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The trip had taken nearly the whole day, from when he’d packed his bags at sunrise to his shoes crunching the snow at dusk.
The night sky is beautiful out, the clouds like brushstrokes painted softly across the sky. They pulse to an invisible rhythm, a heartbeat, almost, and purple bleeds into blue as the sun continues to fall, a sliver of light from beyond the mountains. It's all painfully serene, and Tubbo feels a stab of guilt, rippling the waters.
Techno’s door creaks. “I expected you to come with an army.” He’s wearing that same obnoxious, puffy robe of his and for a moment Tubbo wonders who the real monarch is between the two of them.
He doesn’t know why he came, really. “I don't want to fight,” he says, pulling down his hood.
“Really?” Techno crosses his arms, shutting the door behind him. The wood patters beneath him. “Brave words for someone who tried to kill me. Through the government.”
Tubbo shuffles his feet.
“You know how much I hate those,” Techno continues, but there’s no bite behind his words. For a moment, Tubbo wonders if the miles of endless white drove him crazy.
“Look,” Tubbo stammers. “It was just—” he cuts himself off. He has no excuse in mind.
Techno grins, or so Tubbo thinks. His mask—the paint’s chipping off and there’s another jewel since when he saw Techno last—makes his face unreadable. His tone of voice is nice enough, though.
“I’ll be honest, I thought you’d hate me more," Tubbo quietly admits.
Techno tilts his head, snorts. “You’re not the first to try and kill me. It’s in the past.”
“It was like, two weeks ago.”
“The past,” Techno repeats, and he’s definitely smiling now. The humor does little to cheer Tubbo up, though.
He remembers why he strapped on his boots and trekked through the tundra. What words he had in mind.
“I’ve got bigger things to worry about,” Techno says, adjusting his cloak. “Like taking down large concentrations of power, you know.” He runs a hand through his hair; its blunt edge has grown out softer. “Fighting for anarchy, my schedule’s all filled up. ”
Tubbo grits his teeth. “Except when it’s you.”
Techno looks back. “Huh?” he says, in that grating, exaggerated tone. “What—”
“Except when it’s you,” Tubbo repeats. “You don’t like authority and concentrations of power, except when you’re the one holding the crossbow, sword, axe,” his voice trails off. “It— whatever, it doesn’t matter.”
Techno shifts his feet.
Tubbo sighs, putting his whole chest into it; he feels like a machine rising and falling and twiddling his fingers. His breath is shaky, and he continues. “You want chaos except when you hide in the Antarctic to retire. You want to destroy L’manburg because of our power, and then team up with Dream to do it.”
Techno fiddles with his cloak. “Power corrupts, Tubbo. You of all people should know that.”
“Yeah, you and Dream are the most powerful guys on the SMP!” Tubbo shouts, his foot crunching in the snow. He should have brought another coat, because he’s shivering in the cold. Making an enemy out of Techno doesn’t seem like the wisest decision.
He sits down on the deck, the wood somehow more freezing than the wind. “Why is it that when you’re on the winning side, all of your ideals go to— are pushed to the wayside?”
Techno pauses, hand hovering over the hilt at his side. Then, he stops. Something in Tubbo’s voice must have resonated more as a cry for help than a threat, because he sits down beside him, leaning against the railing.
“It’s the only way you guys will listen to me.” His voice is more weary than mad. Tubbo’s reminded of Phil's lectures. “Did any of you take me seriously, talking about building a country in front of me?”
Tubbo stills. “I— I guess,” he pauses. Shivers. “But you’re the one who destroyed it." He bunches up his coat tighter. “In front of us.”
“I told you what would happen. I warned you!”
“Yeah, and so did we,” Tubbo says, his voice steady. “Did you not hear any of what Tommy said? Taking L’manburg back, all the talks of presidents,” he chokes. “You knew what our plans were, too.”
Techno goes quiet. His shoulders are hunched, waiting to release some kind of tension and energy as he stares at something out of sight. His robes shimmer alongside the snow; together they ricochet the lantern light and gleam, even in the all-encompassing darkness.
He coughs, clears his throat. “Do you know why I don’t like governments, Tubbo?”
“Yes,” Tubbo mutters, crossing his arms. He begrudgingly sits down next to him. “It’s not like you mention it in every conversation, ever.”
Techno chuckles, slightly, turning towards him. His voice grows imperceptibly softer. “I just— All problems are caused by power imbalance. All wars, actually.”
Something crawls up Tubbo’s throat to rebuke, but he stays quiet. There’s a layer of film on the water, ice slowly spreading upstream. It splinters sometimes, crackling off, and eventually disappears as the last fading rays of light dip below the horizon.
“Okay— pretending I’m not the president of a country, what would you do?” Tubbo says quietly, leaning against Techno’s robe. All the fight’s drained out of him.
“Just get rid of it all.” Techno sounds resolute. “No presidencies, no L’manburg—” he waves his hand through the air, as if cutting some invisible string— “wouldn’t it be better?”
Tubbo shrugs, then grimaces. “I guess. But— that’s so unrealistic, you know.”
Techno wraps an arm around him, letting him under his robe. It’s cozy, with the fluff and the velvet lining. Maybe they should head inside.
“I mean, with Dream and everything, I don’t know whether we’d ever truly be free.”
Techno sighs. “I know.”
“That’s not even to mention—”
“I know.” Techno’s facing away from him. “Let’s— here,” he says, gesturing to the door.
Tubbo nods. “I’m freezing,” he says, the words leaving his mouth on impulse. He hasn’t done that in ages.
Techno’s robe sways as he gets up. “I’ll—” he pauses, tilting his head.
Tubbo waits.
“I’ll put on a pot of water,” he says. His fingers tremble as he grips the doorknob.
“By enforcing it, you’re the one in control. You’re enforcing an unwritten law!” Tubbo giggles. His hands move in conjunction with his words, before he shrinks back down into his chair. “It’s— I don’t understand how you can do it without being a hypocrite.”
The seat cushion, made of straw, prickles and prods Tubbo’s skin. He takes a mug off the table, legs crossed, and tries not to burn his tongue.
Techno shrugs. “I guess you can’t. Maybe it’s a really, really far-off hope— Dream.” He moves a hand, and a million other jewelry follow. “Whatever you want to call it.”
Tubbo stays quiet, drinking some tea. The fire is warm, and the air is light. Nothing is unwelcome here.
“It— It would take everyone working together. But that’s the point.”
“That everyone gets a say?” Tubbo asks, curiously.
“Yeah.” Techno fidgets with a chain.
“I see,” Tubbo says, both like a child president and like a child.
There’s no solution, no magical compromise that would leave both parties satisfied. Tubbo wants a country, and Techno does not. But, in between the hopes for a future and the rejection of the past, a security blanket forms out of companionship and trust.
Tubbo leans into his seat, and takes another sip.