Chapter Text
The wind that blows from the top of the hills and down onto the flat of land that Tommy stands on is biting and dry, harsh on his airways when he pulls it through his nose and only less so when he parts his lips to inhale.
Tommy shifts his weight, the heels of his too-stiff boots sinking into the snow-melt soft ground. His clothes itch, as new as the boots, gifts from Tubbo and Ranboo when he’d returned from his visit to Dream. This morning it had seemed like a good idea to dress in his best clothes—now it seems like a poor call, as uncomfortable as he is.
The prison looms in front of him, black bricks and blacker mortar looming up and up into the sky, levels and cells that are far too empty, a whole building just for one prisoner.
It’s still not enough, Tommy thinks. He’s not sure if anything could ever be enough. He shifts the smooth, sanded handle of the Axe of Peace in his palm and lets the weight settle again. Dream, if all goes well, will die today.
“I’m gonna get out, Tommy. I’m gonna get out, and once I’m out, there will be nothing anyone can do to protect you from me. Nothing, do you understand?”
He feels like he’s been living in a horror movie ever since he left the prison last, burned with the memory of limbo and the dark tracks. Worse than what he remembers of death, of the sticky tar of being hauled back into the world of the living, is what he remembers of the moment he was alive again.
A smile carved into bone white, filling up his vision, the manic, taunting cackle as Dream leaned back, rocking on his heels and nearly unbalancing into the wall with his sheer, unfiltered glee.
“It fucking worked, it worked!” Dream had yelled, his voice brittle and breaking at the edges, and all the more wretched for it.
That voice still crawls right into Tommy’s dreams every night, like an earworm that never leaves, even when he thinks it has. Every time he closes his eyes, all he can see is Dream’s smile, his mask, his eyes bright and fevered like he’d just won a duel against Technoblade himself.
Victorious.
Evil.
Tommy doesn’t sleep well most nights. He doesn’t eat well either, with every piece of food he puts in his mouth turning to ash, sucking the moisture from his tongue and all but becoming mud that sticks to the roof of his mouth. He doesn’t know if it’s a side effect of being revived, or if it’s just him being a cowering child over his memories of Dream.
He doesn’t know if he’ll sleep well until Dream is gone, and he doesn’t know if he’ll sleep well after, but there’s no way he will until that green bastard’s head is rolling.
Sam will let him in, one way or another.
Tommy shifts on his feet, readjusting his grip on the axe handle and lifting one hand to run his fingers through his hair, greasy and stringy between his fingers. His forehead is hot even to his own touch, and the cool breeze feels good on his clammy skin, and when he pulls his hand back, his fingertips tingle uncomfortably for just a moment.
“I’m pretty sure Sam won’t let you in the prison with that.”
The low, drawling voice startles Tommy, and he jumps, spinning on his heel and stumbling as the world spins just a hair too fast around him.
“Fuck, man,” Tommy gasps, clutching at his chest and hunching over, feeling his heart flutter even beneath the thick wool of his cardigan. As he starts to straighten up, he says, “Christ, could you have not–”
He cuts himself off when he realises that before him stands Technoblade, dressed in soft black pants and a blue shirt and his red cloak, his hair tied back. He looks happy, healthy.
“Oh,” he says lamely. He shifts his weight, loosening his shoulders when he realises they’ve hiked up around his ears. Technoblade, who he’s barely seen in months. Or maybe it’s weeks? He’s still not sure how long ago everything is after coming out of a months-long limbo.
Techno’s eyes dart over him, lips pursing over the gleaming ivory tips of his tusks, ears flicking once as if hearing something far away. Tommy watches his shoulders go tense but doesn’t say anything, even though a moment of fear flickers in his chest that, for some reason, he’s managed to piss Techno off already. After a moment, Techno’s brows ease and he shakes his head faintly in exasperation.
“Is that all you got?” Techno asks, quirking one eyebrow up into something faintly amused, and for a moment, Tommy expects to feel mocked, but then he sees the smile pulling at the corner of Techno’s mouth. “Oh? Come on, I know Wilbur taught you more words than that. What are you doing out here anyway, kid?”
A flash of hot anger, accompanied by something that might just be shame, floods Tommy, and he grips the Axe tighter in his hand.
Kid.
Techno used to call him kid when the nickname meant something—when they were brothers, comrades, friends. It’s been a very long time since Techno has liked Tommy, longer since he’s trusted him, and months since he’s had the right to call Tommy that.
Kid, like he cares.
“Don’t,” he grits out, “call me that.”
There is some kind of sick satisfaction in the way Techno’s expression warps, the easy-going tilt to his head disappearing as he straightens up, that half-hostile scowl settling back into place on his face. The wind picks up and tugs at his cloak, and suddenly it’s easy to remember how intimidating he can really be, sword on his hip, a soldier waiting to strike.
“Fine,” Techno grunts, squaring his shoulders. “Tommy. What are you doing here, particularly with that thing?” Techno asks, bobbing his head towards the axe still clutched in Tommy’s hand.
“None of your business,” Tommy snaps, shifting and half pulling the axe behind him, as if he can hide it from Techno at all. “Why are you here?”
“Asking me the same question isn’t going to distract from the attention you don’t want,” Techno says, and Tommy glowers at him. “But if you must know, I’m taking a look around the place. It’s all Phil talks about since what happened to you.”
Tommy can’t help the way he flinches, sucking in a sharp breath through his nose, practically able to feel the way the blood drains from his face. He knows that people talk about him whether or not they believe he died in the prison, but it’s still different hearing people admit they’ve been talking about what happened.
Techno pauses, head tilting like he’s examining Tommy, his eyes narrowing as they flick over his face. Slowly, like he’s waiting to see Tommy’s reaction, he says, “You know, I never really got the specifics. What did happen to you?”
Tommy can’t breathe. He can’t breathe because there is sulphur in the air, the scent of bubbling lava still stuck in the back of his sinuses. His skin prickles, sweat breaking damp across his forehead and creeping along his spine. But Techno had asked a question and Tommy can’t just not answer it, so he opens his mouth to respond.
His knees buckle, and he barely stays upright by swinging the Axe of Peace down and pressing it blade-first into the ground like a walking stick and leaning heavily on it.
Techno jumps, jolting forward with his hands out, like he plans to grab ahold of him, curl his fingers around his arms and press in under the guise of helping. Tommy startles and stumbles back, backpedalling over the uneven ground and miraculously managing to not trip before he comes to a stop.
They’re frozen, the two of them, Tommy swaying on his feet, almost definitely blunting the Axe against the ground, and Techno with his brows pinched, lips pressed into a tight frown.
“Tommy–”
“Shut the fuck up, Techno,” Tommy snaps, trying to stand up straight and glaring at Techno. “Why don’t you just leave me alone? You never cared before, why start now?”
Techno goes still, and Tommy watches his brows creep down, lowering from concerned to frustrated, nostrils flaring as he huffs something sharp and annoyed. It’s when he opens his mouth that Tommy turns sharply on his heel, cutting him off before Techno can speak. There’s nothing he can say to make Tommy believe he cares anyway.
“Tommy,” Techno calls, and Tommy doesn’t stop or slow down, but he keeps his ears tuned to hear if he’s got anything to say at all.
There’s silence that follows, and as Tommy climbs the slope to walk away from the prison, he thinks he couldn’t have expected much.
Not from Technoblade.
Tommy hadn’t looked well, and Techno can’t stop thinking about it.
Blue eyes turned gaunt and washed out follow Techno as he tends to his animals, clothes that hang baggy where they shouldn’t have before flash across his vision when he’s trying to mend one of his shirts.
It’s when he’s trying to brush out Carl that he thinks about the new change to Tommy’s hair. The white spot on Carl’s forehead reminds him all too much of the white lock of hair curling across Tommy’s forehead, only half obscuring the white spider web scar creeping out from his hairline.
Tommy hadn’t looked well, not at all, swaying where he stood, pale as a ghost, hands shaking and somehow slumped into himself, freed of all the bravado that he usually carries like a shield.
Techno doesn’t realise he’s stopped brushing Carl until suddenly there’s a velvet muzzle pushing against his shoulder, warm breath blowing over his skin through his shirt. It jars Techno back to awareness and he blinks, shaking his head carefully.
He’s standing in Carl’s stall, currycomb in hand, staring blankly at a dark brown flank, limbs locked, the cold of the tundra even in the spring seeping into the air even through the insulated walls and creeping through the thickness of his clothes. The chill doesn’t bite, Techno runs too warm for that, but still he can feel it against his skin, just resting there.
Tommy had looked sick, and Techno can’t shake the nagging need to check on him, just in case.
“I’m sorry, bud,” Techno murmurs, lifting his hand and combing his fingers through Carl’s forelock, petting his thumb over the whorl of white on his forehead. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get lost in my head.”
Carl huffs and presses his face into Techno’s hand, eyes shutting for a moment before he opens them again and nudges into his shoulder once more.
“I think I need to make sure he’s okay,” Techno murmurs, leaning forward to press his forehead to Carl’s cheek. He chuffs softly, and Carl returns the sound, stamping one hoof happily.
Techno finishes grooming Carl before he tries to leave, but it’s still only early morning so there’s plenty of time for him to make it to Tommy’s house and back before the sun goes down. Phil might call it “procrastinating”, or “delaying the inevitable”, but he makes sure to refill Carl’s water and hay net before he even tries to think about getting his gear together to head out.
He’ll only admit to himself that he’s afraid of what he’ll find.
Tommy hasn’t lived with Techno for a very long time, but that doesn’t mean that the thought of Tommy living alone is any less foreign than it used to be. Techno can’t help but think of Tommy as the little brother that he’s always been, not used to taking care of himself and too young to be able to be trusted to do it.
Wilbur had taken Tommy away from home years ago, with a dream and a guitar, and Techno can’t blame Wilbur for that. Not anymore, at least, although there was a long period of time where that was all Techno could do.
Wilbur is long gone, though, and it’s hard to speak ill of the dead. Harder still when the dead is your older brother.
So Techno doesn’t blame Wilbur for taking Tommy away, and doesn’t blame Tommy for deciding he wanted to stay independent after Wilbur died, but he feels like there’s some blame to be placed when he steps down the prime path and finds Tommy’s house, built into a hill like a fucking mouse hole, run down and overgrown, barely maintained and hardly livable.
Techno tucks that blame away into his chest, and later he thinks he’ll drape it over his shoulders like a second skin.
He was slow to pull his boots on, lacing them up and unlacing them when he decided that he didn’t like how uneven the bow was, pulling his cloak around his shoulders and readjusting it for five minutes at his front door, knowing he’d have to leave eventually.
As he saddled Carl, he realised that he didn’t even know what he was going to say when he got there. Of course, the truth is the most obvious option, but is that good enough? Worry is something that few appreciate, at least from someone they don’t like much, and Tommy certainly doesn’t like Techno much. The disastrous meeting in front of the prison is more than enough proof of that.
But he’s here now, standing on the prime path and looking out on Tommy’s lawn of damp brown grass and the curling, dead vines creeping up the wooden doorframe, and he doesn’t know what he’s going to say when he knocks on that door. Tommy is going to open it and be fine, but he’ll be mad that Techno has invaded his space and come to check on him, just like he always is, and Techno is going to be left not knowing what to do again.
Techno and Tommy’s relationship is broken, he knows. He shouldn’t worry that Tommy will be upset with him checking in on him, but here he is anyway.
Carl stands behind Techno, a solid presence, and Techno hesitates only a moment longer before he pats his neck and steps down the half-rotten wooden footpath, slowly approaching the door. There are no lights on inside, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that Tommy isn’t home, so when Techno comes to a stop in front of the door, he lifts his hand and knocks three times, quick and solid.
There’s no response, but that doesn’t mean anything, not yet.
For a moment, Techno considers turning around and leaving, but he can’t help but think that he has to try a little harder.
“Tommy?” he calls softly, and this time, he hears a sudden sharp shuffling noise, followed by a raspy, hollow cough. “Tommy? Toms, are you in there? I just wanted to check on you, are you okay?”
There’s no noise, no response in the form of either words or movement, and Techno chuffs nervously, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
He could leave. He could, he’s tried, he’d be able to tell himself that it’s not his fault. He could absolve himself of any guilt now, but–
“Okay kid, I’m coming in unless you tell me right now that I shouldn’t,” Techno calls, raising his voice just a little bit more. He waits, just for a moment, and when nothing comes, he lowers his hand to the brass knob and twists it carefully, shouldering the door open.
It’s the smell that hits his nose first, damp and musty, the scent of earth much stronger than Techno thinks anyone should be comfortable with. It’s dark too, with no light coming in but through the open doorway and the small, square windows in the door.
“Kid?” Techno calls, stepping deeper into the room and cringing at the chill that sits in the air, almost as cold as Carl’s stall. “Tommy?”
It takes little time for Techno’s eyes to adjust to the low light—piglin night vision is much better than humans, suited for the light levels of the nether—so it doesn’t take him very long to find the bed, tucked into the corner of the wall by the door, and the blanket-covered lump that lays in it.
“Kid,” Techno breathes, relief flooding him at the sight. He’s quick to approach, stepping over the packed dirt floor and coming to a stop by the low bed, set on a frame that looks far too rickety to sleep on.
He sweeps his cape to the side so he can crouch down, reaching out with one hand to gently nudge Tommy’s shoulder.
Techno pauses, hand hovering over the thick, itchy-looking wool blanket.
Is worry something Tommy is even going to appreciate right now?
He’s always been so independent, and god knows that he hates being fussed over, despite loving having everyone’s attention. It’s the way he’s always been, hiding any weakness and still begging to have all eyes on him, as if that weren’t counter-intuitive. Sometimes, it almost seems intentional because people worry for him more if they find out he’s been hurt and hiding it.
But something doesn’t sit right with Techno here, because for all that Tommy will hog any and all attention he can take, now there’s no one to put on a show for, no reason to want to fake it. And still he’s sleeping in a mouldering shack like he’s making money for doing it.
Techno reaches out the rest of the way and hooks his fingertips into the blanket—he notes its stiffness, and the roughness of the fabric against his skin. He tugs back the blanket then, opening his mouth to say anything to Tommy, even something low and teasing, but stops short at the odd sight that greets him.
Tommy is rolled onto his side with his back to Techno, but that’s not what’s strange. What’s strange is that his shirt is soaked through with sweat, clinging to his back and revealing too many visible vertebrae, pushing against his skin and through the shirt like rocks in a riverbed. The back of his neck is a blotchy, feverish red that Techno recognises as something that has always been a symptom of Tommy being sick.
The half smile growing on his face falls away instantly as dread starts to curl up ugly in his gut, and he stretches just a hair further to press the back of his knuckles against Tommy’s neck, feeling how his skin nearly burns at the touch and sucking in a sharp breath.
“Thes?” Techno asks softly, hoping that he’ll get any kind of answer at all. There’s only silence, and Techno goes tenser, pushing himself back up to his feet and leaning over the bed to take Tommy’s shoulders and roll him over to get a better look at his face. “Thes, kid, are you awake?”
Tommy rolls too easily, half-flopping onto his back like he’s not even alive, and it makes Techno’s stomach turn unexpectedly.
What’s worse is that Tommy is sickly pale, the only spots of colour coming from the splotchy redness high on his cheeks. His forehead is shiny with sweat, his hair dampened and made darker than normal because of it.
“ Theseus,” Techno breathes. “Oh my god.”
When Tommy opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is a solid, thick oak rafter above his head. He blinks groggily at it for a moment, uncomprehending, but slowly through the haze of a headache, he realises that he doesn’t recognise it at all.
He wants to panic, knows he should, even feels his heart beating faster, but it feels like treacle has filled his veins, weighing him down and making his movements slow and syrupy. When he manages to get his limbs to cooperate enough to try to sit up, he finds his arms pinned awkwardly to his sides.
For a moment, he’s back in the prison, Dream laughing so loudly it might as well have been a scream.
What Tommy still hasn’t told anyone is that when he came back from limbo, he couldn’t move for nearly an hour.
He couldn’t explain why, just that his limbs wouldn’t cooperate with him, too weak to even so much as flex, and for an hour, Tommy hadn’t been able to do anything but let Dream poke and prod at him, asking question after question about what it had been like to die and be brought back. All he’d been able to do was just cry, trying to slip away even as tears slipped down his temples and into his hair. He couldn’t get his mouth to work, even, could barely make his chest move enough that he could breathe.
And Tommy’s arms are pinned now, pressed tight to his side, and for a moment he can’t tell if he can’t move or if something is holding him still.
He doesn’t know which one is worse.
The panic sets in then and Tommy thrashes, finding that he can move. The blood is rushing in his ears, so loud that he can’t even hear his own breaths, ragged and rough in his chest. Tommy kicks with his feet, tugging at his arms and squirming until suddenly whatever is pinning him moves enough that he can wiggle his arm just a little bit. It renews his efforts, and he twists once more.
For a moment, he free-falls.
When he hits the ground, his bindings go completely loose, and Tommy scrambles up and away from them the moment he can, ignoring the pulsing pain in his ribs and the air rattling in his throat.
Techno’s cloak lies on the floor next to–
Next to Techno’s couch, which sits next to Techno’s coffee table, which sits in the middle of Techno’s living room.
“Tommy?” comes a sharp, concerned call, accompanied by the fast sound of steps hurrying down a hallway.
Tommy knows Techno’s house, he’d have to after the month he spent here after exile. And Tommy is back, but he doesn’t remember bringing himself here, nor does he remember anyone else doing the same.
“Tommy,” Techno says, and Tommy looks up to find Techno standing in the entrance to the living room, blinking wide red eyes at him, hands braced on the doorframe like he’d used it to stop himself from tumbling into the room. He’s wearing a plain white shirt and loose brown pants, no boots on his feet, but still wearing thick wool socks. It’s maybe the most relaxed Tommy has seen him in months.
“Techno,” Tommy replies, warily. “How the fuck did I get here?”
“You’re sick,” Techno says plainly, brows knitting. He suddenly releases the doorframe and steps into the room, coming closer to where Tommy crouches, and Tommy immediately pushes himself upright, stepping quickly backwards to widen the gap between them again.
Techno freezes, staring at Tommy with some expression vaguely close to hurt.
“What does me being sick have to do with me being here?” Tommy asks, hiking his shoulders up to his ears. The adrenaline of waking up is already wearing off and suddenly there’s a slow throbbing starting up in the back of his head, like a continuous, pulsing drumbeat.
“I was worried about you,” Techno says, and it makes something angry and sharp light up in Tommy’s chest.
“You’re not answering my fucking question, Technoblade,” Tommy says, gritting his teeth through the sudden swimming of his vision. “Are you trying to say you fucking kidnapped me because you were worried about me?”
“I was worried about you!” Techno snaps, and Tommy draws back with a scowl.
“If you were worried about me, you would have cared enough to ask if I wanted this, Tech!” he snaps back, and Techno rumbles something sharp and frustrated.
The sound takes Tommy back to years and years ago, all the arguments they’d get into because Tommy wanted to go out and do things and Techno wanted him to stay home, to be safe.
Maybe Techno wants the same now, but that doesn’t mean that he’s allowed to take Tommy and do whatever he pleases with him for the sake of it.
“I couldn’t just leave you there, Theseus,” Techno says with finality, arms crossing over his chest, half intimidation. “You were sick, and no one was taking care of you.”
The reminder stings, and Tommy bites back a bitter remark about how ‘that’s how it’s always been, Tech’, instead choosing to shoot back, “I don’t need anyone to take care of me! I’m grown up enough to handle being sick without you intervening and whisking me away to your fucking cabin in the woods like some fucked up fairy tale to fix something that I didn’t ask you to fix!”
“I wasn’t trying to fix anything,” Techno grits out. “I was trying to make sure you were okay, which you honestly don’t particularly seem to be right now.”
“I’m fine,” Tommy replies, glaring at him. “I don’t need you doing shit for me, and–“
Tommy makes a mistake then, trying to sidestep the couch he’d been laying on minutes before and nearly falling when his toe—and it’s here that he realises he’s not even wearing his fucking boots anymore—catches on the edge of the stupid, thick rug under the coffee table.
Techno jolts towards him, hands out, making a sharp noise of concern, but Tommy manages to catch himself on the back of the couch, raising his other hand to stop Techno from coming closer.
“I don’t need you, Techno,” Tommy says slowly, head still pounding, throat closing around a cough that he chokes back. “I don’t.”
“Why can’t you?”
Tommy pauses and blinks at Techno, who suddenly looks almost defeated, shoulders slumped, hands loose at his sides. His hair is coming loose from its ponytail, Tommy realises, wild and wispy around his face. He looks like he’s been worrying. And he’s asked a question, one Tommy hardly knows how to answer.
“Because,” he says after a moment. “I don’t know how to anymore.”
And then the throbbing in his head crescendos and his vision fades to black as he passes out.
Tommy was only going to stay until he could stay upright for long enough to get himself home.
So fuck Techno for making him go right against that plan.
He woke up from passing out to darkness outside the wide living room windows, and soft humming from the kitchen. It had to be Techno, there’s no one else it could have been, so when he managed to get his feet under himself and hobble into the kitchen, grimacing at the way his skin felt rubbed raw by his clothes, and found Techno at his stove, carefully stirring a pot of soup, it took him right back to when they were kids.
Wilbur could never cook, try as he might, and so even though he was the oldest—by two whole minutes, so he got to be in charge when Phil went away—so a lot of the time, Tommy grew up eating Techno’s food.
It’s a fond memory, turned bitter by the way Tommy’s last memories of Techno’s cooking are tinged by the fear and distrust he’d been trapped in after exile.
Techno had directed him to sit down on the couch the moment he’d noticed Tommy standing in the kitchen doorway, and only minutes later he’d come in to hand Tommy a bowl of the stew he’d been making.
“I’m sorry,” Techno had said, stiltedly, pausing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. “For bringing you here, I mean.”
And Tommy had nodded and said nothing, and at least for the time being, that was that.
It takes a few days for Tommy to start feeling better, and by then, he’s starting to remember why he’d loved staying with Techno after exile so much.
Techno is nicer to him, he’s not the man who destroyed L’Manberg on Doomsday, and he’s not the man who had cried “welcome home, Theseus!” like Tommy was supposed to be happy about being shown weapons of mass destruction.
It’s like when Tommy was younger, like how Techno used to sit for hours and read to him until he asked him to stop, and all the quiet nights by the fire with Wilbur’s guitar to serenade them.
Wilbur’s not there anymore, but Tommy has learned to live around the space he’d left empty.
And even though it’s like all of his fondest childhood memories, it’s also so similar to the days following his escape from the godforsaken beach that was exile. The heavy sound of Techno’s boots on the floor just reminds him of hiding away in Techno’s basement and stealing gapples in the hopes that they would be even close to enough to let him survive.
Tommy doesn’t mention this, though. He doesn’t know what Techno could even do about it in the first place.
Tommy feels the blood drain from his face, and he stares up at Techno for a long, long moment.
“You want to spar?” he asks woodenly, nausea suddenly making his throat tight. Sparring with Technoblade—he would have loved nothing more years and years ago, when he was a snotty twelve-year-old with a cool big brother, but now?
Now Tommy can’t stomach the idea of it because he knows Techno is stronger and more skilled than him—he’s not above admitting it, at least to himself—and he knows he’ll get hurt. It’ll just be a matter of when and how.
Dream, fists and feet, pain blooming across his ribs from hard hits and harder kicks. The sound of his skull against the obsidian floors, ears ringing not nearly enough to muffle Dream’s taunting, his Tommy, Tommy, Tommy–
“–Tommy?”
Tommy sucks in a sharp breath, enough to almost make him stumble back, unbalanced enough as it is, and Techno reaches out one hand as if to steady him.
“Thesus,” Techno rumbles, brows drawing together, eyes shuttering in concern. “You don’t have to.”
You don’t have to.
He might as well be telling Tommy that he’s weak. Techno doesn’t offer ways out unless he knows that people can’t handle something, it’s the way he’s always been. If there’s even a chance that they can, he pushes them to try.
Maybe it’s that little part of Tommy, still young and begging for Techno’s approval, but the thought makes his cheeks flush red with annoyance, and he tilts his chin up, clenching his jaw and glaring at Techno.
“I’ll do it,” Tommy says firmly, and he can see the way Techno hesitates, scrutinising him for just a moment before he seems satisfied by how intent Tommy is. And Tommy feels a moment of victory, just one, before suddenly the anxiety creeps back in, and he says, “I want armour though.”
“You– what?” Techno asks, confusion clouding his expression. Tommy shifts, suddenly aware of himself, the way he stands, the hunch of his shoulders, the way his clothes stretch over his skin. He straightens almost self-consciously, pushing his shoulders back and shaking his hands out just once.
“I want armour,” Tommy says again. “If we’re going to spar, I want armour.”
“Is this your way of trying to get one of my nice sets to wear?” Techno asks, bemusement in his voice.
There’s an opening there, and Tommy slips into it easily, letting his shoulders fall more jauntily, head tipping to the side as a grin snakes across his face. “No,” he says, slyly. “I would never, Techno. Your armour is gross and shit, I bet you don’t wash it. It’s got your fuckin’– your B.O. on it or something.”
It seems enough to ease Techno’s worry, because he snorts and shakes his head.
“First of all,” Techno starts, “you don’t wash armour, not like that.”
“Oh, so it does smell like your B.O.,” Tommy replies, and Techno’s eyes roll so hard that he must nearly give himself a headache. Tommy laughs and follows along behind Techno as he turns and starts to walk towards his storage room.
He slips out of the living room, easily moving around the couch with Tommy fast on his heels, moving down the hallway toward the back of the house. They pass the bathroom they had just left, which still smells minty like Techno’s aftershave, and the bedroom Tommy has been sleeping in.
“I was going to say,” Techno continues, as they pass Techno’s room, with the carefully closed door. “That you wear clothes under the armour, and that is what you wash, Theseus.”
“I bet you don’t wash those either,” Tommy counters, and Techno groans, head tipping back in exaggerated annoyance. He watches Techno’s long hair swish behind him, braided back carefully.
“I wash my clothes plenty often, Theseus,” Techno replies, and Tommy hums doubtfully. “Thes, please.”
“I’m just saying, Tech-no-blade, I’ve never seen you wash your clothes,” Tommy replies, and Techno sighs heavily. The way his shoulders tense and shake a little even as he does so is a pretty good sign he’s not really bothered, though.
“I wash my clothes regularly, Tommy,” Techno says. “You, on the other hand, I couldn’t say the same of.”
“Oi, fuck you!” Tommy yelps, picking up his pace until he’s nearly tripping on Techno’s cape, reaching out and knotting his fingers in Techno’s cloak to tug at it. “I wash my clothes all the time! I’m a big man, that’s big man shit!”
“ All the time doesn’t mean regularly,” Techno says, twisting his head to grin down at Tommy, flashing his tusks at him. “That just means a lot, but you could mean you wash it a lot one month and not at all the next.”
“Hey!” Tommy says, scowling. “I am so clean!”
“Uh huh,” Techno says, finally taking the two steps down to the storage room door and pushing it open with his shoulder. “Come here, you’ll have to pick out your armour if you want any.”
“Can’t you?” Tommy whines, glaring at all the racks full of armour. “Just give me something good, that’s all I need.”
“I’m going to give you gold,” Techno warns, and Tommy huffs.
“Fine, but it better have mending on it.”
“It’s going to have protection four,” Techno says drily, and Tommy laughs as he watches Techno dig through one of his chests, packed with old chestplates. “Do you want a full set of armour or just a chestplate?”
Tommy pauses, shifting up onto the balls of his feet and then rocking back down onto his heels as he considers. Finally he says, “Just a chestplate should be fine.”
“Alright kid,” Techno replies, straightening up and gently tossing a diamond chestplate at Tommy.
“This isn’t gold,” Tommy tells him, just in case he didn’t know.
“Yeah. Prot four,” Techno says, and that’s that, apparently. He starts to walk to his wall of swords, all hung up neatly on their pegs, and once he’s picked out two wooden swords, he moves down to the outside door to the storage room, and Tommy nearly trips over himself to follow after.
Tommy has been out to Techno’s training ground before, so that means that he knows exactly when they’re getting close to it, and that means that the closer they get, the more Tommy’s anxiety builds, because he knows exactly how much longer it is until Techno is beating the shit out of him.
“You just let me know if you need to tap out,” Techno says as they take the final turn on the path up to the plateau, and Tommy nods, unable to form words around the panicked lump growing in his throat.
Techno’s training ground is a flat of land not too high up the side of the mountain just beyond Techno’s house, and while it gets chilly in the winter, the spring has been warming up and now it’s only nippy, even elevated further. If it turns out to be too cold, they’ll warm up quickly with all the sparring.
Techno refuses to start until Tommy has let him guide him through stretches, but all too soon, Techno is telling Tommy to take up his position and starting to pace and slowly circle the edge of the training ground.
It becomes obvious immediately that Techno is going easy on Tommy. He doesn’t hit as hard as Tommy knows he can, and doesn’t move as fast. In fact, he moves so slowly that Tommy even manages to land a couple of hits on him because he was distracted.
On one hand, it’s a relief that he won’t be injured as easily, but on the other, he hates that Techno is being gentle and letting him try his best. It’s not how Techno operates, so he should be doing the exact opposite of what he’s actually doing.
“Stop fucking doing that!” Tommy snaps, when Techno pulls back just short of landing a hit.
This seems to startle Techno, because he stops suddenly and blinks wide-eyed at Tommy. “What do you mean?” he asks, seeming confused and unbalanced for a moment.
“You! And this– this thing that you’re doing!” Tommy says. “You’re fucking babying me, Tech, and I want you to stop! If you wanted me to spar you should be sparring with me, not treating me like I’m a little kid!”
“I’m just trying to keep an eye out for–“
“I don’t need you to keep an eye out for me! I’m a big man, I can take care of myself and you know it!”
This must strike a nerve, because Techno’s brows pitch down and he snaps, “You can’t take care of yourself, Tommy, you’ve proven that time and again! If you could take care of yourself you wouldn’t be in half the situations you get into!”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what it means, Theseus! Don’t you remember the wars? Pogtopia? Exile?” Tommy flinches, but Techno pushes on. “If you would just listen to me, or let me help you–”
“What, Techno? What? All the mistakes I have ever made are my own, and I wouldn’t trade my own bad choices for someone else’s good. I have failed, and fucked up, and ruined things, but it is on my own. I don’t need you to decide shit for me!”
Tommy throws his sword at the ground, not knowing what else to do with his frustration, instead spinning in an anxious circle as the spring wind picks up around them.
“So what, Theseus?” Techno snaps. Tommy hears the sound of his sword hitting the ground too. “You get to make your mistakes and people are just supposed to forgive you?”
“I don’t expect them to do shit, Techno!” Tommy replies, turning to look at Techno and his stormy eyes.
“That’s what you do, Tommy! You make mistakes and you do things wrong and you just expect everything to stop all at once so you can pick up the pieces!” Techno spreads his arms wide, a desperate, wild look on his face. He doesn’t seem to notice the strands of hair escaping his braid and curling across his forehead, catching on his nose and the stubble on his jaw. “You can’t really think that everyone can wait for you to be better! They didn’t wait for Phil, they didn’t wait for Wilbur, and they sure as hell didn’t wait for me!”
“I didn’t expect the world to stop for me!” Tommy screams over the whipping wind, ignoring the way he feels his words scrape his throat raw. “I didn’t expect the world to stop for me, Techno! I just hoped that you would!”
It’s as if the world takes a breath then. The winds die to nothing, and Tommy is left staring at Techno with stinging eyes, chest heaving against the weight of his armour. Techno stares back at him, eyes wide, jaw slack, shoulders trembling.
For a moment, the plateau is silent.
Then Techno’s brows pinch, his eyes press shut, and perhaps for the first time, the Blood God sobs.