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Technoblade doesn't bring flowers to Dream's grave.
To call it a grave at all is being generous: it's little more than a stone slab, tucked into the shadow of the community house. Dream's name is engraved on it, followed by the years he lived and nothing else. The stone is roughly cut and the words are jagged, but dotting the grass in front of it are dozens of plants— bright cornflowers and mushrooms hiding in the damp shade, like an offering. Techno kneels, careful not to crush any of them.
For a long moment, he sits there, silent. Birdsong breaks the quiet as the sun crawls into the sky, still lingering behind the treetops.
"You never called in that favour," Techno finally says, and feels a little stupid. Still, he continues. "I couldn't've gotten you out of the prison. I mean, I didn't try. The security's tight." Another pause. "But I wish you'd asked.
“I hate… owin' people. And a favour from me's a pretty big deal, y'know?" He laughs wryly. "The least you could have done before you went and got yourself killed for the last time was cash it in, settle the score." Dream's grave, of course, doesn't reply, and Techno sighs. Before he can say anything else, though, the sound of footsteps from around the corner makes him pause.
Techno tenses, ready to stand and leave. In the wake of Dream's death, the server had settled into some fragile mimicry of peace— waiting for whoever might mourn him to have a moment to do so, at the very least. Techno isn't mourning Dream, not really. He only came because it felt wrong not to. But Dream wasn't well-liked in his life, and even death could sway very few of their opinions in his favour.
It turns out that he doesn't have to worry, because an almost unfamiliar face blinks at him from a few paces away. It takes Techno a moment to place him.
"George," he greets awkwardly, shifting his weight.
The other player's hands clench in the red fabric of his cloak, and he steps closer.
"Technoblade." he replies, surprisingly soft. Techno clears his throat, moving to stand.
"I was just leaving—"
George shakes his head, cutting him off neatly. "It's alright," he says. "If you want to, stay." Techno remembers, then, that George had once been crowned king. He'd been dethroned— and if he hadn't, they might be having a very different conversation right now— but still, something lingers in the way he moves.
Techno dips his head in acquiescence, tension seeping from his shoulders. George closes the distance between them, kneeling a handspan away from Techno in front of Dream's grave. The same mushrooms that dot the ground around Dream's grave are nestled in the fur trim of George's cloak and his hair— Techno catches himself staring and tears his eyes away. (There's not a single person on this world that isn't a bit strange.) For a moment he fears that the two of them are going to sit in complete silence, but George settles his hands on his knees.
"I didn't think anyone else was going to come," he remarks, examining the grass.
I'm not here to mourn, Techno doesn't say. We weren't friends. We were barely allies. I'm only here for my own closure.
Instead he asks, "Did you plant the flowers?"
George's head tips upwards, like he's surprised Techno spoke at all. "Yes," he answers, and as if reading Techno’s mind, he continues, “Puffy was the one who carved the gravestone. But she hasn't been back since."
"Can't blame her," Techno immediately jokes, and just as immediately regrets it. George just smiles bitterly.
"No," he says. "I can't, either."
There's another bout of silence. Techno tries to gather words, to form some sort of sentence— sympathy, something, anything. But instead he looks at Dream's grave and tries to reconcile it with the player who'd turned L'Manberg into a wasteland with him, thinks of Tommy's frightened face haloed by fire. He doesn't think he could muster sympathy for Dream even if he sat here until the sun burnt out.
"I loved him," George says.
It sounds uncertain, and he's staring straight ahead when Techno looks back over at him. A deep breath. "I loved him," George repeats bitterly, "and he said he loved me. I believed him."
"I'm sorry," Techno says. It's probably not the right thing to say, but George's jaw clenches as sorrow wavers in his carefully composed expression for a second.
"I wish I'd been enough," he continues. "I wish— if he loved me, wouldn't that have been enough?" It is, of course, a rhetorical question, and if it had been genuine Techno doesn't know how he'd answer. Around George, mushrooms push out of the dirt, little red-capped stems in their overlapped shadows. Death and decay go hand in hand.
"We had our future all planned out," George says. "The community house. Our farm, our lake, our home. We said—" he inhales, blinks quickly, "— we'd always be together, until the end. One big, happy family."
Look how that turned out, he doesn't say.
"It wasn't enough, in the end," George murmurs. "Even though I loved him. Even though he wanted to die for love."
"Sometimes," Techno says, and is almost startled by the sound of his own voice, "wanting isn't enough." He thinks of Wilbur, his frayed brown coat, Phil scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing his hands pink and raw in frigid water until he no longer feels the hot spray of blood over them. How Tommy had tried so hard to save Wilbur. How that, too, hadn't been enough.
"No," George agrees, bitter, defeated, resigned.
“That’s not.” Techno pauses, uncertain, before pressing on. “It’s not your fault, though. Dream made his choices.” Deliberately, he adds, “I did, too."
George doesn't say anything, but he finally looks at Techno. His gaze is waterlogged with grief.
"I don't know if he regretted it," Techno continues. "Don't think we're ever gonna find out, now. But it's not a matter of… if you were enough to stop him. If loving you was enough to stop him."
"Isn't it, though," George says miserably, more a statement than a question.
"Sometimes love makes people do terrible things, too," Techno replies.
"So you're saying that people will do terrible things regardless?" George's voice is wry. "Isn't that awfully pessimistic of you."
“I’m sayin’ that you shouldn’t blame yourself for the things that other people do,” Techno mutters, and George laughs; a short thing, but a laugh nonetheless.
“Just the things I do, then,” he says. “Do you?”
“Do I what?” Techno asks, taken off-guard by the hint of amusement in George’s eyes.
“Blame yourself.”
Techno turns away. “No,” he says. “I have my beliefs, and I— I stuck to ‘em. That’s what matters to me.”
“What about the things that other people have done?” George leans forward, like he’s trying to examine Techno’s face. Techno presses his lips together, remembers a ravine lit by lanterns. A bunker.
“What do you think?” he returns. George looks at him for a moment longer before he speaks.
“I think,” he says gently, “that you carry a lot of grief. And guilt.”
Techno has nothing to say to that, so he snorts. "If you say so." George gives him a small smile.
“Thank you,” he adds, out of the blue. “I really didn’t think that anyone else would come.”
“You shouldn’t be thankin’ me for that,” Techno mumbles. George shakes his head. Behind them, the sun is clearing the tips of the trees, casting warmth onto their backs.
“I never went to visit him, when he was in the prison,” George says, almost wistfully. “I hope he doesn’t— didn’t— resent me for it, but he probably did. He died alone, so— really, thank you. And thank you for listening to me, too.”
Techno, despite himself, hunches over a little in embarrassment. “Quit sayin’ that,” he grumbles. “You don’t…” he trails off. “I’m not a great listener.”
“If you say so,” George parrots back at him, eyes crinkling in the corners. He takes a deep breath before standing in one smooth movement, brushing dirt from his knees. So close, Techno can see that the fabric is worn thin, grass-stained green; this version of the dethroned king, human and frayed, makes the daylight suddenly more real as it falls over his shoulders. “Goodbye, Technoblade.”
“Just Techno ‘s fine,” Techno blurts. A cornflower sprouts by George’s ankle, delicate petals unfurling towards the sky. “See you around, George.”
“Hm,” George hums, turning on his heel. He’s looking at the sky, too. “Maybe you will, Techno.”
His footsteps fade to silence, disappearing into the trees. Techno sits there for another long few moments, just breathing; Dream’s grave is bathed in orange light, his name dark against the stone.
“I wish you’d told me what flowers you’d liked,” Techno eventually says in the still morning air. “I’ll try to bring some for you, next time.”