Archive of Our Own

Technoblade is burning up.

It’s been weeks since doomsday, since he brought a nation to its knees in blood and fire and fury, since he changed the course of history with his best friend by his side.

His best friend who, now, will not look him in the eyes.

He’s not sure when it started, the slow slide towards unfamiliarity that he and Phil have succumbed to these past weeks, nor does he know why, but something, Techno cannot dispute, has changed between them. And he hates it.

Returning from the fight, they’d been shaky on their feet, laughing deliriously between themselves, shaking out pained limbs and casting aside heavy, long carried weapons as they staggered their way inside to curl up together by Techno’s fire and help each other bandage their wounds, their own little post-war ritual, as it always has been. But somewhere between waking up the next morning to an empty spot in the bed beside him, to spending days too busy building a new house for the sudden arrival of Ranboo to do anything else, to now, finding himself caught so often in a strange and unfamiliar silence, their usual, easy friendship had been replaced by something just a little more sinister. Looking back, Techno’s not even sure doomsday was the catalyst. Looking back to the weeks before, to the days after his execution, to the sudden pensive silences Phil would randomly fall into, Techno thinks maybe Phil’s been slipping away from him for a far longer time than he’d realised.

Now, though, it’s impossible not to notice, and with every passing day that Techno feels Phil draw more and more distant, he's begun to tear himself apart inside.

He and Phil have known each other a long time, far too many years for him to have kept count of, though he’s fairly certain that, if asked, Phil could recite it down to the day. And in that time, there are certain things Techno’s become strangely used to. He, as much as Phil, loves to claim he’s not one for settling down, for the domestic life as it could be called, but the two of them have fallen into their own routines as much as anyone, strange as they may be.

They have breakfast together every morning, as they have done for years, even if neither of them are eating, even if it’s just coffee shared with sleep-filled eyes over the kitchen table on a too-cold morning. They train together, sparring just to keep themselves from going rusty, they hunt together, collect wood and plants from the forests together, spend evenings curled up by the fire silently reading from their own books or fussing over each other, preening wings and braiding hair until they fall asleep against each other wherever they end up. God knows Techno’s bed’s long been set up into more of a nest than an actual bed, Phil having constructed the thing himself from a strewn out mess of pillows and blankets and the occasional soft item of clothing. Techno’s life is as entangled with Phil’s as it possibly can be. Or it was, at least.

Now, though, Phil has pulled away to the point that all of Techno’s normal routines have been disrupted by it. He doesn’t see him in the mornings, certainly doesn’t spend much time with him during the day - and when he does they work so often in silence that it has become increasingly uncomfortable - and they have not fallen asleep together in so long Techno can barely bring himself to believe it was ever once a normal thing. He misses that most of all. He misses it so much it makes his heart ache in his chest.

And he can’t help, throughout it all, remembering one thing: it’s not the first time someone’s treated him like this.

That first night, after he’d pulled Tommy out from the hole under his house and found him extremely sick, malnourished to a dangerous extent and with a growing frostbite in his hands and feet, the kid had clung to him like a drowning man clings to floating driftwood. He’d shaken by Techno’s side, recounting the worst of his stories to him through still chattering teeth, and Techno, despite his every normal instinct to push the kid away, had held on just as tight, drawn blankets around the kid’s shoulders and refused to let go until his frantic panicking ceased and he slipped into a fevered sleep. And, despite his annoyance at Tommy’s sudden unwelcome interruption into his life, Techno had found some comfort in watching Tommy slip into relatively peaceful sleep in his arms, apparently finding some trust in him.

But in the days after, Tommy had changed. Techno had put it down, at first, to teenage insolence, the stubborn nature of the kid to want to act like he didn’t need anybody but himself, and so he’d not been too surprised when the kid started shrugging him off when he reached out with helpful hands to treat a wound or offer him something. But soon the way Tommy would jump back from him, carefully put distance between them, didn’t go unnoticed. Afterwards, after Tommy had shown his true colours, Techno had realised what it had been all along. Tommy wasn’t letting himself get too close, reminding himself of what Techno really was: a weapon, not a friend.

It’s what he always is, and the reminder of it in every one who fears getting too close to him haunts him.

He just never expected Phil to become one of those people, to pull away so similarly that it hurts to think about.

But it’s not just that that’s bugging him, it’s not the change in Phil that has wormed its way so deep under his skin that he finds himself unable to think of anything else at times.

It’s the need, the longing, for the touch he’s missing.

Piglin are tactile creatures, and as much as Techno does his best to avoid most mentions of his genetics these days, sick of being treated as ‘other’ just because a bit of nether blood worked its way into his ancestry, he can’t ignore that deep, instinctual need to be surrounded by family, by sounder. Phil knows it better than anyone, his own need for flock as equal as Techno’s, and the two have been all each other have needed for so long in that regard.

Gods, he hates to admit it, but Techno’s as clingy as they come.

Hugs, hand holding, the gentle brush of hands and shoulders as he walks too close by someone’s side, physical contact sustains him as much as food and water, and when he’s without it he can feel himself start to wither like a plant left in shadow. And as much as he can self soothe, can wrap his own arms around himself, dump blankets over his body and pretend the pressure’s enough of a substitute, the last few weeks, as Phil has drawn more and more distant, Techno’s started to suffer from the lack of it.

He feels sick, physically sick, every night, laying down alone without a hand draped lazily over his stomach or a head pressing into the back of his neck with warm breath coiling over his skin. His skin hurts with the absence of it, firing with electricity every time he bumps against things and his mind, for half a second, believes someone’s reached out to him again.

And over the weeks, Phil only slips further and further away. He goes from simply being quieter and keeping to himself a little more to almost entirely absent in the space of a few days, and with each passing hour the thought of Techno being the one to reach out to him becomes more and more impossible. More than anything, he’s ashamed of it. He’s ashamed of the way he tosses and turns at night with a hurt so heavy in his chest he feels like can’t breathe because he misses his friend.

Phil’s new house, the one he’d constructed opposite Techno’s, is the biggest issue. The last few weeks Phil’s entirely moved out, never lingering too long inside the other cottage that used to be as much his home as it is Techno’s. And Techno can’t bring himself to head over and let himself in, even though Phil had assured him during its construction that he was always welcome to. The few times he has been inside, he’s always eerily reminded of how out of place he is, the photo of Wilbur hanging above the door and the altar with Kristin’s offerings on it in the corner a stark reminder that Phil’s got a whole world outside of Technoblade, that Techno’s the only one left entirely alone if this all breaks apart.

He hasn’t been taking care of himself, that’s for certain. Techno’s bones ache from the agony of weeks worth of nights in a row spent asleep on the floor by the fire or in chairs at the kitchen table, but he cannot bring himself to drag himself into his own bed. The last few times he’d tried it, the agony of his own lonely skin had been only worsened by the expanse of the mattress without another small body curled up next to his, without wings shoved awkwardly around them so that feathers somehow end up in his mouth and without waking always with a stiff neck from a night spent huddled over insistent on keeping Phil’s head tucked protectively under his chin. Just looking into his own bedroom is agony now, not when Phil’s favourite blanket, the soft green and silver one Ghostbur had knitted for him, is still thrown haphazardly on top of the pile, and loosened down feathers still drift amongst the sheets.

And so he sleeps alone, each night, somewhere cold and uncomfortable, a punishment to himself for his own friend’s apparent turning against him, and hugs his arms around his own middle as if it would ever be enough.

Those last few nights before it all breaks down, he cries pitifully as he attempts to sleep, kept awake by the empty feeling of being trapped inside his own too spacious body, of the burning cold of his skin.

In the dark of the night, his own wants come to him clear as day, and he feels stupid and selfish and pathetic for each of them and swallows them back down with a horrible sick feeling in his stomach.

He doesn’t want to be the warrior everyone treats him as always.

He wants to be small.

He wants to be fragile and vulnerable and valuable to someone.

He wants to be held - held as a person and not a weapon for once in his life.

And it hurts so bad.

-

The day it breaks, Tubbo’s visiting the commune. Again.

It’s not that Techno minds the presence of the younger boy, in fact, despite their stark political differences, he’s come to almost enjoy seeing him around, amused by his antics and the little quips he comes out with at random intervals. But watching him and Ranboo interact has become like torture, each shared smile of theirs another knife in his gut as he watches them pass conversation back and forth as if it’s the easiest thing in the world, bumping their shoulders against each other as they walk side by side and pulling each other into giggling side hugs as they joke amongst themselves.

They’re so at ease with each other it’s almost sickening.

Watching them, all Techno can think of is Phil, of how the two of them used to be just like that. Of how he’d make some comment and Phil would swing an arm around his shoulder as if it were nothing, ruffling his hair or squeezing him into a hug, bouncing with excitement when Techno had a good idea or gasping excitedly at the opportunity to answer a question of Techno’s with a little anecdote of his own.

God, he’s so clingy it’s pathetic, but it’s all Techno wants now, just a little attention from Phil, something to soothe the yearning of his soul for just a moment or two. Anything would be enough, he thinks. The slightest touch would be enough to fulfil him for weeks and make him all the more hungrier for it all at the same time.

Talking of Phil, Techno’s not seen the man since early that morning, having watched him set off into the tundra at daybreak, and he’s as alone as ever now, left to sit out on the steps between their two joined houses and watch Tubbo and Ranboo toss handfuls of powdery snow at each other. If Phil were here, he’d show them how to roll the snow into proper, compact snowballs. Techno grins fondly at the thought, and then forcibly wipes it from his face at the reminder of everything he’s missing.

By the time Tubbo leaves, waved off by Ranboo with a tight squeeze of a hug and a promise to see each other again soon, Techno feels sick from watching it, and yet he can’t bring himself to tear his eyes away.

He’s jealous, he realises with a sickening hatred of himself, jealous of the two kids for being happy and bitter at them for the same reason. What is wrong with him?

“Techno?”

It’s Ranboo. Techno looks up to find the boy towering over him with a nervous grin, one hand raised in a friendly wave.

“Hey, kid,” Techno grunts, “Tubbo gone home?”

Ranboo nods, a little sadly. “Is Phil around, I wanted to ask him something.”

“Don’t know where he is,” Techno replies, “Haven’t seen him all day.”

Ranboo flinches back a little at the harshness of his voice. “Oh, right,” he murmurs, and then, “Did...something happen? You and Phil seem off.”

For a second Techno considers lying, putting on a face and pretending it’s all fine, resorting to the old lie of ‘oh I’m just tired’. It’s almost true. He’s fucking exhausted of all of it.

“I don’t know,” he admits quietly instead, and sees Ranboo’s face fall, eyebrows narrowed in confusion.

“Oh,” he murmurs, “Okay, well, thanks anyway Techno.”

And for half a second, Techno thinks to reach out, to implore something, anything, from Ranboo. But the words won’t leave his throat. And anyway, the kid’s nice enough, but he’s not Phil. No one ever could be.

He lets the kid wander away through the snow, trailing little footprints across the neat blanket of snow that peacefully covers the commune, and then picks himself up and drags himself away to his own home, heart already burning at the thought of another night spent alone.

-

He’s half asleep at his kitchen table later that afternoon when it happens.

The knock at the door is sharp and harsh, so unfamiliar Techno instantly assumes it’s Ranboo. Lifting his head lazily from where it rests against the table, he calls out a lazy, “Come in,” and he’s almost ready to drop his face back down onto the wood again when he spots the door open out of the corner of his eye.

It’s Phil.

He peeks his head around the door curiously, biting nervously at his lower lip as he looks at Techno, and then takes a step in. Phil shuffles through the half open door awkwardly, slowly, head bent down, and for a second Techno expects nothing from him. Then the man raises his head and blinks at him sheepishly.

“Hey,” Phil says.

“Oh,” Techno murmurs, quietly surprised, “Hey.” He gets to his feet slowly, heading to meet Phil as he steps further in, but the man just shrugs it off.

“I left a cloak in here, I think,” Phil says, “I just came to get it. Didn’t want to leave all my clutter in your house now I’ve got my own.”

“Oh,” Techno mutters again, sounding like a broken record. Stupid. “Right, yeah, that’s fine.”

It’s not fine.

Phil’s been leaving stuff in Techno’s house for as long as he’s lived here, their things mingling together to the point that neither can remember who brought that red blanket that always lingers on the back of the sofa, or who ran out the milk and needs to go and get more. The constant presence of Phil’s absent-mindedly cast aside items in his house is the last comfort Techno’s got.

Leave it, he wants to beg, I don’t mind. My house is your house, remember?

But he doesn’t say a word. Phil steps around him carefully, heading further into the house, and Techno lingers silently by the door like an idiot, one foot propping the stupid thing open, and waits. He can hear Phil humming to himself in the other room as he looks, that little thinking tune of is, and god the distant sound of it echoing through the rooms is almost enough to convince Techno’s sleep deprived, needy brain that things are back to normal, that his Phil is back and this has all been a terrible nightmare.

But then Phil returns, the missing cloak now pinned carefully around his shoulders, and nods at Techno wordlessly.

“That everything?” Techno asks blankly as Phil approaches, and the man shrugs.

“If you find anything else, send it my way.”

Techno thinks of the blanket on his bed, the sweater in his wardrobe, the pair of socks on the bathroom floor. He doesn’t mention any of them.

“I think that’s probably it,” he says with a nod, “But I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

And when Phil heads for the door, Techno thinks that’s it, another awkward encounter over. Until Phil bumps into him as he tries to step past, and instantly flinches back like he’s touched something hot. And something about the speed of the movement, and the horror in Phil’s eyes as he freezes and looks up at Techno is all it takes for something inside Techno to snap.

His foot moves, and the door it was holding open slams shut between them and the outside world.

Phil is still looking at him in horror, and Techno’s mind and heart are both racing at speeds too fast for his body, because he’s looking at him just like Tommy used to, just like everyone always has. Like Techno’s a grenade about to go off, like he’s scared to touch him.

Why is Phil so scared to touch him?

It’s too much.

For the first time in months, after execution, betrayal, war and victory, after everything he has faced with a steely exterior and a hardened heart, finally, Technoblade breaks.

And when his walls come crashing down, they hurt.

The first sob rises up in him like a tidal wave, like the water let out by the bursting of a long standing dam, and god he tries to swallow it back down, but his chest heaves with his sudden inability to breathe and it breaks through, a pitiful choking cry. And after it comes more and more, each sob strangled by Techno’s desperate attempts to hold it back until his lungs ache with the effort and his breaths come out in shallow gasps. He doubles in on himself, trying to hide his face from Phil even as his legs shake under him and his entire body threatens to collapse, because instinct tells him that vulnerability is dangerous, that people are not to be trusted with the softer sides of him. He wonders when Phil became just ‘people’ to him, and the thought only makes him cry harder.

And Phil just stares.

The entire time, as Techno breaks before him, Phil just stands, silently dumbstruck by the sight, face stricken with horror as he hesitates between what to do. The space between them is achingly huge, and god Techno wants nothing more than to step forwards and close it, to cling to Phil until everything stops hurting so goddamn much and his own body stops feeling like a prison. But he can’t, he can’t and that only makes things worse because Phil used to be Techno’s safe space, the ever present light amidst the darkness never blinking or turning off, never turning away, and now Techno can barely bring himself to look Phil in the eyes.

Then Phil moves. It’s barely anything, a tiny shifting of his hand, but Techno’s known Phil for a hundred years and counting and he knows that tiny lift of the fingers better than anyone, knows Phil is preparing to lift a hand towards him. Techno freezes. His breath catches in his throat as Phil’s hand moves towards him, his entire body tense with the fear and the anticipation of whatever will come next, and maybe Phil sees that and interprets it wrong, or maybe the man just changes his mind, but for whatever reason Phil changes his mind, and his hand falls uselessly back to his side. He’s certain now, Techno thinks, seeing a flash of worry in Phil’s eyes, that his friend is scared. Scared of him. Scared to touch him. The one thing Techno has always worked so hard to prevent.

And just like that, the fury and pain and panic of the last weeks takes over.

Techno screams.

And gods, he doesn’t blame Phil for being scared of him, doesn’t blame Phil for the way he flinches back at the noise and slams his hands over his ears, doesn’t blame him for huddling into the wreck of his own burned wings like a safety blanket.

A raging piglin is not something anybody wants to be in a room with, not a welcome companion. A hurt, anguished piglin even less so. But he’s completely out of control of himself by this point, and the sound will not stop coming. His pain, finally, comes out of him in horrible, echoing shrieks, caught somewhere between full on screaming and terrified sobbing, and his hands tear at his clothes, at his skin, his chest, trying to force himself to stop, to breathe, trying to find purchase on something, to cling onto himself in lieu of any other comfort. The noise is loud, tearing his throat, and outside the dogs have started barking and Phil’s face is creased in pain before him, and god knows Ranboo must be able to hear him from his house - gods what will Ranboo think? - but Techno can’t stop.

He is scaring his friend and he can’t stop.

He never can, he’s never been able to.

He is weak and he is dangerous all at once and he scares everyone off eventually.

“TECHNO!”

The shout makes the scream die in his throat, shrivel away to nothing but a pathetic, snivelling whine that he does his best to quash, embarrassed suddenly by himself. His breath lurches in his chest, nausea twisting his stomach, and Techno balls up his shirt in his hands, leering back from Phil.

“Techno,” Phil breathes, and once again his hands come up, this time a placating, lingering gesture that does not even attempt to reach out for him, and techno can’t bear it, can’t bear to see the hands that once soothed him through every worst nightmare, every bad day when the voices were too loud, every day he lost himself to his own paranoid mind now held up as if to ward him back.

“Techno, what is this?” Phil asks, and it’s quiet, soft, caring. It’s everything Techno wants to believe Phil still feels towards him. But he can’t.

And he knows he has to do it.

And so with the pain of the last few weeks still fuelling him and a deep, aching pain twisting at the heart he’s so used to pretending has long gone cold, Techno asks the one question he’d thought would never be directed at Phil.

“Am I just a weapon to you?”

It comes out angrier than he’d expected it to, hot and spitting, but his voice shakes at the last words and boiling tears spring into his eyes again, hands shaking. He’s a mess and he knows it, a shaking mess of emotion and he half expects Phil to laugh in his face at the wreck he’s become.

Instead, Phil’s face crumples. His mouth falls open and his eyes grow stricken and his shoulders sag heavily, those broken, dying wings plummeting down with them so that the ends crash messily against the floor, and oh god Techno wishes he could take it back. He never wants to be the reason Phil looks like that.

“What?” Phil whispers, one hand drifting up to cover his mouth, the other twisting into the sleeve of his haori, “Techno, what?”

Techno’s heart shatters at the broken look in Phil’s eyes, the crystalline tears already filling them up, but he has to do it. Deep down, he knows he’ll never rest until he’s gotten it all out, every last word and emotion and pain.

“You didn’t - After doomsday you didn’t - you won’t even-” Techno’s breath shudders in his throat, and he swallows it back down thickly, certain that, if nothing else, he will get these next words out calmly and clearly. He fails. He opens his mouth again and -

“You don’t even look at me anymore!” Techno sobs all at once.

It’s a barrelling mess of words that he’s not quite sure Phil will understand, but when he sees Phil’s face, he knows he’s been heard clear as day.

Phil’s face crumbles in on itself even further, something Techno had barely thought possible, and the first of his tears start to fall. And oh god it’s all Techno’s fault, he’s the reason Phil’s crying and he hates himself for it, but now he’s started the words just won’t stop coming.

“Techno-” Phil tries, but Techno shakes his head desperately for silence as he continues to babble.

“I know I’m not- not much use to have around when there’s not anything that needs to be destroyed but I - I...I thought we had something here that was m-more than that and I … I know we’re an anarchist team but I, I want to be something outside of the war.”

“Techno,” Phil breathes out again, and he sounds so crushingly heartbroken, so desperate, that Techno falls into a hiccupping silence and lets him speak. “Techno, oh god, Tech - of course you’re something outside of war, Techno. You’re you.”

“But fighting’s what I do,” Techno whispers. He’s too tired to shout anymore as Phil’s voice, so soft and broken sounding washes over him. He’s so tired and he wants nothing more than to latch himself onto Phil and bury his hands in feathers and soft blond hair and never let go like he used to. The gap still lingering between them seems to leer at him.

“You’re so much more than that,” Phil says, and oh god he’s crying even more, choking on his words just like Techno now, “You are not a weapon, Techno. Who told you that?”

“Everyone,” Techno chokes, “Always. It’s all I was for Tommy.” And there it is, the first of so many hurts, voiced out loud for the first time, and Techno both hates and loves the way the horrified realisation dawns over Phil’s face.

“Fuck Tommy,” Phil hisses, and his sudden anger is so startling that Techno’s legs shake under him again. He’s going to fall if this keeps up, and for the first time in forever he does not know who will catch him.

“Fuck him,” Phil is still speaking apparently, “Fuck all of them for using you like that Techno. They don’t see the real you, Tech, they don’t know the parts I do. I’d never...I’d never treat you like that, you know that.”

“I don’t though,” Techno says, “I thought I did but I don’t.”

“But why?” Phil asks, and god its like he’s begging, raising one of his hands to tear through his hair, so distraught by what Techno’s telling him and Techno wishes more than anything he could go back in time and tell himself to shut up, to deal with it alone, to let his friend live in blissful ignorance of it all.

“I know I’ve been distant, Techno,” Phil sobs - god he’s sobbing now - “But I didn’t - I thought you’d still… I thought you understood, that I just needed space for a while, that you knew I still love you.”

Techno’s stomach plummets.

Phil has been his companion for decades, at his side for so long that their shared company has become pure instinctual nature to the both of them, their easy, platonic love is deep and shared and always there. But their ‘I love yous’ are rare, so often left unvoiced or reserved for their darkest moments, moments when the words are necessary, the only things left for them to cling to as they have looked danger and death in the eye time and time again. After so many years, they do not need words to prove their love for one another daily.

Now, though, the words come out of Phil’s mouth clear as day, and Techno is torn, stricken by the fact it has taken so long for him to be reassured by it and similarly comforted by the words, by Phil’s ability to know so well when he needs to hear it said.

I love you too, he wants to call back at him, you’re my best friend, of course I do.

But he can’t. He just can’t. Some deep part of him can’t believe Phil is telling the truth, can’t believe it’s safe for him to say it back, not when the gap between them still yawns so wide.

Instead, he lets out a tiny keening noise, a high-pitched whine he hopes Phil will interpret in some way as his own desperation to try and get the words out, and Phil’s shoulders sag.

“What brought this on, Techno?” Phil murmurs, and when Techno looks up again Phil has stepped closer and he wants nothing more than to reach out and just... he can’t even work that bit out, can barely remember how Phil used to comfort him before all this, how naturally they used to slot together.

That realisation is enough for the last of it to break though.

“You stopped touching me!” Techno blurts out, and god it sounds weird and childish and oh so stupid no it’s out in the air, but the weight that lifts off his shoulders as the words spill out is the most relief he’s felt in weeks.

“I stopped- oh,” Phil sighs, “Techno I didn’t-”

“You did, though,” Techno sobs, “Even if you didn’t mean it, you still did it and it hurts Phil. It hurts so much and I don’t know why and it’s stupid and I just...I - I-” He cuts himself off as his sobs pick up again and he catches himself gasping for breath. His lungs hurt as much as the rest of him now.

“Techno, please, listen I didn’t-”

“I need -” Techno gasps, “I don’t know, I need- I just -”

I need you, he wants to scream, I need you to hold me and make me feel whole again. I need the ache to go away before it breaks me completely. Please.

But he doesn’t beg. He doesn’t think he could even now. He swallows the words back down, and as both of them gasp for air and for the right thing to say he simply waits.

It’s enough.

In the pause between their frantic stammering, Phil’s face suddenly falls stern and determined, and as he lifts his hands he stares at them with a horror dawning over his face that Techno can’t read at all. But the way he hesitates over his movements, the way he glances between himself and Technoblade like he can’t decide whether it’s worth it is enough fresh pain to make Techno’s stomach heave, make him double over, certain he’s going to be sick.

And then, all at once, something changes.

Because suddenly there are hands on Techno’s shoulders and a face shoved desperately into his chest with a loud, upset keening noise brewing in Phil’s throat, and it’s warm and soft and safe and everything he’s been waiting for and -

Techno freezes up.

God, he hates himself for it, for the way his entire body locks up at the sudden touch, but he just can’t help it. It’s so foreign and strange and he’s gotten so used to the low, empty ache of want and need every time someone so much as brushes against him, and he doesn’t remember what he’s supposed to do.

But Phil, god bless him, doesn’t pull away like Techno expects him to. Hugging Techno right now must be like hugging a brick wall but Phil presses in even closer, his hands drifting down from Techno’s shoulders to press against his back, and, for all Phil’s worth, he stays.

It takes a long time. It’s minutes, maybe, before Techno is finally able to let his muscles begin relaxing, when his mind decides this isn’t some terrible trick and he begins to let go of himself. And once he’s started it’s impossible to stop. His shoulders sack and his legs shake like jelly under him and though Phil’s so much smaller than him Techno tips himself forward and lets his entire body weight sag into his friend’s arms. He knows Phil will hold him up. He always has done.

“Careful,” Phil murmurs when Techno staggers a little against him. And there it is, in his voice, all the love and care Techno’s been looking for for so long.

He sobs against the top of Phil’s head, and instantly his friend is shushing him, hands rubbing soothing patterns against his back. And when he stumbles again, his legs so shaky he knows they won’t hold him up much longer, Phil’s grip on him becomes tighter as he slowly sinks down and guides Techno to the floor with him.

They collapse onto the wooden floor together, and within an instant Phil is clambering into Techno’s lap, draping his limbs around him and pressing his face into Techno’s neck, tearfully cooing little songs of comfort into his hair. The weight of him settled there is so achingly familiar, and Techno sobs again as his hair is gathered up into careful, patient hands that begin to brush through the uncared for and knotted locks with a care close to reverence. He feels like a man stepping onto land again after years spent at sea, coming home to something familiar and brand new all at the same time.

He’s on fire.

Every inch of his skin that Phil’s hands brush over lights up with electric warmth, his body aching for the touch it has been starved of for so long, and he shudders miserably every time the hands draw away and leave him cold and yearning, only for them to return someplace new and set him on fire over and over again.

It feels like hours they sit there for in relative silence, only quiet sobs and the insistent constance of Phil’s gentle cooing to keep them companion. Maybe it is, for when Phil finally begins to speak, and Techno forces himself to lift his head up again, the room has darkened a little.

“I’m so sorry,” Phil murmurs, and his words bring more tears to the surface for both of them.

“No, I am,” Techno replies with a shake of his head, “I’m an idiot and I-”

“Quiet now, you,” Phil murmurs, butting his head against Techno’s shoulder once for emphasis, the weight of the touch leaving Techno speechless enough, “I shouldn’t have left you out in the cold like that, I’m so sorry. I know you, I know you need this and I shouldn’t have...God I’m so sorry.”

“Why, then?” Techno asks, and it comes out with more tears than he’d expected it to, “Why, Phil?”

Phil pulls away a little then, and Techno whines, burrowing forward to seek out the contact and crumbling further when Phil settles a hand against his shoulder to hold him back. He gives in when Phil’s eyes meet his, though, and he sees the deep hurt lingering there, the need to be seen as he says whatever is about to come out of his mouth.

Phil breaks down before he can speak. The sobs come heavy and fast again and he blinks tears from his blue eyes for a long few moments as he stares, open mouthed and helpless as Techno, and then, finally:

“Because I killed Wilbur.”

“What?” The words, heaved out through Phil’s sobs, break straight through to Techno’s heart, twisting a knife point of guilt deep into it. “Phil, speak to me,” he murmurs quietly, when his friend does nothing but slam his head into Techno’s chest and continues to cry.

“I killed my son, my boy,” Phil wails, “And I can still see the fucking blood Techno and I don’t...I don’t wanna get it on you as well! I can’t destroy everything I love, I just can’t and so I, I...”

“Oh, Phil,” Techno breathes, and when his friend presses closer into his chest Techno raises one hand gently to cradle his head and doesn’t let go as Phil cries it out. The guilt that wracks him as he holds Phil there is astounding. How selfish has been, so focused on himself he hasn’t seen this hurt lingering inside his friend for so long?

“I’m so sorry,” Techno cries as Phil snuffles into his shoulder, “I didn’t know, I should’ve-”

“No, I should’ve told you.”

“No you shouldn’t have to! I’m your best friend, I should know these things!”

“I didn’t know about you either!”

“It’s not your fault.”

“It’s not yours.”

Their rambling becomes impatient, sobbing tired, helpless words over the top of each other until it blurs into a helpless mess of apologies and pleading. Techno loses track of the words coming out of his own mouth, let alone whatever Phil’s crying at him, but eventually their words disperse into nothing but tired whimpering and the occasional muttered apology, and Techno ducks his head down to tuck Phil’s under his chin, and holds him close.

“Phil,” he whispers quietly, removing his hands from around Phil’s waist to reach for Phil’s one where they linger now at Techno’s sides, “Look at me. Phil, c’mon.”

Phil lifts his head eventually, blinking tearily at Techno, and Techno encases Phil’s hands in his own, linking their fingers and lifting them upwards between them.

“Look for me, huh?” He whispers, “Look at your hands. There’s no blood. They’re clean.” Phil stares at him, head shaking defiantly, and Techno sighs deeply. “Clean,” he whispers again, and when he raises their hands further he presses a kiss to the back of each of Phil’s hands for emphasis, “I promise.”

“They’re not,” Phil whines, “They weren’t.”

“I know,” Techno soothes, “But you can’t change the past. You did what you had to, I know you won’t do it again.”

“But what if I -”

“No,” Techno murmurs, “You’d never hurt me.”

“I did though,” Phil sobs, “I made you feel so bad.”

“And it’s done now,” Techno tells him, letting their hands fall back down to their laps so he can lean in and knock his forehead against Phil’s, “It’s all over. Talk to me next time, please.”

Phil laughs wetly, pressing his head further against Techno’s, the pressure of it a welcome relief to them both. “You’re one to speak,” he mutters, “You’ve gotta stop bottling things up mate.”

Techno sighs heavily. “I’ll try.” He means it.

“Good,” Phil murmurs, “Don’t wanna see you like that ever again.” His tone is lighter, but his voice breaks on the last words, and Techno’s heart aches at the thought of what he’s put his friend through, of what they’ve put each other through.

Techno ducks his head in a surrendering nod, and then leans forwards again, worming his arms back around Phil to hold him tight. His friend copies the motion, and he’s grateful for the pressure, the way it eases the last of the yearning out of his exhausted bones.

“Okay,” Techno murmurs quietly into Phil’s hair, “Alright.”

For a long time then they’re quiet, and Techno’s glad of it, shutting his eyes and feeling Phil nestle into his chest as the both of them cling to each other and, for the first time in so long, enjoy each other’s company so fully as has always been their way. Gods, Techno’s missed this, the feeling of a sturdy weight settled against him, the smell of woodland and leather polish filling up his nose when he buries his face into Phil’s hair, the gentle shifting of hands over his clothes and skin drawing mindless patterns of caring over him. His own hands drift towards Phil’s wings, playing at the downy feathers and coaxing a few quiet coos out of his friend. He’ll preen them properly later as a thank you, work his way around the worst scarred and damaged patches that he knows like a map in his head and ease some of the ache and pain from them, certain Phil will not have been caring for them properly himself.

“Come on,” Phil murmurs softly in his ear after a moment, “Up off this floor, huh?”

Techno’s half inclined to agree - there are far more comfortable places they could be having this moment, the long unused nest of blankets in his bed being one - but the second Phil relaxes his grip on him for just a second Techno feels that old panic lurch in his throat again, and he tightens his grip on Phil, whining pitifully into his shoulder and shaking his head like a panicked child.

Somewhere, deep down, he thinks he should be ashamed of himself for acting this way. He’s a warrior, he’s conquered realms for god’s sake - he’s better than this. But then Phil just coos something low and soothing into his ear, snaking one arm tighter around his waist, and Techno finds it difficult to care as a gentle, heavy bliss settles over his mind again and blurs out his thoughts into something less painful.

“This floor’s gonna break my old bones, mate,” Phil murmurs, and Techno’s half inclined to panic at the thought of hurting his friend again until he hears a soft chuckle from Phil and recognises the gentle teasing in his voice.

“I’ll fix them,” Techno replies quietly, and hopes Phil knows what he means. From the way Phil relaxes further against his chest and trills peacefully, he does.

“For what it’s worth, I do love you, you know,” Phil tells him quietly, drawing patterns of stars over and over along Techno’s spine with one finger, “Just shit at showing it sometimes.”

Techno splutters out a teary laugh against Phil’s hair, and nods. “I know,” he murmurs quietly. Pressing a kiss to the top of Phil’s head, he squeezes him in a tighter hug gently, and murmurs, “I love you too.”

Phil wriggles happily against Techno’s chest, and tips his head up gently to press a careful, reverent kiss to Techno’s forehead, tipping their heads together after he’s done and breathing out a slow, relieved sigh.

And it’s not okay, it’s not fixed just yet and Techno knows that. The ache isn’t gone yet, and god knows Phil’s pain will never fully be chased away, but it’s better. Phil’s still his best friend, his platonic partner to the end as they’ve promised each other a million times over, and maybe it’ll never be perfect, and maybe fixed isn’t a thing that either of them can ever be, but it’s enough.

Phil shifts to lay a hand across Techno’s chest, to press his fingers over cloth and skin and bone and feel the gentle race of his heart, and yeah, it’s enough.