Chapter Text
With disdain, Technoblade stared down at the papers below him. He was supposed to be writing a letter, about…something. To someone. Though, if you asked him specifics, Technoblade couldn’t tell you shit. He knew it was important, but there was no urgency in his movements. He was exhausted, sluggishly trying to think of something, anything, to put down on the paper.
He found his leg bouncing, a feeble attempt at jolting him into staying awake.
Shaking the lurking sensation of fatigue from his head, he picked up his quill, dipped it in the ink, held it to the paper and…nothing. A small pool of black dripped lazily to the parchment, probably staining his desk as it bled through.
Fuck.
His quill, suddenly heavy, slipped from his weakening fingers. His movements were slowing, and his brain was beginning to fog. There was no coherent thoughts besides those of his bed, and he hated it. This wasn’t the first night he’d worked this late, not by a long shot, but it was the 3rd in a row, and he could tell his body despised him for it. To be honest, though, he also despised himself for it. He hated being this tired. It made him vulnerable.
Techno looked down. He figured gazing at the other papers on his desk would help with telling him what to jot down, to jog his memory or inspire him some way, but his vision was blurry and distorted. What was supposed to be words just looked like black smudges that vaguely resembled letters. Techno quickly realized that attempting to read, much less comprehend anything was pointless.
Running a hand down his face, he released a heavy breath, that quickly turned into a yawn halfway through. Techno groaned and blinked, eyelids feeling like weights and screaming to be kept closed. He propped his chin on his scarred palm, hardly registering his stubble scratching irritably at his poorly healed skin, and stared, albeit unfocused, at the uselessly empty parchment on his desk.
***
When Phil did find Techno, an inevitable occurrence, it was either extremely late at night, or incredibly early in the morning. Phil had gotten up and noticed Techno still wasn’t in his bed. He left him to go to sleep nearly 6 hours ago. Phil hoped he hadn’t been awake the whole time. He knew Techno had a tendency of staying up late, especially recently. Keeping busy meant keeping his mind off of…current situations.
Phil walked around the cottage, and, realizing Techno wasn’t anywhere he should be this late, like his bed, Phil sighed and opened the door to their study.
And there he found Techno, head laid on his arms, seemingly having collapsed into his papers. Phil looked at him, like he always found himself doing. Eyes closed, an echo of a strangely peaceful expression on his face, Techno’s hair fell loosely into his face, his glasses lay askew on the desk in front of him. His back rose and fell with steady, even breaths. His mouth was slightly open, a soft, purring snore emitting from him. A pang of…something struck deep in Phil’s heart. Compassion? Warmth? Annoyance? He didn’t know. Maybe a mix of all 3. Maybe something more.
What Phil did know, however, is that he hated when Techno got to the state where he got so exhausted that he’d fall asleep at his desk. Phil exhaled a quiet breath and slowly made his way over.
He laid a hand on Techno’s shoulder, and shook it gently. Techno stirred, squeezing his eyes shut tightly before opening them. He gazed up at Phil, who only gave him a small, almost sad, smile.
Techno blinked, sat up, and put his face to his hands. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palms.
Humming a half response, Phil pulled Techno close to him, cradling Techno’s head to his chest. He began combing invisible, intricate patterns into Techno’s scalp with his fingers. Phil needed Techno to know that he wasn’t mad he fell asleep. He just wanted Techno to go an actual bed when he slept.
Techno’s shoulders dropped, his posture loosened. He leaned heavily against Phil, into the touch, the sound of Phil’s heartbeat becoming a comforting droning drum in his ears. He closed his eyes and let the heartbeat become a lullaby, the patterns becoming the pictures of which to paint his dreams.
He could stay like this forever. Just with Phil.
Then, he thinks somewhere in the back of his sleep-riddled mind, then he could finally be happy.
Truly and genuinely at peace.
Pure and undisturbed peace.
Only then could he be happy.