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Techno stands in front of his chests, in front of his brewing stands, in front of his- in front of Phil.
Everything is okay. He's okay.
He busies his hands, itching to move, with messing with his potions, pouring them into glasses meant for smashing on the ground, adding glowstone powder (just a pinch) to make them stronger. Redstone, only a smidge, to make them last longer. Dream is a constant presence in the room. He stands somewhere, off in a corner probably, rattling on to an audience of none. Maybe one, if Phil counts, but Techno glances over, and he's got that look on his face that only pops up when someone is trying to talk to him, and he's too busy to focus on their voice, only nodding along.
Techno's potions are still brewing, bubbling away dutifully.
He stares at the pile of soul sand in front of him, placed precariously next to a heap of wither skulls, and scoops up a handful in his palm, before spreading his hand out- it slips through his fingers, smoothly, the texture soft, not too coarse. If he listens closely, he can hear otherworldly groans, pleas for something he can't quite make out. He doesn't have time to pay attention to how the panicked screams sound far too much like someone he used to consider a friend, someone who got far too close to being considered a brother, because Dream is ushering them out of the door and insisting they're leaving early.
L'Manburg falls. Technoblade stands amidst the rubble, and feels a small, niggling feeling of pride at being able to say it was almost entirely his fault.
A monster, indeed.
Tommy screams at him from ten feet away. Screams that he's selfish, a horrible person, that he betrayed Tommy and Tubbo. That he could've left well enough alone, left L'Manburg to love what they love. Ironically, it hurts Techno more than any of the mock sparring they'd done in the past two weeks. Hurts him more than Tommy's fists pounding against his chest, screaming for him to take him back, then switching to sobbing into his shirt and pleading for him to never let Dream take him again.
So Techno raises his voice. He doesn't scream, because it would take far too much of a toll on his already naturally-scratchy throat, but he yells. Yells that Tommy never saw him as a friend, because he didn't. Tommy saw him as a weapon, as a tool, as a stepping stone. Techno is smart enough to realize that now, at least, because when he compares Tommy to Phil, they barely match up at all.
Phil, who told him he was never a monster to begin with. Phil, who reassured him that he had value, that he was worth something, inherently. Phil, who didn't mind all his quirks, who didn't mind all the effort Techno was, because they were friends.
Phil, who stands atop an obsidian grid in the sky, wings outstretched, hears Tommy call Techno selfish, and yells down to him, "And you aren't?"
That tiny gesture, those three words that probably weren't even that strenuous to say, mean more to Techno than he could ever hope to put into words.
After Tommy and Tubbo storm off, away from the debris, and after the arrows stop hurtling toward him, Techno hauls himself up narrow block-staircases and joins Phil atop the obsidian. He's greeted by a hand on his shoulder, and the tiny physical contact practically makes Techno's very soul sing with glee.
"You're not s'pposed to have your wings out," Techno mumbles, after a quiet moment of admiring the destruction the two of them had incited. "Flight feathers're still healin'."
Phil laughs quietly from beside him. "You worry too much. They're almost completely healed, Tech." Techno focuses less on Phil, and more on the wing beside him, the damage from the explosion almost stretching up to the coverts. It had taken a terrifying amount of regeneration potions to get the feathers to start growing on their own, but months onward, true to Phil's word, all that was left to heal were the lowest primary feathers.
The very thought of having to admit he worries because the damage could've been permanent, because Phil could've never flown again and Techno knows how much his wings mean to him, is practically inconceivable to Techno. So, he huffs out a sigh, and replies with, "I'm just sayin'."
There's a lull in the conversation, a quick silence, before something lands on Techno's shoulder, too cold and not wet enough to be rain. He glances to the intact wing curled protectively around his own side, seeing a small scattering of white building up along the marginal coverts. "Is it snowing?" Phil asks, from beside him. Techno offers only a nod.
It's now, he realizes, that someone had pulled the cape from his shoulders in an attempt to get him to slow down, and all that was protecting him from what could be a sudden blizzard was his rather thin dress shirt. The Netherite in his inventory, already covered in scratches and dents, wouldn't provide him much extra warmth. Darn, is all that comes to his mind, fully ready to accept his fate of being bedstricken with the common cold for a good three days- that is, until there's suddenly something warm and soft draped around his shoulders.
He glances back to Phil, only to realize he's shed his haori, leaving him in only a tanktop and his dumb green sweatpants.
Techno huffs out a sigh. "Well, now you're gonna freeze, you idiot." He assumes it's his bluntness that sends Phil into a giggling fit, leaning against Techno's side slightly to keep himself upright, sending a warm feeling shooting through his bones.
"Then it's a good thing we did what we came to do," Phil finally gets out, after a good fifteen seconds of breathless laughter. "We should probably head home, before one of us freezes to death."
Techno snorts at a mental image in his head. "Ice-cubeza," he hums, only to have to steady Phil seconds later, because he's dangerously close from falling off of the obsidian grid, thoroughly unbalanced due to just how hard he's laughing. Despite the way Techno's heart hammers against his chest at just how close he might have come to losing Phil, he finds himself smiling anyway.
Yeah, his subconscious muses. This is what a real friend is like.