first try. But… what if Wilbur had seen the tweet? What if he’d Googled Ringing the Bell and scoffed, turned off by the pompousness of anyone who would make their book semi-autobiographical? How interesting do you think your life is, Technoblade?
His parents had never shown any interest in his writing. What would make Wilbur any different?
Techno was a writer. If he was nothing else, he was a writer. But, try as he might, he couldn’t describe the feeling of helplessness he experienced as he compared his career to Wilbur’s. He spent his nights curled up in bed with buckets of Ben & Jerry’s, obsessively rereading his own works, consumed by the unyielding fear that he would never be more than he already was. He remembered a photo he’d seen on Wilbur’s account—a professional shot taken of him holding a champagne flute with a backdrop of silver balloons. He was eminent. And Techno was… well, he was near tears.
Miserably, he fished his phone from his pocket and returned to Wilbur’s Twitter. Wiping wetness from his cheeks, Techno scrolled and came to the pinned tweet.
Wilbur Soot @wilbursoot
Your City Gave Me Asthma is out now on Spotify and Apple Music
53.4K Replies 592K Retweets 1.7M Likes
It was followed by a flood of supportive messages from fans and celebrities, praising him like he was a god. Why would Wilbur want him when he had the entire United Kingdom rallying behind him? He was just another face in a sea of millions.
No, Wilbur would never care. Not in a million years.
He trundled back to the living room, where he collapsed against the couch, pulling his legs to his chest. He’d never cared about anything like this before so why did it hurt so badly? Knowing that a part of himself was out there across the ocean, unknown to him for his entire life, was painful. Never before had he noticed the chasm in his soul, but now it felt unbearable. And what made it worse was the absolute certainty in his chest that told him Wilbur will never care.
With a sigh, Techno turned off his phone and pressed his forehead to his knees.
Well, if nothing else, at least he had an idea for his next novel.
Wilbur was not sad. He was living the best years of his life.
He’d sold out Wembley Stadium three nights in a row. How could he be sad with a career as successful as his? He was just distracted. Yes, just a minor bit of distraction. It wasn’t like every time his mind wandered he wound up back at the daydream scenario of actually having a family. That certainly wasn’t the reason why he’d choked up during his performance of “Since I saw Vienna.”
Ever since that night after the soirée, all Wilbur could think about was having a brother. Not even a brother—he’d take a sibling of any calibre. It seemed as if everywhere he looked, there were fraternal displays for him to pine over: in TV shows, in films, even in the book he was currently reading. That was a big reason why he was struggling to make progress on it. It was extremely inconvenient having to put the novel down every time two siblings interacted to spend ten minutes staring longingly out the window.
Young, chattering voices broke him from his thoughts. Wilbur smiled as he rounded into the main backstage area, where fifteen fans were sitting around a coffee table on an assortment of different types of furniture. To give him a break from the blinding lights used while he performed, the backstage area was kept intentionally dim, but his vision was good enough to take in the group.
These were the lucky fifteen that were randomly selected by security to spend time with him backstage after tonight’s performance. From seeing fan discussions online, he knew this was a coveted privilege. They greatly valued the time he spent talking to them about music or teaching guitar chords, even if Wilbur didn’t understand why it was so special.
The first fan to notice him had long, violet hair with a plastic marshmallow clasp and eyes that widened into disbelief as he approached. Next was a scrappy, feline-looking guy who openly began sputtering his name. He couldn’t help but do a double take when a boy with split-dyed monochrome hair stood, revealing that he towered above the rest of the group. Soon enough they were all on their feet, hands clasped excitedly.
“Hi, everyone.” Wilbur said, “Did you enjoy the show?”
He pulled a stool up to the little circle and listened to an explosive conversation about tonight’s setlist. It was always interesting to hear fan interpretations of lyrics or how much certain songs spoke them. If he could travel back and tell his ten-year-old self that one day there would be people who not only heard his voice but understood what he had to say, he knew he’d never believe it.
“Usually I’d grab my guitar, and we could all have a sing-along,” he began sheepishly, “but I’m feeling a bit tired tonight.”
The group were quick to express their understanding. One person, dressed in all pink with decorative rabbit ears, said, “You must be exhausted if you’re performing almost daily.”
“Yeah.” He chuckled. “Most nights I get home and instantly collapse into bed. Barely get any time to read before I’m snoring.”
“Oh!” Wilbur’s head snapped towards the tall boy, who hadn’t spoken a word before now. His eyes were suddenly wide, and he began digging through the tote bag on his lap.
“You alright?”
“Yes! I just—I have something for you. A book.”
Wilbur’s eyebrows raised in surprise as a hardback book was handed to him. Fans had gifted him flowers, artwork and instruments before, but a book was new. The cover was protected by a red sleeve and the title was printed in glittering gold: Ringing the Bell , it read. By Technoblade. Ironically, the name rang no bells with Wilbur. He opened it up and found, on the inside sleeve, a blurb of the book and, on the first blank page, a short message.
Dear Wilbur,
This book inspired me just as much as your music has. I hope you’ll enjoy it :D
From your biggest fan,
Ranboo
“Aww, Ranboo!” Wilbur squealed, ignoring how it made the young man blush.
Intrigued, he turned to the back of the novel. He’d learned that sometimes book sleeves had an “about the author” section there and found it very interesting to read a little bit about the powers behind the prose. As a lyricist, he had a great respect for novel writers. Maybe it was something he would tackle someday but, until then, he’d admire the writers he was lucky enough to come across.
Ranboo began to ramble, “The writer’s this really cool guy living in New York. This is only his first formally published novel but he’s uploaded so much stuff online. Like, so much stuff. He actually reminds me of you a lot, Wil—Wilbur?”
If Wilbur was able to tear his eyes away from the book, he would’ve seen that the fans were edging closer to him, faces full of concern. But his gaze was glued to the “about the author” section. More specifically, the photograph of the author.
He must be exhausted. One show too many had messed with his mind. He was seeing things. Surely, he was seeing things.
“This guy doesn’t look like me, right?” He frantically turned the book around to the rest of the group and watched as their eyes grew as round as saucers. Quiet fell upon them like a blanket.
“You didn’t tell us you had a twin.”
“That’s because I don’t.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Wilbur turned the book back to himself and took another look. The photo was still there. Technoblade was his name? His hair was dyed pink and flowed down to his shoulders but, apart from that, they were totally identical.
No. No they were not. There was no way—there had to be some obvious imperfection like a birthmark or wart or eye colour. This just wasn’t possible. Doppelgangers existed. Doppelgangers were very common. In fact, Wilbur frequently used to get mistaken for many different celebrities. Surely this was just another lookalike. Surely—
Despite what his logic told him, his heart yearned to tie itself to this Technoblade man. He wanted to book the next flight to New York and run through the streets until they found each other. It would be like in the movies: a picture-perfect reunion of twins separated at birth and brought together through a book and a fan’s backstage gift.
The lights shifted, and all of a sudden their glow seemed not yellow, but golden, like the hair of an absent boy held close to his heart. It grounded Wilbur. If this Technoblade was his brother, then he wanted to be certain of it before getting attached. He couldn’t take another heartbreak. Couldn’t take the loss of another brother.
Tenderly, Wilbur traced the golden title of the book and whispered, “Guess this is the best place to start learning about you, huh?”