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In the end, Technoblade is a title.
It’s a title he adorns, like the golden crown that nestles in his hair and the velvet cape that drapes over his shoulders, which are mostly for cosmetic purposes, but they also make him look grander than he feels.
They let him perform as Technoblade, the infallible golden boy of the Capitol.
It’s not anything of substance, it’s not anything to treasure, and it’s not even really much of anything to defend, but he still keeps his head up and shoulders back and doesn’t let it slip off and shatter.
—
Technoblade is new to this uncertainty.
For the past 13 years, he’s been training, strategizing, and dreaming about the prestige that’ll come to his name when he would finally win the games.
Now that he has, there’s an overarching feeling of emptiness stuck in his gut.
Of course, writing is a passion close to his heart, and he’s required to stream every couple of days, but what does he have to do other than that? He still can’t piece together the moral for his own experiences. Who’s to say what the theme of his life is when he’s still living through it?
Techno spends hours in his room, pacing in circles, just trying to figure out when things changed. He spent years training just for the games, and now that he’s won, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He doesn’t talk to the other victors often, answering just the occasional knock on his door and exchanging empty pleasantries with occasional passerby in the hallway.
He carefully slips through the halls at night, though, steps trained over the course of years to be silent. When he can see the lights turned on in rooms that don’t belong to him, he turns around, traipsing by the doors with a ghostlike quality.
And it works, if only to quell the insomnia ridden nights, where he has nothing better to do.
—
Technoblade knows what people think of him by now. Adored by them — respected by some — feared by most — and resented by enough.
By them, for him to feel estranged from the applause and glory they toss out with little forethought, praise going in one ear and out the other. By some, for him to feel sick to his stomach, to hate the respect that his title garners. By most, for him to say yes, don’t aspire to be like me, to give up who you are to be where I am.
By enough, for him to notice, for him to listen, and for him to fight not to lose himself in streams and the nuances of everything being at his fingertips.
Technoblade knows what people say of him even better. He’s a hero, a living legend, a warning, and a lapdog.
But that’s all rhetoric.
It’s empty praises and idle hatred. He’s paraded as someone to rally for or against.
He doesn’t know who he’s supposed to be anymore.
Techno fills his days with grandiose vocabulary and countless amounts of redirections and dodges because, in the end, Technoblade doesn’t want anyone to look any further than the person that the Capitol and his deeds have propagated.
If they did, they might have found a kid playing dress-up, covered in ruffles and fur that’s far too frivolous for his form and a crown that’s far too heavy for his head and a title that’s far too massive for his name.
He can’t let them see the side of him that isn’t Technoblade.
—
He slips up, though, when Rebecca marches up to him in the hallways, and clamps her hand around his arm, long nails digging into his skin, and the pressure grounds him. Her sharp smile and sly eyes keep his head in the world around them, as he fights hard to keep a flat expression.
“C’mon, we’re going to go eat breakfast together,” she says, with an air of finality, and tugs him along the corridor, not looking back once. He wishes he could have the same kind of confidence that she does. The last time he had such confidence as bright and unyielding as that was when he finally won.
People gave him credit when he stumbled out of the doctor’s room, legs shaky and eyes blown wide. Still, it was always more for the result. Not for the hours spent in the sun, or for his eyes flickering steadily for the slightest hint of movement, or for his aching lungs, or for his sword hilt threatening to slip out of his grasp, after clutching it for days on end with sweaty palms.
Back then, he was certain it was good. Good to focus on the outcome of his work, rather than the work itself.
Now, he wishes that it was forgotten.
Techno just lets himself get pulled, but when they approach the kitchen, he starts stumbling back, tripping over his feet as he scrambles to get away. He isn’t ready yet.
He’s had passing conversations with some of the other victors, but not all of them at the same time, and his vision starts to blur, and his knees buckle, and a steady mantra of I can’t do this, it’s too early, please don’t make me go out there fills his head, but Rebecca gives him a tight squeeze on the arm and the world stops shaking for just a moment.
“I’m sorry,” Techno whispers out, voice almost failing him. The marble floors are cold under his palm, leeching the heat from his fingers.
She doesn’t say anything. She just kneels to where he’s crouched on the floor and moves her hand to rest on his shoulder, and it’s strange, but at the same time, so comforting, because this whole time, he’s wanted someone to be there.
And so, she stays with him, until his breathing evens out enough to brave stepping in the doorway.
He’s still wound up tighter than a spring, and he’s seated on the reflective countertop in the corner of the kitchen, and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, or if he should talk or not —
But he’s still alive.
And he’s okay.
—
Technoblade keeps his head up, and shoulders squared, desperate to not let his plastic crown topple and crack in half.
It’s the only thing he knows how to do.
(But the next time Rebecca drags him out of his room, with the same bright grin and sharp teeth, he doesn’t stop her.
He doesn’t fight himself to walk through the door, either.
He doesn’t have to anymore.)