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Techno doesn’t… approve of most things that Wilbur does, mostly because the things Wilbur does are indicative of an extrovert with anxiety.
Techno is an introvert with anxiety and ADHD. His main problems are getting peer pressured into group outings and getting up in the morning. Wilbur’s main problems are getting peer pressured into smoking, drinking, and sex and getting up in the morning.
And while Techno does not approve of the things that Wilbur may be getting up to in his shady group of friends, he couldn’t care less about what his twin gets up to. He shuts his mouth about the bruises that look suspiciously lip-shaped on his collarbone, the heavy smell of smoke and booze whenever Techno picks Wilbur up from some indie concert, and the dull eyes and eye bags. Mostly because Wilbur’s too out of it to notice how Techno hasn’t been attending college since winter quarter started, what with keeping his own brother alive, but, you know. Everyone has their own problems.
At least Phil and Tommy live far enough away that it’s better to just go home solely during Christmastime. Techno doesn’t think they would approve of his and Wilbur’s deterioration.
(He definitely doesn’t want Tommy to see it. Kid is too bright for his own good. He deserves better role models than Wilbur Soot and Technoblade.)
Techno unlocks the door to their shitty apartment, jittering the handle until it gives. He kicks the door open, maneuvering four grocery bags around it, and slams it behind him.
Wilbur is on their grandma couch, eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling as an arm hangs over the side, cigarette twirling idly in his fingers. His other hand rests over his heart, overcoat and ratty old yellow sweater still over his shoulders.
Techno grunts, dropping the groceries to lock the door. “You’re home early.”
Wilbur turns his head towards Techno slightly, showing that he’s alive, at least. “What are your thoughts on death, Technoblade?”
Techno blinks. Then he sighs, picking up the groceries once more.
He mostly bought cereal, because that’s the easiest to make. Single-serve Caesar salads and bread go in the fridge, and so do eggs and milk. Whatever’s left goes on the counter.
He goes back into the living room to see Wilbur uncharged from his position on the sofa, save for the fresh smell of smoke that hangs in the air. He settles in their one armchair, taking a book from the side table and propping it open on his lap under the pretense that he was reading it. He’s already forgotten what happened in the first half of the book.
“Honestly,” Techno says, “I really––I have no opinion on death.”
Technically that’s a lie and Wilbur knows it. One is not depressive as a culmination of numerous disorders and does not think about death.
It’s also about as close to the truth as he’s willing to admit. Wilbur turns to face the ceiling.
“Do you think we tell each other lies,” Wilbur says hazily, lips barely parted in some form of ventriloquism, “to–to make it feel like we might be right? Or that we might not be alone? You know, like, every hundred or so years, they’ll find another way–– like it happened with swords, then guns, then nuclear bombs. Why do you, Technoblade, want to stay, if everybody goes? We’re all going to be alone, in the end. Why are you still here, Technoblade?”
In the five stages of grief that occur to Techno in the millisecond between him hearing the question and fully processing it, thousands of possible replies parse through his mind. Some biting, others understatements.
There's no simple way to answer the question. But what Wilbur demands, Techno must deliver.
“I have you,” is what he ends up saying. “I have Phil, and I have Tommy. Also, our lease isn’t up until July, man; I don’t wanna let our little money go to waste.”
“And when Phil goes?” Wilbur presses. “Me? I? When I go? Our friends?”
Techno shrugs, flipping a page. “I’ll mourn you, if that’s what you want.”
“What is your purpose in your life, Technoblade?” Wilbur says, turning his head to fully face Techno.
It’s the first time in a while that Techno’s seen Wilbur’s eyes, and he’s already forgotten how piercing they can be.
Right. He’s done with this bullshit. “Why are you askin’ all of this?”
Wilbur shrugs. “Just humor me, Technoblade.”
Techno sighs. “Dunno. Haven’t found it yet.”
(Another lie.)
“Valid,” Wilbur hums.
“Why are you askin’ this?”
Wilbur sighs, bringing up his cigarette to his lips. “Sally broke up with me.”
Ah, yes. The elusive Sally, the slinky redhead slung around Wilbur’s neck more often than not. Techno considers her the source and solution to all of Wilbur’s problems: her friends replaced his, and she’s had better luck at taking the bottles and cigs from Wilbur’s hands than Techno has.
She seemed ethereal, like she was born of sea foam and ichor like Aphrodite. There was a sparkle in her eyes that somehow entranced Wilbur, but made Techno hold her at arm’s length.
He doesn’t trust her. She doesn’t trust him. They have a mutual interest in keeping Wilbur alive, albeit for vastly different reasons.
Whatever she and Wil had was between the two of them. Techno does not know where he factors into this sordid equation.
Wilbur suddenly slams his hand down on the coffee table, knocking the cigarette from his grip. Techno subtly snuffs it out with his socked foot. “God, all I wanted to do was to love her. And then she dumps me in front of––of literally everybody I’ve spent precious hours with for the past year, and now my life is ruined. She’s left me. She’s gone. The love of my life is gone, and with her goes everything I was because she took that from me for herself, Technoblade. There’s nothing left for me here.”
Wilbur takes a shuddering breath in, coughing when he finally settles back into the couch. “I think death would be less painful than heartbreak, Technoblade. I don’t know if I can handle this––this much pain. It’s like my heart is missing from its chest cavity, I–– It’s not so wrong to wonder why everybody dies. Or when will I. I’d like to know. Just to see if––when I can escape this–– labyrinth of suffering sooner.”
“Please don’t,” Techno says, then backtracks. “Okay, that was a little harsh. But still.”
Wilbur cranes his neck to look at him. “C’mon Techno, you gotta have something else keeping you here.”
Techno shrugs noncommittally.
“Don’t you have college?”
Techno shrugs once more.
“Techno,” Wilbur says, almost pleading. “Techno, c’mon, man. Work with me here.”
“What do you want me to say?” Techno says, letting out a little sigh as he meets his brother’s eyes. “There’s nothing I can say to ‘hey, Techno, I think I wanna die embroiled in a conflict in this mortal realm.’ Death jokes aren’t lucrative unless they’re about yourself, and I don’t have a particularly strong reason to off myself at this point in time, man.” He closes his book. “Okay, but seriously. I don’t think I can do this without you.”
This . A word insufficient enough to be defined by any particular phrasing of words, because it all at once encompasses too much and reduces it to one word. Life. Purpose. Love. Death. Truth. Living, and being alive, and all the essential encoutrement that goes along with such unimaginable circumstances.
Wilbur might’ve found this in Sally.
But Techno finds this , or the doing of this , in Wilbur.
He finds the sentence too vulnerable, too deep for his own liking, and yet it still feels insufficient.
There’s a moment of quiet. Techno thinks that Wilbur might be frozen in time.
Wilbur suddenly sniffles, the back of his hand pressing into his mouth like he’s trying to stifle a sob. “God, I just wanted–– I wanted––”
“Yeah,” Techno forces out, throat closing up from emotion. “Yeah.”
Wilbur’s face disappears beneath his hands. Techno thinks he might be crying.
He gets up from his armchair, putting the book on the coffee table. He makes his way onto the couch, nudging Wilbur’s long legs to clear enough space for him to sit.
Wilbur sits up and immediately slams his face into Techno’s shoulder. Techno wraps his arms around him awkwardly, patting his back.
Although they hurt differently, the pain is the same.
but it's okay to cry
and it's alright to fold
but you are not alone
you are not unknown