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When Philza thinks of Technoblade, he cannot help but picture him in motion.
His friend is not the idle sort. When they were younger, when they had fewer burdens shared between their shoulders, Phil might have called it restlessness, or perhaps enthusiasm. The man has always had a unique fervor to him, some ceaseless blaze lit within that drives him to fight, to build, to prepare, to win. Phil has seen him do a great many things that would have brought lesser men trembling to their knees, and afterwards get up and just keep going, a perpetual motion machine all on his own, blood-drenched and crowned in defiance.
Were they less close of friends, Phil might still think of it that way. But they go way back, the two of them.
He can recall when Techno first told him about the voices. Phil had found him out late at night one winter in their youth, at the training grounds despite the bitter cold, surrounded by the shredded, obliterated remains of the training dummies, his sword still in hand. The look on his face when he’d turned to look at Phil had been – well.
The porcine man swaying on his feet, breath heavy and spiraling into condensation on the exhale. Dark eyes ridden with something strung tenuously between bloodlust and deep, unyielding guilt. Standing, frozen stock-still, waiting silently for Techno to say something – anything. The tremor in his voice, steadied by force of will alone – “Phil. I didn’t mean for you to see this. I’m – I have better control. They – they just want blood. All the time, they want blood.”
He knows the voices are a considerable part of why Techno is never idle. It’s the closest thing he’s found to a means to keep them at bay – action as an antidote to the despair the cacophony brings. And if there’s any mutual understanding that brings them together, it is perhaps this. Phil better than anyone is intimately familiar with the panacea that is a good goddamn distraction from time to time. The days do not come infrequently, of late, that Phil finds himself making one misstep and falling prey to his own memories like quicksand – a slowing heartbeat that diminishes with each rattling breath, the agonized spasms of the dying man heaving against his chest like the echoes of a song left unfinished, the warm blood coating his hands, blood slick against his sword and winding through the gaps in the cobblestone, the whispered apologies he makes to a son who will not live to forgive him.
They have each made a habit of learning how to tell when the other is floundering within their own mind, and in those moments, finding them something to do. Techno’s gaze goes a little too vacant, and Phil happens to suggest that they catch up on brewing new potions to replenish their supply. Phil’s hands shake, and Techno all of a sudden discovers that the weather is perfect for building that new nether wart farm they’ve been wanting. They never speak of it, but they thank one another for it regularly, and on rare occasions even do so with words.
And they never seem to run short on things to do. The work is tiring, but Techno takes to it with aplomb, making sure the two of them are always prepared for whatever comes their way. The world becomes a more dangerous place for them on a daily basis now, it seems, with L’Manburg’s continually escalating level of state-sponsored violence, and Dream periodically coming around sniffing for Tommy’s tracks, but Techno is nothing if not a contender with which those things must reckon. He’s a force of motion unto himself, a verb in perfect view.
So when Techno returns from the festival silent and alone, without Tommy by his side, and immediately sits down on the floor of his cabin and doesn’t get up, Phil feels worry begin to rise in his throat like bile. He stands in the doorframe, trying to think of what to say. He doesn’t even know how to begin to ask what happened, but Techno speaks before he can manage to formulate whatever half-baked question he’d had in mind.
“Tommy betrayed me. Us. He’s gone,” he says, his voice measured carefully. “I, ah. I went in there to help him. He went to a 1v30 situation alone, he was bein’ accused by everyone, and I was like, alright, I'm goin’ in there to help him. The two of us, we're gonna stick together no matter what. And then –“ Techno cuts himself off, and drops the hands he’d been clenching into fists, pressing his palms flat to the spruce floorboards beneath him.
Phil hesitates for a moment, and then sits down across from him, nudging Edward the enderman’s boat out of the way to make room for them both.
There’s barely even anger in Technoblade’s gaze, looking right through him and into the middle distance. He just looks so tired. Phil knows the voices must be screeching themselves ragged right now, clamoring for some reaction to the betrayal, some spectacle of carnage for them to witness. If indeed they are, then Techno leaves them unanswered.
“You did what you could. He made his choice. Not your fault, mate,” Phil says, voice grim. Techno nods.
Phil knows how Techno’s brain works. Knows that even if his body is still, his mind is already in motion. He has no doubt that Techno blames himself for this somehow, but that there would be no utility in bringing it up, because he’s already planning, figuring out contingencies, worrying about how to cut their losses in all of this. This moment of stillness, alone together on the cabin floor, is the closest they will come to addressing it. It’s an awful sort of vigil, a solemn acknowledgement of the injustice of it all – that Techno did all he could, and it still wasn’t enough. The two of them are men of action, terribly unsuited to circumstances like the one they find themselves in, where there is nothing to be done except to grieve what could have been.
Techno snorts out a laugh, mirthless and a little forced. “Philza. You wanna come get my wolves with me?”
And there it is – the invitation to keep moving. To distract, to look around and to realize that everything is fucked and to cope by staying in motion. It would be so easy, too. But Phil figures he can spare a moment more before they move on – long enough to reach out wordlessly for his friend, enveloping his broad shoulders in a hug. When he pulls away a moment later, Techno spares him a small, grateful smile.
“Yeah. Let’s go take care of the dogs,” Phil says, and what he means is it’s okay. It’ll be okay. We can keep going anyways, we can survive. We have each other. This wasn’t your fault.
“Okay,” Techno says, and what he means is thank you.