Work Text:
Techno lays. He isn’t quite sure where; his brain is a little foggy right now, but he knows he’s comfortable despite the cold. His fingers trace gentle, unseen patterns in the air, dull eyes watching the way the fading appendages bend and creak. Around Techno, his hair floats gently.
It looks almost ethereal, which Techno supposes he sort of is. Relating to the regions beyond Earth, suggesting a heaven or heavens. Techno was surely an afterlife of some sort.
Fingers curl around a floating lock of hair, watching the pink flow and show through the faded skin. Techno hums, carefully wrapping the strands around his pointer finger. He hums something low in his throat, around the smoke that settles there.
The blankets under him feel nice. Techno glances around, eyes dragging across the wall, watching the way light catches on the finite textures. This was... his room, correct? Renovated, with the walls replaced and the flooring switched up for something undamaged. But it was still his room. His bed used to be in this corner, and his desk used to be by the window, with his PC and his microphone.
Everything has been replaced. It had to be, all far too damaged by flame and smoke. Bent and warped out of shape and reeking of the smell of death. Techno blinks. He takes a deep breath. There is no smoke now. The window is open, letting in a refreshing breeze, and Techno’s sword sits on top of the dresser. The fire is a distant memory, years and years behind Techno and his family. The dark circles under his eyes have yet to fade, though, and his hair continues to float.
Downstairs, Tubbo and Tommy chat loudly. They’re on some kind of Discord call with some adults Techno never bothered paying attention to. The sound is muffled, anyway, so even if he wanted to make out the words, he couldn’t. Techno pulls at his hair. It does not hurt.
Phil appears in his doorway. Fingers full and hair calm and eyes full with as much life that can possibly fit in a ghostly body. It only takes a glance for Phil to know what’s wrong. Techno’s father always knows, somehow. He glides into the room and settles on Techno’s bed. He smooths his hand over Techno’s hair, guiding it down with practiced care. Techno leans into the touch, no matter how faint it may feel against his skin. The tips of his fingers buzz with each touch, and Phil begins humming with him.
How ironic is it, Phil thinks, that his most reserved son has such an expressive form? Wilbur, who practically wears his heart on his sleeve, shows little more than pale eyes when memories get to him. Techno, on the other hand, begins to fade, and his hair swirls around his head like fish in a pond. Like the thoughts that swim through his mind.
“It’s alright, mate,” Phil says, leaving forward to press a kiss to Techno’s temple. What else can he say, now that they’re already dead?
Phil cards his fingers down Techno’s hair, smoothing out knots he comes across. His eyes settle on the faint brown roots that had begun to grow in years ago. The pajama pants, decorated with cartoon pigs and crows. His son was young, and his son was alive. Outside, a crow chirps. The sound filters in through the open window.
“How ya feelin’, mate?” Phil asks after several minutes. Techno hums, pushing his face into Phil’s palm.
“Real enough,” he says. Phil mirrors the slight hum. He turns around, eyes scanning the room for the thing that always brought Techno comfort--ah!
Phil pushes off the bed, gliding to the corner of the room, grabbing the soft red blanket. Techno still has the one he used as a child, old and dirty and singed, but Phil figures the new one Tubbo and Tommy had gotten him for Christmas would be better. A small reminder that he is loved by everyone in the house. Plus, it’s softer and isn’t fraying around the edges. It was sturdier and better for Techno’s anxious hands, which have pulled out more seams than Phil can count when Techno gets lost in himself.
When Techno was young, he’d like to take the blanket and tie it around him like a cape. He still does it now, as well, with his new blanket, but Phil’s not allowed to snicker about it anymore. He wraps the fabric around Techno’s shoulders, bundling it up tight to cocoon around Techno’s form. His son blinks, glancing down at the material. He huffs out the smallest of laughs, hands moving to pull it in tighter. The blanket never seems to end and engulfs Techno completely.
“Better?” Phil asks.
“Much,” Techno says. The hum starts back up in his throat, and there is no smoke pooling in his lungs. He can breathe clearly and deeply, and he does so. The room smells faintly of pine. The tingle plaguing his hands has gone away. The hum settles in Techno, the roof of his mouth tickling as his eyes fall closed. Techno’s dad settles next to him, squeezing one of his hands to say I’m here , as if somehow leaning his body against Techno wasn’t enough.
“You’ve picked up a hummin’ habit from Wilbur,” He says.
“It’s not the worst habit out there,” Techno says. He raises his brows and smiles but does not open his eyes. “Especially from Wilbur. I could’ve picked up the way he keeps knocking shit over at three am.”
“True, true,” Phil laughs. “That’s very fuckin’ annoying.”
“Well, first of all, rude,” Wilbur says, crawling up through the floor. “Second of all, I do worse shit than knock stuff over at three am. Move over, make space. C’mon, Techno, be a little more creative.”
“Fine.” Techno, now squished between his father and his brother, takes a deep breath. “I could’ve-”
Wilbur’s fingers slip against the guitar strings. Dull eyes narrow.
“Shit.”
He tries again, fingers slipping and playing the wrong note seconds before where he messed up last time. Wilbur growls to himself. The stupid bar is supposed to be easy . Why is he messing it up so much? His notes messily scrawled out in front of him were of no use either.
He tries again.
“Fuck.”
Wilbur flops back against the wooden floor of what used to be his little office space. The family had made a weekend out of it when Wilbur was sixteen or so. When he started to seriously get into music. His guitar rests on top of him, providing a comforting and grounding weight. He smooths his hands over the polished wood. Nervous energy flows through him, making his fingers tremble against the wood.
“Come on, love, what’s got us going like this?” Wilbur asks into the air. “Simone, please, I don’t want to do this today. Did I treat you wrong? What’s going on, darlin’?”
There’s no response. Wilbur isn’t sure what he had expected. He huffs out a sigh, fingers moving to begin tuning his guitar again. The guitar doesn’t need it, this is about the third time Wilbur has stress-tuned the thing, but he still hums a harmonizing tune under his breath.
“Come on, sweetheart. Just do this one thing for me?”
“Are you talking to your guitar?” Techno asks, suddenly leaning against the wall. Wilbur hadn’t heard Techno come in, even if his brother did walk unnaturally quiet, so he probably floated in from somewhere.
“You know I do,” Wilbur scoffs. Hesitantly, he tries the damned chord one more time, fingerers slipping once again. Wilbur freezes the moment he feels the error, pausing before restarting and trying again. And again. And again. Again. Wilbur huffs out a breath, squeezing his eyes shut and dropping his head against the floor. He continues pushing, neck becoming tense with the amount of force he uses to practically try to push his head through the floor without actually phasing into it. Wilbur’s hands lay flat across his guitar, still trembling. Techno raises a brow.
He moves to sit next to Wilbur, carefully taking the guitar out of his brother’s hands. Wilbur doesn’t turn to look at Techno or try to stop him, but he does open his eyes and let up on the pressure against his skull. His eyes are dull and pale. He looks cold.
“Something wrong?” Techno asks, cradling the guitar in his lap. It rests against his knees, which he props up a little by hooking his ankles together and bringing them closer to his body. Wilbur sighs.
“It’s not working,” he says.
“What isn’t?”
“The… the song, my notes, I--” Wilbur cuts himself off with a sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It doesn’t feel like it’s working.”
Techno hums in small acknowledgment, keeping his eyes elsewhere. He sits in silence, waiting for his brother to either continue or move on. He busies himself with running his fingers along the edges of the guitar while he waits. It’s a beautiful instrument, really. Came out of the fire almost untouched thanks to the cast Wilbur had kept it in. The case has been long since trashed, taking the brunt of the damage, but Wilbur is diligent with his upkeep. Spare strings spill out of the closet to Techno’s right, and the wood is polished and clean. Only a few chips and dents remain, which Techno runs his fingers over lovingly.
“It’s just… nothing feels right,” Wilbur finally says. He lays still for a moment, almost as if he’s letting the words simmer between them.
Techno’s jaw sets with a click. He looks up, slowly, at Wilbur’s eyes and just sees dullness. Devoid of any of the light Wilbur always carries around with him. When Wilbur turns to give a tired smile at Techno, the corners of his eyes don’t crinkle.
“You know…? Just… nothing feels… nothing is right.”
Techno hums. “Yeah, I feel that. Take a break, Wilbur. You look tired.”
Wilbur gives a tired, drained laugh, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. Techno can see the way his hands tremble the slightest bit. “I don’t feel tired, Technoblade.”
“Yeah, well, this clearly isn’t working for ya.” Techno nods to the papers strewn along the floor. “You can come back to this later, alright? After you’ve rested a bit.”
“You sound like Phil,” Wilbur complains but ultimately sits up and looks to Techno. He smiles again, tired and dull and drained, and Techno smiles back. There’s a quiet, mutual understanding between the two over not feeling right. Not feeling whole. They’re both sure they all feel it, Wilbur, Techno, and Phil, and there’s no real way to work past it. But they can try.
Techno passes the guitar off the Wilbur, letting him carefully set the instrument up on a chair to keep it out of harm’s way. Together, they shuffle out of the small office space and into Phil’s old bedroom. Said man is already in the room, resting comfortably on the bed and flipping through one of the various books shoved into the shelves. He glances up, already moving to mark off his page.
“He’s tired,” Techno supplies.
“No, I’m not,” Wilbur insists, plopping his body down on the bed.
Phil chuckles and grabs Wilbur under the armpits, dragging him up the bed to rest his face on the mountain of pillows. Wilbur immediately shifts to grab one, then rests his head on his dad’s chest.
“You sure you’re not tired?” Phil jokes. His hand is already coming down to run his fingers through Wilbur’s hair, smoothing out knots and parting it awkwardly. The hair fluffs up, pushed in the opposite way it would lay, and Wilbur grumbles.
“He’s very sure,” Techno insists, coming to lay on Phil’s other side. “He’s only here because I forced him. Tragic, really.”
Wilbur grumbles again, louder this time, and swats his hands out blindly to try and smack Techno. Phil grabs Wilbur’s hand, carefully scolding him and shoving it back down.
“Techno, be nice to your brother. Can’t you see he needs his rest?”
Techno chuckles with a “yes, Dad,” rolling off his tongue like some kind of smug bastard. Wilbur is out almost immediately, however, making Phil give a small sigh of relief.
“What was up?” He asks.
“Dull eyes,” Techno offers. “Shaky hands. He was trying to work on a song, said nothing felt right. He’s just… He’s just tired, I think.”
Phil hums, looking down at his sleeping son. His hands seem to have stopped trembling, at the very least.
“You should rest, too,” Phil says, and Techno goes down without a fight.
Phil has made his presence well known in the living room. All day, he’s been fussing over the kids in the house, flicking lights on if Tubbo sat in the dark too long, turning off the stove every time Tommy tried to fry something, the like. The thing that stood out the most to his kids, though, was the brief moment of panic Phil would have if they all weren’t in the same room.
Tubbo or Tommy could be off doing their own things, but if Techno or Wilbur weren’t in immediate sight, Phil would suck in a sharp breath and scan the room. He’d keep it up until he found whoever was missing and then would drag them along until they were all together again.
It isn’t anything… new. Phil got like this sometimes, especially with Techno. Together, Wilbur and Techno had quietly discussed this behavior during the nights where Phil was the first to fall asleep, arms wrapped around each of them.
“I think it’s because… we died, and you were alone,” Wilbur had confessed quietly. “And he just wants to keep us together, I guess.”
Techno had pursed his lips at that. Since… everything he had taken a disliking to being alone. He glanced up at their sleeping father, feeling the arms around them squeeze them briefly.
“That… that sounds… plausible,” he whispered back. They dropped the conversation after that. None of them like talking about the fire. They don’t like reflecting on what they had and what they’re stuck with now. Techno’s hair had waved gently in the air that night.
So now, after Techno had briefly disappeared off into the house when Phil was busy, Wilbur knows what was going on. Phil visibly bristles, glancing around the room. He relaxes a little when he sees Wilbur sitting on the couch and strumming his guitar while the TV drones on in the background. But his eyes keep searching.
“Do you want to to go get Techn-”
“No! No, I’ll uh, I’ll go find him. Stay here. Please.”
Wilbur nods, making a show of getting comfortable on the couch and settling. Phil nods back, primarily to himself, before walking past. Tubbo, who is sitting opposite to Wilbur on the couch, shivers when Phil passes by. He throws a look at Wilbur, or more so the floating guitar, to which Wilbur responds with a short strum of the strings. Tubbo shrugs not long after, turning his attention back to his show.
Phil glances into various rooms as he passes by, a tightness growing in his chest with every empty space. The house isn’t that large; where could Techno be? Had he wandered outside? Was he gone , somehow?
“Techno?” Phil calls. He peeks into another room, one he knows Techno tends to linger in. A wave of relief crashes over Phil when he sees his son looking through a small collection of books, immersed in his task and focused. He must not have heard Phil when he called. Phil sighs, seeing Techno’s head snap up from whatever he was doing and meeting his dad’s gaze.
“What’s up?” Techno asks, snapping the book in his hands closed.
“Can you. Uh. Come to the living room with us all?”
Techno blinks at him and looks like he’s about to ask why before he suddenly nods. “Sure. Let me, uh, let me grab my blanket, and I’ll come down with you.”
Phil smiles, wringing his fingers together. “Thanks.”
Techno gathers his red blanket, throwing it over his shoulder and holding his hand out for Phil to take. They’ve all grown out of holding hands to cross the street and whatnot, Techno likes to think, but sometimes the situation calls for it. Phil flashes him a small, close-lipped smile and takes Techno’s hand. Techno politely ignores the way Phil’s thumb anxiously rubs over the meat between his thumb and pointer finger. Instead, he just gives a quick squeeze and lets himself be guided back to the living room, where everyone else is already gathered. Techno throws a wave at Wilbur when they arrive, which Wilbur happily mirrors.
Phil guides Techno over to the couch, settling all of them down so Phil could have an arm around each son. He fussed over them quietly, brushing Techno’s hair out of his face and making sure Wilbur is tucked under a blanket.
“Thank you, mama bird,” Wilbur jokes, leaning his head on Phil’s shoulder.
“Oh, hush,” Phil shoots back, giving Wilbur a look . Techno chuckles quietly next to them. “I just needed to make sure you’re all here and shit.”
“We’re always here,” Techno mumbles. “We don’t plan on going anywhere, really.”
Phil’s hands squeeze around the two of them. Something about how none of them planned to die either hangs unsaid in the air. Instead, Phil just takes a deep breath and gives his kids a warm, sad smile.
“I know. But it doesn’t hurt to check.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Wilbur cuddles into Phil’s side, gently moving his guitar out of the way. Tubbo’s show fills the silence. None of them are really paying attention to what’s happening or keeping up with the plot, but that’s alright. Phil needs them to be together and close, so that’s what they’ll do. That’s the heart of it all, really. If someone needs comfort, the rest will provide. They may have been dead for a long time, and they may have grown long sick of this house and each other at times, but at the end of the day, they were family, and they care for each other. So they laugh at Wilbur’s stupid jokes, and they sit on the couch with Phil until he feels alright again.
That’s how it is, and that’s how it’ll always be.