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George doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry when he lands on his back for the seventh time in a row, sword disappearing into the snow somewhere to his left. Petulantly, he flails his limbs, letting his adrenaline run its course. His arms hurt, and he’s sure there are bruises blooming under his iron armour; he’ll be black and blue all up and down his torso by tomorrow.
“Why am I so bad?” he asks the open sky, only half joking. Somewhere above him, Technoblade laughs, and his hand appears in George’s vision; George accepts it with a grumble, letting the other player haul him to his feet. It’s just past midday, the sun bright on the snow, even through George’s tinted lenses. He rolls his shoulder and stretches his wrist as Techno stoops to collect his sword.
“You’re not a bad swordsman,” he says, passing George’s weapon back. George gives a dissatisfied sound. Techno isn’t one to mince his words, and George hadn’t expected to win a duel against him, even during their practice- but still, it’s disheartening when Techno has him on the ground so easily every time.
“I feel like I should be better, though,” he sighs as Techno returns to his spot, a handful of blocks away, and raises his sword to show that he’s ready. Wearily, George darts towards him again.
He gets a hit in, a slash at Techno’s ribs, but Techno is both faster and stronger; the edge of his blade hits George’s right side hard enough to dent his chestplate, and he knocks George’s shield aside when he tries to raise it belatedly. Pushing him backwards, it only takes another tick for Techno to send George’s sword flying once again.
“You’re not a bad swordsman,” Techno repeats, amused and not even slightly out of breath. “But you leave your right side terribly open.”
George pauses. Something in his expression must shift, because Techno sobers and glances down at him. “Oh, there’s a backstory to this,” he mutters, and starts herding George towards the stairs of his cabin, nudging at him to take a seat. George draws his knees up to his chest as Techno stares at him from where he’s leaned against the rail- not prying, but waiting, surprisingly patient.
“Dream is right-handed,” George finally explains, haltingly, and when Techno doesn’t say anything, he continues. “Sapnap is, too. Before-” he waves his hand vaguely “-all of this, we’d always fight together." Embarrassingly, his eyes sting, and he shrugs, pulling his glasses off to swipe at any wayward tears.
“Hmm,” Techno hums. “Guess you don’t really need to have everythin’ covered when you’ve got people fighting for you.”
Somehow, this makes George laugh, even though there’s really nothing funny about it. I have no one to fight for me. I have no one to fight for. I have no one left. “I guess,” he says humourlessly.
Techno tips his head, quiet for a moment. “Why are you doing this?” he finally asks.
“Doing what?” George replies, confused at the jump in topic. Techno waves his hand in a mimicry of what George had just done. “All this,” he says. “Breakin’ Dream out. Alone. You know he’s done, like, horrible things, right?”
George presses his lips together. “I’m not alone,” he protests weakly, and then, quieter, hollow, “I know.” Techno, at least, doesn’t seem too concerned with judging George’s moral quandaries.
“I know you have me,” he says, and leaves it at that, even though George knows he wants to ask- Why not Sapnap? Why not someone else? Who else do you have? “If you break him out, players will come after him,” Techno continues. “Sam, Quackity, the guards. Tommy, too. You know they will. What’re you gonna do, when he’s out?”
“I’ll protect him,” George says. Techno clicks his tongue.
“What’re you gonna do if he wants to fight?”
“I don’t care,” George returns, and almost surprises himself with the vehemence of his answer. “I’ll- I’ll take him somewhere far away. Away from all this. And he won’t be able to hurt anyone.”
Techno gives him another long look. “Anyone but you,” he finally says.
“Dream wouldn’t hurt me,” George murmurs, but it sounds uncertain, even to him.
On anybody else, the look Techno gives him could be called pity. For a long moment, it seems like he might say something- but then he stands, iron armour catching sunlight, and the moment is broken. “Come on,” Techno says. “Like I said. You’re not a bad swordsman. You’re better with a bow, though.”
George takes a deep breath, settles his glasses neatly over his eyes, and stands. Techno hands him back his weapon.
“You’re a fine fighter on your own, George,” Techno says, and when George raises his sword once again, he almost smiles.