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On Tuesdays, Techno tackles infinite.
He lays out the timeline of his life from the moment he knew his brother to where it stretches beyond his view. Somewhere in the middle of their relationship, he acknowledges a consuming emptiness, when he ceased to have a twin at all.
Presently, he has one. He’s flimsy and amicable and strange, and conceivably immortal. A ghost. And so their brotherhood will inevitably stretch beyond his imagination. This is not the issue. What boggles his mind is that empty space in the middle. With no place to call the end, Techno can’t parcel it into a fraction of his life spent alone.
It is an immeasurable moment wherein he was no longer half of a pair but his own person. His existence was not defined in opposition to his brother's or quantified in the ways he defied him. He was his own villain. He was a living tyrant and standing over the evidence of his destruction alone, he felt—
Alone.
He didn't blame himself for the atrocities committed. They were natural byproducts of desperation. When he was weighed for judgement, the jury of his former friends would sentence him to hell. Techno knew that place well.
Techno's hands, tiny and rough-hewn, scraped at the netherrack. Beneath it he could make out glimmering gold, stone laced with sunlight. Sweat ran down his temple and into his mouth. He wasn't entirely built for the heat of his birthplace. That strange, endemic part of himself he didn't know yet kept his body from regulating like the rest of the people here.
His fingers wrested a nugget of gold from the red earth and he brought it up to his face. In a bloom of purple light, it was knocked from his hand. He scrambled after it, more concerned with his treasure than what had sent it flying. He lurched at the edge of the nether bluff, and watched as his gold skidded over. Techno reached desperately.
The lava below him was churning and violently hot. It was that all consuming thing that nether-dwellers eventually returned to whether by choice or chance. It had come to claim him, to un-make the abomination. His hand closed around the gold.
Death didn't come though and Techno was pitched backwards by a claw-like grip at the back of his tunic. This time, he held the gold close as the air was knocked out of him. Above him, crowded a boy. His pale skin was washed in the red-hot colours of the nether and his dark eyes lay into Techno like blackstone. The boy was backlit in violet where behind him towered a purple window. He looked to be about the same age and equally destitute. Techno's grip on the gold tightened.
"What is it?" The stranger's voice was cracking and hoarse. Whether from thirst or the unfamiliar heat of the nether, he wasn't sure.
"Mine." Even to his own ears, the word sounded squealing and incomprehensible. He furrowed his brow and tried again. "It's mine." The boy's eyes flickered with understanding and he sat back.
"That's alright." He pushed his tangled hair out of his eyes and extended a grimy hand. "I'm Wilbur and I'm eight and a half."
Techno took the hand and shook. The pads of Wilbur's fingers were soft and his own seemed like leather in comparison. "Techno." He wasn't sure about the number but Wilbur's eyes implored him to continue. "I'm eight and a half."
The two transplants took to one another. Techno found he couldn't say no to the guileless turn of Wilbur's words. There was nothing artful in his speech back then. When he asked Techno to stay, it was for no other reason than selfish desire. Techno knew what it was to want something and though family had never crossed his mind, he could permit it.
So, gold heavy in his pocket, Techno left the nether wastes with more than he set out for.
Perhaps the reason Techno took so well to shadow was that he never quite got used to the overworld. The cyclical turn of light in the sky that ruled over their lives didn't sit right with him. Sleeping in the darkness felt wrong. He was used to wafting heat and ambient light and flickering sparks and the rise and fall of his brother's chest.
He knew their room was nice from the way that Wilbur's eyes flicked over to him nervously. Phil stood behind them in the doorframe and spoke in that accent that wasn't quite the same as his brother's. Techno wasn't listening. He was trying hard to place value in this wooden box and the unfamiliar quilts. These soft amenities, to Wilbur, were worth trading gold and earth and fortune unfound. His brother's hand found his and squeezed gently. Techno made a face, embarrassed by him in the presence of their new friend.
Phil was older and taller and mostly a grown-up. And he had a house and a sword. Techno had agreed to come along more out of fascination than necessity.
"Good night." Phil said and retreated, shutting the door softly. Techno checked the lock and found none. Wilbur rushed forward and threw himself onto one of the beds.
In the candlelight, Wilbur looked human again. The ruddy hue adopted from too much time in the heat was fading. Techno stared at his hands. They were a burnished, impenetrable hide.
Techno sat carefully on the bed. Wilbur lifted his head from the quilt, eyes wet.
"You're sad?" Techno was ready to commiserate, to nod knowingly as his brother mourned their home.
"I'm so happy." Wilbur said instead. He leaned his head on Techno's shoulder, his hair tickling his nose. He smelled like black pepper and earth. It was the smell of home. Techno closed his eyes, unwilling to acknowledge his own tears, and pressed his face into his brother's curls.
Wilbur shifted a little at the shake in his shoulders but said nothing. He snuffed the candle.
And so, Techno doesn't dread the end. He covets it heedlessly. He hopes that one day his misdeeds will sentence him to hell.
There, maybe, finally, he'll see his brother again.