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It's a testament, he thinks, to everything they've lost, that they can still have this; that they can still have each other.
He doesn't know what he did to deserve this moment of stillness, after all the betrayal and everything they've lost; Philza is almost like a godsend, a soothing haven to a legion of voices that clamor for the spilling of blood.
But perhaps he's willing to believe in a little bit of divinity, watching coal black feathers twitch with sleep, soundlessly peering through the darkness where moonlight catches off the creases of Phil's half open shirt, dripping down his arms, and pooling in open palms, half cupped as if expecting to catch light.
And Technoblade believes he really could, believes there isn't much Phil can't do, watching his breath shudder in his chest. And Techno is willing to fight a million wars over just to have this moment forever, to freeze it in time where he knows Phil is safe and breathing. A soft lull of sound in his head, a consensus, tranquil in the presence of sanctuary.
Maybe Technoblade is willing to believe in divinity.
He's earned that at least, he thinks.