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Quiet is not something Techno is familiar with.
Of course, he knows what silence is, how the world feels when he’s all alone, far away in frozen plains where nothing but the wind visits. But it’s rarely, if ever, quiet. Not in his head.
Perhaps it had been once, when he was a young child--though the memories of that time, before Phil had found him and taken him in, and called him son in that low, soothing voice, are nothing but a blurry whirlwind of dark colours. Nowadays, even when he’s in the wilderness with no one around for miles, or down in pitch black caves, or almost asleep under a blanket that doesn’t quite cover his feet, there’s voices that keep chattering. On and on, like a choir of onlookers.
An audience he can never truly escape.
He’s gotten used to them over the years, learned ways to calm them down, keep them satisfied, push them down to mere whispers. Still, it has remained a game of chance; sometimes acknowledging them helps, and other times it urges them on even more. Often times he goes against their wishes, just to feel in control—but then again, it rarely makes him any happier. Because, truly, how far is Techno removed from them, when they’ve all shared the same headspace for years? How much of the chatter is influenced by his own actions, and vice versa?
He talks to them, and they chatter back. Sometimes their opinions diverge, and sometimes they work in harmony. Techno’s lived with them for years. It’s something he’s gotten used to, a comfortable foundation he can rely on. Something he’s not all that sure he’d want to change.
So, when Techno meets Tommy’s eyes for the first time in a while and the world falls quiet—truly, fully quiet, no chatter, no monsters, not even wind daring to disturb the moment—his heart stops.
Tommy looks… bad. No. He looks different. Techno’s seen Tommy look bad, many, many times (he’s his brother, after all, and so he’s seen him sleep deprived, and sick, and wounded, with hands barely holding onto a bloody sword, with angry eyes and bared teeth and sweat-sticky hair), but through it all, he always looked like Tommy. A kid with too many bloodstains on his shirt, a kid with a hopeful and brave heart. A kid that loves laughter, that glows under the sun and attention.
The Tommy that stands before him, in a small dirt-hole, clothes torn and muddy, with dark circles under his eyes and shaggy hair, looks wrong. He looks broken, in a way that can’t be healed with a healing potion or a good meal. His eyes don’t stay on Techno’s, dropping down to the ground almost immediately, and his fists are clenched his pockets, shoulders hunched as if he’s expecting Techno to rage.
Worst of all, he’s dead quiet.
And, just like the chatter inside Techno’s head, Tommy is never quiet. In fact, he’s the loudest person Techno has ever had the displeasure of meeting. He’s bad at whispering, and letting someone else speak, and not making crude jokes any moment he can.
He’s not supposed to look so apprehensive, so lost. So… afraid.
Why are you here? And, more importantly, who did this to you? Techno wonders, and the world comes back as both pain and anger shoot through his heart.
The voices snap out of their shock too, tommytommytommyTOMMY echoing through his skull, too loud, too disruptive, but Techno ignores them in favour of squatting down and grabbing Tommy by his shoulders.
“Why are you here?” he demands, and Tommy shakes his head, hopping backwards and away from his touch.
“Hey there, Techno,” he answers, blank eyes meeting Techno’s once more. “How are you?”
Techno clenches his teeth, heated blood rushing in his ears. It almost hurts, the anger boiling under his skin.
Whoever it is, he’ll be sure to teach them a lesson about reciprocation, and family, and true, total, absolute fear.
For now, though, his body aches, his head hurts, and the night seems colder than ever; and the only thing sure to make it all better, is a certain kind of loud, annoying, screeching laughter.