Chapter Text
Technoblade is a simple man.
He brushes out his hair when it grows, works out the knits and knots and the loose parts sticking out with his porcelain brush, he holds his younger brother when he comes into his room to recover from a nightmare, he sits for countless hours with his friend for nights on end, he cooks for his siblings when their father is away, he stays with his twin and he listens as he talks and talks,
He rarely - very rarely, but he does, - sit, crossed-legged and let his closest friend weave his hands through his hair, preen his wings, and he listens as he hums, eyes hazy and unfocused,
He recognizes the song, something his father would sing to him to soothe him to sleep, but can’t quite find it in him to remember what it is,
“Techno?” A distant voice brings him out of his half-asleep daze. His head hurts. “I’m going to do your wings now, alright?”
He gives a hum of acknowledgement, a shrug, unable to find the right words. He doesn’t know when his eyes close, or when he stops hearing the slight buzz of the humming behind him.
The one constant, though, are the hands on his wings. They’re gentle, careful not to touch anywhere they aren’t supposed to, or to jostle any feathers. He plucks them with deft fingers and with skill, only after Techno gives the slight nod of confirmation every time.
The inexperience is charming, if not messy.
He enjoys it all the same, though, the feeling of warm hands moving delicately through his feathers.
He’s tired.
He doesn’t notice when the hands are removed, or when they sweep up the small pile that had accumulated over time, or when the warmth is back beside him, allowing him to nestle into its side.
“Goodnight, Techno,” The warmth rumbles with quiet words, and Techno trills in response.
He lets himself rest. Dream doesn’t.
He sits there for minutes, hours, running hands through the loose ponytail, looking for something to do without bothering Techno.
He looks over at his friend, brushing long golden strands of hair behind his ear and watches as he turns in his sleep, and comes to the realization that he looks less than flattering.
His mascara, a lovely green he’d picked out may he add, smeared and spread over his eyebrow, eyeliner done with an unsteady hand. Rosy pink cheeks had flushed further with the roughness of the brush they’d used,
It’s almost laughable, really, and he would, if he hadn’t met the same fate. He hugs a pillow close to his chest and leans back against the wall, slumping further to the floor.
It was boring.
He yawns and stretches just slightly. Maybe Wilbur was awake. Maybe he could make him tea. The thought is dismissed soon, though, as his eyes catch something off of the floor.
His brain lights up with an idea, and a great one, at that; He reaches out to the marker and pops its lid off, sitting up properly.
“Sorry, Tech,” He says as the marker makes contact with skin.
He’s not sorry.
Techno shifts and tosses around slightly, but if there was anyone who knew that he wouldn’t wake up any time soon, it was Dream.
So he draws. He doodles smiley faces and he writes small, recognizable phrases, and when he’s done, he marvels at his work, tossing the marker aside because he knows that Techno won’t mind.
And with that, he finds it in himself to let himself fall into a slumber, leaning slack with most his weight either onto the wall or onto Techno himself, and he closes his eyes.
//
When he wakes, he’s meeted with a pair of mismatched golden and blue eyes looking back at him with an expression that he can’t quite name,
“What,,,?” He mumbles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, “‘ave I got something on my face?”
Pink hair shakes it’s head, colours blurring together as he recollects his mind, shrugging it off,
“‘Kay,” He dismisses, standing and stretching his arms over his head, wincing as his back cracks, and Techno makes some quip about his age,
“It was you!”, he defends, crossing his arms, “You and your stupid sleeping positions, my neck is fucking killing me,”
Techno laughs, and it seems all too cruel. If Technos joints pop just as much, or slightly more than his, then he elects to ignore it out of the goodness of his heart,
“Whats for breakfast? I’m starving,”
Techno peeks out of the door, shrugging, “Toast, if you’re willing to make it,” He jokes, dry, but goes to check the time anyway, squinting across the room to get a proper look at Wilburs alarm clock. It’s a bit late for breakfast, he then realizes,
“Something cold, probably,”
“This is your fault,” Dream accuses, no true blame behind it,
“How is this my fault? You were the one who didn’t get up,”
“You were supposed to wake me! What were you even looking at me like that for, anyway? I mean, I know I’m good-looking, but I didn’t know you were that far gone,” He hums, earning an eye-roll in response,
“Gross, lets go before I lose my appetite,”
He doesn’t argue, slipping on a sweater that probably doesn’t belong to him as he follows out into the hall.
Techno opens up the microwave and checks the contents, “Sausage, egg and toast?” He offers, as if either of them had much of a choice, before he presses the start button.
The two of them start humming as soon as the microwave does.
The toast is warm and chewy, to an uncomfortable degree. Techno slides his sausages onto Dreams plate without complaint.
Neither of them miss the glances they exchange, and the ways that they just only manage to bite back laughter.
He watches as Techno raises a hand to catch himself as he laughs, snicker falling through the gaps in his fingers as his shoulders shake with it. He thinks he looks like a bit of an idiot.
It’s only when he goes to shower does he figure out why. His face is littered with red marker.
He grips the sink so hard that his knuckles go white, and tries to scrub off the highlighter, to no avail.
He makes a promise, not only to Techno, but to himself, as well. A promise that he intends to fulfil, no matter what it takes.
“You’re dead, Blade.”