Chapter Text
Techno hates cooking.
His palette isn’t particularly refined, preferring foods that are plain and easy. Which makes cooking pretty unrewarding. All the more so with how boring he finds the task. And the fact that he frankly sucks at it.
Techno hates cooking, but it’s what’s expected of him.
Maybe that adds to his hate somewhat. Distaste at being forced into things instead of choosing to do it himself. He has vague memories of cooking with his mother and aunts and cousins, getting tastes of meals and treats before anyone else. A sign-on bonus, so to say.
The memories are so foggy that he can hardly remember if he felt much of anything towards it back then, before he could revolt at being forced into things. Then again, he does remember quite clearly absolutely abhorring the idea of marriage before he was anywhere close to being forced into that, so. Maybe Techno just isn’t much of a chef.
Not much of a ‘wife’ either.
Techno’s tail thrashes behind him as he scrubs carrots in the sink. At family dinners, he’s banished to washing produce and carrying dishes, everyone well aware by this point that the only seasoning he reliably applies to food is a burnt char. Avians don’t have much of a tongue for it. Of course, piglin hybrids don’t either, but they don’t know that. It’s been a good excuse, these past couple months since being wed into the family.
Is it a little bit petty? Maybe. Is it a little bit funny? Definitely.
And really, if Techno deserves one thing through all this horrendous nonsense he’s been forced into, it’s humor. Even if only in private jokes.
His comedy career has fallen a bit to the wayside too, lately. Alongside his ability to partake in shooting—recreational or otherwise—and access his not necessarily legal hormones. All things of equal detriment. Truly.
A frown stays perched on his lips as he takes his handfuls of washed vegetables over to the corner of the kitchen, dodging around the women and their wings. At least the place is big enough for him to not be in the throw of things. Boiling water and the laughter of gossip. Techno stabs into the vegetables, doing his best to chop them bite sized.
“—and I told her that the book was a drag, we read it a decade ago. But she thinks she runs the club or something. Her way or the highway,” A woman says, twisting a spoon impressively in her hand. “We were all bored to death, seriously.”
“At least you could say ‘I told you so,’” Someone laughs.
“Well. It went unsaid, but it sure was felt when everyone took my suggestion this week,” The woman says, smiling sharply.
A few people laugh in response.
Techno is keen to believe the woman. This has been an ongoing saga, since Techno was inducted into the family a couple months back and was promptly shoved into the kitchen like a lost lamb. Mrs. Boring Books apparently fond of stories about merchant women being swept off their feet by thieves or soldiers. Not like Techno can blame the escapism, but he’s been reading the book suggestions in his own time, and they are horribly dull.
“What book did you suggest?” A particular woman asks, sweeping over like someone who has walked among wings their whole life. Despite lacking them herself.
Kristin, that is. The only human in the room. Techno’s the only piglin hybrid in the room. Fitting, since Kristin is his sister-in-law. In-law-in-law? His brother-in-law’s wife? Techno has no clue, piglin hybrids tend to just call everyone their aunt, uncle, or cousin, depending on how old they are.
“The Last Chalice,” The woman says.
“Oh, that’s a great one,” Kristin says. “The ending…”
The woman smiles and chuckles, flapping a hand at her shortly. From what Techno has seen, Kristin is charming and easily well liked by the family. Despite being married in as well. Though, that’s probably not the top thing that earns Techno second glances.
He snorts silently and chops the last carrot up, marking the book in his head. Maybe it will be worthwhile.
“Are those vegetables done?”
Techno sets the knife on the counter before him, before picking up the cutting board and holding it out. A few of the women turn to look at it. And visibly recoil.
“Oh my, Techno, did they not teach even the basics of cooking?” A woman chides him.
Techno just shrugs. Carrots make his hands burn to chop up and stain his nails orange until he washes them four times. Really, he’s just focused on getting them done quicker.
“It’s not so bad, you all have just been cooking for so long. Do you remember little Seraphine, damn near sliced her finger off,” Kristin says.
The memory sets off a new round of chortles and stories, about people Techno doesn’t know and things he has no interest or skill in. Kristin swoops over to him during it, taking the cutting board from his hands. She winks before she turns away.
What’s that about? The woman comes across as genuinely nice, but Techno can never tell.
He sighs and picks up the dirtied knife, bringing it to the sink as slowly as physically possible.
In some ways, Techno is jealous of how easily all the women seem to connect with one another. A lot of them are almost as bad as the entitled men they’re related or married to. Just as judgmental about Techno’s suspiciously deep voice and strong frame. The fact that he wears pants a bit too much to just be due to youth and not something more. Him sucking at all his assigned womanly roles—even if that's certainly, mostly, unrelated to him being actually a dude.
There is a sort of allegiance that comes from being women, wrought in kitchens and drawing rooms and book clubs that only spend a quarter of the time discussing literature, though. One that Techno has never been able to fit in with. Perpetually on the outside of everyone.
It makes him homesick. Not that he fit in there, but there was more room for rebellion and slipping out of the strict and isolated world the families are stuck in.
Suffocating. And yet frigidly alone.
“Techno. Carry these plates out,” Someone calls to him.
Without a word, he slips over to obey. A stack of plates, porcelain and fancy, are easy to carry. He could do it one handed, but it would get him scolded about how the plates are someone’s great-great-great-great-grandma’s. Fair enough, he supposes. Though, he frowns as he considers the weight. Does it feel more heavy? Is he already losing muscle mass and his athletic build? He worked hard for those. He needs to start doing push-ups in the bathroom.
Considering his new, potentially slippery workout routine, he almost doesn’t notice Kristin slipping out beside him. She seems to shift from the center of the room to invisible at will. Pretty impressive.
“You hold the kitchen knives like weapons,” Kristin says, eyes wrinkling around the edges.
Techno shrugs. “Self defense classes.”
True. Though he managed to stick with them longer than his sisters and cousins. And then continued on his own, stolen knives and secret trips to the shooting range behind the stables. It helped that he always enjoyed riding, no one was very suspicious.
“Smart,” Kristin says.
It’s not said in a rude way. Not dismissive, or downplaying. But he swears some of the interest in her eyes flags, just a little. Which should be a good thing. But…
“And a short throwing knives phase,” Techno says, smiling a little bit. “Possibly.”
“Now that sounds fun,” Kristin says, showing off her nearly respectably sharpened teeth. Only the canines, since humans are not made to bite. Kristin might do some damage.
Feeling lamely lightened by the almost compliment, Techno is bolstered enough to step towards the dining room. But Kristin holds him up by turning towards him.
“Oh, Techno. I’m not sure if Dante told you, but me and my family will be staying at the house into the holidays,” Kristin says.
He did not. But, it does make sense. Techno lives with Dante, of course, on account of that being the man he ended up married to. Alongside Dante’s parents and aunt. As the oldest son, Dante is set to take over the family sooner rather than later, and is halfway there about now. The best part of which means that he is too busy to be around Techno the vast majority of the time.
Unfortunately, it does mean that the man really shouldn’t have had to take Techno’s hand in marriage. It’s a younger son’s job to marry people of beneficial relations, from other powerful families. Dante has complained about it often. His only younger sibling, Phil, was already married to Kristin for decades when the Blade family proposed the deal.
That’s actually been a secret benefit too. If Techno can ignore all the complaining, then it means that Dante has no desire to be around him either. All the better.
Regardless; Kristin, Phil, and their kids spending the holiday in the main family house makes sense. Techno remembers his closest aunts and uncles coming to visit their home for entire months in the winter, spring, and summer. For business, and more normal family things, he guesses.
“Good to know,” Techno says. Then, remembering that he’s supposed to be polite or something, he tacks on: “Thanks?”
Kristin chuckles at him, setting a palm on his elbow for a moment, before leaving him. Techno follows her out, eyes back on the plates. Great grammy had good taste in porcelain.
Carefully, Techno sets the plates down around the table. He tries to keep a wide berth between himself and anyone sitting at the table already. Though most of them are in the middle of a conversation, which makes it easier to slip between them and keep himself in a world of only place mats and straightening out curly flower patterns.
From the corner of his eye, he sees Kristin whisper something into Phil’s ear, but the man doesn’t seem to respond in any way. Techno feels bad for Kristin.
He reaches Dante last, quickly setting a plate down before the man before trying to flit back into the kitchen. But the man grabs his wrist before he can pull away.
“Sit beside me. How many damn times do I have to tell you?” Dante whispers.
“They wanted my help bringing out more things,” Techno says.
He pushes his eyebrows together so that he won’t make any more of an expression. So that emotion won’t bleed into his tone. Something that he apparently struggled with before—at least with judgement, disgust, distaste coming out too easily. He’s been a class act with improvement since getting married. But it’s still a challenge.
Dante scowls at him, before throwing his hand to the side slightly. A dismissal. Techno grits his molars and hopes it comes across as a small smile, before returning to fleeing.
Dear all that’s good. It’s probably beneficial that he’s viewed as a particularly stupid girl above all else, but it is infuriating to no end. His hands are shaking.
As he enters the kitchen quickly, he nearly runs into Kristin. The woman has somehow slipped back inside and collected a large folded dishcloth full of cutlery. She widens her eyes, looking over him, as they both stop walking. Then, she tips her hands forwards.
The cutlery clatters to the floor.
“Oops! My fault,” Kristin says.
She crouches to start picking them. Befuddled, Techno follows after her, a tad more slowly. There’s some tittering in the background, but the attention shifts away quickly.
“Can you take care of this actually?” Kristin asks.
“Sure?” Techno says.
“Thanks, hun,” Kristin says.
Then she heads back outside, dusting the front of her dress off. Techno watches after her for a moment, before going back to collecting spoons and forks and knives. What was that about? It was obviously on purpose. Right? He’d think it was to get him in trouble, but she played it off so easily that no one seems to care. Plus, she hardly seems the type.
It takes him a solid few minutes to collect all the cutlery, and then he realizes that he needs to wash it before he can take it out to the table. Which takes even longer, nearly fifteen minutes until everything is sparkling again. By then, the food is nearly finished. He thinks the bread and salad is already on the table.
He’s near relieved by it. Less time forced in the formal setting with all of them. Bet most of the men's taste in books is even worse than shlocky romance.
This time, Techno plops himself down in his assigned chair without being told. Enough scolding for one evening already. It keeps his elbows off of the table too. Boy, the napkin in his lap sure needs a lot of straightening. He keeps his eyes on the stubborn little thing, too focused to hardly noticed when quiet falls over the table.
It’s just the usual things. Thanks for food and family, for prosperity and good fortune. Hard work.
Bit more long winded than they would bother with at home, but the essence is the same. Techno has to clench his teeth at this one too, and he knows it doesn’t come across anything close to a smile. Not a pleasant one.
He picks up his wine glass for the toast, before pressing it to his lips. He doesn’t bother taking any into his mouth, hating the taste and the unsteadiness it brings. Even though no one cared much about the drinking age throughout his life, Techno didn't find the need to celebrate when he reached it. Whoever said wine makes things numb must have drunk something different than what they serve at insipid family dinners. Probably country vineyards and tourists laughing too loud at little tables. Metal, iron wrought, the type outside French cafes. Not like the good old oak, dulling the sound of him putting his glass down.
A sigh falls from his lips as he watches others get their food first. Men, of course. Most of their wives doing it for them, like they’re too weak to pick up a serving spoon.
Techno finds a bit of humor in the fact that the salad is missing carrots, and there are suspiciously orange bits in the lasagna. Cut so tiny that his slaughter left no mark. Darn.
Dante serves himself. Probably thinks Techno would mess it up. Must be his masculine aura.
There’s plenty of food left when Techno serves himself, though he has little appetite. Rarely does lately. It reminds him of when he was twelve and started seeing food as only a curve in his thighs. Before he realized that it could be muscles instead, if he tried hard enough.
Try hard his way out of this one. Good one, Techno.
As he’s trying to see if he can macerate the carrots down any smaller, his eyes catch on the knife sitting beside his plate innocently. It really is shining bright from his washing. A good skill to have.
The shine of light bounces off of it from the single window, far too bright in the nearly set sun.
Instinctively, his head snaps up as he shoves against the edge of the table. He drops to the floor quickly, hand closed around the knife to go with him. Still enough time to catch Kristin’s eyes across the table, widening slightly.
The sound of shattered glass pierces the room to bits.
Gun shots. Screaming. Shouts. It all breaks in the second that Techno slides beneath the table. He’s real thankful for that thick oak now, isn’t he? Those flimsy French tables would have him turning to swiss cheese, the whole lot of them.
Now it’s a real family dinner. After all, gunfire and murder is the true different between a normal family and a mob one. Lucky Techno, which one of those that he was born into.
A hand closes around Techno’s forearm, squeezing. He turns enough to see Dante, crouching below the table now too. Though he actually has a pistol in his hand, and a glare on his face so nasty that Techno can almost feel an ounce of respect for it. However, the man really doesn’t need to use his fingernails to shove at Techno. He was below the table already, thank you very much.
Shifting into a slightly more balanced crouch, Techno watches as Dante pokes his head out from under the table. There’s a pause in gunfire, but soon gunshots and footsteps are mixing together. People coming inside.
“Where the hell is security?” Dante asks, cursing.
A good question, actually. How have they been surrounded like this without any noise of fighting outside?
When an onslaught of gunfire continues, Dante dips his head back below the table. Probably smart. But this isn’t exactly a strategic spot to be holed up. About half of the family is crouched under the table with them, but there’s only a couple bodies on the ground. There must be a proper fight out there. Sitting ducks while the geese fight.
Dante is shouting to someone behind them, further down the table. Hopefully coming up with something strategic to do here. Techno’s a bit more focused on the approaching footsteps. Why are there no gunshots?
Shifting forward onto his heels, Techno watches as a pair of legs in a long black suit starts striding over to them.
“Dante,” Techno whispers, shifting his grip on the knife.
“Shut up,” Dante hisses back.
While the man does point his gun in the direction of the approaching enemy, he makes no move to actually do someting. To strike out first or do anything in particular. Techno can tell that he’s waiting, probably for the man to lean over to look under the table.
Which will probably leave plenty of time for their enemy to get off a shot or two, even if blindly. The man stops right behind Techno’s chair. Not blind enough.
A flicker of his eyes shows that Dante is still unmoving. The enemy is widening his stance outside of the table. Dante’s hand is still hovering over Techno’s arm, telling him to stay still and let whatever happens happen right to him. Just like everything else.
As the enemy’s legs begin to bend, Techno decides against getting a bullet to his gut this one time.
He kicks forward roughly, sending the chair soaring right into the man. Techno lets the force send him forwards, jumping after the clattering chair and man. Knocked askance by getting hit while bending down, the enemy is splayed on his side. He’s already rolling over, gun first, but Techno drops down onto him roughly. Knee sinking into the forearm of the hand holding the gun, while his other one plants in his chest.
There’s not enough time to grapple the gun before the man recovers enough to fight back. So Techno brings his knife down.
It’s messy work. Techno has killed two people before: some traitor that his dad guided his hand for, to prove a point to those who go against them, and a man that tried to attack him a couple years back. But those were with guns. It’s different. More distance.
Techno punctures the man’s throat and is instantly sprayed with a layer of blood. It’s shockingly warm, loud in a gurgling way.
Reflex makes him blink, turn his head away. But Techno gets his eyes back open in half a second, swinging around more fully. The gun has slipped most of the way out of the enemy’s hand, so he plucks it up and scans the room, crouching lower behind the chair, half on the man’s body still.
A battle has definitely occurred, while he was under the table and in the few seconds stabbing at the weakening enemy. There’s less enemies now, and those that are still around are out in the open. Fighting desperate. Losing.
Techno quickly raises the stolen gun, planting two bullets into the enemy facing his direction. Two chest shots, but they hit something good, since he stumbles back and begins falling.
The last guy turns in his direction, almost half paying attention, like the sound drew him absentmindedly. All the urgency of a spoiled child hearing their mom call them. Techno plants a bullet in his head.
There’s still gunshots from within the building, but it’s all dying now. Different rooms, dwindling enemies. It will be over in a few more seconds.
Techno inches closer to the table, wanting a bit more cover. It drags his attention back down below it. Once again, he meets Kristin’s eyes, a dozen feet away. She has a small pistol in her hand, still pointed in his general direction. Was she going to shoot the enemy? A teen boy is holding on to her elbow.
Before he can think through any of that further, Dante grabs him once more and drags him back down next to him. He is absolutely glowering, pissed. Techno’s chest clenches. He has to check that he wasn’t shot there.
Crap.
There’s no time for words. Dante looks back out from under the table, before actually leaving the cover, following the sound of the fight. Now he’s being proactive. Techno lets out a shaky breath, wiping his face with his sleeve. It seems to barely touch the blood.
One of the women who also has a little pistol creeps over to him, saying things to him. Techno doesn’t know if he answers or not. After what seems like a blink, she pulls him out of the table, then the dining room completely. Back to a better protected room, though there’s quite a few men about. The fight is over. Consequences can begin.
Speaking of which, Techno has barely started being poked towards a bathroom before Dante reappears. There’s a couple dots of blood on his face. Nothing impressive.
“I’m not sure if she’s hurt—” The woman starts, actually sounding a bit concerned.
Dante cuts her off. “I’ll take care of her.”
From the living room he’s dragged back through the house even more. Techno almost hopes that some enemy is hidden within a room or closet back here. Might pop out about now and do something useful.
But he knows that the house has been cleared well enough for them to be this reckless. The Craft family isn’t so incompetent, no matter what has allowed this to happen.
It’s Dante’s office that he ends up in, which makes sense. Appropriate.
The man yanks open the cabinet behind the desk, pulling out a large bottle of white alcohol. Techno thinks that he’s going to pour himself a drink or something, as illogical as it is. But it feels nearly as illogical when instead Dante dumps some of the liquid over a handkerchief, before shoving it towards him.
When Techno is dumb enough to blink down at the thing for a moment, Dante scoffs. He yanks the stolen gun out of Techno’s hand, forcing the handkerchief into it.
“Clean yourself up, you’re dripping blood,” Dante says.
Ah. Techno wipes his face mechanically.
The alcohol burns and stinks. He despises the smell of liquor, the slightly sticky residue that is somehow left behind despite how caustic it is. The quickness of the evaporation makes his skin feel like it’s peeling up with it. His nose scrunches, but he turns his face down to the ground while scrubbing.
Techno nearly wishes that it could continue on forever. Wishes that he was in some dressing room with the women, being judged purely for his looks instead of his being. Being an unattractive “woman” doesn’t bother Techno. But he knows that right now he’s being judged as stupid.
Stupid and small. That’s how he always feels before this man.
The alcohol eventually dries in the cloth, leaving it stained red and smelling strongly of iron and curdled wheat. Then, Techno has to look up.
Immediately, Dante whips the stolen pistol to the side. The back of his hand and the edge of the metal hits Techno’s cheek, sending him down to the ground from the force of it.
Techno hates how his hand automatically rises to his burning, stinging cheek. Hates how his shoulders hunch in to try and protect his vital organs. How his face turns up, eyes almost wide and the image of everything that the man sees in him.
“You will not humiliate me,” Dante growls. “Not in front of people. Not ever.”
Techno had never really been slapped by anyone but his father, before getting married. His mom and grandmother spanked him with a spoon sometimes, when he was really little. But a slap is different.
There is at least a near dignity to being hit by his father, at least. Because it was his father. Ownership in biology.
Always biology.
“Do you understand?” Dante asks.
Techno makes his head twitch, before casting his face downwards. His teeth ache with the force that he clenches them, face twisting behind his curtain of hair. All of him wants to fight back. His hand shakes with it, drumming against the swelling pain on his cheek. But he keeps his face well low and well hidden from view. Hopes the pink strands hide the red on his face, around the rims of his eyes.
Nothing can hide how his tail is thrashing behind him.
Dante scoffs before storming off. The family will be too busy with this disaster for it to be anything more than this. Lucky, lucky Techno.
It’s always lucky him.
Maybe the reason that being slapped by his father felt better was because of the aftermath. He could disappear outside. Off to the horse stable or shooting range or a bushel of trees. Maybe even the city, if he was bold enough. And sometimes he would get sympathy from his siblings or mother. Always paired with scolds, though. Whatever he did to bring it all on himself.
His breath had, without him noticing, grown labored and quick. He only notices now as his chest begins to ache with the lack of oxygen, brain feeling a tad woozy.
Techno takes the monumental effort required to measure his breathing, folding in on himself a bit more. This isn’t helping him. Just. Breathe.
Even if it seems worthless and futile. There has to be a way forwards somehow.
He’s young. Dante’s kind of old. Middle aged. Maybe if he just waits, then the man will die and he can become the spinster he was always meant to be. What will it be, another thirty years?
Techno focuses on the Dante dying part of that, instead of the thirty years.
When he gathers himself enough to stand, he peels his hand away from his face. It’s coated in fresh blood. The gun split the skin on his cheek, of course.
He looks up and meets a pair of eyes in the doorway. Phil, Techno recognizes shortly. Dante’s brother. The man’s eyes widen when looking in on him, and he’s frozen as though he was walking in before Techno so rudely interrupted him by daring to raise his head.
Scowling so hard that it hurts, Techno stomps over. And then slams the door shut on his face.
Maybe it’s stupid. Maybe the man will storm in to slap him too because of it. And very probably, no one would care if he made a fuss about it. Obviously, Techno should have been a good wife and a good woman. Then he’d have no issues.
With a scoff, Techno turns away to go find a handkerchief that isn’t coated in a stranger’s blood or alcohol. The cut is still bleeding down to his chin.
Past the cache of expensive, old liquor bottles and fancy pens in a cabinet. Probably with enough files full of business and illegal dealings to sell a man all the way down the river. If only those idiots slipped in to steal these instead of just trying to murder them all. But that’s not how the mob works. Too focused on status.
There’s a red handkerchief folded innocently under a bottle of bourbon. Fitting. Techno presses it against the cut while collapsing back into the chair behind him. The wheels squeak, old leather giving.
Techno looks down at his knees, trying to maintain the control or anger. Really, either would work well. But instead, his lips shake a bit.
Stupid. He digs his tusks into them, willing them dead or still. Either would work.
A tear spills over his lash line, and then another. He pretends that it’s more blood, soaking into the cloth and his shirt collar. Just now he realizes that his clothes are drenched in blood, half dry.
He sits there until all of the liquids on his body are dry and clotted to stopping.
—
The winter holidays are resumed two days later, though relocated to a big hunting cabin in the woods. If there’s one thing Techno hates more than the big, drab house of his in-laws, it’s being completely trapped in a different, secluded, one with them. Not even a false hope of escaping to the surrounding buildings and city.
At least the scenery is nice to look at. He guesses.
Techno ends up being thankful for the whole attempted murder fiasco anyway. Dante being pissed at him means that the man is avoiding him—since he’s too busy to rant or yell at him. That makes the vacation more tolerable than if it had gone perfectly and the pair of them were stuck together the whole time. Everyday that he wakes up and half the men are missing from the breakfast table, talking into their phones or arguing, it’s a grand sight. Leave them chasing their tails forever.
He hears in bits and pieces that the enemies were hired mercenaries. Another family's doing, obviously. But Techno would bet that there’s at least someone on the inside higher up than just a bodyguard that allowed it to progress so far.
But no one ever wants to hear Techno’s stupid “woman” opinion, so they can figure that out on their own. More french toast for him.
About all the men have ventured out of the house to visit someone or another, which leaves the day clear. Techno has been shooed off by the aunties, not wanting him to poison their cookies and cakes, and he’s too far behind on the telenovela series to be invited to the discussion and watch party.
Maybe this holiday isn’t a lost cause.
Techno leans forward, closer to the mirror attached to the bureau. He’s sitting on a little stool, padded all cute-like to match the curtains and bed drapes. Great gammy must have gotten her fingers in this place too. As he ponders the interior design, he presses his fingers to the edge of the cut on his cheek.
A hiss of pain leaves him. He swears that the alcohol that was on on his cheek has left the wound irritated to all get out, and horribly slow in healing. One of the women said that it might need stitches, but Dante said to let it be. So they let it be.
One more scar on his ugly wife, joke’s on him. Techno thinks scars look cool, because he still has the tastes of a teen boy. So what?
The thought makes him smile a bit, which pulls on the cut too. Maybe it will get infected and corrode his cheek bone to puss and goo. He can slip the surgeon some family heirlooms to give himself a wider jawline. Pretty good plan, his mind is so well utilized doing nothing of substance.
With his thumb, he coats the cut in a thick layer of petroleum jelly. It split back open in the shower and is bleeding a bit. He needs to wipe a drop of blood off of his cheek too. Annoying.
Techno picks up a bandage and sets about trying to secure it to the curve of his cheekbone.
He’s quite focused on the endeavor, and doesn’t notice someone approaching the bedroom until there’s a knock on the door. Which is unfortunate, because the door swings open half a second after the person knocks.
“Techno, I was wondering if you could help me—”
Jolting and swinging around, Techno gets halfway to crossing his arms over his chest before freezing. And just practically gawking. Mostly because he’s wearing a binder and nothing over it, having wanted to cover the wound before it started bleeding badly.
Normally, no one notices. Not under his clothes. What does anyone know about piglin anatomy? And he just feels more comfortable that way, it’s pretty harmless. Just something for himself.
From the way Kristin’s eyebrows push together at the short sight of him she gets of him, obviously she notices something about. Probably because she’s a woman who knows what bras look like. The women in the house are quite open with walking in on each other and helping with clothing, but Techno’s not close enough with any of them for that to have come up.
Before now. Crap.
“Oh, sorry! I didn’t hear the shower,” Kristin says.
She offers him an awkward smile, before stepping out of the room. As the door closes, he stares at it for a moment. And then he drops his face into his hands.
Nice.
Techno slaps some medical tape on his face and throws on the frumpiest sweater he owns. Begrudgingly appropriate for him to bring on a winter holiday. By then he‘s breathed out enough to lose the shake in his hands and lungs.
Plan: deny, deny, deny. Got it.
Casually, he opens the bedroom door and pokes his head out. Kristin is still standing in the hallway. Her face was serious, seemingly lost in thought. But it’s wiped away for a smile at his presence. The woman has her own front.
“Sorry, I should have waited. Force of habit,” Kristin says, clasping her hands before herself. “I just was going to ask for your help.”
His plan is going great already. He is not going to be the one to bring it up.
“Sure. What with?” Techno asks.
Kristin hums and gives him a searching look for a second, but moves on. “Folding some sheets and blankets. It’s annoying to do alone.”
What a thing to do Techno in, if that’s how the cards fall. Honestly, kind of funny. Bed sheets. They better be great gammy’s…
“Sure,” Techno says. Then he motions at her to lead the way.
Kristin does so, turning to walk down the hall. The laundry rooms are at the back of the large building. More of a lodge than a cabin, really. But cabin just sounds so quaint. Like the family doesn’t run a crime empire or something. Hard to come across humble.
They pass by the kitchen, but the sound of voices falls away past the thick walls. And then the sound of the washing machines and dryers rises up. It’s a bit of a curtain on its own.
“Here we are. Thanks for the help,” Kristin says, offering him another smile.
“Haven’t helped yet,” Techno says, joking.
She laughs.
“Okay, then please, please help me,” Kristin says, sighing largely.
With a huff, Techno picks up one of the clean sheet and starts finding the corners. Kristin easily plucks the other two out of his hands, straightening the whole things with a flap. They fold the sheet together, until it is small enough for a single set of hands to finish it. Then Kristin folds it into a tight square, while Techno picks up the next sheet for them to do.
Silence fills their work for a little while, nearly calm enough for Techno to forget his well earned nerves. So of course, Kristin broaches it.
“Is there anything you want to talk about? You have my confidence,” Kristin says.
“No,” Techno says, squinting at the embroidered bedware.
“Are you sure? I could… call you different pronouns, or a name. If that’s what you… prefer,” Kristin says, stumbling but kind.
It genuinely shocks Techno, though her face dashes the suspicion that rises inside him. Maybe the woman really is just a nice person. Fancy that. But the prospect just makes him shake his head. Not an option, any of it.
“You want a matching face wound?” Techno asks, snorting.
Kristin does not find this joke funny. She pauses in her movements, lowering her arms and the blanket to meet his eyes. Drats that. His eyes were looking at that.
“So Dante did hit you?” Kristin asks.
“What’s it matter?" Techno asks.
“It matters because it’s not right, Techno,” Kristin says.
Techno agrees, of course. Hitting is only fair in a real fight, something that he’s not even allowed to engage in. At least the men with guns that tried to murder him gave him that luxury. By standing around very stab-able.
“Phil never hits you?” Techno asks instead. Half curious and half to make his point. He has no clue what to think of the man. He’s been kind enough so far, but he’s also Dante’s brother.
“Never,” Kristin says. “Of course not. I’d have never married him if he even showed an inclination towards the thing. And I'd have divorced him if he started. It's not right.”
“Yeah, well. Wasn’t much space for me to be choose-y,” Techno says.
Or choose at all.
The frown on Kristin’s face is sharp, just as much as her eyes. They nearly make Techno shiver. She’s just a human, but she would put most avians to shame. The eyes of a bird of prey.
“It’s awful,” Kristin says plainly.
Uncomfortable despite having thought the same thing constantly, he shrugs. Tries to pick back up the blanket. But she doesn’t let him, so he crosses his arms.
“It is what it is,” Techno says.
“It doesn’t have to be,” Kristin says.
“... It does,” Techno says.
“Only if things don’t change,” Kristin says. Her voice is a tad quieter now. Just about lost to the whir of the machines. Is that on purpose?
“There’s no point wishing for things like that,” Techno says, looking to the side.
“Didn’t say anything about wishing. Things can be made to happen,” Kristin says.
It’s foolish. Hopeful. Techno hates hope. Maybe that’s why his chest is hurting.
“Just think about it, hun. It’s not fair how you’re being treated,” Kristin says. Then, she sets a hand on his elbow, squeezing gently.
Techno doesn’t respond to that. What is there to think about? Only the things he thinks about constantly, and desperately tries not to. Always there in the back of his head, niggling about running away, getting a train to nowhere and going to college and working in a bookstore where everyone only knows him as the person he decides to be.
Dumb things. They just hurt him worse. It was never going to happen for him.
“In privacy, I can call you what you like. Whatever makes you comfortable,” Kristin offers. She seems to have bolstered in confidence, barely tripping over her obvious lack of practice with this stuff.
It’s a great kindness. Techno almost feels worse for this woman than he does for himself. She deserves better.
“... Piglin names are gender neutral,” Techno says. Then he bites his tongue. It’s nearly an admission.
But Kristin just smiles. “That’s quite lucky.”
“I guess it is,” Techno says, snorting. Then he considers the offer, but shakes his head. Not worth the risk. For him or her. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I already worry about it,” Kristin says.
It almost sounds like she’s saying that she worries about him. The thought is incomprehensible. Must be something else.
“Worry about getting sheets on these poor, naked beds,” Techno says.
Kristin takes pity on him and snorts. Finally, she lets him take the corners of the blanket back to help her get to folding. They get through the whole large pile of laundry, leaving them with a very neat pile of sweet smelling cloth folded up on the table. Kristin carefully puts them into a laundry basket, before hoisting it into her arms. It doesn’t seem to be a big struggle for her. Techno notes it with a slight impression, the thing must be closing in on fifty pounds.
“Bring the tablecloths out to the kitchen closet. And make sure to snag some cookies on the way out,” Kristin says, winking at him while she passes.
Slightly disoriented by the entire ordeal, Techno can only follow her instructions. His insides are warring heavily between dread and feeling moved. Somehow, the latter might be winning out.
—
The peacoat that Techno is wearing is bright red and not particularly warm. Totally inappropriate for the situation. Clouds of fog leave his lips as he shivers lightly. But he doesn’t have anything made for standing outside in the cold for ages. Throwing bread crumbs to birds.
A small smile pulls at his lips when one of the pigeons waddles closer, nearly pecking at the stuff right by his foot. The creatures are shockingly unafraid of him, always coming out after only a couple minutes. Perhaps the smarter ones stay a bit further away, pecking while watching him warily. But the ones that walk right around his feet are hilarious.
Carefully, he stoops over and stretches out his hand. There’s a small pile of breadcrumbs in his palm. Techno holds still, as a pigeon eyes him, head flicking about.
After a long consideration, the bird hops up with a cooing noise and a flapping of wings. Techno does his best to hold back a flinch, not moving as the pigeon lands on his fingers. Nor when it starts pecking at his fingers, missing more bread than it manages to get. His bare, freezing fingers get bitten to bits, as he laughs quietly, wincing all the way.
“Ah, you’ve stolen my birds.”
Techno jolts and whirls around. It scares the birds off of him, leaving in flaps of wings and a few feathers floating down. Though, quickly, the birds come back over to him. Techno doesn’t know if he wants them to stick close or run and hide.
Phil stands in the back doorway, smiling. He holds up a pouch, which Techno glances at with vague confusion.
“The birds have been getting two meals, apparently,” Phil says, chuckling.
“Oh. Sorry,” Techno says.
“It’s fine. Birds probably need more food during winter,” Phil says.
“Probably,” Techno agrees.
He wipes his stinging palms on his pants, before shoving them into his pockets. He’d rather keep them out, held in front of him perhaps. One more thing to create distance. Though they would be less than nothing as a shield. No protection.
Still, Phil stops a good couple feet away, watching as the pigeons scare off. When he’s still for a breath, the pigeons inch back around Techno’s feet. And then go to see what Phil is up to too.
Or, what food he has in his hands, anyway.
The man clicks his tongue at them, but scatters his own handful of specks on the ground. The pigeons immediately abandon Techno and go to pecking. Traitors. It’s just because he has the food now. And maybe the big wings on the man’s back. The biggest pigeon.
Techno’s lips tilt as he looks to the side. The next handful of food that Phil throws out half falls onto Techno’s feet. The pigeons waddle back out.
“Were you throwing them breadcrumbs?” Phil asks.
“Old stuff. Stale,” Techno says.
Phil hums, nodding. “Seed’s better for them. More nutrients and shit. There’s a sack of it in the garden shed.”
That does make sense. Birds probably don’t eat bread in the wild. Though, these pigeons hardly seem wild.
“... Who feeds them when no one is here? They seem friendly,” Techno asks.
“No one, I don’t think. But, well, all pigeons are domesticated. They’re like cows, we bred them into being. I’m not even sure how they get this far out here, most still live around people, cities,” Phil says. He throws more seeds. “Makes me feel bad for them.”
The man’s wings fluff up slightly while he talks. Unconsciously, obviously.
It’s kind of surprising that Phil cares enough about birds to think about it at all. It shouldn’t be, probably. There’s no reason to think that the man is a heartless robot or anything. Even Dante had soft spots for some people. There’s a picture of the man with an old hunting dog from when he was much younger, smiling all wide and hanging on the wall of his house. He's just not very proficient at showing it, it seems.
And, Techno is definitely not included in that group of people.
Techno supposes he really doesn’t know much about Phil. The man is Dante’s younger brother, Kristin’s husband. Usually, when Techno sees him, he’s just deep in conversation about something or another with someone or another.
So far, he hasn’t acted towards Techno in any which way. But he is Dante’s brother…
“It’s like we abandoned them,” Phil says, frowning. Then he looks up at Techno, shrugging slightly. “Well, humans as a species, a couple hundred years ago. The invention of cars, postage, telephone, you know.”
“Can’t say I know much about birds, but I suppose it makes sense,” Techno says. He watches as a pigeon trips over his shoe. Then, the bird just sits right on top of it, trying to eat his lace. “I guess it is sad.”
“Took a class on ornithology in college,” Phil says.
“Study of orniths?” Techno says, voice eighty-seven percent more sarcastic than it should be. Boy howdy, why was Techno always running around with slapped lips?
Phil just laughs. “Close. Study of birds.”
“Ah, that does make sense,” Techno says.
Slowly, Techno crouches down. The pigeon looks up at him, cocking its head to the side and cooing. Overly telegraphed, he scoops it up into his palms. It only flaps and coos a tad, but settles down in his hands quickly.
Phil laughs again.
“Hands on studying right there,” Phil says. “Seems like they like you.”
“Like my bread,” Techno says.
“They probably like your character. Birds can tell those sorts of things,” Phil says.
“They teach you that in school?” Techno asks.
He’s not sure what he’s doing. Running his tongue like this is some normal conversation. But Phil responds like it is too.
“Nope. Just, hands on study,” Phil says, cryptic and smiling.
Maybe not totally normal. But perhaps as normal as it can get with people like their sorts.
“What sorts of things do you like studying? College and all,” Phil asks.
Techno squints at the man. College was never something on the plate for him. In fact, it’s a little surprising that even Phil was allowed to go. Likely, only because he was a man, and also not the oldest brother. Neither of those apply to Techno, really. He has an older brother, but what does that matter? A couple of chromosomes decide it all.
So, what’s the point of the man asking?
“I don’t know,” Techno says, evasively.
“I suppose that’s pretty normal. My eldest son’s around your age, he’s off in college now. I think he’s changed his major twice already,” Phil says.
Isn’t that a nice reminder. Turning away from the man, he looks out into the trees. He jostles his hands slightly, urging them forwards. The pigeon jumps off of his fingers and flutters over to the treeline.
After turning back to look at him shortly, the pigeon waddles off into the leaves. Not like Techno’s hands could offer it much protection anyway. Maybe the pigeons were lucky to be abandoned. What is the protection of human hands worth if they’re also the ones doing the hurting?
“About my brother… he’s a rough man,” Phil says, walking closer. His footsteps crunching in the thin layer of snow.
Techno sighs silently, nose wrinkling. He doesn’t really want to hear what comes next. The ‘but.’ But he’s good deep down. But he has a good heart. But he does try. But he is trying his best. But he’s grieving his first wife. But, but, but.
Who cares if it’s true or not? Seems like the man could use a good long while on his own to deal with it. Leave Techno out of it.
“I don’t think he’ll ever improve. He’s… crossed a lot of lines,” Phil says.
“Has he?” Techno asks, voice flat and numb.
“Yes,” Phil says, firmly. When Techno doesn’t respond further, the man sets a hand on his elbow. A cringe runs through Techno, making the man pull his hand away. Though he’s frowning hard. “It’s not right to you. Kristin talked to you about it, right?”
“She told you about that?” Techno asks.
He’s not exactly surprised. Though something like betrayal and terror is trying to ebb to life within him.
“I asked her if she knew anything about what was happening, if he hit you,” Phil says.
There’s a frown on the man’s face, looking at the bandage covering his cheek. Like he’s concerned or something. Techno frowns right back and crosses his arms.
“What’s your point?” Techno asks.
Should he be nicer to this one in-law who has been decent to him so far? Maybe. Does Techno have the energy to sort it all out to act that way? No, not really. He waits for anger to bloom on the man’s face when whatever trick this is falls away.
But Phil doesn’t fold yet. “My point is that I’d be remiss to let it continue unchecked. It’s pretty shitty to see stuff like that happening."
“...You do know what family business we’re in, don’t you?” Techno asks.
Techno might have doubled his kill count when they were attacked, but no matter how many people Phil killed that dinner, it’s nothing on his record. The man has been an active member of the mafia for decades. And as a certified XY chromosome haver, he probably wracked up quite a few kills during his childhood. Playing with guns in the cradle.
“There’s differences between business and how you act otherwise. Violence when it’s not necessary is cruelty,” Phil says.
“I guess your brother would say that it’s necessary,” Techno says.
“It’s not. None of it is,” Phil says, face twisting up slightly.
Sneaking a look at the man, Techno tries to figure him out. It feels difficult. Like he’s missing something with this whole situation. About the man, or whatever he’s playing at here. Is he being serious? And what all did Kristin tell him? Probably not about what she saw in the bedroom, or else he wouldn’t be playing nice.
And regardless, what is he implying by saying such things? That his brother is wrong? And the rest of his family too? Beyond that?
Faintly, he hears the door open behind them. With a toss of his hand, Phil releases some more bird seed, luring the pigeons back over to them. The emotion leaves his face like it was never even there. A thick curtain over features.
“Even if technology made them not needed for our use anymore, it was cruel to cast them aside like we did. To suffer and hurt. That’s just wrong,” Phil says.
Pigeons. Techno hates heavy handed metaphors.
“Are you feeding those birds again, Phillip?” The person who opened the door calls.
“Yeah, ma,” Phil says, turning towards the house. A smile has slotted in place on his face. “Did you need anything?”
Instead of turning to face the old woman like he probably should, Techno crouches down to the snow. He reaches out to the eating pigeons, trying to pet their heads with his fingers. They peck him right back. He lets them.
“I made you lunch, come eat. Let her finish all that nonsense for you,” The woman says.
A nearly inaudible sigh leaves Phil, but Techno is close enough to hear it. Although his mother-in-law is not kind to him, Techno doesn’t mind her as much as a lot of the others. She is a gruff woman, short with her words and shouldering past people instead of asking them to move. But she’s obviously long worn down from life. Life like the few months that Techno has been married, but decades and decades. Plus, children.
Techno’s face cringes hard. No, he can’t fault her for being the way that she is. Not like he would be any kinder in her place.
“The seeds are in the garden shed,” Phil says.
Before Phil walks back into the house, he drops something before Techno. Confused, he pulls back slightly. Only to pick them up when he realizes what they are. Phil’s gloves, still warm from him having been wearing them.
Whistling shortly, Phil disappears back into the house. Slowly, Techno pulls on the gloves. His fingers are burning, bright red in the cold. The pigeons don’t seem to mind when he moves to pet them again, now gloved.
Even now, Techno has no clue what to think of Dante’s brother. Kristin’s husband. She said that the man would never hurt her, and maybe she’s telling the truth. She married into the family, no connections to any mob families. Just a human he met and fell in love with, apparently. Is that why Dante is so bitter? His first wife was a girl from a family too. Supposedly, he liked her far more than he likes Techno. But who knows if that’s better or not. A different sort of curse, likely.
Techno’s mother was a friend of the family, a normal enough marriage with his father. They are far more similar to Techno and Dante, than to Phil and Kristin. That’s probably the normal way these things are, with their business.
No matter what Phil says, the type of business they’re born in stains every inch of their lives.