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Tommy can’t say he’s supposed to be doing this. What he can say is that it wouldn’t hurt anyone if he snuck out to see the stars for a few hours— which is what he’d told his fellow castle hands he was going to do— and it’s not like anyone’s going to actually catch him, anyway, so it’s really not that big of a deal.
It’s the discrepancy between what came out of his mouth and what’s sitting in his head that’s the problem.
In his defense, he really had planned on seeing the stars tonight. The whole point was to get some fresh air at a time when he wasn’t busy with something else, which was most of the time he was outside, because he doesn’t really need to go out for anything else. But the music floating through the halls is very enticing, calling to him around corners and through closed doors.
He sighs, standing motionlessly in the hallway, and casts one glance over his shoulder before finalizing his decision and changing directions. Instead of going straight for the window he usually climbs up and out of, he ducks down a different hallway, and feels the thrum of music through the floor grow in intensity. The vibrations dance through his spine, and it’s all Tommy wants just to spend one single day in the ballroom, one day of exquisite waltzes and eloquent dances with rich people he’s never seen before.
If he could get paid in anything other than the slim wage they give him, he’d pick that over anything else.
He sighs, combing a hand through his hair as he listens out and tries to figure out where to go from here. He’s well versed in the castle’s layout, obviously, but there’s also the matter of figuring out which hallways he’s less likely to be caught in, and which rooms to avoid walking past if he wants plausible deniability to some of the dreadfully shady business that goes on here that he doesn’t exactly care to be privy to.
Tommy hangs a right and then stops, pauses, presses himself to the wall alongside a suit of armor that hasn’t been used in decades, which is proven by the way he has to muffle a sneeze from the layer of dust atop it, dulling its shine.
Tommy ducks around it once he’s sure nobody’s coming, growing closer and closer to the ballroom. His heart patters in time with his feet against the floor, excited and curious. He’s seen a ball before, sure, but he’s never been allowed to dance, to feel the music, to let it infect his bones and take him swaying through the room.
His smile dims when he reminds himself he can’t do it tonight, either, not in clothes like this. He doesn’t own anything nice. If he did, maybe he could sneak in and try it out, but the plain brown tunic and pants he’s in aren’t doing him any favors. He’d need a suit to get in without looking suspicious, and even then, a haircut really would do him well.
Tommy keeps going anyway, dragging himself through the halls on light feet as he nears the party. He’s quiet, very much so, but any smart person knows that the castle has magic, whether they can use it or not, and some royal workers are not as merciful (lazy) as others when it comes to night watch, especially with magic at their disposal. That said, it doesn’t take long until Tommy’s pressed up against one of the great double doors of the ballroom, trying desperately to peer in between the cracks and see what’s going on.
He throws another look over his shoulder, grimacing. It’s a bad idea. He’ll definitely get caught, and if he gets caught, he gets punished— and that’s if they don’t throw him out, because he’s honestly surprised they haven’t already, what with all the shit he pulls when he can.
It’s a terrible idea, and Tommy does it anyway, huffing and pulling very gently at one of the doors until it slides open just the slightest crack and he can see inside.
It’s wonderful. His eyes are drawn to the clothes, the people, at first, naturally. The women are in layers and layers of skirts and corsets and dresses, hair piled high atop their heads. Some wear veils. Others wear bracelets so sparkly that they blind Tommy even from the sliver in the doors. The men are finely dressed as well, pressed suits and lapels exploding with bursts of fiery colored flowers. The room is impossibly large, bright, and clean, not a speck of dust in sight (Tommy did help with that), and the dances are wild in the organized, controlled way.
And then there is the music.
The music is the most fantastic part of it all; it takes his breath away. It’s louder than ever, violins proclaiming loyalty and cellos proclaiming independence, revolt, until they switch, and the lower strings wail of devotion while the higher strings lead a mutiny of matching harmonies. They fight and clash, all the while the most beautiful thing Tommy’s ever heard. His heart longs to be among the people, laughing and talking and holding a drink he doesn’t really like, if only to get a better look at the musicians playing the instruments so passionately.
He doesn’t realize he’s swaying until he finds the feeling in his bones, rocking back and forth where he’s standing in the hallway. It’s a rather open place, even for a side entrance, and he could get caught, but— but the melody drives a stake through his heart, imploring him to stay, and with a yearning sigh he slumps against the closed door, lets the music take him for just one more song, just one more melody that soothes his soul, and then he’ll run back to the castle hands’ quarters and tell all his friends he changed his mind and wants to play card games.
The music carries his mind, slinking through and settling everything in his brain. The exhaustion from today’s preparation work dissipates, and the tense knowledge of what he’ll have to clean up tomorrow dissipates, and all he feels is the sound, traveling harmlessly through him and cleaning up after itself.
He doesn’t want to go when it ends. He doesn’t want to go back to his room, but he knows he has to, knows he can’t get caught, knows it was a bad idea to ever come down here in the first place and he’s a total idiot for being so entranced by the haunting melodies of waltzes he can never dance to. The more he comes down here, the more tempted he’ll be to really sneak in sometime, and that is somehow an even worse idea, maybe the worst he’s ever had.
So he sighs, and pulls his eyes open, and lifts himself off the door, and straightens his spine and leans back and runs right into someone’s chest.
Tommy’s eyes grow wide, and he whirls around, dreading having to explain to one of the guards what he’s doing out so late and so close to the ball, where esteemed guests are, where he’s supposed to stay out of sight so as not to make a bad impression. He’s already thinking of something to use as a cover story as he turns— maybe somebody lost an earring, and he found it and was going to ask whose it was— but he turns around and meets the eyes of somebody who is very clearly not a guard.
Prince Technoblade of the Antarctic Kingdom is staring at him.
Tommy flushes red and scrambles back, uttering a rapid fire “What the fuck!” before he can stop himself, and the ballroom door clicks shut. He goes even redder at the accidental outburst but doesn’t turn his face away (mostly because of the conversation he heard once, Technoblade complaining how none of the castle hands would ever look him in the eyes, too intimidated to hold proper conversation), locking eyes with the royalty stood in front of him. Why the fuck is he out here?
The prince only looks on, clearly amused under the serious face he’s trying to put up. “I was watchin’, too, if you don’t mind,” he says dryly, and Tommy pales, glancing to the doors and then back to Technoblade.
He decides he doesn’t want to explain himself. Demanding answers from the prince, who is clearly supposed to be inside of that room and not lurking creepily in the corridors outside it, sounds a hell of a lot more fun. “You’re meant to be—” He gestures jerkily towards the ballroom, face hot no longer with embarrassment at being caught but with flusteredness at his own confusion. “What’re you doing out here? It’s your castle, this is your ball, you’re supposed to be dancing with all the rest of them.”
He’s clearly dressed for the part, at least. It’s been a long time since Tommy met Prince Technoblade, and they’ve had armfuls of short conversations and even a few longer (though he wouldn’t consider himself a friend, not exactly, not to royalty like this). The point is, Tommy knows him well enough to know that the hand-tailored navy suit, gold embellishments all the way down to the very thin subtle pinstripes, is not something he would normally wear. Surprisingly, neither is the crown pinned to his long braided hair, which he vehemently refuses to cut nor grow the color out of.
Tommy swallows, but the man is completely unphased by the way Tommy has been speaking to him thus far, which is a good sign, because he’s not used an ounce of respect, not even a meager My Lord or Your Highness Technoblade thrown his way. “My interest is not in the political affairs within the ballroom,” he drawls, rolling his eyes, and at that, Tommy is genuinely baffled.
“Political affairs? I thought it was for fun.” His mind reminds him of the music, which he can still hear from under the door, and he resists from tapping his fingers against his thigh or his feet against the ground, not while he can be seen.
“I wish it were that simple.” Technoblade nods down the hall— “Shall we?—” and Tommy realizes it’s probably not a good look for him to be out so late anyway, much less with the Prince accompanying him. He nods and follows after the man when he turns. “My father sets up the dances for a multitude of reasons. Aside from impressin’ and outdoin’ other kingdoms, it’s used as a negotiation hall, even with all the dancin’. It’s vain and stuck up, and I don’t like vanity or arrogance, so I’m out here.”
Tommy wouldn’t call Technoblade not arrogant. He thinks that voicing this might get him fired, though, so he keeps his mouth shut.
Which proves to be a mistake, because Technoblade turns around to face Tommy and clasps his hands behind him, walking backwards— he should have asked another question, and maybe he’d have stalled long enough for them to get back to his quarters. “That’s enough out of me, though. What is it that you were doing, watchin’ it? I think it’s all rather convoluted, but you seemed interested enough.”
Tommy flushes again, and this time, he really does look away, clearing his throat. “No reason,” he lies, shrugging. “I was feeling bored.” And nosy. “Felt like doing something I don’t get to do every day.” At least that part’s the truth. When he looks back to Technoblade, the man is looking at him curiously. Tommy knows Technoblade is well older than him, by at least half a decade, and he carries himself like someone even older, but the expressions he holds truly look as boyish as Tommy’s sometimes, when he isn’t holding back. Compared to the rest of the stuffy, nose-in-the-air guests the castle gets, Tommy prefers it tenfold.
“Right,” Technoblade replies, squinting at him. “So instead of doing somethin’ actually useful, like sneakin’ down to the kitchens to grab everyone a snack—” Tommy does his best to look scandalized at that, though the surprise that Techno knows about it is real— “you decided to come watch a party you can’t even take part in.”
Tommy shrugs, guilty. “Yes?” Then he remembers he’s supposed to be defending his case. “I don’t sneak down to the kitchens!”
“Sure you don’t, Tommy,” says Techno, snorting, and Tommy watches in awe as some of the formality slides off his face. “Loosen up. I’m not gonna fire you over somethin’ every single one of you does. You’re not subtle.” Well, that’s a relief. Usually, Techno always speaks so maturely, a lot of times with words Tommy doesn’t even know the meaning of. It’s nice to see him so laid back right now. Maybe they should stop hosting balls, if Techno hates them so much that he actually looks relieved when he’s skipping them.
The Prince turns back around in time to take the corner, and Tommy continues to follow after him. This is the way to his quarters, after all. They travel in silence for a good half a minute, and Tommy nearly thinks he’s off the hook, which is marvelous. Then Techno approaches one of the castle windows, leaning forward into the night air. “Is it this window you always use to sneak out, or a different one?”
Tommy can barely conceal his surprise when Techno pulls his head back into the castle, facing him expectantly with a few stray hairs out of place thanks to the night wind. He opens and closes his mouth, trying much too hard to think of something to reply with, but he knows from Technoblade’s gaze that he won’t put up with any lying.
So he shrugs it off, nonchalant and casual like Techno couldn’t get him probably killed with a wave of his hand, and pads over to join him at the windowsill with confidence, staring out at the stars. “It’s this one. There’s strong ivy on the walls, good for climbing up to the roof.”
When he looks back at the prince, Technoblade is smiling, so that’s a good sign. He says, “After you,” and it takes Tommy a second to realize what that means.
He blinks, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “You— we’re gonna— but the—”
Techno wrinkles his nose. “I hope you aren’t gonna tell me I should get back to the ball. Then I really might have to fire you.”
Tommy shakes his head, pulling himself from his stupor. “Uh— no. No, actually, I was just… yeah, okay,” he replies, dumbfounded, and then realizes that after you means he has to go first. Right. He spares one last glance at the prince and then throws a leg outside the window, straddling the sill for balance.
One of the best parts of sneaking out is this part— one leg out and one leg in, the best of both worlds as he turns his face to the sea of stars but still has the help of gravity to keep him from tumbling ten stories down to the ground below.
He’s got somebody waiting on him, though, and it really would be unfortunate to get caught in such a state, for both himself and the Prince. Tommy throws a hand out and grips onto the wall, glancing to his side and finding the thickest of the vines by the light of the moon.
Technoblade’s tense energy is obvious; he clearly thinks Tommy might fall, which is ridiculous. It’s taken a lot of trial and error to find a way up that doesn’t involve him falling to his death, sure— by which he means he finally manned up and just picked the strongest looking vine and it supported his weight, so he just tries not to think about it anymore— but he knows what he’s doing now.
As if on cue, Technoblade asks him from inside the castle, “You sure you know what you’re doin’?”
Tommy scoffs. “More than you do,” he answers boldly, and it’s probably truthful; he doesn’t imagine Technoblade has that much experience in scaling the castle wall in the middle of the night, after all. If he wanted to get to the roof, he could just take a normal way. Before he can ask any other questions that might distract him, Tommy pulls his other leg up to stand on the windowsill, wrapping both hands around the ivy.
It’s been a while since he last did this, but it should be fine. One final tug of confirmation on the ivy tells him it won’t budge at all, so with that, he kicks off the windowsill. Technoblade makes a noise in the back of his throat, leaning out the window to watch, and Tommy ignores him, feet landing with practiced silence against the side of the castle wall.
He glances down at Technoblade only once he’s stable, face warm with adrenaline. “It’s fun once you get over the looming possibility of death,” he says cheekily, and then begins to scamper up the vine as easily as a woodland creature. He ignores the wind in his hair, ignores Technoblade’s watching eyes, ignores everything else until he gets over the ledge and finds stable footing against one of the sloping roofs of the great Antarctic Castle. He lets go of the vine then, though not without shaking it to let Techno know it’s vacant of any weight, and then lays back against the roof to stare up at the sky.
After a few minutes or so— during which Tommy doesn’t hear any particularly loud thumps, which means Technoblade is probably fine and there’s nothing to worry about— the glistening edges of the Prince’s crown poke up from over the edge of the roof, followed at once by his full face, which locks onto Tommy.
The boy sits up to greet him. “Need a hand?”
Technoblade makes a face. The next minute, he’s vaulted completely over the edge with just his arms, landing neatly cross-legged next to Tommy. A triumphant grin takes his face as Tommy tries to hide his surprise. “No,” he says nonchalantly, teasingly, and Tommy huffs.
“You could’ve just refused politely.” And it almost feels normal. He’s sitting on the castle roof in the middle of the night, far past curfew, with the Prince, during a ball he’s supposed to be attending— but it almost feels normal.
The wind is nice against his face. One would expect the Antarctic Kingdom to be freezing at all times, given its name, but it’s actually quite nice in the summer. Not blisteringly hot, like some other kingdoms, but not freezing cold like the name would suggest. Tommy stretches out over the roof again on his back— he is sacrificing his sleep time for this, after all— and Technoblade glances at him curiously.
“It’s better when you’re laying down,” Tommy offers, all at once a little nervous that he’s making a fool of himself, getting too comfortable, but then Techno is joining him, laying out and staring up at the same galaxy Tommy’s looking at.
It’s nice. Serene, which isn’t always Tommy’s scene, but he does like this. Technoblade asks, after a moment of comfortable silence, “Is this really all you do when you come up here?”
It sounds like it pains him to be so curious, out of the loop that is the castle hands’ daily (and nightly, apparently) life, so Tommy takes mercy on him and answers. “Sometimes. If I come alone, it’s not like there’s much else to do. But if I bring friends, we talk.”
“Well, then let’s talk,” Technoblade says, and Tommy realizes too late that he’s implied Technoblade and he are friends, which is embarrassing. The Prince blows right through it, though, so at least he doesn’t give a shit. “Why were you really watching the ball?”
Now that they aren’t at risk of being caught, it seems a lot easier to answer. Tommy huffs but swallows, turning away from Techno so that his ear presses against the roof. He doesn’t want to have to look at him. “I like the music,” he finally admits, quietly. He’s supposed to be the spitfire castle hand that makes remarks that nearly get him thrown out all the time, gets into so much trouble that he’s dragged by the scruff of his neck back to his quarters at least three times a week, and here he is, sharing a vulnerable part of himself with one of the most powerful people in the castle.
Still, it almost doesn’t feel as strange as he expects it to, and Techno doesn’t say anything, and both of these things are what give him the courage to go on.
“I like it a lot. I wish it was me in there,” he confesses. “Dancing and shit. Oops, I mean— whatever.” There’s hardly any reason to watch his language up here. What will Techno do? Sit up on the roof and tell him not to swear? It is getting a little embarrassing that he’s been silent for so long, though, so Tommy grumbles under his breath. “You get the gist. I like music. I just wanted to watch.”
He falls silent. When he gathers the courage to look back at Technoblade, the man is giving the stars a contemplating look. “No,” he says slowly, and Tommy worries he’ll be hearing the consequences of sneaking out next, but Techno clearly isn’t worrying himself about that. “You didn’t want to watch. You wanted to be there.”
Tommy sighs, running a hand through his hair. “No,” he replies, shrugging when Techno shoots him a peculiar look. “Not here. Not in these clothes. It’s embarrassing, it’s not right for a servant to attend a ball.” He knows they’re not to call themselves servants, knows Techno doesn’t like that very much, but it just slips out; that’s what he is, after all, really. Castle hand is a glorified way to call a servant. “I don’t need to be in there to hear the music, anyway.”
“But you want to dance,” Techno says, and he sits up. “There’s nothin’ wrong with that.”
“Well. No.” Tommy shrugs, and then sits up himself, feeling silly when he’s the only one laying down. He’s gotten good at pretending doesn’t bother him. Maybe he can even fool Techno. “But it’s not my job to dance, is it? It’s my job to clean. Clean and cook and fix shit and sometimes play outside.” He shrugs.
Much of the Antarctic Kingdom’s population of castle hands were recruited in order to be saved from destitution. The King is a generous man, after all, if a little too stressed about his political relations with other kingdoms, and he disapproves of overwhelming poverty just as much as the next man. Tommy’s family was killed in the last war, which only bothers him a healthy sixty percent of the time, and working as a cleaning boy for the castle was a good way to keep himself from starving.
“I would assume it gets borin’ for you lot,” Technoblade says, casting a sideways glance at him, and Tommy shrugs.
“There is such a thing as having friends, you know. Dunno if you’ve heard of it,” he fires back snottily, and Technoblade snorts, so Tommy relaxes back into honesty. “And we do have games, and we hang out. There are plenty of us, too. We’re not exactly worked to the bone.” He decisively leaves out the part where his shoulders were on fire from scrubbing the floors earlier today, electing to let Technoblade believe that being a castle hand is all good and dandy. He brightens— “Oh, and we get paid!”
Technoblade stares at him, a certain look in his eyes, and Tommy figures he’s probably trying to parse if Tommy’s being truthful. He musters the most innocent look he can, which then does the exact opposite of what he’s going for, because the very next moment, Techno’s eyes narrow. “But you’re bored. You don’t enjoy yourself.”
“I do!” he protests, because mostly he does, and it would really suck to complain to the actual fucking prince about how lousy his duties are, not when he signed up for this job and it’s the only thing keeping him from homelessness. Even so, he can tell Techno doesn’t trust him for a second. “For fuck’s sake, it’s not that big of a deal. It gets shitty sometimes, but doesn’t every job?”
Technoblade sours. “You wouldn’t know, considerin’ your wage is hardly enough to grant you the privilege of lookin’ for another one.”
Tommy thinks about it for a second. “Well. No,” he says again, easing into agreement. “Not really. I can’t buy myself a house or anything, that would take decades of work.” That only seems to enrage Techno further, though, so Tommy adds on quickly, “But I don’t want a house for myself, I like it here. And I like this job.” He bites the inside of his cheek. “Mostly. Seriously— why are you so worried about this shit, anyway? You’re the literal prince. You could be making a deal with one of the richest men in the world and getting a fuck ton of money for your dad, and instead you’re on the roof of the castle with a peasant.” He can’t help but feel guilty for dragging Techno away from his official duties, even if the man was already away from them when he found him.
Technoblade stares intently at Tommy, but he can’t read his gaze at all, which is the most incredibly unhelpful thing about the prince, and also what makes him so dangerous. He’s heard it’s a very useful skill for dinner parties with other royalty. He’s heard a lot of things, actually, but he’ll spare Techno from the rumors that travel the castle when he’s not around to hear them.
The man is speaking again, anyway, refusing to disclose why he finds this such a big deal and going for the latter half of Tommy's question instead. “It’s a lot more interesting up here than it is in there.”
Tommy bursts into laughter. When he realizes it’s not a joke, Techno is looking at him with honesty in his eyes, Tommy cuts short and squints. “What? What are you talking about? There are dozens of people in there who are all more interesting than me.” And the music!
“And I’ve been to hundreds of balls,” Technoblade replies wryly. “They don’t get any more interestin’ after the first fifty, I’ll be real with you.”
This has Tommy laughing again, but not out of disbelief, not because he thinks he’s the butt of a joke. This time, it’s the fact that Techno so casually jokes about his displeasure with doing something Tommy can only dream of in a million years. It’s the same as Tommy whining about all the work he’s got to do for one day until it’s meal time and he can go antagonize his colleagues again. “For fuck’s sakes,” he cries through laughter, in mock outrage. “I’ll trade you for a day, then. You’ll have fun waking up at the ass crack of dawn to light every candle in the castle and then sweep every fireplace that was used the night before.”
It’s Technoblade’s turn to laugh, shaking his head. “You said you liked your job.”
“I do like my job! Just not those parts,” he says, a shit-eating grin on his face, and Techno reaches out, and before either of them think, the prince ruffles his hair fondly, affectionately, in a way that suggests something more casual than the relationship between a servant and his technical master.
Tommy lets it happen, warmth running through his spine, and then ducks away so Techno can’t see him grow embarrassed again, even though it’s night. He plays it off by pretending to fix the edge of his pants, quickly throwing out, “Never mind that, I’d hate your job. You’re always so stuffy and formal. If it was me at any one of your stupid fancy meetings, I’d sooner punch someone than talk all weird. I mean, seriously, it’s like you read the dictionary in your free time. You’re a freak, you know, a real fuckin’ weirdo, it’s insane, you’re insane,” he says, mouth moving faster than his brain can keep up, and he only realizes he’s been rambling when he falls silent and looks back and Techno is just watching him, intrigued.
Tommy scowls, turning back to face the sky and wrapping his arms around his legs. He prefers not to be a subject of intrigue. It’s not Techno’s business what goes through his head, anyway, and a single hair ruffle won’t change that in the slightest, even if it is nice to know more of Prince Technoblade outside of that mask of chilling composure. He lets it up enough to talk to them, but it’s not often, and never for as long as this.
Tommy doesn’t blame him, resting his chin on his knees. He’s busy all the time, and they’re just peasants. There’s no reason for him even to be talking to Tommy, which makes this whole thing all the more confusing and stupid, and he knows he’ll feel hollow when he finally does slink back off to his room.
There’s a stretch of silence, this one far less comfortable, and Tommy stares out over the castle grounds, at the garden close by and the meadow way farther out than that. He’s trimmed the bushes before, swept the cobbled pathways, lit the lanterns hanging outside every entrance, but has he truly walked through the garden and enjoyed himself? Most of his free time is spent eating, playing games, figuring out new rules to break, or sprinting wildly through the meadow, rolling and play fighting for as long as he has time. He doesn’t waste time on the small things, doesn’t waste time moving slowly when he could be going fast.
Maybe he should. Maybe just sometimes, just a little bit; maybe it would help.
“You’re happy,” Technoblade says out of nowhere, and Tommy straightens his back, pulling his arms from around his legs and turning to fix the prince a look of pure bemusement.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Techno shrugs, simply repeating, “You’re happy.” Tommy thinks about it, and he isn’t necessarily wrong, so the younger nods carefully.
“Yeah. I told you I was, didn’t I?’
“You tell me a lot of things that aren’t true,” Technoblade points out, and Tommy chooses not to reply to that, which is fine, because it looks like Techno isn’t going to give him the chance to, anyway. “You’re happy, but you could be happier.”
Tommy squints at the stars. The wind is back, pushing gently against his side. If it gets too bad, too harsh, he usually goes back inside— he’s not interested in being thrown off the roof due to natural causes— but it’s not bad at all tonight, or at least not right now. “Everyone could be happier,” he says, because it’s true. Nobody is all the way happy all of the time. Especially not Technoblade. “You could be happier. High accusations you’re throwing at me, hypocrite”
The dry humor is a good move, because the prince’s eyes flash with limited amusement before evening out again. “Sure, I could. But I have the means to be. You don’t.”
Tommy fixes him with an annoyed look, hoping it gets the point across without being too rude. “Happiness isn’t as easy to come by as you think once your parents get murdered by the enemy, your entire family fortune burns down with the rest of your village, and you land in the king’s custody working as a castle hand for the next fifty years, Your Highness.”
Technoblade looks stricken, just for a moment, and it makes Tommy immediately regret being so blunt. “Family fortune?”
Tommy rolls his eyes. “Oh, shut up, I don’t care that it’s gone. You’re rich, and it clearly doesn’t make you any happier than me.” And he means it.
“Sure it does,” says Techno, but this time it sounds less playful, more regretful. Resigned, even, which is not a good look on the Prince of the Antarctic Kingdom. “You need to call me Technoblade. Maybe even Techno, if I’m in a good mood in times like these, it’s much more practical.”
It’s clearly meant to be humorous, maybe to lighten the mood a little (which Tommy didn’t know Techno was capable of doing, because he usually looks grumpy), but Tommy first gets hung up on the times like these part and then the part where his face looked so… guilty. Is Techno insinuating that there will be more times like these? Times where they sit and talk like they’re— like they’re friends?
He wouldn’t mind Techno calling him a friend, not really, but that’s impractical. Princes don’t merely befriend servants, not really.
The other part is more important, so he disregards that whole thing completely in favor of interrogating Technoblade. “You know that isn’t your fault, right?” he asks sharply, and crimson eyes find his, which is always a little unsettling— but significantly less so after their conversation tonight. “Or are you stupid enough to believe you’re the one who got my mom and dad killed? ‘Cause I’ll be honest, you’d have to be really stupid.”
“No, of course not,” Techno says immediately, a look coming across his face that immediately makes Tommy think he’s about to get into deep shit, but then he sees the sliver of guilt peeking through and knows it’s all a sham, just a facade to scare him enough to stop asking. Technoblade isn’t as good as hiding it when he really feels bad; noted. “I had nothin’ to do with the death of your parents.”
“That shit won’t work on me,” Tommy says, voice more cutting than he means it to be (which makes him wince), but Techno just looks irritatedly surprised, if nothing else. “I mean, look at you. You’re practically sulking. It’s pathetic to watch, for fuck’s sake.”
If Technoblade does consider him a friend, how bold is he allowed to be in speaking to him?
Apparently this bold, because Techno doesn’t throw him off the roof, so he figures he’s in the clear. “I’m not sulkin’,” he defends himself quickly, but Tommy doesn’t believe him for a second.
“Sure, you’re not,” he says, using his own card on him and then crossing his arms. “When did this whole thing get so depressing? I don’t care that my parents are dead—” a whopping lie, but he’ll be able to hide it if he keeps talking fast enough, and that certainly won’t help Techno to know— “they’ve been gone for years. And I don’t care that I work as a castle hand, and I don’t care that I don’t make that much money. What other job ends up in someone sitting on the roof and talking to the prince of the entire damn kingdom?” he demands.
Techno looks like he can’t argue with that, so Tommy confidently barrels on before he can so much as open his mouth. “And I’m not blind, and it doesn’t matter that it’s dark out, you’re obvious.” Technoblade is not obvious, Tommy is operating off of very loosely evidenced assumptions, but Techno doesn’t have to know that, either. “It’s happened, and it’s over, and it’s done. It’s not your fault I’m a poor little orphan boy in the castle, I was just being dramatic. Stop having an existential crisis over whether you’re classist. You were born into this family, weren’t you?” He rolls his eyes, waving a hand and glancing up at the stars pointedly as if to say, can you believe him?
When he glances back to Technoblade, there’s a funny little grin on his face that unfortunately fills him with mass amounts of relief. Huzzah! He won’t be dying tonight!
“You have a lot of nerve,” Technoblade says, but it’s with affection, or at least Tommy thinks it is. He’s still not exactly sure. Techno is scarily difficult to read, clearly in either a display of power or an attempt to have the upper hand against anybody he ever has a conversation with except for his dad or something. “I can still fire you, you know, brat.”
“Now why in fuck’s name would you do that?” Tommy asks, fake appalled. “You should be thankful. I just saved you from having to hire a counselor for all the shit you’ve got going on.”
He likes this. It’s terrifying, and he can’t help thinking he’s going to get thrown out with every new sentence that comes out of his mouth, but he also can’t help thinking that he’s probably Techno’s favorite castle hand of them all, which clearly means he’s better than everyone else, ever.
“I’ll have you thrown to the wolves,” Techno says, a melodramatic display of faux conceitedness.
“I’ll tell the King you spent your night on a roof with a servant instead of attending the ball he threw for you.”
“I’ll tell him you sneak out every night to watch balls and steal food,” Technoblade retorts.
It backfires, and Tommy giggles, “Watch balls,” and Technoblade throws his hands up.
“A child! You’re a child. I’m on the roof with a child.”
“You already knew that before you came up here!” Tommy cries, pointing an accusational finger, and Technoblade can’t conceal his laughter.
It’s nice. Tommy likes the sound of it; it feels familiar, somehow, like he’s supposed to lay in it, pull it around himself like a cloak and let it drape over him. It’s melodic, in a way, and Tommy finds that he likes that even more.
Technoblade glances at him. “You’ve gone quiet,” he says, his turn to accuse. “That can’t mean anything good.”
Tommy grins. “Shut up,” he says, and doesn’t even worry he’ll be fired for it. “I’m not quiet. Whenever I’m not talking out loud, I’m talking in my head.” He knocks on the side of his own head. “Always a party with me.”
“God, I hope not,” Techno groans, and Tommy laughs at him, shoving at his shoulder. Techno does the same back as if he’s not one of the most powerful people Tommy’s ever met, nudging at him casually, and Tommy suddenly feels very, very lucky. He suddenly feels very, very privileged to be stargazing on a roof with royalty while all his colleagues sleep in beds that are just a little uncomfortable.
Technoblade figures it out as soon as Tommy turns his face down abashedly, and he curses himself for being so obvious, knowing he’ll have to work on it so he can be as good as Techno one day. “What’s wrong with you? You’re not harassin’ me, somethin’s wrong,” Technoblade heckles, and Tommy rolls his eyes.
“Don’t be dramatic, I’ve hardly even harassed you in my life.”
“Before today.”
“Whatever, fuck off. Nothing’s wrong.”
“I don’t believe that,” Techno mutters, and the annoying part is that he’s right. He usually is. He looks up again, and he can tell Techno knows by the way he looks at him. It’s got concern written all over it; Tommy looks away again, because he doesn’t deserve it, not when it’s not even anything serious. “Really.”
Tommy shrugs loosely, humiliated. “Just,” he starts, and then catches himself before he can say anything too embarrassing. “Uh. Thank you, I guess. For… talking to me.”
There’s a pause during which Tommy is sure Techno’s about to start laughing at him, and then a hand against his shoulder. “It wasn’t a favor,” Techno says. Tommy can tell he’s not lying, at least, even if he doesn’t look up. “Really. You aren’t a charity case.”
“Uh- huh,” Tommy mutters, but a warmth floods him, and he forgets to fake scowl, a grin breaking across his face as he lifts his head and Techno’s hand falls away. “Okay. Thanks. So when are we doing this again?”
The surprisingly warm look Techno is giving him fades, replaced by exasperation, and shit, Tommy knows he was pushing it to say something like that, not when they aren’t friends, not really, and now he’s a little worried he’s going to get scolded and things will go right back to as formal as they were, and Techno opens his mouth, and Tommy remembers to smooth out his face, look normal— “I have no idea. My father expects a lot out of me these days.”
Oh.
The exasperation was for his work, not Tommy.
Now he feels really stupid.
“Okay,” he says, stretching his legs out and trying to forget the misplaced panic, “well, next time it’s gonna be something a lot more than just talking. Got that?” Talking is great. He’s joking— he could sit with Prince Technoblade and talk to him for hours at a time, hanging eagerly off every word he says and story he tells— but he can’t exactly say that, because that’s weird, and embarrassing, and Techno agrees, anyway.
Wait, Techno agrees?
The pink-haired prince nods. “A game, or somethin’. Maybe I’ll teach you to steal better,” he taunts, and Tommy’s eyes grow wide.
“Oh, I see! So it’s fine when you do it! If I’d known that, I’d have been using it to my advantage this entire time, for fuck’s sakes…”
He continues on complaining, so much so that Technoblade is still laughing as Tommy lowers himself over the edge of the roof and grabs onto the vine again. Getting down is his least favorite part, but with Technoblade above him, amusement written across his face in Tommy’s own chicken scratch handwriting, it’s not so bad.
When the Prince clambers back through the window after, he ruffles Tommy’s hair again— again! Not that he’s keeping track— and then threatens him with unemployment again if he doesn’t get the hell back to his quarters. Tommy almost takes it as a challenge, but he’s tired, and doesn’t want to push his luck.
Before he goes, Techno tells him that maybe, possibly, someday, he’ll get to go to a ball, too, and it’s the best news Tommy’s ever heard in his life, but he pretends it isn't for the sake of looking casual.
His friends are going to be so jealous.