Chapter Text
It’s evening, and the boys are over for the week, which means that things at the Minecraft household are a little more lively than usual.
Phil leans back against the couch, wings splayed to either side. Kristin’s hands rub gentle circles into his wing, soothing away the aches and pains of the still-healing injury. She combs through his ruffled feathers, ever-so-gentle and careful to avoid pressing too hard. It reminds him of when they were younger—when he’d been laid up in the hospital with his knee injury from filming Hardcore, and she’d stayed resolutely by his side through it all, even when the pain had made his temper short and his tongue sharp.
Gods, he doesn’t deserve her.
He leans forward, catching his wife’s lips in a chaste kiss. She smiles, soft and warm, and the sight makes his feathers puff, his cheeks prickling with heat. Even now, years after their marriage, she still has him wrapped around her finger. He’s like a lovestruck teenager all over again, fluffing his wings and crooning like a lost puppy over something so simple as a kiss. Technoblade, pinned beneath said wing, grumbles good-naturedly and snuggles a little closer, allowing the two of them to use him as a big pillow. He glares balefully up at them, blue eyes drowsy with sleep. Surprisingly, though, he holds his tongue, refraining from making any comments about their display of affection right in his personal space.
Maybe he’s just too tired. It’s been a long few months, after all. Sometimes it’s better just to enjoy each other’s company, public displays of affection and all.
“Looking a little squished there, mate,” Phil says, laughing softly. He tugs playfully on the man’s lighter streak of hair, his teasing grin only widening when Technoblade’s face darkens.
“Is it that bad?” the man asks, glaring daggers over at Tommy. Tommy, still recovering from being strapped to the ceiling with duct tape, pales and hides behind Wilbur. Wilbur rolls his eyes, but he’s laughing, too, a pleasant flush to his cheeks. He’s balancing his phone on his knee, snuggled in a blanket with a devious look in his eyes, and Phil snorts.
“Bullying Twitter again?” he asks, and Wilbur grins cheekily.
“They missed me,” he says, winking. “They just don’t know it yet.”
“Bruh,” Technoblade says, still carding his fingers through his hair. “You’re gonna get banned, man. And why is your name still ‘banjo boy’? Everyone knows who you are now—you’re not exactly… subtle.”
“It’s more fun this way,” Wilbur answers. “Reminds me of the good ol’ days.”
Tommy scoffs.
“Oh, yeah. The good ol’ days. Like getting kidnapped by a fucking rabbit?” He challenges, hands on his hips. “Oh—wait—you just played cryptic on Twitter.”
“I saved you with that cryptic bullshit,” Wilbur protests, but he’s smiling as he elbows Tommy. Phil snorts, dropping his head onto Technoblade’s shoulder as he listens to them squabble. He lets his eyes flutter shut, the argument droning on into white noise as he relaxes in the company of his family, finally content. Finally safe. There’s no danger to worry about—no rumors spreading on Twitter, besides the usual gossip of the media. No lights falling down, no ambulance rides or surgeries. No hostage situations, no guns pressed to his temple, no one there to drag Tommy away from him.
He’s home. He’s safe. He’s healing.
They all are.
He takes a deep, steadying breath, opening his eyes. Krisin reaches for his hand and squeezes it. Technoblade doesn’t seem to notice, too busy laughing at whatever it is Tommy and Wilbur are arguing about now, but Kristin’s gaze is warm as she watches him, full of quiet understanding and a question. He nods at her, smiling. He’s okay. He hasn’t been for a while, maybe longer than even before that fateful accident, but now? He’s happier than he’s been in weeks, between the steady support of his loved ones and the therapy Kristin’s been forcing him to attend. His wing is healing, and so is his heart.
The break from filming has been wonderful, a much needed vacation from a hectic lifestyle, but now he’s ready to return—ready to start his career anew, and put the horrors of the past behind him. He wants to make his comeback—to return to acting better than ever, to give their fans the content they’ve so patiently waited for for so long.
He glances over to the windowsill, where a collection of cards still sits. Gifts and well-wishes from the ones who’d supported him at his worst, when he’d felt outcast and ostracized. Crayon doodles from his youngest fans, and heartfelt letters from some of his oldest, an outpouring of support and kindness he hadn’t felt he deserved at the time.
He can’t bear to get rid of them. He doesn’t think he ever will.
“Ready for bed?” Kristin asks. He smiles and nods against her, and together the two of them stand, Phil’s arms curling around her waist and his wings moving to wrap her close. The others quiet at that, Technoblade blinking up from his phone with a fond smile, immediately tugging a blanket close to replace their warmth. “The old man and I are gonna get some shut-eye,” Kristin announces, with a twinkle in her eyes. Phil exaggerates a yawn, wings splaying out to either side in a massive stretch.
“Try not to keep us up too late,” he warns good-naturedly, shaking a finger at Tommy and Wilbur in particular.
“I’ll make sure the kids are in bed by eleven,” Technoblade teases. Tommy flushes bright red with indignation, already turning on Technoblade with sharp words that Phil doesn’t have the energy to keep up with. Instead, he tugs Kristin a little closer to his side, and with one last sleepy wave, bids his family goodnight.
He falls asleep that night to the steady murmur of his friends down the hall, and to Kristin tucked safely beneath his wing, her head cradled carefully beneath his chin. It’s warm, and quiet, and comfortable, and more than he could ever have asked for.
He wouldn’t change a thing.