Chapter Text
“There is an odd man on the roof.”
Technoblade silently thanks Ranboo for the warning, but the sound of footsteps on the snow and the heavy spruce door slamming shut were already enough to send Technoblade striding into the house.
A sigh escapes him. This had to be fucking Tommy. Only he would be dumb enough to steal from The Blood God himself.
Only a few steps deeper into the room, and he finds the boy hiding between a small crack of space. Under the window, in between his brewing stand and the stonecutter. A long bout of silence passes as the two of them stare at each other.
Tommy seems much more kempt now that his exile was over. His clothes were no longer torn, and the enchanted netherite armor adorning him was proof enough of how much better he was doing. He still looked pathetic cramped in between the wooden planks, though.
“Hey, man!” Tommy starts because of course he does, “—Hey, uh, Technoblade!”
His cheerful demeanor is almost enough for Technoblade to ignore the nervous glance he sends towards the floor.
“Hey!” Techno copies his tone, voice almost mocking as he continues, “You having fun in there?”
Another stretch of silence fills the house, Tommy sputtering anxiously.
“W-Well, y’know, I’ve got a bit of a fight coming up— don’t know if you’ve heard about it, it’s kind of big news around the town, so I’ve been—” he takes a break to breathe, “Basically, there’s this fella called Dream, and you might remember, when I used to live with you, I signed this contract that said I could come back here 14 days after my release, and it’s been less than 14 days and I just came back to grab my belongings—”
Tommy cuts himself off, finally slipping out from between the crack of space, carefully making his way to the edge of the room.
“I don’t remember this contract, I—” Techno begins, only to be interrupted by Tommy.
“I know that this looks worse than it is, but— what is ‘Techno’s Compass’ by the way?” Tommy suddenly asks, his hand burying deep into his pockets, emerging with a compass with the familiar glow of enchantment.
“Wait, you have my compass? Bro, why are robbing my personal— what is this?” Technoblade should have known better. Tommy had always had a penchant for stealing.
“A bit of a kleptomaniac,” Phil had explained to him, years and years ago when Tommy was still so much younger.
Unsheathing his sword, Technoblade steadies himself into a familiar posture, his fighting stance. It’s intimidating, and he knows it. He isn’t planning on fighting the kid, but sometimes Tommy needs a little push now and then.
“Basically, uhm. Promise not to kill me immediately,” Tommy backs himself up into the wall, actual fear beginning to grace his face.
Techno’s stare doesn’t falter, “I make no such promise.”
Tommy looks at him for a long moment, searching for something that Technoblade can’t seem to decipher. He mustn’t have found what he was looking for, because he gives the floor another defiant glance before finally speaking.
“Essentially, I have a big fight against Dream tomorrow,” Tommy says, voice a mixture of fear and pride, “And I might…I might actually die permanently,” he scowls, as if wanting to say something else.
Technoblade doesn’t offer a reply. A fight with Dream? He didn’t know about this. He didn’t know Tommy would be having a battle tomorrow. Didn’t know that he might die tomorrow. A brief sting of guilt blooms in his chest, but he refuses to give in.
Techno still doesn’t forgive Tommy. He can’t forgive him.
Even if the kid were to die.
It seems as if Tommy reads his mind when he says, “Let me be sincere,” he’s sighing, staring into Technoblade’s emotionless white pupils, “I know I kind of fucked up with this, Technoblade. I’m very sorry for the things you think I did wrong—”
There’s that pang of guilt again, and this time, Technoblade nearly gives in, nearly forgives him—
“—which isn’t that many, but anyway!” Tommy stammers, laughing to himself, and Techno chastises himself for thinking that the idiot could so much as apologize properly.
“But,” Tommy begins again, and Techno can’t tell if he’s actually being genuine, “I’m happy to redo all those things after tomorrow. Unless I die.”
Tommy laughs bitterly, “Which at that point I’ll be dead, so—”
“I feel like this whole ‘coming to my base to apologize’ thing would have had more weight if I hadn’t had to chase you down and catch you yoinking my things,” Technoblade says, all hints of sympathy gone.
He knows that Tommy’s just using him again. Knows that the kid just wants to use his stuff again. That’s all he is to Tommy. Someone he can steal from, use, and throw away. The reminder makes Technoblade scowl. The only inkling of emotion he’s shown so far.
“Well, I reckon it’s time for me to go,” Tommy sing-songs, inching closer to the door. Techno sputters, watching as the boy slides out into the snow outside.
“We’re gonna laugh about this someday!” Tommy calls, waving goodbye as he runs across the snow, towards the far horizon.
Technoblade watches him go, frowning to himself. He knows he could go after him. Nobody could outrun Techno, after all. However, knowing that Tommy would have to fight Dream tomorrow…
It’s enough to make him go still, his pure white eyes tracing Tommy’s figure as he flees farther and farther away. Nobody had ever really beaten Dream in a fight before. The only one who had ever done so was, well, Technoblade himself.
Tommy had never been the best at fighting. Techno knew that if he ever said this out loud, the kid would throw a multitude of swears and screams his way, but it was true. Especially against an opponent like Dream, it would take a miracle for Tommy to win.
Tommy was most likely going to die tomorrow.
Panic and worry begin to rise like bile in Techno’s throat. He defiantly shakes his head, trying to rid himself of any emotion. Why did he feel like this? He should hate Tommy. He betrayed him, threw away his trust—
But Technoblade knows there’s more to it than that.
Suddenly, a memory begins to resurface. A past buried so deep within the recesses of his mind, he could barely remember it. A home, hidden deep in the woods. A younger Tommy, with crooked teeth and a type of energy that made him bounce off the walls. A happier, more passive Phil. An adolescent Wilbur, shy, quiet, and not dead—
At that thought, he pushes the memory away.
Exhaling, he strides back into his home. He’ll let Tommy keep whatever it was he had stolen.
He’d probably need it more than Techno did.
Wilbur feels something achingly familiar.
He scowls. There isn’t anything familiar in the afterlife. Well, except for—
“Hey loverboy, ya feel that?”
Schlatt’s voice echoes throughout the empty space. Wilbur’s frown deepens. Of course he felt it. A small pull, as if he were wading through water. He can almost feel the ripples, the gentle lull of a reservoir as he moves closer. The metaphorical water begins to shift around him, and he picks up the familiar scent of divination and magic.
The water pushes him forwards. The smell of alchemy gets even stronger, but it's overtaken by a warmth. Not a fiery heat, Wilbur notes, but a sort of comfortable embrace. The water he floats through branches off into multiple little rivers. Almost akin to veins. Like veins of blood.
The blood is pulsing. Warm. Alive.
But not for long.
Wilbur finally opens his eyes. He nearly shivers, despite being dead.
He sees Tommy, waves of purple awash over him, coating him in the type of enchantment that only a potion can provide. The smell of magic is so strong, Wilbur’s eyes begin to sting.
A flash of green, and the chilling white of a mask. Dream.
Tommy must be fighting Dream, Wilbur’s mind supplies.
A type of primal fear overcomes him. A fear that he wouldn’t have felt if he were still alive. No, this is something Wilbur could only feel in death. Something akin to clairvoyance, an extrasensory perception.
Somewhere behind him, someone laughs. Wilbur doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is.
“Looks like that brother of yours is going to die, Wilbur.”
And Wilbur hates him. He hates him for being right.
Wilbur can feel the warmth around him faltering. Schlatt was right, Tommy was going to die. Wilbur attempts to cry but recalls that ghosts melt in water. He begins to cry anyway.
The warmth was subsiding now, a coldness in the air so dreadful Wilbur wants to double into himself. Tommy was dying.
Tommy didn’t belong here. He deserved to live. But the afterlife was contorting, preparing a space for Tommy within its endless depths, and Wilbur is sobbing now, tears etching like acid into his cheeks. Tommy deserved to live, deserved to—
Suddenly, the warmth steadies.
A pulse, ringing through the walls, reverberating the news of Tommy’s survival. Wilbur lets a painful sob wrack through him. He was alive. He was alive.
“Damn. Woulda been fun if he was here though, right?” Schlatt muses. Wilbur ignores him, a type of euphoria filling him.
Another scent makes its way to him. Of wet, earthy grass. Wilbur’s ears begin to tingle, and he strains to listen. A familiar tune sings to him. A song so old, he can barely recall the last time he had heard it. It pulls at him, and as always, Wilbur follows.
The music grows louder now, and so does the smell of grass. It’s so close, Wilbur can nearly touch it. Eventually, he does.
There is grass under his numb fingertips. There is the gentle sway of music in his ears. Music from the discs. Looking up, he sees Tommy, on his favorite little bench, Tubbo beside him as always.
“We won,” Tommy turns to Tubbo, voice so full of joy and relief it makes Wilbur’s heart swell. Wilbur smiles for the first time in a long time.
“And you’re not dead.”
“Tommy was here yesterday.”
Phil looks up imploringly, Techno staring at the table as if it had personally wronged him. They were having dinner, the hot steam rising from their potatoes. If you were to listen hard enough, you would be able to hear the soft buzzing of bees and the howls of about thirty individually-named wolves.
Technoblade doesn’t attempt to explain further, so Phil takes the first step.
“Really? Was he stealin’ your stuff again?” Phil laughs a bit, hoping to lighten the mood. It doesn’t seem to work as Technoblade scowls at the table some more.
“Yes, actually,” Techno replies, silence filling the room once again. Not an uncomfortable silence, of course. Never uncomfortable.
It’s Phil’s turn to glower now. Years of friendship have taught Philza the little nuances in Technoblade’s character. He can tell from a glance exactly what the piglin felt. This time was no different.
“You worried about him?” Phil asks. He knows Techno will deny it. Tommy and Techno’s relationship was about as turbulent as peace was on this server. Phil couldn’t really judge, though. He and Tommy rarely acted like father and son. At least, not anymore.
Technoblade glares, “No, of course not, I just—”
Pausing, he takes a deep breath. Phil, as always, waits patiently.
“Ranboo came to me earlier today. He told me that everyone on the server were saying their goodbyes to Tommy and you—" Techno cuts himself off again, seemingly pondering something.
Phil tries to continue his sentence for him, “Saying goodbyes? D’you mean for the fight with Dream?”
“Yes, exactly, and you— wait, how did you know about that?” Techno gives him a long stare, and Phil cocks his head to the side, not quite understanding.
“Know about what?”
“The fight with Dream. I just assumed you…” Technoblade stares at his hands, twiddling a wooden spoon between his fingers, “— didn’t know because you didn’t say goodbye to Tommy.”
Phil laughs again, “Why, did you say goodbye to ‘em?”
Techno’s tone is almost childish when he says, “No, I didn’t.”
“Well, I didn’t either,” Phil replies with an air of finality.
“But why? Isn’t he… isn’t he your son?” Technoblade supplies, unadulterated confusion resting on his face.
“Of course he’s my son,” Phil says sharply.
A son he hadn’t spoken to in months. A son he had abandoned.
Phil internally shakes his head. No, he was doing the right thing. Phil simply couldn’t ignore the terror he felt when he saw Tommy give everything up for a dead country or a plastic disc. It seemed far too similar to the crazed stare Wilbur had given him as he pleaded to die.
Tommy will understand soon enough.
A heavy silence hangs in the air. Techno looks afraid, like he didn’t want Phil to snap at him. Phil would never snap at him. Technoblade’s gaze doesn’t waver, and Phil can see the worry that the piglin is trying to conceal. Of course, it was difficult not to worry. Both he and Techno hadn’t yet heard the results of Tommy’s fight with Dream and it was easy to assume the worst.
After a long while, Philza smiles, “I know my own son like the back of my hand, Techno. You wanna know why I didn’t say goodbye to him?”
Phil understands how Techno must feel about Tommy. Anger, but also care. Indifference, but the longing for a truce to be found. Philza feels the same, feels it every damn day.
“— because I knew he wouldn’t lose to Dream,” Phil finishes with a proud smile.
“You are a ridiculous child!”
Tommy couldn’t help but feel dread at the sound of Wilbur yelling at him. It reminded him too much of when they were hiding in a little hole in the dirt. Reminded him too much of Wilbur shrieking about them blowing up L’manberg.
All he wanted was for him and Tubbo to sit together and listen to the discs. To relish in their victory, but even that couldn’t last.
“I am not a fucking child!” Tommy yells adamantly. They haven’t fought like this in a long time.
It’s easier when Tommy gets to fight back and have a screaming match with Wilbur. It made it seem as if they were brothers again, arguing simply for the fun of it. Unlike when they built Pogtopia together, when Wilbur’s crazed ramblings rang through the ravine like bells and Tommy couldn’t get so much as a word in.
This was better. This was easy.
But it still hurt, it hurt in a way that Tommy couldn’t quite describe.
He continues to shout and swear until he can’t even hear what Wilbur’s saying to him. Why did Tommy even want to resurrect him? He knew that Wilbur had ruined everything, and he knew him coming back would probably cause another war, but he couldn’t help but hope.
Was he being selfish? Most likely. Tommy wasn’t afraid to admit that he often didn’t think rationally.
Tommy grunts frustratedly as Wilbur’s voice gets louder than his, their argument hitting its zenith. If only it were easier. If only there weren’t any battles to fight or wars to win. A memory suddenly surfaces of a little yellow house, shrouded by trees. Farms with little stables flanking its sides. A simpler time, when fighting was something that hardly mattered to Tommy.
A small stab of pain erupts from Tommy’s scalp, but his thoughts don’t cease. Two bedrooms, a small kitchen, and a guestroom. The guestroom was often empty but Tommy remembers how big the bed was. A little guitar, scratched and old. Wooden stands of armor, glinting with charms and enchantments.
The pain grows stronger. A training area, marked in the dirt. Flowers, bees and honey. A brother, a father, a friend, and a mentor—
“I’m proud of you, Tommy.”
Wilbur says it in such a gentle way, it’s enough for Tommy to forget whatever he was saying or thinking, and he returns to the present. For a moment he’s speechless, and he can’t help but sigh defeatedly at the compliment.
“See you soon, Wilbur,” he smiles, and for a second it feels like everything is normal again. As if Wilbur wasn’t dead, and Techno and Phil didn’t hate him, and there was no Dream to worry about and—
“See you soon,” Wilbur calls, his voice fading into nothing.
Tommy lets out an exhausted sigh and turns to Tubbo. His friend offers him a reassuring smile, having not said anything for the duration of Wilbur and Tommy’s argument. Seeing Tubbo alive and grinning lightens his mood a bit. For a long while, they sit together at the bench.
Tommy tries to ignore the throbbing pain in his scalp the entire time.