Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Phil was alone most of the time.

Techno was normally hibernating— though Phil would never know how he slept through all the noise— and, predictably, rather dreary company. Not that Phil couldn’t make do with that. In fact, he spent a lot of time with him anyway, arguably more time when Techno wasn’t awake to question it: sitting at his bedside: chirping hushed songs, broken melodies he had heard far too long ago: on particularly bad nights curled up in his side. He was never quite touching, but as close as he dared without explicit permission to be there. They were not new actions. Techno had said, time and again, that they were fine. They were just actions that required a reason— a problem— something to be going wrong to justify the comfort. To justify the effort and discomfort.

And nothing was really going wrong; not anything new that justified the touch. There was no reason for him to want to be close. No reason to impose. No logic behind it. It was just—!

It was just…

Well...

It was hybrid instincts. That’s all it was at the end of the day. Shity, animalistic, clingy bird instincts.

Hybrid instincts that called for (flock and comfort and safety) things he didn’t have. Things he couldn’t have— because if his absurdly long life had taught him anything it was that you shouldn’t get attached. It was that people were almost never who they seem to be at first, and by the time you figured out who they really were you would either have a knife in your back or they’d already be dying and leaving you alone again. That was how people worked. That's what people were, a flock included.

Well, besides Techno.

But Techno, no matter what Phil wanted him to be, was not someone he would force into the role. Not when he knew better. He knew Techno expressed his love through gifts— verbal affirmations, sometimes— but not touch. Nothing more than a pat to a shoulder or a brief hug; and even then, the actions were rare, brief, and laced in an underlying discomfort. That wasn’t something Phil would force on him. Not when he knew the piglin wouldn’t say no.

(Not when he knew the Piglin wouldn't leave. That he would cater to his stupid, incessant, childish wants without complaint. That his image would slowly degrade then. He would gradually become less of a partner or a friend and more of a leech. More of a burden.)

If his shit instincts could get that particular memo that would be really fucking nice.

He sighed, fighting back the trill trying to escape his throat. It had become a more common urge since he… well, since he got to L’manburg, lets say. He had been in a near constant state of lethargy, and restraining his hybrid side was always harder when he was tired.

A hybrid side that was currently buzzing— locking his eyes to where Techno’s hand was laying on the table. Unoccupied. Unassuming. It would be so easy to just—.

(— Not even for a moment; not even to hold. Just a casual brush, maybe. Nothing big. Nothing he couldn’t play off as an accident and—!)

“— are you with me Phil.”

Phil blinked, willing his instincts back under control. “Yeah mate. Sorry, just zoning out a little.”

“Bruh.”

Phil chuckled, turning back to his plate. Breakfast. That was right, they were eating. “Sorry, sorry— what were you saying?”

“I was just sayin’ that—” his hands tapped on the table rhythmically— one, two, three— before dropping still— “the Syndicate. There’s probably some—” they moved off the table and to his lap. Phil had to fight to not track the movement to obviously— “we don’t know about, so I was thinkin’ we could do some recon round the area.”

“Sounds good to me mate.” Phil took a bite. It tasted like ash.

“Good, then lets start in the south.” Techno paused, “unless there are any places you know about that we could start on?”

Phil snorted, forcing himself to take another bite. “Not really. I’ve just been here. We could ask Ranboo?”

“Kids gone for the day. In the mines, I think. Somethin’ about needing to earn more money?”

“Isn’t he already, just, insanely fuckin’ rich?”

“Bruh, I know. Kid must be tryin’ to save up for a castle at this point.”

Phil laughed, a trill leaking in before he could stop it. “I wouldn’t be shocked. Isn’t that the first thing you did when you got money?”

“Bruh my dark past—!” Techno yelled, mock horror on his face (he swore Techno was more dramatic than Wilbur sometimes. His tone was just a bit more monotone then—).

(Well, then Wilbur used to be).

(...)

(Don’t think about it).

“Why don't you go brew some potions and I’ll clean up here? Get the dogs all set and stuff?”

Techno nodded, standing up. “Meet in an hour then.”

Phil hummed approval. He did not look at Techno as he walked to the ladder.

A longing flared in his chest, but he pushed it down with practiced ease. There was no reason to call him back. He had asked him to go for fucks sake, and it was stupid that he even considered it.

(But his mind was buzzing, begging— wait. His instincts: his hybrid traits. They were screaming. He was perfectly fine, thank you very much. He did not need Techno to stay, because he knew Techno was just going upstairs. He was not being abandoned. He was not useless. He did not drive him away, and he didn’t have to stare at Techno not going out the door to know that so—).

So he stared at his plate. He hadn’t eaten much, but he barely had the heart to attempt a few more bites before he was standing up to clean the plates off. More food for the dogs anyway. They would appreciate it.

The dogs. The dogs were a welcome reprieve, even if most of them hated him.

They were Techno’s dogs— war dogs at that— so it wasn’t unexpected. It was still annoying that they barked incessantly at him everytime he got close. Maybe they could sense what he had done. After they calmed down (read: all took turns bounding over each other to sniff his hand), they were lovely company. They were soft and cuddly. They weren’t his— not in any way that mattered— but they would tolerate him petting their fur. Tolerate him sitting with them.

(And his hybrid side would panic at being so close to a predator— a pack of them— but he could ignore that bit. He was adept at ignoring his instincts. He could allow himself to fall into their piles, letting the plush fur ease the constant ache for flock and comfort— but never safety. Some part of him would always be aware enough to keep his wings away from their mouths, mantled, even as they shook from the effort. Some part of him would always be aware that, when he left, they would bark if he tried to come back; that they would not remember him. That when Techno woke up, they wouldn’t need him to feed them anymore.)

(He wouldn’t be needed anymore, and he would be abandoned like he always was.)

He walked up to the pen with something that could be construed as excitement, despite the way his wings shook beneath his cloak. The dogs started to bark. They bounded towards him, pushing up against the fence separating them. Phil reached his hand out, waiting for them to remember that he was the one who fed them most days and settle down a little.

Soon enough the threats turned into excitement, a massive pack of animals wagging their tails and jumping up on the fence, trying to bite the food bucket out of his hands. He chuckled as a particularly eager one stepped on another dog's head, almost tumbling to the ground themself.

“Calm down ya’ little shits. There's enough for everyone.”

They did not calm down. Being dogs, they only had a tentative grasp of English at the best of times, and no reason to actually listen to whatever Phil was saying. Aside from food, which somehow was never good enough. Though they did bolt away from the fence when Phil lobbed a particularly juicy steak over their heads, so maybe the food did have some sway.

He laughed, stepping into the pen to leave some more food. The dogs that hadn't already bolted flocked around him immediately. Their tails wagged violently, shaking their entire bodies as their tongues hanging out, smearing drool in their siblings fur. Phil laughed as one of the more excited dogs jumped up on him, nearly toppling him before he could chuck another stake off somewhere to the right. They bounded off.

Phil kneeled down, scratching one of the remaining dogs behind the ears. They licked at his hands, whining. Another jumped on his back (pinning his wings (danger danger hurt danger trapped threat danger) where they were tucked under his cloak), licking at his hair with a bark. Friendly. Not a threat. Definitely more interested in the food than him.

Ah. Yeah, of course they were.

He dumped out the rest of the food around his feet, laughing as the dogs shoved their entire faces into the mess. He chuckled, patting the nearest dog. They were warm, despite the arctic chill surrounding them, and if Phil let his hand linger an extra second no one would notice. They wouldn’t notice the chirp that escaped his lips either.

Just a moment. He would only linger a moment.

The rest of the dogs were bounding back, growing and scrambling, climbing over their brothers and sisters in a fever to get to the food. Phil smiled, watching the chaos for a moment, before leaving the pen, turning towards the house to look for Techno.

Oh, there he was.

“Ya’ know, if you were standing there the whole time ya’ could have said something.”

He was standing on the bridge, arms crossed over the railing. He was looking at Phil with something Phil deciphered as amusement.

“You looked busy.”

Phil snorted (don’t ruin this). “Yeah, with your dogs. Ya’ coulda helped or something.”

“Naaaaaaaaaaa. You got it.”

Phil snorted, resisting the urge to (lovingly) flip him off. It was a pretty easy urge to stifle, as it turned out, because an unprompted bark had him jumping. Then flipping off a dog instead.

“I already fed you!” The dog barked again, growling. Phil could feel his feathers puffing out on his back at the threat, and he had never been so glad to have them in his cloak. “Techno call off your fuckin’ hounds!”

He laughed— something that in no way expressed the surge of panic his instincts had given him— but that was fine. He didn’t really want to express that panic anway. It was more akin to discomfort than a reaction to an actual threat, and he could put up with discomfort. He would much rather the whole thing be taken as a joke; that he, the thousand and something year old adventurer was afraid of a fucking tamed dog. A caged dog no less. A dog that he had been in the same pen with moments before.

“Naaaaaaaaa.” He could hear the smirk though Technos normal monotone— practically see it. “You got it.”

That was… good. That's what he wanted, and the second laugh felt a little less wrong then the first had. He let his feathers relax on his back. Maybe forced was a better word, but the result was the same so why get caught up in semantics?

Techno waved his hands and the barking stopped. Of course they obeyed him immediately, even without the bribe of food.

“... These little shits.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing mate.” Phil walked towards the door, ducking in behind Techno (ignoring how close they were, how he could reach out and touch him if he only—). “We all good?”

“Just waiting for the strength.”

Phil laughed, crossing his arms (letting his hands grip into his shirt as tight as they could because no, he wasn’t going to ruin this for something so stupid. He wasn't going to reach out and—). “... why do we need strength?”

“Recon Phil.”

That did nothing to answer his question, thank you very much. “We’re not going into a fight, mate. Sounds like you're just trying to justify your potion addiction.”

“Phil, strength—” Techno spluttered— “it’s just a good potion to have!! What if we get in a fight there and—”

“— And you could stop at any time?”

“Bruh the slander!”

Phil laughed, walking past the couch and over to the brewing stand. Watching as the bubbles rose to the top of the concoction.

The house was warmer than the outdoors, but comfortable. He could still hear the dogs outside, muffled, but unmistakenly harassing whatever poor squirrel had wandered just a little too close to the pen. This… this was good. This was nice, it was the softest thing he had had since (Wilbur left), and he wanted to keep this. If there were compromises to that, that was fine. Beating his shit instincts into check with a metal bat? Easy. Simple. A normal Monday.

(He did not know Techno was standing behind him, close enough that he could hear his breath. He was not imagining leaning back. He was not imagining the thump of a heart where his friend's chest met his concealed wings; his very soul, almost. He was not imagining comfort and safety as arms wrapped around his middle, grounding him there. Keeping him there, safe and comfortable and flock and hugging him back and running his hands though the tangled hair he knew Techno was neglecting and—)

“—? It’s done... Phil?”

Phil chuckled, snapping back. “Sorry mate. Zoned out again.”

“...”

“What were you saying?”

Techno pointed. “Potions done.”

… Ah. They were.

Phil reached forward, dislodging two of the three potions before handing them back. They did not need three fucking strength potions, no matter what war Techno thought they were charging into.

Techno looked... concerned. Thoughtful might be a better word, actually, but with a worried tint that made something in Phil’s stomach twist. Something was troubling him, in anycase, and that was probably not a good thing.

Phil’s laugh took on a nervous trill before he could stop the sound. “What's wrong? Somethin’ on my face or some shit?”

“... you’ve been zoning out a lot today Phil. Your age finally getting to you?”

Phil had known Techno long enough to know that that was a real question, even if he couldn’t spot the worry on his face. Not the age shit, but the other part. The unspoken ‘are you alright’, doused with an easy out just in case it was nothing. An option to just continue as things were.

Techno, for how long he had known Phil, should have known Phil was a coward. He was an old man, stuck in his ways, and he always took the easy out.

“You callin’ me old mate?”

“Yepp.” Tehno drawled, “the oldest person I know.”

“That doesn’t mean shit you socially awkward hermit.”

Techno raised an eyebrow at him, daring him not to see the hypocrisy in that statement. Phil laughed.

“Okay fair point.”

(He did not feel guilt for the lie. He pushed down the feeling before it could really register. Besides, it was worse admitting to it; forcing Techno to cater to him like he needed it. Like he couldn’t put up with discomfort for a bit. Like it was something worth all that. That would make him more guilty then a little white lie would.)

“We ready then?”

“Soon as we get you a cane old man. Don’t want you keeling over before we get there.”

Phil scoffed, knocking Techno upside the head as he walked by (it was not warm. He was not tempted to linger a moment longer. He pulled away before the feeling could set in beyond a pleasant tingle of blessed contact). Techno— the absolute tank of the piglin he was— had the audacity to pretend the light, absolute love tap of a hit, actually hurt. He stumbled back, clutching the side of his head dramatically.

Phil started laughing again.

“That did not hurt you dramatic fuck.” More dramatic than Wilbur (used to be) Phil swears.

“Nope. I have a concussion now. I am concussed.”

“No you’re not.”

“How would you know?”

Phil looked at Techno— and the fucker was definitely smirking— and sighed. He stepped forward (stiffly to keep himself from taking another), pulling Technos hand (and the contact almost stung before— (warm safe comfort comfort safe flock warm)) away from where it was pushed against his head, humming.

“There's nothing there mate.”

He forgot to let go of the hand. He forgot, even as there was a constant tingle of warmth shaking up his arm, making itself known as he had to bite back a content hum at the (comfort safe safe safe flock safe comfort flock flock safe). Technos hair was soft in his other, where he was pulling it away from the ‘wound.’

He was taking liberties and he knew it. Techno was probably already uncomfortable, but he wasn’t pulling away so he let the hand linger, endlessly gentle as he (pretended to) look at the supposed injury, combing through Techno’s hair. (It felt like the last puzzle piece sliding into place. It felt like home. It felt like safety comfort flock and—)

He pulled his hand away, stepping back before the feeling of loss could hit him like a truck. He took another step back when it did.

(Don’t ruin this. Please. Phil had already lost so much he couldn’t lose this too. He couldn’t take that.)

“Yeah mate, nothin’ there. You’re fine.”

Techno snorted. “Sounds like a guilty conscience to me. How bad is it really doc? I can take it.”

“Oh fuck off and let's go. We’re just burnin’ daylight at this point.”

“I prefer the term procrastinating.”

He was already walking to the door— maybe a bit too quickly— but he was moving. Moving away (because his traitorous hands were twitching where they were locked at his sides and his wings were shaking under his cloak).

(And there was still a tingle of warmth under his skin, burrowing, and if his instincts had been yelling before they were screaming now because oh—! Oh, the context made it worse; knowing how good it could be— the (warmth comfort comfort safety complete safely flock flock flock)— was infinitely worse.)

Phil took a deep breath. The arctic cold was biting but grounding. Something to focus on besides the clawing under his skin. The burning, traitorous want, for something. Something he would never have. Something he would never ask for. Something he didn’t need or deserve. Something he would always want.

But Phil was used to suppressing his (thoughts) instincts, and this was no different.

Chapter Text

That peace lasted all of a week before crashing down around him in a spiral of explosions like most of his other life choices did.

The week was fine. Or at least, as fine as you could call Phil freezing up a little every time Techno got just a little too close because he couldn’t decide whether to run farther away or say fuck it and take what he could get. Maybe just say fuck it and talk to Techno about it. Really, that was becoming a larger temptation the longer this whole thing went on. Just saying consequences be damned and listening to his instincts.

But that was stupid. It was stupid and pointless and decidedly not worth it. Phil wasn’t sure anything could be worth it. Worth mornings sparring together after breakfast. Worth techno reading in the afternoon, surrounded by dogs as Phil worked on something or another. Worth trust on the battlefield. Worth peace and warmth, even with his tattered wings. Even with nightmares and the itch under his skin and the grief that weighed him to the bed some days, it was worth it. It was worth protecting, and if that meant exercising basic self-control then Phil would do that.

Phil was good at self-control, and he was patient. He could wait for the feelings to leave.

But they weren’t leaving and gods he was tired.

It was a month in the making; a month of sleepless nights, dotted with half-hearted attempts at rest that inevitably ended with a muted scream, panicked trill, or silent horror as his mind dumped him back on his bed with nothing to show for it except panic. Panic he then had to deal with. Panic he had to address, at some level, but later. In a year, maybe five. Maybe a decade. Maybe he wouldn’t have time till the world ended; he was a busy man after all.

He could reach out— but no. He couldn’t be selfish and needy and clingy. He could handle it. He was an immortal for god's sake; a timeless adventurer who had survived decades on the run without (comfort or flock or safety) help and he could handle it. He didn’t need to make Techno uncomfortable. He didn’t need to diminish his opinion of Phil. He didn’t need to bother anyone.

Cooking had always been a therapeutic exercise, even if he didn’t actually like the taste of anything he could make anymore. That and it was usually enough to remind Techno that, yes, he indeed did have to eat food sometimes.

He ignored the shaking of his hands as he sliced through the potatoes, focusing instead on the clean cuts. The sound of the knife hitting the table. The cawing of crows outside. Anything and everything really.

The potatoes plopped into a pot easily, splashing up the boiling water. He did not let it burn him. He just didn’t react when it did, staring at his hand.

(His hand, covered in blood as it eased (his son his son his son) to the ground. He was warm before he was cold; even in death his skin still trapped a sallow warmth. Was that the last time he had touched someone for longer than a moment? (His son his son his son) cradled in his arms, breaths stuttering out because—)

Phil started chopping another potato. He ignored the shaking of his hands. The knife was sharp. The crows squawked outside.

“I… think that's enough Phil.”

Techno was behind him, close enough that he wanted to flinch away, but he didn’t. Phil had... already cut a lot up, hadn't he? The pot was almost full.

He laughed. “With how much you eat? I think we just need a bigger pot mate.”

The buzzing was there already, a distracting urge at the back of his mind. He didn’t even have to touch Techno anymore for the feeling to make itself known.

(--Because he knew how easy it was to just lean back, to flair out his wings just enough to assure himself that someone else was there. To feel warmth on his feathers for a moment before he pulled them back with an apology--)

“And with how little you’ve been eating it evens out.”

Phil held the knife still, thinking for a moment longer than he had to. Holding it a little more tightly than he had to. He set it down, giggling through the trill that left his throat. An airy sound, light, and containing just enough stress and panic that he knew Techno would make a note of it.

They were having a conversation then.

Yay talking.

…

The window was... interesting, wasn't it? There was so much… snow. Oh there was Ranboo too. He was farming. Maybe that's what Phil would do today; helping Ranboo optimize his farm sounded like a good use of time, really. After he checked up on the bees. The turtles too. Maybe he would spend some time organizing his chests again after that.

“... are you alright Phil.”

It wasn’t really a question, but it was reasonable to assume a dog wouldn’t know that so Phil pretended he didn’t either.

“I’m fine mate. Don’t worry about it.”

(He was ruining everything, wasn’t he?)

Phil shook his head. He would have to clean the windows too. He hadn't cleaned them in… what, a week? It was probably time to do that again. Techno would be going back into hibernation in another week maybe, and he would have plenty of time to (think) work then as well, but it was good to get some things out of the way, wasn’t it? Stay (useful) productive and all that.

“... are you sure?”

(No. But that didn’t matter.)

(He took the easy way out.)

He laughed. “Probably? Just the usual shit, really.”

He did not need to turn around to know Techno was still behind him. Still looking at him. Still observing, and Phil could feel himself unraveling under the look; conviction unraveling like a spool of thread because it would be so easy. It would be so easy. A million years of self-control could crumble like that. A million moments of holding back. A million reflexes shattered and he would get what he wanted.

But no. No. That's not what was going to happen. He did not want to be humored, catered to like he was a child. (He was not a child and he could take care of himself. He didn’t need to survive off pity).

(He did not need to talk. He did not need pity. He did not need another knife in his back. He did not need pity.)

There was silence.

“No.”

“No,” Phil hummed, an absent response as he continued looking at the window. Definitely had to be cleaned. With bleach maybe. Scrubbed so hard they would shatter and he wouldn’t have to talk about them again. Get new windows without any of the same problems. A clean start.

“This… is it about us.”

Phil’s breath caught in his throat.

“You said you wouldn’t lie about shit like this. Not about us. An’ ya are. You did.” The words were almost growled.

It was something Techno had been sitting on, clearly. It wasn’t a question. None of it was a question. It wasn’t an accusation. It was worse than that. It was hurt, somewhere beneath the monotone and the angry growl, but the tone was dead; shut down. It was acceptance of a broken promise— of a lie.

It was an acceptance of betrayal, with the cold tone that came with it.

“No—” he spun around before he could stop himself, panic rising in his chest. They didn’t do this, this wasn’t how they handled things, but they were talking and he thought that it was about him and it wasn’t— “No, no, no— mate. It's nothing like that.”

It was a mistake to turn around because Techno knew him. He knew the way his wings flared and his eyebrow twitched and he knew when Phil was lying.

“Really.” He drawled, monotone like he had already shut down from the relationship entirely and not meeting his eyes and— (no no no no please please please he can be better please he’s not-—- he can— please—). “Because it sure feels like it is Phil.”

There was a warble in his throat, desperate and pleading and panicked, but not even a fraction of the panic that had started to claw at his chest, screaming out like a dying song. Not even close to one, (because Techno was leaving. Techno knew what was happening and he was going to leave because Phil couldn't just fucking go on as normal. Couldn't just ignore everything and smile and laugh and work and be useful enough to keep around. And he was going to be left alone again and—!)

(— Alone, again, with downy wings too young to fly. Alone, again, in a too big forest with too little food and a body they said wouldn’t make a year. Alone, again, sobbing into his hands as broken cries attracted more danger than he could handle. Alone, again, as he fought back death and suppressed his screams and—!)

He was going to be alone again.

“— like that, Phil?”

Techno wasn’t yelling, but there was little difference. The words still cut, sending shivers down his spine; panic, raw and whole, because it was over. Techno knew. Techno knew everything. Techno knew everything and it was worse than he imagined because he was really going to be abandoned again. He was going to be left alone and scared and hurt—!

(Maybe Techno would just throw him to the dogs, and he would get to see how little they actually thought of him. Techno would take the time to show him that their threats were never empty at all, and if he had ever tried to approach them fairly— without bribery or food— he would have always been treated like the prey he was. An easy, flightless, meal. Nothing more than that, no matter how much time he spent petting their fur or sneaking them extra tidbits when he couldn’t finish eating because—.)

Oh gods he couldn’t breathe. The realization was shallow at first, then altogether too much. He was clawing at his throat— choking— and he couldn’t breathe (but please just a moment he could fix it himself, he could he could he promised just please)—!

His back hit the counter, and he was retreating but he was still too close, wings flaring out in panic because oh gods. He couldn’t breathe, and Techno (flock and comfort and safety, his world, a companion, his friend and so much more) was going to leave him because he didn’t have control and he couldn’t keep his damn thoughts to himself and deal with it. And he couldn’t breathe and, fuck, would Techno even be bothered to help him? Now that he knew how (useless) Phil was, was he even worth the effort? Or would he just be left to die like this and—!

There was a hand on his.

There was a hand.

Touching.

Him.

And.

It.

Burned.

The world went still.

Not still; not so strictly. He could feel things still: his own heart, hammering in his chest: his breath, slow and shallow despite the protests of his lungs: tears pooling in his eyes, unbidden as they rolled down his cheeks; his mind, racing itself in circles of thought he couldn’t even process. It was more that he went still. He froze.

He froze, stuck between fight and flight. Warmth and panic. Safety and danger. He could feel electricity burning down his spine. He could feel his wings twitch on his back. He could feel his mind spiral.

Then it snapped back to a point. Techno’s hand, easing his hands away from his throat as he said something endlessly apologetic that Phil didn’t have the mind to focus on.

(And there was fire. Fire and lightning and sparks and something so different from being alone.)

(And if this was the end anyway, what was stopping him?)

He keened, loud and unabashed as his knees buckled under the weight of— (flock safe comfort flock. It was flying above the clouds. It was nothing and everything. It was endlessly simple (casual) (easy) but it was more than that. It was safety and comradery and knowing you weren’t going to be left in the next moment and he—!)

(H-he…)

He was about to lose it all over again.

He didn’t have the mind to hold onto the warmth as he fell, but his hands did it for him anyway. Holding tight— clingy, desperate, and needy. He felt another keen escape him more than he could hear it. He heard the chirps and hums and pleas rumbling in his throat. He was practically vibrating with how much he was shaking. He was shaking. His wings occasionally jolted behind him where they lay limp on the floor, feathers sprawled across the kitchen floor in a mess of broken feathers and shattered self-control and he couldn’t care.

He was crying. Sobbing, somewhere different. Somewhere away, because it was lost. Lost before he could savor it a second. Because Flock was going to leave soon. They were going to leave him and he was going to be alone again— without comfort or safety or assurance— and he was going to lose this. He was going to lose everything.

(He cried because he didn’t care. Because he leaned in further regardless. Because it was going to hurt and there was nothing he could do to stop it.)

(All he needed was the warmth on his hands. The buzzing under his skin, as it felt like his very soul concentrated on his fingertips. The safety and comfort and fuck he wanted more. It was going to end in moments and he wanted more. He wanted to run fingers through tangled hair and he wanted arms around his middle and fingers brushing through his feathers and—!)

He wanted more, like the selfish fool he was, and it was all going to be ripped from his hands. He was going to sober up with a knife in his back and he couldn't care. He didn’t mind just please—

Then it was gone.

Techno was pulling away, an action too stiff and quick to be anything but a refusal, and Phil couldn’t stop the keen— broken and tired and desperate— that tore from his throat. He felt raw. He felt raw and bloodied and open like a wound that would never quite scar right. Like a knife was stabbed into his spine. He felt like he had been screaming bloody murder for hours— and fuck he wasn’t even sure if it had been hours he felt so tired— and it hurt. He was hurt, and he didn’t know how to fix it but flock would. If only they would stay.

(And this was the end. He was going to be kicked out. Flock was going to throw him out and he was going to be alone again. He was going to be hurt and abandoned and alone again, without armor or weapons because he was going to die anyway? Why waste resources? Why waste anything on someone so useless?)

He was crying. He was sobbing. His arms had fallen at some point, clutching at his shoulders in some weak imitation of a hug; of comfort and safety. His hands were colder than the flock had been. There was no safety hidden under the skin, only the promise of more pain. The promise of blood and death and pain and survival but at what cost?

“Pl’se—!”

Then the hand’s were back— hesitant and careful— and Phil melted.

He chirped and keened and sang— anything to keep the warmth. (Anything to make flock stay, even if it was just another moment. Anything to be safe and comforted and useful. He was a puddle on the ground, pliant and cooperative and begging.)

The hands traced his hands where they were clutched at his robe, and he dropped the fabric as the contact sent a jolt of warmth and electricity through his skin. He could feel his wings twitching, every hypersensitive feather rising in jealous anticipation. He pushed the feeling down. He pushed it down even further when the warmth moved up to his face, tracing over a cheekbone and pushing away a stream of tears. He chirped as the (warmth safety comfort) spread, leaning into the hesitant motion.

(It was almost too nice to be real, and Phil didn’t know when it was going to be torn away with a slap, but he let himself enjoy it, leaning further into the touch).

“— need Phil?” The voice was choppy, but it was (flock and safety and comfort) so Phil strained to listen. To understand. “What— need Phil? What do you—?”

It was a question (a command), and Phil tried to answer. He really, really did, but English had so many words and sounds and concepts, and none of them translated to (flock comfort safety family completion safety). But he tried. He really, really did, but it was hard. There was so much pronunciation and thought he had to put into wording and he just wanted flock.

Every attempt at an intelligent thought was drowned out, replaced with desperate chirps and trills. Requests and raw emotions, but nothing flock could work with. Nothing useful, and he so desperately had to be useful (even if he was just prolonging the inevitable).

The hand was running over his cheek again— not leaving yet— and for a fleeting moment, Phil could see past the overwhelming noise in his head. Feel the warmth as more than a series of overwhelming electric jolts. Process Techno— because it was Techno— kneeling in front of him, worry twisting his brow. The way his other hand was hesitating. The way his eyes were searching for something. Something. An answer. A clue.

Permission.

“Ple’se,” He choked out, leaning further into the touch with a keen, because he needed this but he didn’t know how to say it. He didn’t know how to convey anything, and that's why he was going to be abandoned; because he couldn’t do something as simple as— “I ne’d— pl’’se st’y— ‘tay ple’s’...”

“I-I’m not goin’ anywhere Phil— promise— just take deep breaths.”

(He was lying— Phil wasn’t an idiot. He knew what happened when he broke— what flock did when he was weak— even if it was Techno—!)

But it was Techno. Oh gods it was Techno and he didn’t lie and that was worse. Because it was Techno— loyal, undying, idiotic Techno— and of course Techno would be the one to stay; the one to ruin himself when he could be doing so much more. Techno would be the one to force himself to stay, to ignore his own wants and needs to cater to someone who didn’t deserve it. Someone useless and weak. Of course, he would make Techno promise to stay. He knew what promises were between them. He knew what oaths were to Techno— of course, he would force him to make one. Of course, he would be selfish and tether them together like that.

Phil keened— a mournful thing lost to sobs and uncontrolled chirps and the general buzz of his mind. He was already rushing forward, headbutting into Technos's chest because he was selfish. He was needy and selfish and useless and he wanted more. He still wanted more.

The warmth burned around him. Hotter than lava. More painful than lightning, but he only burrowed deeper into his chest. It hurt. It hurt and it was safe and comfort and flock and he needed it, even as every nerve in his body was burning. It was suffocating but he couldn't help leaning further into the touch. He could feel Techno's hands, hesitant but firm where they curled around his middle. He could feel the piglins breath on his hair, and he nearly cried when Techno propped his chin on top of his head, fitting Phil even closer to his heart. Closer and safer and comfortable and fine. Fine despite the overwhelming sensation and the distant part of his brain telling him to run.

(It was like a victimless war. It was open flight, free against the star-born sky after months of captivity. It was a partner in life and death, an unbreakable bond Phil couldn’t put a name to, but would kill for all the same. It was everything.)

(But there was no such thing as a victimless war. He hadn’t flown freely in years, and the only bond he held so close had been stolen and tainted by his own traitorous hands.)

There, safe against Technos chest, Techno could not see the guilt in his eyes. He couldn’t pinpoint the moment when Phil came back to himself fully, wings still twitching in the aftermath of an emotional breakdown but aware enough to think again. When the thunder under his skin numbed into a manageable warmth. Numbed into safety and comfort, and everything Phil had so badly wanted.

How was Techno supposed to know when the sobs never stopped?

Chapter Text

“... Pot boiled over.”

It was not what Phil expected to hear the moment he woke up, but he forced his hazy mind into some semblance of compliance. Years of raising a hyperactive kid with a penchant for chaos would do that. “... ya take ‘t off the… fire re’dy?”

“Yeah.”

“‘ouse burn down?”

“Nope.”

Phil snorted, burrowing deeper into his pillow. “S’reeee.”

Techno snorted. “Despite my best efforts.”

“Have ta work on the—” a yawn— “wh’le b’rnin’ thing…”

“I’ll get better at it.”

“... Good mate. Can’t be the only one... ‘rested for arson.”

He got a chuckle for that.

Gods, it was a nice morning. Phil couldn't remember the last time he had woken up so peacefully; so slowly and gently. The feeling made the weight clinging to his bones all the more strange, weighing him back into his nest of blankets with a groan and a half-hearted call for five more minutes.

“Thought that was my thing?”

Phil made the most annoyed sound he could muster— which was somewhere between a groan and a coo— as he continued to sink. He was just tired. His eyes stung and he could feel the start of a headache coming on. It was nothing he wanted to deal with yet. He just wanted more time with someone just being close; of being tangled in far too many blankets and nuzzled into pillows and too groggy to process all the things going wrong in his life at any point in time.

There was a hand combing through his hair, gentle as anything. He leaned into the touch lazily, a weak coo tumbling out of his throat before he could think about it. It was warm and nice, and really just the perfect complement to the morning. His wings shuffled against the lazy morning air, feathers spraying out on the plush blankets, warmed by snippets of sunbeams.

Then he thought about it.

What the fuck had he done.

The night before rushed back— not in any concrete memory but just a wave of guilt and electricity. (Overwhelm. Heat; touch burning at his skin. Guilt. Fear. Safety and flock and comfort and a promise.)

A promise.

Phil froze, comfort and warmth forgotten in a jolt of uncomfortable awareness. Awareness of his wings twitching on his back. The way the blankets tangled around his legs— the fact he was on top of a bed instead of on the floor where he had most definitely fallen asleep. Awareness of Technos hand, carding through his hair. How the fingers scratched at his scalp every once and a while. The warmth there. The guilt lurking under it. The pity. The rising awareness of what exactly he had given up for that warmth.

Or, the rising awareness that he had no idea what he had given for that.

Techno's fingers stopped for a moment as he froze up, but the movements were back a second later. He nearly keened before he could stop himself. (Oh gods he had been making those noises this whole time hadn’t he. Gods he sounded like a needy child.)

He chuckled, sitting up. He didn’t meet Techno’s eyes. Didn’t even make an attempt. He was too busy realigning his feathers (it was a half-hearted attempt at a preen, but it wasn’t like he was going to sit down and do a better job any time soon. It was something to do).

“... Mornin’ mate...”

The hand left his head slowly. Stiffly. (He did not want it back. He did not. He did not need pity.)

“...Mornin’.”

Ah, banter had never been hard before. He had never had to think about the silence there. It was always easy. Was that a thing now? Had he fucked up that badly? (Was this the price he paid? Was this only part of it?)

He laughed. (There was nothing funny about the situation). “Did ya’... want breakfast mate?”

“... ‘s... afternoon Phil.”

“WHAT!” Phil bolted out of bed, already making his way to the door (away). “You said it was mornin’!”

Techno spluttered; “That's just— that's just what you say! I was respondin’!”

“MATE!”

They did not talk about it.

Not for lack of necessity, really, but Phil and Techno had both been blessed with a combined social competence of a brick on a good day, and Phil had certainly not been having good days recently. So they didn’t talk about it. Didn’t acknowledge it.

That's not to say nothing changed, of course. Techno was… hovering. Close, most of the time. Not so close that it was uncomfortable, but close enough that Phil could see him most of the time. Reach out and touch him. Notice when he was gone a tad more sharply.

Somehow, getting exactly what his instincts wanted made everything worse because now he knew— he had felt electricity and warmth and safety— and the high had been all the better for when reality decided to send him plummeting from the sky and kick him in the dick multiple times. Because it wasn’t his. It wasn’t his. The warmth lingering under his skin was a guilty pleasure he had stolen from the hands of babes because he knew— he fucking knew— that it was a one-time thing. It was the placation of a child. It was comfort pulled away the exact moment he was stable enough to force himself not to need it again. It was pity. The whole thing was lingering like shit weather and he hated it.

It was exactly what he had expected, but the guilt still clawed at his chest. The temptation still ran wild under his skin.

(Because wasn’t that what he wanted anyway? Hadn’t pity always been the natural result of reaching out? Hadn’t that been why he was trying so hard not to? What was he complaining about?)

He threw some more food to the dogs, sighing. They huddled around his feet, some pawing up his pants with a whine. He bopped them on the nose before they could stick their entire faces in the pale of food. The process was repeated at nausium as they just tried again. They would learn someday. Maybe. Hopefully. Probably not, but it was funny seeing them try. Phil chucked the rest of the food off, watching them scatter away, barking at each other as they fought for the biggest pieces.

“You’d think we starve you fuckers.”

He laughed, sound taking on a nervous hum as one of the dogs turned to glare at him. Phil backed away slowly. He swore they knew what he was saying sometimes, but that was ridiculous. Not for any real reason— he wasn’t willing to discount anything with how strange his life already was— but he had told those dogs a shit ton of things, and if they actually understood any of it he was going to be absolutely mortified.

(Not that that was much different than what was already happening. It would just be more, and he really didn’t want to be dealing with anymore at the moment.)

He backed out of the pen slowly, keeping eye contact. The dog looked away first, turning to the food to fight with its siblings instead, but Phil kept looking. Looking as they bit and tore at their siblings. They fought like they hadn't been fed yesterday and they wouldn't be fed tomorrow. The wolf barked, biting into an unfortunate wolf's ear.

(And if that was how they treated pack, how would they treat him? How would they treat prey?)

He ducked out of the pen, shaking out his cloak where it was absolutely destroyed with dog hair. None of it actually came out, but the action was enough to keep his hands busy until he could get inside and start on another project. They could use some more potion stands with how many Techno went though; Techno said he wasn’t addicted—

“Bruh. Slander.”

Phil jumped, wings flaring from under his cloak as he spun around to face the Piglin. Back from a hunt, judging by the blood. Or a massacre. Phil wasn’t one to judge. “Mate I didn’t even say anything.”

“Mmmmm. So you weren't thinkin’ something insulting?”

“...” A nervous chuckle. “Shit, we’ve really known each other that long.”

Techno snorted, patting him on the shoulder as he walked past. (The touch had been a thing between soldiers in their first war together. It was a sign of comradery. Of allyship, but it felt more like cannon fire burning through his skin. It felt like safety and flock and—)

(Guilt heavy in his chest. Pain and shame twisting in his gut, cooling the warmth faster than the arctic air could manage because fuck. Fuck, he had messed up because he wasn’t supposed to be getting this. This wasn’t his to own. This wasn’t his to feel. This wasn’t his to take.)

Techno’s hand left in the next moment.

“— freeze it. Maybe dinner?”

Context clues. What were they talking about? “...Sure mate. Just leave it on the counter and I’ll get it. Is Ranboo around?”

“Should be in his basement.”

“... Ever find out what he’s doin’ down there?”

“...”

Phil laughed (taking a small step backward. The warmth still tingled under his skin, and he did his best to beat the feeling back). “Still haven’t asked?”

“Look. If it's murder, I don't really care. If it's something weirder, I don’t want to know.”

“So the bet is… what? I got five emeralds riding on that.”

“Phil is five emeralds really worth… talkin’ to people?”

“So what I’m hearin’ is I win?”

“...”

“...” (Was that too far, all the sudden? Was that something he wasn’t supposed to say? It had been fine before but maybe something had changed and was it too late to take it back oh gods—)

Techno sighed. “I’ll ask at dinner, okay?

Phil giggled. (fine then. It was fine.) “I need to bribe you into social interaction more often.”

“I’d have ta charge... a stack of emeralds a world Philza. Not sure you have enough.”

(Was that pity? Was that an assumption of weakness or was that a fact? He was poorer than Techno, but would he have mentioned it like that before? Or was that a new thing in the light of weakness.)

(He didn’t ask.)

Phil chucked. “I’d make do to see you actually talk to people instead of just grunting and pointin’. Pretty sure half the villagers are fluent in Piglin from that alone.”

Techno grunted, proving Phil’s point. “You're getting him for dinner then.”

“Thought I was payin’ you?”

“Not on the clock yet old man.” Techno spun around, a deer (probably what they were talking about making for dinner— oh that was going to be a bitch to cook) oh his shoulder as he moved inside. “Go get 'em.”

Well, there were far worse people he could be forced to interact with than Ranboo, even if he did turn out to be a serial killer or something. Honestly, who hadn’t done a massacre or two? It was nothing he, of all people, could judge.

Ranboo’s house was dark, but it was usually dark. The kid was as wander prone as Phil used to be, spending most of his time adventuring or mining or whatever else he got up to; just not at his house. Thus, the house remained dark most of the time, abandoned as its owner did far more interesting things than sit at the base of a snowy hill.

Phil thought about knocking before he just barged in— or maybe leaving a sign outside or something— but he didn’t. Thinking was probably a stretch of the word. It was less of an actual thought process, and more of a ‘well, this is what we’re doing’ type of thing.

He did, and he immediately regretted not bothering to knock because Ranboo was there.

He was there, and not alone.

“Phil!” Ranboo spluttered, dislodging a very clingy Tubbo from his lap as he scrambled to his feet. (His lap. Ranboo had Tubbo sitting on his lap?) “What um… What brings you here?”

Tubbo (who had been sitting in his lap just a moment before because they were close enough for that? Because that was a normal thing?? That was just a thing???) smiled at him from his new home on the floor. “Philza! How's it going!”

(He wondered how Tubbo didn’t feel mortified. He had to feel embarrassed, at the least, but Phil couldn’t pick it up on his face.) The kid smiled up at him, wide and toothy.

Oh… he was waiting for a response.

“... I’ve been good mate.”

“Oh that's just terrific, isn’t it Philza Minecraft!” Tubbo stood up, brushing invisible dust off his coat. “Now what brings you over here big man?”

“I would also like to know that Phil… seeing as you kinda just… barged in.”

Ah, there was his refusal to plan this whole thing out coming back to bite him. That was fair.

Phil chuckled. “Well, I was wonderin’ if...” Was it rude if he just invited Ranboo? Clearly, they were close, and it would be weird not to invite Tubbo (despite… well, despite quite a few of his own grievances with the boy. He could put that aside). Techno would understand if they had an extra person. Social norms made him do it. “... you guys wanted to come over for dinner?”

Ranboo blinked, thinking for a moment. Tubbo did not. He leaped forward, disrupting the silence with a happy: “Of course! We’d love to!”

“Wait Tubbo—” Ranboo hissed, grabbing the aforementioned child by his shoulders— “Sorry, just one moment Phil.”

Phil chuckled. “Take your time mate.”

Phil, a reasonable man who had spent most of his life keeping secrets and engaging in private conversations, had expected them to take it to another room. Maybe ask him to come back a bit later? Or whisper at least. But no, Ranboo just spun around, forcing Tubbo to the ground (Hand heavy on his shoulder but not forced. Not unwanted. Not an inconvenience) next to him as he adopted the loudest whisper— almost a stage whisper— that Phil had ever heard.

Really, it would be more of a crime if he didn't eavesdrop.

“You are not coming over for dinner!” Ranboo hissed, jabbing his finger forward for emphasis.

“Why not! It’s free food?”

“It is not— Tubbo you don't need free food! If you want food I’ll—”

“It's different when you’re the one paying for it. It’s not special.” Tubbo pouted, trying to turn around. Ranboo held him steady. “Besides I wanna talk to Philza Minecraft. We have many important... things to discuss.”

(To Phil's knowledge, there was nothing he needed to talk to Tubbo about. Especially when the kid said it like it was something so… devious.)

“When did Phil— no never mind. You’re not coming to dinner. That’s final.”

“Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy—”

“...are you done?”

“Yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy… Yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy..”

“...”

“Y. yy.”

“...”

“Y.”

Ranboo sighed. “Look, I just haven't explained everything to them and I don't want to have that conversation right... now. Not with Techno and Phil at the same time, at least..”

Tubbo froze up a bit at the mention of Techno. (Not that Phil was paying attention to their body language. The way that Tubbo was leaning on Ranboo’s side. The way there was still a hand on his shoulder. The way it seemed so natural— normal to them. Expected. Welcome.)

“Techno’s gonna be there?”

“I mean… probably? I would assume. He usually is… and it's sort of his house… and—!”

Tubbo shook off Ranboo's hand, bolting up to address Phil (who had enough decency to pretend to be embarrassed when he was caught staring at them). “Sorry big man! Gonna have to sit this one out.”

The good news was he hadn’t actually wanted Tubbo to come at all; for his own reasons maybe, but he hadn’t asked Techno if there was enough food for everyone anyway. It was altogether less complicated if Tubbo didn't come. But on the other hand, there was a history there that he didn’t know. Reactions he didn’t understand. A story he had never been told.

But if it was important Techno would have already told him, so it was probably nothing.

“No problem mate. Maybe next time?”

Tubbo ran forwards, and it was too sudden for Phil to move because Tubbo wasn’t supposed to be a threat— Phil wasn’t supposed to be in danger— and—

Hands wrapped around his shoulders.

A hug.

(Hands, bloodstained as they clamped a monitor around his ankle, leaving a trace of blood on his skin that he wouldn’t be able to wash off for a week. The coarse apron that brushed against his leg. Electric shocks spasming through his body as he leaned just a little too far off his balcony; every time he tried to extend his wings and feel something other than still air. Confinement, firm in his chest. Immobilizing. Crippling. The shattering of glass. The feeling of failure-)

(The warmth was wrong. It was blood and flightless wings, and it was not safety. It was warm like lighting, coursing through his veins, but it was not comforting. The warmth stung more than it healed. Ravaged more than it aided. He was not flock. He was not supposed to be touching him.)

(He was not flock. He was not safe. He wasn’t supposed to be so close— he wasn’t supposed to be touching him— he wasn’t—)

Phil took a breath, just harsh enough to whistle against his teeth. Tubbo pulled away too quickly for him to push him away— but another moment and he would have. (He thinks he would have, because the other option was to shake and freeze like an infant in the face of danger. In the face of a kid, no more a danger than the world raised him to be, and Phil would knock him on his ass with a sword in his throat before he would do anything to hurt him. Before he would do anymore to hurt him. Before he would have the chance.)

But Tubbo pulled away, and Phil found a habitual smile on his face. Stiff, but enough for Tubbos' glance to overlook before he bolted out the door, yelling something to Ranboo that Phil didn’t (couldn’t) quite focus on.

(He felt ungrateful. Tubbo was a fine kid-- misguided, maybe, but not a danger. He didn’t Know why he froze up. He thought that was what he wanted— the touch was what he wanted— but his mind couldn’t be settled when it was given freely. No. He had to take it apparently. He had to inconvenience Techno— his flock, his bond, his friend and so much more— specifically. He had to taint their relationship with pity and guilt.)

(How selfish.)

“Sorry about that Phil…” Rambo shuffled to his feet, looking almost guilty. Almost observant. Almost worried. “I know he can be a little… much, just—”

“No, it’s alright mate.” (It should have been the truth, so maybe it wasn’t a complete lie.) He chuckled, “see you at dinner then?”

“Oh— yes, of course.” Ranboo nodded, “but Phil are you—?”

“See you then mate!” Phil cut him off, spinning around and back towards the door. “Oh, and I’ll knock next time mate. Sorry about that. Fell out of the habit ‘round the house.”

It was a poor excuse, but he didn’t have another.

“Oh it's fine…” Ranboo looked like he might say something, but he smiled instead. “I’ll see you at dinner then?”

“See you then.”

Phil tried to feel like he wasn’t escaping when he left. He tried to, at least, look like he wasn’t hurrying his steps, or savoring the coolness of the air on his clammy skin (when had that happened? When had that house started to feel so stifling?). If his heartbeat a second too fast, that was for him to know. If he almost bumped into the doorframe as he swung into it it was fine. (He was fine.)

He did not look back to see if Ranboo was standing at his door, but he could feel the heterochromatic eyes follow him. He ducked into the house— away from observance— but he kept the urgency in his step. There were things to do. Dinner wasn’t going to make itself, after all.

Chapter Text

“I don’t know— he wasn’t murderin’ anyone mate.”

“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t. Just means he wasn’t at the moment. Murderers can have hobbies.”

Phil chuckled. “I'm just sayin’, imma be lookin’ five emeralds richer here in a minute.”

Techno groaned, falling further into the couch. He had taken the seat when it became apparent that Phil had already done everything else productive to do around the house. It had taken little to no time for him to give in to the throws of impatient, restless boredom. Loud, obnoxious boredom.

It was better than when he was standing in the kitchen, glancing around for something to do. Close enough that Phil had to think about not bumping into him (even when it could have been taken as an accident. Even when Techno tried to initiate it. Even when it was what his mind wanted— because no. He was busy working. He had to work, right? Be useful? Dumb bird brain can agree with that yes?)

“And you’re sure you don’t need help?”

“For the last time mate, I’m fine.” He looked around the (admittedly) mess of a kitchen, splattered with deer blood and dishes he would have to wash after they ate. “There's nothin’ much to do.”

“Bruhhhhhhh— you said that ten minutes ago. You were doing nothin’ for ten minutes?”

Phil chuckled. “Nothin’ I can’t handle then. Just sit for another minute; it’s almost done.”

“Bruhhhhhhh.”

There was a knock at the door and Techno sat up from the couch without so much a glance at Phil for him to get it. Phil giggled. Apparently Techno had reached the level of boredom that surpassed his dread of social interaction. That was impressive.

“Hullo Ranboo.” Techno greeted, letting the taller boy inside. “Good to see ya’.”

“Yeah no Techno! It's been a minute. What have you been up to?”

“Oh ya know… sleep. More sleep. I’ve been sleepin’ a lot— more than I really should be to be honest.”

“Oh really? I wish I could sleep.” Ranboo laughed the fakest laugh Phil had ever heard. “Ha ha ha…. Jokes. I sleep. I’ve been sleeping.”

Well, that wasn't concerning.

Phil tuned out of the conversation there, letting sleeping dogs lie as he pulled dinner out of the furnace. They didn’t have a dining table for him to bring it to— that was another project for him to work on maybe— but he and Techno were usually content enough with a blanket over the couch and the coffee table. Ranboo seemed alright with the setup as well. Or, he hadn’t complained yet. He didn’t seem awfully formal— despite the suit— so it was probably fine.

He set it down at the coffee table, walking away again to grab the blanket they usually put over the couch.

“I could’ve gotten that Phil.” Techno stated, “It was like... two steps away from me.”

“Na I got it.” Phil chuckled. “Ranboo, you mind standing up for a second?”

“Oh— yeah of course!” He bolted up, letting Phil spread the blanket out before sitting back down. “Thank you!”

“No problem mate.”

It was the best thing he had cooked all week. There wasn't much competition. Everything else he had made had tasted like ash, coating his pallet in tasteless nothing after a few bites and making him give up after a few more. Somehow he had broken that particular curse. It was nice.

He hadn't realized how close Techno and Ranboo had gotten. It seemed stupid, considering how close he was with both of them, but he hadn’t. It only really came to him as Techno— socially awkward, won't-talk-to-a-stranger-without-a-gun-to-his-head Techno— started laughing. Talking to the kid like he had known him for years.

“And you’re sure— not even one murder? Not even like... an orphan or something?”

“Um— no? As far as I’m aware I have done zero murderings… probably.”

“Sounds like I win that bet mate,” Phil piped in, snickering.

“But that sounds soooo suspicious!? Bruhh not even like a zombie villager? I’ll take a zombie villager!”

Ranboo's ears flicked downward. “I… is that murder? If they’re zombies??”

“I mean—” and Ranboo, blissfully unaware of Techno's underlying knowledge and interest in philosophy, was then locked into an hour-long rant about the viability of zombie villagers as victims of murder and other crimes.

Phil watched, mostly passive as Techno listed out all his reasons, but interjecting with his minimal scriptural knowledge where he could. Each comment felt like an intrusion, but he smiled anyway. It was (nice) to see them get along— to see Ranboo nodding along like he could follow everything, interjecting with questions that made Phil feel embarrassed that he assumed he Ranboo hadn't understood in the first place.

Phil stepped in with a chuckle before it got too far out of his own understanding. “All this for five emeralds mate?”

Techno snapped out of his rant easily. “Yes for five emeralds Phil— those are five good emeralds!”

“You stingy fuck— you’re rich!”

“Tubbo stole like—! He stole like five stacks of emerald blocks!”

Phil laughed. “That was months ago mate. We both know you already made it back!”

“Wait— Tubbo did what?” Ranboo cut in, tail swishing behind him. It was a clear tell from where Phil sat beside him, but Techno must have missed it because he kept talking.

“Yeahhhhhh. He just strolled into my base and yoinked like, five stacks right before a war.” The betrayal was left unspoken, but it was there in the bitterness of his voice. In the way anger tinged the corner of his eyes for a second in a way a little too real to be about something as inconsequential as emeralds. “A war we were supposed to be allied for.”

“Oh… I’m sorry about that… is there anything… anything I can do to help?”

Techn snorted. “Not stealin’ anything would be a good start.”

Ranboo’s tail flicked uncomfortably, but he nodded. “...Right.”

Ah that was right— he was friends with Tubbo wasn’t he? (An image of them, comfortable and safe, leaning into each other like it was the most normal thing to do. Like it wasn’t an inconvenience. Like it was fine.)

“That reminds me... Ranboo?” Phil started, only feeling a little guilty when the kids' eyes shot to him, startled. He smiled in a gesture he hoped was comforting. “When I walked in, to get you for dinner… um, what were you doing with—”

“— You mean with my, erm, cat!? My very, very harmless and innocent cat!?” Ranboo interjected, and gods never ask the kid to lie for the syndicate because it was the least convincing thing Phil had ever heard.

Phil backed him on it anyway, because what else were friends for. “Yes, with your cat mate.” He chuckled. His wings were pressing into his back, uncomfortable. “What were you doing there?

Ranboo blinked at him with owlish confusion. “We were just… sitting there?”

“That sounds sooooo suspicious— did you murder a cat in your basement?” Techno interjected, eyeing Ranboo. “Because that totally counts.”

“No it wouldn’t you stingy fuck— and no, Ranboo— thats... not what I meant.” But what did he mean anyway? It was none of his business, really. Nothing he should have been taking interest in (nothing he would have taken interest in normally). He chuckled. “it’s nothing mate.”

But Ranboo blinked at him again, like he had no idea what Phil was talking about. (Phil felt a stab of displaced anger at that. That he could get that and not have a knife of guilt stabbed in his back— though, with Tubbo that was always a yet— and just be good. Not have his mind linger on those moments. Not have to think about them. Not have to regret them.)

It didn’t matter. It was nothing he should be taking interest in. The fact he was was just another (weakness) thing he would have to deal with.

“We were talking?” Ranboo guessed.

Phil chuckled again, a flickering panic rising in his chest. “No, not that mate, it's really none of my business. Really, it's nothing.”

“It doesn’t sound like nothin’ to me Phil.” Techno grunted. He had started leaning forward in his armchair. He was staring at Phil just a little too intently. Phil laughed, resisting the urge to sink further into the couch.

Why had he mentioned it at that moment? Why hadn’t he thought— this was not something he wanted to discuss right now. There was a real possibility it wasn’t something he wanted to discuss at all, really, much less with both Ranboo and Techno. The conversation hadn’t even started— there was still a chance it wouldn’t at all— and he already felt like he was pinned to the vivisection table, weaknesses and useless thoughts laid bare to be scrutinized and picked apart.

(And Techno didn’t need to see any more of that mess. He had already seen him incoherent, panicking like a child at what? Nothing. Techno already knew he was weak— no need to let Ranboo in on that particular secret.)

Phil laughed. (There was nothing funny about the situation.) “It’s really nothin’ mate.”

“It's clearly not,” Ranboo stated, pointedly denying any hope Phil had of them just forgetting about it. “But I can’t think of…”

He was going to guess it at some point. There were only so many things he could go through, and it would be less embarrassing if Phil just said it himself right? Just came out with it? That would certainly be the mature thing to do.

“I’m gonna wash the dishes.” Phil bolted off the couch, grabbing his and Ranboos dishes— meal long finished— with anxious hands. They were shaking, he realized belatedly. He was turning around and out of the room before they could mention it. Before they could notice it, if he was lucky.

He was not lucky, of course. If the general trajectory of his life had taught him anything it was that he was not lucky, but the hope that they didn’t notice was the only thing keeping his legs under him so hell, maybe the universe was feeling generous today.

Ha. That was a good one.

He dumped the dishes in the sink with a clatter, wincing as one of them cracked. Right. Don't drop plates. That broke them.

He threw on the tap with just a little more force than he strictly needed, but the sound of rushing water downed out the mumbles he could almost pick up from the other room. Quiet. None of the easy banter that had been there moments before (before he ruined it), but enough to almost make out words. Words talking about him, probably. He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t have a defense. He had nothing to say to any of it, and honestly, he would much rather them just decide what to do with him themselves and just hear it later. Away from their eyes as long as he could be. Away from questions and accusations and the very real possibility that he would panic again and be weak and useless and, really, just hurt their opinion of him more.

So he took deep breaths instead. He focused on the shaking of his hands. The too fast beating of his heart. The roar of water. The crows panicked outside. The muttering that rose above it all regardless, just unintelligible enough that he didn't bolt out the window.

He only thought about going back when the silence dragged for a minute. He only went a minute after that.

The silence felt more pointed after he turned off the water. Strange. Unfamiliar despite the way it used to hang around the house like a cloak, accompanying lazy mornings and familiar routines and being left alone, Techno weeks asleep as he tended to the dogs. It was a different type of silence to that familiarity; a stiff thing that made the air taste stale and foreboding. It made the walk to the living room all the longer.

It was a walk Phil took regardless, a criminal walking to execution with his eyes trained on the floor.

He sat on the couch stiffly, staring at his lap. He laughed (because the only other thing he could do was cry). “Sorry about that… I had to… clean the plates.”

If they looked unconvinced, Phil didn’t check. The highest his eyes flickered was to the window across the room. It wasn’t too late to hurl himself out of it, right?

(But then he would be alone again. It would hurt (destroy, devastate, kill him) less if he was the one to leave— it always had— but it would still hurt. It would still hurt enough to break him so he stayed, even if it was just prolonging the inevitable.)

There was more silence.

Techno cleared his throat. Phil felt his wings flinching inward at the sound.

“So…” Techno drawled, voice uncomfortably curt. “Me and Ranboo were talkin’.”

Phils laugh took on a nervous trill. “I-is that so mate? Hadn’t… noticed...”

Techno cleared his throat again. The silence dragged on another moment.

“I was wondering—” It was Ranboo speaking— “Well, um we were wondering, really, if you were doing… alright.”

(They were giving him a chance to defend himself. Explain why he was acting so strange. Tell them why he was still useful. Tell him why they should look past every selfish indulgence and be allowed to stay.)

He had no defense.

He laughed. “Nothin’s wrong mate— I'm fine.” He emphasized the word, hoping that made it a little more true. He felt like a worm trying to wriggle off a hook. “I-I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Techno stated, near a threat in its own right.

Phil bit back another denial. His wings pressed closer to his back.

Techno must have taken that as acceptance, because whatever part of his tone had sounded uncertain was gone when he spoke next “You’re not fine, Phil.”

Phil wasn’t able to place what emboldened him enough to look up at that, wings puffing out beside him. He didn’t know what exactly made the tone so infuriating at that moment. (He did. It was the softness— the almost care. There was compassion in the voice, almost unnoticeable under the exhausted monotone but clear as church bells to the trained ear. To Phil's ear. To Phil who had always been privy to that comfort when he needed it. To Phil, who was about to hear it tell him to leave and never come back. To Phil who knew that softness was about to destroy him.)

(And to Phil, who was about to lose all that warmth, didn’t want the memory of it tainted so thoroughly.)

“Don’t tell me what I am, mate,” Phil growled, wings bristling as he leaned forward.

Techno didn’t respond. He just looked at him. Looked through him. There was pity in those eyes. It was the type of look you got for a man on the execution block, unaware of the guillotine as he struggled against his bonds.

“I. Am. Fine.” Phil spoke, every word a certainly. A fact. Undeniable.

“You’re not.”

Techno did not respect the definition of undeniable.

Anger flashed through his body, quick as fear. His wings flared in response, nearly knocking Ranboo off the couch. “You don’t get to decide that and I’m fuckin’ fine, Tech.”

“We're not decidin’ anything. We’re talking.” (Phil knew when Techno was lying.)

“Oh because we're not piss poor at that or anything.” Techno winced, a ripple in an ever still lake, and Phil lunged at it. “No no— sorry, isn’t that just a brilliant idea? Let's just put the two most fuckin’ socially incompetent people in the fuckin’ area and have them talk out their issues because gods know you’re so fuckin’ aware of the emotions of the people around you!”

(It wasn’t what he meant but) the lake rippled again. Something almost like anger— like shock— and he clung to it, reigniting whatever was keeping him upright; adrenaline, anger, or fear— it didn’t matter. It was something and he clung to it.

“Phil that’s not what we're talking about—!”

“Or fuckin’ what? You’re gonna kick me out? Sick the dogs on me?” Phil laughed. “Na mate. It's easier to wait until people leave themselves, right? Wait till there's a knife in your back an’ a new enemy to fight so you don't actually have to think about anything. You can just kill whatever's in front of you and be fine. And we’re all happy and dandy and fine.”

Technos eyes flashed red (red like blood. Red like fear. Red like a predator), a new growl in his voice. A threat. His hands clenched in a fist. “Phil, you're walkin’ in dangerous territory.”

(Good. Get angry. Get upset and mad and feel something. Destroy whatever's left until there's nothing to come back to— nothing to regret. Turn it all to dust, live up to your moniker, do something besides hurt and cry and beg and be useless. You're so good at destroying things you love so just break it already.)

“Oh that's off-limits? We’re only allowed to talk about my shit?”

Techno glared, knuckles white from how hard he was holding onto his armrest. “I’m not the one who had a breakdown in the kitchen. I’m not the one who keeps flinchin’ away from every little thing. I’m not the one who’s been workin' myself into the ground.”

Phil forced his wings open again— away from where they were curling inwards to protect him— and glared. “Oh cause your fuckin’ fine.”

“I didn’t say that—!”

“I mean what do I know— maybe you are. Losing people never seemed like it bothered you very much.”

At that moment, there was no doubt in his mind that Techno was about to deck him. He was anticipating it— hoping for it, maybe. Hoping the rings dug into his skin and left a dent there. Left blood on his tongue. Left the echo of sharp heat stinging for hours after the fact. He was staring at Techno’s hand, Phil realized belatedly. It was blatant, and if Techno could see anything past the red in his eyes he might notice that, but he couldn’t. All he could see was the way Phil's wings flared in challenge, not the way they shook. The way his tone curled and bit. Not the way it shook, only the challenge. The anger.

“Phil— why did you say we were going to kick you out?”

Techno went still. Phil felt the color drain from his face.

It was Ranboo who spoke— words blurring together in a rush to get them out before anything got worse. Phil had forgotten he was even there, really. He had been doing his best to sink into the couch, clearly uncoftrtable, and Phil would have felt guilty now that he noticed if he could think anything other than ‘shit shit shit shit’ at the moment.

Ranboos' tail lashed around nervously. “I mean— it seems so specific? And sick the dogs on you? I don't see why we would do that? Just… yeah.” Ranboo giggled, a panicked vocalization slipping out with the sound.

There was silence for a moment. Phil felt like he couldn’t breathe. His wings curled around him. He stared at the boy, mind vacant as he watched his tail flick around.

“It’s just— do you think that we would do that?”

“No—no!” Phil spluttered because he didn’t. Not really. It was just a stupid thing his brain— his instincts— were telling him and he didn’t actually think they were going to. Not logicly. Logicly that was the problem. That they weren’t going to leave and (they were going to ruin themselves with someone worth so little). “No Ranboo— mate— I would never think that mate.”

“But you said it.” Techno pointed out, tone almost vacant in its thoughtfulness.

Phil could feel guilt churning in his gut. Techno wasn’t supposed to sound like that. He had gone too far— he had known that, (but that didn’t matter because he did. It was just another brilliant demonstration of his lacking self control. Another failure. Another reason to kick him out.)

But Phil beat back his apologies with a nervous trill. (He didn’t deserve to say them. He didn’t have a defence.)

“It’s not like that mate.” There was no way to apologize but they deserved an explanation. A reason. Something. “It’s nothing. Sometimes brains just connect weird things and—” Phil stopped himself there. There really wasn’t anything else, was there? Nothing else that mattered. “And it’s fine. It doesn’t really matter, it just came out.”

Techno, quite in tune with the mood of the whole thing, disregarded his last sentence. He hardly even acknowledged it with a sigh as he leaned forward in his chair completely.

“Um—” Ranboo started— “Phil that doesn’t sound like a normal type of connection to have. It really sounds like it does, in fact, matter. Just a bit.”

“Just a little bit.” Techno agreed.

Phil could feel the anger flickering again, more annoyance than adrenaline but it was enough. He let his wings puff up slightly, still half wrapped around him as he glared. “Look mates, I’ve been dealing with my own shit for a long time. I know when my minds makin’ up shit, and this? This doesn’t fuckin’ matter. It's my shit instincts actin’ out and it doesn’t mean anythin’. It’s nothin’. It's fine.”

Ranboo's ears flickered downward, looking between them. “Yeah no Phil; that really doesn't sound good… or healthy— and that's coming from me.”

(Why did they even call him in to talk then? They’ve already made their choice. They already knew he was useless, and even if they weren’t going to kick him out it wasn’t going to be the same. He was going to be a liability, an emotional leech because he couldn’t handle himself. Because he couldn’t just ignore it. He couldn’t hide it.)

“So what then.” The feeling had already died in his chest, leaving him hollow. Leaving him a man, slumped behind his wings. Leaving him tired.

“You’ve been repressing them.”

Phil didn’t have the heart to be angry at the concussion. Not even annoyed. There was just still dread pooling in his stomach, sickening but buried under enough resignation that he could hardly feel it.

He was tempted to let the silence linger. Instead he chuckled. The window was interesting wasn’t it?

“You shouldn’t do that Phil. You know you don't have to.”

“I know.” Because he did. He knew that was what he was supposed to think. He knew he didn’t have to (but it was better. It was stronger, and he was supposed to be strong. Useful. Something worth keeping. Something strong enough to fight beside and earn his peace.)

Maybe it was a mistake to admit it that readily because Techno knew him. He knew the way his wings twitched and he admitted things too easily and he knew when he was lying.

“You don’t or you wouldn’t do it.”

Phil shuffled behind his wings, chuckling. “Mate—!”

“Phil I go huntin’ like, every night.” Techno growled. “I’ve practically emptied the forests around us single-handedly. Do you know the geological impacts of that? Bruhh I can never look a forest spirit in the eyes again, and I’m pretty sure I’m the ‘alf reason the couch is red, but I do it because we both know what happens when you try to ignore shit like that. We both know that.”

“Mate. It's different from that—!”

“But it’s still important, Phil.”

Phil trilled, an awkward sound because how was he supposed to argue against that? He was supposed to be better than that— stronger— but there was no way to explain that. No way that Techno would accept. (No way to say it was a justification of his presence. No way to explain that this was his burden— his birthright. It was his job to control it. It was his job to stop the sounds before they escaped. It was his job to be happy and useful and open. Not this. Not pathetic and clinging and loud. Not this.)

(He wasn’t supposed to be whatever he was.)

Phil sighed, because he knew the correct answer, even if he didn’t believe it. “I know mate.”

“So you know we have to do something right?”

(They didn’t really. He would be fine) but that wasn’t the right answer. “... yes. I do.”

“So…” Techno pushed, “What is it?”

Phil pursed his lips, slinking farther behind feathers. He considered lying, for a moment. It was him being obstinate, maybe, but it was the only thing keeping him from being laid bare on the dissection table, open and plain and weak for all to see. That had been the only thing protecting him for years, and it would be so easy to lie again.

But he didn’t.

“It’s…” He cleared his throat, trying not to flinch as their eyes bore into him. Trying not to hide behind his wings like a child. Trying to seem, if not strong, something resembling functionality. “It’s a… flock… thing. I— this hasn’t been a thing in fuckin’ centuries— I, haven’t been like this in centuries— I don’t need this—”

(He didn’t— he knew better than to need this. It wasn’t his to take— he wasn’t supposed to have to take it it was—!)

“Phil. What is it.”

“It’s—” Gods it sounded so stupid. It was stupid, wasn’t it? “It’s supposed to be a thing within’ flocks but I haven’t had one of those formally in— gods so long— and I shouldn’t be an issue really. As long as I keep busy it’s really—”

“Phil.” Techno leaned forward, almost growling out the word. “What. Is. It.”

“Touch.”

(And wasn’t that the stupidest, simplest thing. Wasn’t it such a small thing to freak out over and wasn’t it the stupidest thing that he had. That he had been worrying over it for weeks— months— to fucking long. Wasn’t that just idiotic?)

“Ohhh. Is that why..?” Ranboo was mumbling something, and Phil could hear it but it was to far away to focus on. It wasn’t what he should have been focusing on. He needed to explain why it was something so simple— so meaningless—threw him for an absolute loop. Not the death of his son. Not the whole everything of his life. This stupid, inane thing.

“And it’s—” (they needed an explanation— a reason for it to be so big—) “It's a thing between flocks— it doesn’t really mean anything. There’s not an exact word for it in English or Piglin or End speak it’s—” (Safety. Assurance. Someone close for no other reason then they could be. Because they were allowed to be and safe and everything was safe—) “Fuck its stupid— and I can’t explain it I’m—”

There was a hand on his wing, pulling the limb from his face.

There was a hand brushing over feathers.

And.

It.

Burned.

He keened, leaning towards the contact with a bleary want. (He knew those hands better than his own. He knew their calluses and he knew what they looked like around the handle of an axe. He knew they were safe. They were safe and warm and flock.)

It wasn’t blinding the way it had been nights ago. It wasn’t electricity and fire and desperation. It was a softer thing-- the flit of a butterfly's wings so subtle that you had to get closer to assure yourself that it was even real; that it wouldn’t just vanish in the next moment.

“Anddd he has an off button.” He could feel the chuckle more than he heard it, a deep rumble reverberating through bone and blood and touch. Stiff. Worried. “Would’ve loved that five minutes ago”

“Oh f’ck offffff.” He drawled, tucking his wing out of the way so he could push his face into the contact. “N’ sass. Only—”

He interrupted himself with another keen as a second hand reached for his face. He could feel his wings mantled on his back, out of the way as he leaned forward. Leaning towards (warmth flock safety) Techno. Practically leaning off the couch entirely really.

Then it wasn’t practically, and he was tumbling forward into Technos lap.

He landed in an ungraceful pile of feathers and chirps and cloaked in warmth. Drowning in it, almost, and he sank deeper. He wanted to sink deeper. He wanted to drown in the warmth, the (safety comfort flock acaptance). The hands were moving off his face then, but that was alright because the warmth was everywhere. Surrounding him, flooding his system with assurance and only the smallest hint of guilt.

He hadn’t realized he was tense until it drained off him. The panic in his mind ebbed away-- the need for explanation and reason melting into a pleasant hymn in the back of his mind. His wings spilled behind him, waging a loosing fight against gravity as he fell to the cold floor.

Techno hit the ground with a grunt. Phil didn’t feel bad. The piglin could take it.

Or he didn’t feel bad until he remembered what he was doing. Remembered that Techno wasn’t supposed to have to take it.

Techno must have felt the moment he froze up and choked back another chirp. He must have noticed because there was already an arm wrapped around his middle when he tried to pull away. His wings flapped in a panic at the restriction, trying to list him up but only really succeeding in bumping against the coffee table.

His lazy mind could supply no real reason-- no purpose for his panic-- but he wasn’t supposed to get this. This wasn’t his. He didn’t need this.

“Hey Phil it’s fine. Phil.”

He whined— a frustrated sound he couldn’t quite stop. “But Tech— you’re not supposed to have to— fuck, I’m not suposed to get this.” He didn’t know how to make him understand. He didn’t know the words to use and it was frustrating. It was infuriating-- more infuriating then the chirps he still couldn’t quite stop. Then the temptation to lean even closer. Gods English was such a shit language. ”You don’t need to do this— this isn’t necessary. You don't have to—!”

The warmth was suffocating— heavy, almost— and it would be so easy to just fall into it. To just fall into it and stay there.

“Phil.” The hand that wasn’t holding him in place moved to his hair, combing through it with a sad smile. Phil stopped pushing against the hold, doing his best to remain coherent and willing to pull away at a moment's notice. It was getting progressively harder. “Phil, I promised you the world. A hug is far from where I draw the line.”

That was all the permission Phil needed to fall back into that warmth. To let the panic slip away from him once more.

It felt impossible. It wasn’t a million lightning strikes under his skin. It was almost natural. It was birds chirpping on a summer morning, back from their winter reprieve. It was the stars, almost unnoticed in their absence until they came back. Almost unnoticed, but not quite. Phil moved closer as Techno readjusted his grip into more of a hug and less of a constraint. He let himself melt further into that grip. His existence was a meaningless song of chirps and keens— singing of flock and safety and sleep. Of comfort and acceptance and conversations he wasn’t ready to have yet.

His eyes felt heavy, the burden of too many hours spent avoiding the throws of nightmares. He couldn’t manage more than a choked coo of complaint when Techno shifted back, bringing them both into a more comfortable position on the ground.

They were talking somewhere to the right, gathering blankets. Phil remembered a pile of them plopping down as he let his wings fall limp against his back. The feathers brushed upwards in the agitated updraft. Cool. So different from the warmth he was drowning in.

They spread the blankets around clumsily, Techno eliciting more than a few complaining chirps.

“T’ch ya doin’ it ‘rong.”

“It’s a pile of pillows-- I don’t think ya can do it wrong.”

Phil sighed, laminating his friend’s lack of appreciation for comfortable bedding. He pulled away from the warmth with a lazy stretch.“Give it h’re an’ I’ll--” An unbidden yawn escaped his throat-- “I’ll do it.”

“So help me if you don't learn to relax Philza.” Techno chuffed, fond despite the admonishment. Phil still found himself pliant as techno pulled him back into his chest. “The house ain’t burnin’ yet. Just relaxxx.”

Phil grumbled something unintelligible and probably rude into Techno’s cloak. If the piglin understood then he didn’t respond to it. He felt too heavy to put any more effort in voicing his complaints. He settled for watching pillows and stray feathers scatter around through heavy eyes, giving out the occasional chirp when Technos hands came back to ghost over his hair. His feathers. His spine.

Ranboo stumbled into the mess eventually. Somewhere in front of Phil, but not close enough. Phil looped his wing over the anxious hybrid with a stretch, lazily coating the boy in feathers. He was not as warm as Techno-- cold and in all the ways Techno was not-- but Phil hummed as the boy scooted closer, rubbing against sensitive feathers with every breath. Phil smiled.

He felt more than he heard Techno laugh. He felt more than he processed a hand painting circles between his wings, a steady constant movement.

He felt the world fade away bit by bit. He felt the darkness encroaching behind his eyes. He felt the weight falling off his shoulders, pooling like spun silk beneath his eyes. He felt a constant fluttering heartbeat under his fingertips. The steady in and out of breath.

"I'm not leavin'." There was no way to know if he imagined the words; if he imagined the way Techno's hands paused for a second. "Not for the world, Phil. Don't worry bout that."

For the first time in a long time, Phil felt safe, and he drifted away into a blissfully dreamless sleep.