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The avian dreamt. He dreamt about an astronaut named Clara, floating endlessly in a sea of purple and black, endless clusters of white light twinkling as she drifted along. The image warped and swirled, falling into white sand and pale moonlight.
At first glance, the beachfront seemed desolate, displaying only a deteriorating tent and a few dwindling torches. The aforementioned tent swayed, its bonds creaking and bowing as salt-filled gusts of wind blew in from the sea. In the background, a large crater had been left in the sand, right where a safe haven used to stand.
Splintered remains of barrels as well as several logs of scorched wood had embedded themselves into the soft shore, some of the debris nearly concealed by relentless drifts of sand. The long expanse of land had seen many explosions, made obvious by the many craters that littered it’s surface due to a certain masked figure.
The coast made the dreamer nauseous, watching as the image once again slipped, this time flashing memories of explosions and words of sweet poison. A sick man in a tattered brown trench-coat, a madman wrapped in green and white, and a young president-become-tyrant each grinned at him, laughing as sounds and images whirred around his head.
Some memories were cruel enough to stay for a few seconds before once again slipping away into the swirling mess that was his brain. Half-eaten birthday cake, cracked disks, angry welts from a man he considered his brother, smoke puffing out of his best friend’s mouth the night of his own festival, so, so much bad that his head began to ache.
The three figures began to close in on him, their whispers shifting into angry words, too many questions and phrases for Tommy to process at once. When they received no answer, no response from the boy, their faces began to change. The grins they sported became monstrous as they began shouting at him, overwhelming and terrifying, pressing him into the wall as he found himself now trapped in a box.
It was Tubbo who killed him, hands wrapping around Tommy's throat, holding him strong, grip much stronger than the avian remembered. He struggled against it as his best friend pressed hard on the center of his throat, both thumbs crushing his airway as he cried out and pleaded with the boy. He felt no relief as his throat collapsed and his vision went black.
He woke up retching, stomach balled tight and face soaked in sweat, heaving for air that burnt up before it reached his lungs. His throat was parched, it felt as though flames had embedded themselves into his chest, spreading through his body and into his brain as the images refused to let up. Explosions flashed in his head, phantom smoke choking him and sending terror straight into his veins. His vision was splotchy, dizzying black inkblots creating blind spots as he gasped for air.
He rolled off of his bed, hitting his knees hard on the cold floor of his small cave. Something really was wrapped around his airway. His hands shook as he reached up, clutching at a crude twine necklace that had twisted up and around his nape while he’d slept. He scrambled and pulled hard, desperately grabbing for his compass. Your Tubbo.
He ran his fingers over the smooth metal before clutching the warm disk to his chest, waiting for the nightmare to fade. He tried hard to keep quiet when the tears came, terrified to alert anyone to his position. He was exhausted, slumped over with his head pressed against cold cobble and his back now exposed and vulnerable.
What if Dream found him like this? The hooded man would likely laugh, he always did when he found him. He would make him talk. Make Tommy give away exactly what words caused his blood to freeze and his heart to stutter as it remembered what it felt like to stop completely. And then he would use them, laughing while he did it like it was some sick fucking game.
“I’m helping you get over it, Tommy. Don’t you want to be strong?”
He couldn’t let the man find him here. He wouldn’t. So he sobbed into his hand, biting at his fingers to try and keep quiet. He clutched his compass in the other, locked in position until his stomach decided to not to cooperate with his instincts. He pushed himself up, panicking as he gagged and tried to expel the contents of his stomach, dragging his hand from his lips to his sore jaw, body heaving though his stomach had nothing to give.
“Mom?” He whimpered. This was who people called when they needed help, right? How would he know? He'd never had one. He tried out the term weakly. He knew he wouldn’t be met with any real comfort, but he repeated it. His lungs felt as if they were full of acid and his throat burned with bile. “M-Mom…” The word was foreign, but other people got help when they said it, so he continued calling it. A mother- hell, even just a parent- would have been a nice thing to have. His stomach rolled once again, and he simply groaned against the floor, body feeling too sluggish to gag and arms too tired to hold himself up. He remained unaware that these sounds could be heard, echoing on the stone walls he built around himself, through the small cabin, and reaching the pointed ears of the man currently resting in the house above him.
---
Technoblade was not a light sleeper. This was a given, his senses having been sharpened for survival due to years of combat. After narrowly escaping his own execution only a few hours ago, he wasn't planning on letting go of the habit. When he had trudged home that evening, bloodied pickaxe dragging through white snow, he was beginning to think he shouldn't have allowed himself to become as comfortable as he had in this place. He had gone to visit L'manburg, checking up on the country's inhabitants and making a few trades while resources were available.
The only reason he'd even gone out was to further his exploration of the nether. L'manburg only came into the equation when he saw the path to the nether hub and, after consulting the voices, he'd decided to spend a bit of time in the small country. Clearly, the piglin hybrid had mastered the art of both timing and people-pleasing, because half of the country had recently set out to find and assassinate him. The "butcher army," as they called themselves, had returned at the end of the peaceful week he'd spent there.
Techno hadn't bothered to check if anything was out of place when he stumbled home, exhausted after fighting off four people by himself. He went straight to his bedroom to sleep it off after making sure that Carl wasn't too stressed from the events of the day. Poor horse had been snatched from where he’d been tied up near a small shack and used as a bargaining chip in Techno’s near-death.
Hours later, it comes as no surprise when poorly muffled sobs rouse him as soon as they begin. Pink eyelids snap up to reveal angry black eyes, and the piglin hybrid snatches his sword up from where it leaned against his bed. He prowled through the house, searching for any sign of a breach. When he found that none of his windows had been tampered with and his door was still locked from when he'd returned, he opted to listen for where it came from. His confusion grew into irritation as he made his way down towards his basement.
The disturbance was almost comically obvious. It was at the base of the ladder, easily visible upon stepping down. One stone was positioned oddly, out of place with its counterparts. All it took was a second glance to realize it wasn't even the same material, hastily placed andesite rather than stone. Techno could see the thought process behind the mistake, but it was almost offensive that someone thought he wouldn't notice the difference. He grabbed a pickaxe from his inventory and collected the block, somewhat salty over the material.
He swore he heard someone call for their mother. He was about to be so pissed if some sort of orphan had burrowed under his house like a goddamn raccoon. He jumped into the small cave, bracing his knees for the soft thud his entrance made. What he found upon descent was certainly not what he'd expected.
He remained silent, mostly due to shock at the sight of his youngest brother, curled up and rasping for breath, shaking as sobs racked his too-thin body. Techno stood for a moment, taking in the scene. The boy was pulling at the front of his singed and shredded shirt, tightening the fabric to reveal a gaunt shell of a body as well as two bumps, where Techno distinctly remembered there to be wings.
He remembered how proud Tommy had been of them the last time he'd shown him. They'd grown in silver, just like Phil's, and the boy had just started to preen them himself. During the wars, the kid never had time to properly care for them, always tucking them away under the jacket of his L'manburg uniform, though it was easily too small.
Techno stood silently over the boy, forcing his brain into gear. The last thing he wanted was to scare the kid worse. His brain began frantically assessing Tommy as if the two were in battle. What kind of injuries had the kid sustained, what would he need in order to heal, and what would injure him further.
What's wrong with Tommy?
Is he sick?
Why is he so small?
Technohelp?
Technobrother moment!?
Wings are gone, crabrave
What the hell did i miss- i was just grabbing a sandwich?
Someone’s gonna write a fanfic about this
Yo wtf did the teletubbie do?
The voices were upset- well, most of them. Some were just confused. Half of them were shouting for blood while the others begged him to comfort the shrunken boy, all of them in a frenzy. Clearly, this was a big moment for Chat.
“Tommy?” He tried, unsure how to snap him out of it. Tommy flinched hard, jumping at the disturbance. He twisted into a sitting position quicker than Techno had expected, likely due to his vulnerable position. He was holding something tightly against his chest as he scrambled backwards, stopping when he smacked into a chest. Tommy winced, no doubt at the feeling of the latch planting a bruise on his back. That’s gotta hurt. Techno tried again. “Tommy? Uhm, you good?” He was not good at this.
He stopped talking when he realized the boy was no longer there, eyes glazed and unfocused, seeing some other scene that had him hyperventilating and trembling, face messy and wet as he tried to smile. What the hell? The voices became angrier at this reaction. Here was his baby brother, who he’d remembered as bright-eyed and excited, finally getting those flying lessons from Phil. Snot-nosed and irritating, of course, but happy. His pale face and slightly crooked teeth gleaming in the sunshine of their childhood home. What had happened? He’d been eight when Techno and Phil went to explore the world, but when Techno thought about it, he was still just sixteen.
“I’m sorry, I’m so, so, sorry. Listen, man. Can we just talk-” Tommy’s voice dropped for a second as he scrambled once again, standing up to speak. “Please, man. I’m sorry, c’mon, please, don’t blow my stuff up. You guys are always blowing things up. Everybody always blows my things up. Or steals them. Like- like my friend Dream. You know Dream? He loved to take my things. Hell, he even took my- my fuckin wings.” He let out this strange noise, a laugh that tipped off at the end, dipping into a pained sort of whine. “Took ‘em right on the beach, he did. Only used the shears to get it started. And then he- then he-” And Tommy began to cry once again, folding in on himself, wrapping his arms up to his shoulders as phantom pains stabbed and ripped at his back.
Techno’s limbs moved on their own, bringing him closer to the boy and wrapping him in a hug. Tommy froze a bit at this before burying his face into the pale white wool of the piglin’s shirt and allowing his older brother’s arms to wrap him up. His shoulders shook into the embrace, body no longer acquainted with physical affection.
He then released a sound that bled Techno’s heart dry, something he’d never heard a human make. It was between a howl and a war cry, too strong- too loud- to be called human; demanding the universe give him back what it had taken from the boy and rattling in the chests of those who listened. The boy screamed, he screamed for his dead brother, he screamed for the horrible wars, he screamed for his best friend, screamed at the terrible loneliness, and he screamed for himself. It was a fearful, hopeless, anguished sound. And when it was over, the shaky breaths and small noises the boy let out were silent in comparison.
Techno simply held him tighter, letting out a few tears of his own, emotions swirling between anger- and guilt- horrible guilt at his absence, hell, even the part he played in fucking up his little brother’s head.
Once Tommy’s breathing slowed into long inhales and quick puffs of air, he brought the boy up to the living room. He hoped that the warmth of his actual house would comfort the boy more than the cold hole the kid had dug underneath it. He realized as he placed the boy on one of two couches that he was filthy, grime darkening his hair and nails and caking his skin. Tracks of tears had cut through some of the grit on his face to reveal tan skin, disrupted only by a few small, pale scars. One was above his lip, and he had multiple near his eyes and eyebrows. On one side of his face, his hair was slightly singed and a small patch of skin was glossy as if it had been burned and then healed shortly after.
Technoblade decided he’d have the kid wash up tomorrow, settling to sleep on the other couch after building a fire in the small hearth and piling blankets onto the thin boy. Though dawn was only a few hours away, the piglin thought today was one he could afford losing a bit of daylight to.
When he woke again, the sun had risen and was reaching the middle of the sky. Checking his clock, he saw that it was nearly eleven a.m. Tommy’s head still peaked out of the blankets he’d been given, the pile moving up and down slightly as he breathed in the warm air of the cabin. Techno got up and headed for the kitchen, deciding he would make some of his favorite comfort foods for Tommy.
He started out with some hashbrowns, chopping a few potatoes into thin lines and frying them up with salt and butter. He kept one eye on them as he began to make the dough for a fresh loaf of bread. He kneaded the dough and set it out to rise after pulling the fried potatoes out of the pan, replacing them with eggs and frying those up as well. He made some rice to eat the eggs and hashbrowns over, adding a few minced green onions and salt so that it didn’t leave half of their meal bland. By the time the bread was in the oven, Tommy was up, rubbing his eyes and sniffing the air.
“Techno?” He croaked out, voice still raw and dry from the night before. Techno grunted in response, grabbing a glass of water and bringing it to the boy on the couch.
“Hungry?” The man asked, receiving a small nod from the avian after a few seconds. “Great, I made breakfast.”
The boys ate in silence, save for when Tommy eagerly began shoveling the warm food into his mouth at an inhuman pace and Techno had to remind him to slow down so he didn’t choke or upset his stomache. It wasn’t awkward, the two had grown accustomed to silence, although Techno found it odd that Tommy wasn’t goofing off or cracking inappropriate jokes at someone’s expense. After the two had finished off their food, the bread was ready to be taken out of the oven and the two enjoyed a few slices of it, warm and slightly sweet with a bit of butter, easing more of the stress from Tommy’s mind as he smiled into the soft slice he was eating.
“Toms, I have some work to do, but if you want, would you like to use the bath?” Tommy’s eyes flicked up at his old nickname, and he nodded, more than ready to wash himself of the dirt from his exile, crawling under his fingertips and across his skin. “Alright, well, bathroom’s upstairs, ‘s the only room besides the office and my bedroom. Here, I’ll show you.”
Tommy followed his brother up the ladder, exploring the bathroom when Techno opened its door for him. There was a large mirror that showed a very odd version of himself and a sink with two toothbrushes, one of which was in a cup, a jar of mint paste, and a bar of soap, yellowy and speckled with ground-up coffee. There were a few spruce cupboards under the sink and a toilet to the side of it, right next to a white bathtub.
“Alright,” Techno clasped his hands together awkwardly, before pointing two fingers at Tommy in finger guns, “I’ll let you be then. Shout if you need some help. Towels are under the sink.” And with that, Tommy was alone.
Tommy began running water, fixing the temperature until it was just right, and grabbing the bar in the tub that had “soap” etched into its surface. He undressed and sat in the tub, not waiting for it to fill before he began washing. He scrubbed at his arms first, mainly concerned with cleaning his hands, watching dirt circle into the water and down the unclogged drain. He continued, pretending his body was some other creature’s as he scrubbed it clean, careful on the spots that had a few small feathers clustered together. His nice illusion was lost when he had to move to his back. His brain tried to cover up the memories, the image of his wings, his pride and joy, burning in a lake of lava under the obsidian bridge he sat paralyzed on. Dream was telling him just how sorry he was, that he had to punish him or he wouldn’t learn, he might try to jump from this very spot again, and Dream couldn’t have that.
Tommy couldn’t do this. He needed help. So he called. “Techno? Techno, I need that help!”
In a few seconds, the piglin was at the door with a frantic look in his eyes. “What? What’s wrong? Are you ok?”
Tommy had his knees pulled up to his chest and was resting his cheek on one of them, eyes anxious. “Techno? I know this is weird, but I’m not ready yet. Will you wash my back? Just this once, please?”
At this, Technoblade was relieved. He hoped this meant Tommy trusted him, at least a bit, and he agreed with a nod. He washed the poor boy’s back, and at the sight of the scars left by a certain green bastard, he was ready to cross all three lives off for the tyrannical asshole that did this. Fuck “favors,” this was his family, and Dream had fucked up. For once, the voices were all in complete agreement.