Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Philza thinks he should preen his wings more often.

He’s pretty sure it’s something that you’re meant to do once a day. It must be, because each time he wakes up in the morning, his feathers itch from the flecks of grime and the twisted shafts that mar his wings. He only notices it because they used to be in a state of perpetual irritation some years ago, and now that he actually gets to preen them, he can tell when they’re in need of care.

Yet he can only bring himself to preen them once a week at most. Oftentimes, he’s just too busy filling his role as co-Emperor of a burgeoning empire to bother with them. Most of his duties begin the moment he wakes and continue until the second his head hits the pillow at night - assuming he makes it to bed in the first place.

But sometimes, on those dark, early mornings where he tumbles into consciousness with his veins ablaze with terror and an aborted shriek in his throat, even the very thought of running his hands through his feathers is enough to make his stomach turn.

This morning, however, the itchy discomfort has finally become too much to bear. So, after spending twenty whole minutes psyching himself up (it’s pathetic, really), Philza bites his tongue, folds his wing into his lap, and begins to preen.

He’s quick, he’s clinical, and he’s probably not being as thorough as he should be because when he moves onto another section of his wing, something still prickles, or a few shafts still look askew. He doesn’t dare linger in one spot for too long, though. He made that mistake once and had to wait almost two hours for the tremors to go away and for his brain to come up with anything beyond buzzing static. (Missed a meeting because of it too. Thank the fucking skies it wasn’t an important one.)

So he preens, and he tries his best to think about literally anything but what he’s doing.

Naturally, his gaze goes to the window (the drapes are open, always open, even when the time of year drags the sun above the horizon much too early) where the pale golden glow of an antarctic morning streams in. The sky is almost cloudless today, only streaked with wispy white clouds high up in the atmosphere where the winds whip past at break-neck speeds. 

Philza wonders what it would be like to ride those wild winds, to feel it play havoc with his hair or burn past his cheeks. Maybe he should go out for a flight today - if the itinerary allows for it... Which it definitely won’t, but it’s still a nice thought.

There’s a sudden knock on the door: three gentle raps from a familiar cloven hand. “Phil? Ya up?”

Philza’s eyes shift to the entryway, hands stalling briefly in their motions. “Er - yeah. Come on in.”

Philza’s hands continue their work as the door creaks open, revealing the hulking figure of Techno as he ducks in through the just-too-short doorway. He’s already prepared for the day, his Antarctic Blues freshly ironed and the shimmering tassels of his sashes free of tangles. His mane has been just barely contained by some well-placed braids and pins, and his crown has been nestled among the stray locks.

Techno lifts an eyebrow as he takes Philza in. Philza considers that maybe Techno stares for a little longer than one might for a simple greeting, and he also considers that this should definitely make him uncomfortable; but it’s Techno, so Philza finds nothing wrong there. 

Techno’s eyes do leave him, eventually, as the piglin lumbers over to the unoccupied chair by Philza’s cluttered desk. “You finally get around to cleaning those?”

Philza chuckles, knowing the dig is nothing but light-hearted. “Oof. They look that bad, mate?”

“I’ll be honest with you, Phil - ” Techno plunks himself down backwards in Philza’s chair, arms draped over the back - “it looked downright awful to be draggin’ those around.”

“ Felt downright awful, too,” Philza admits with a wry grin. He switches out his right wing for his left one without missing a beat. “This morning was the last straw. Just got too fuckin’ itchy. Had to do something about it, and this is the first chance I’ve had all week.”

(It’s a lie. He had plenty of time on Thursday evening. However, he’d found that the pile of miscellaneous scouting reports sitting on his nightstand was a very, very pressing matter that needed to be attended to immediately.)

“Well, I’m glad you’re getting the time now,” Techno replies genuinely, his lips curling in a warm grin around his ivory tusks. His deep, Nether-red eyes shift away for a moment, no doubt deferring to the grandfather clock tick-tocking away in the far corner. The grin wavers slightly. “Ah but - you have any idea how much longer that’s gonna take you? No rush, of course.” He squints consideringly, muttering to himself, “Well, okay, maybe a little rush - no, it shouldn’t take us that long to get down to the hangars, and you’re already dressed…”

This is true. Philza has already dressed himself up in his Antarctic Blues this morning, as well as washed his face and brushed out his hair and donned his own golden crown and even laced up his boots even though he still sits on his bedside with his cloak hung up in the corner ready to go and yet it still took him twenty fucking minutes to suck it up and thread his fingers through the frankly embarrassing mess of feathers and grime that he likes to call his wings. Gods.

“I’ll only need a couple more minutes,” he returns. He’s already wasted enough valuable time on this endeavor anyway. After a pause, he asks, “Tell me what’s on the itinerary today?”

He knows what’s on the itinerary. He read through it last night, as well as twice this morning (as one does), but he wants Techno’s familiar rumble to fill the silence before his brain decides to.

Techno folds an arm across the top of the chair’s back and rests his chin. “Well, let’s see - we gotta get down to the hangars by eight to oversee the delivery of the planes we ordered, make sure everything’s been done alright. Then we’ve gotta run over to the Southern Wing for a brief conference with the Maritime Committee to go over the new import-export policies. Then we have to head off to the Great Hall to prepare for ol’ Councilor Blackrider’s send-off ceremony and the promotion of Governor Schlatt - ”

Philza’s hands stutter. Shit, even though he knows that’s today, he still can’t stand the thought of it. All the music and fanfare, the cameras and fake smiles. Philza has grown accustomed to the ordeals of political life (it’s not like he’s had much of a choice), but that doesn’t mean that the faux formalities still don’t rub him wrong. It feels like putting on a show. It feels like being forced to perform, reciting promises of It’s an honor to meet you and I look forward to working with you and all those other little white lies like garish poetry.

And all those staring eyes, expecting him to sing them clear and sing them proud, and - and fucking skies, if he has to shake someone’s hand -

“ - do you think, Phil?”

Philza blinks, brain stuttering. He glances up at Techno, who’s got a question in his low-burning gaze. “Uh, sorry, say that again for me?” Of their own volition, his hands start to move again; he hadn’t realized they’d stopped.

“I was askin’ if you think we should do a demonstration for the new Guard recruits first, or if we should go straight into drills.”

“Oh, yeah, a demonstration, of course a demonstration.” He laughs with a wrinkled brow, a little bemused. “Why even ask, mate? We... always do one.”

Techno shrugs, scratching his floppy ear. The emerald star earring jangles softly as it clinks against his other piercings. “Eh, just making sure we’re on the same page. Don’t wanna throw myself at you if you’re getting ready to give some instructions.” He snorts. “Now that’d be a terrible first impression: flattening my co-Emperor in front of a whole crowd of new recruits.”

Philza manages what he thinks is the first genuine grin he’s cracked all morning. “I feel like we’ve done stupider shit in front of people.”

“Yeah but that doesn't mean we gotta add to the list. Think of our poor reputation, Phil - it’s out there gettin’ bullied every day and now you want to publicly humiliate it?”

Something about the way Techno talks just makes it so easy to laugh sometimes, and gods, does Philza fucking need it today. It lets him breeze through the rest of his preening without a hitch. When he’s all done, his feathers seem to almost shimmer. It’s a true testament to the awful state they’d been in before, as he hasn’t even been that thorough about it. He can’t think about that too much, though; it just feels too good to have them cleaned of most of the grime, the itchiness from before virtually gone.

And his hands finally get to leave his wings alone, forcing back the mild buzz of distress at the sensation of fingers in his feathers.

The moment he’s done, he springs to his feet and hurries over to the hooks mounted on the wall by the dresser. He throws his cloak over his shoulders while Techno opens the door for him. Together, they head out into the narrow halls, boot heels clicking on the polished stone as they hurry down to the hangars.

~*~

“I just don’t get what the real issue is. Yes, inspections might slow down things in the ports, but it’s not like we have much of a choice on that front.”

“They’re worried about the money flow,” Techno points out as he and Philza stride down the corridor leading to the Great Hall. Messengers and various officials bustle past them, though they give a wide berth when they see the two Emperors coming down the hall. Techno’s looming figure has a tendency to part a crowd like an arrow through parchment paper - something that Philza is infinitely grateful for. “Slower ports means slower production. Not only will they lose money, but so will the crews, the port workers, and the companies that depend on them to deliver the goods.”

“But we’ve got fuckin’ contraband on our shores, Tech,” Philza emphasizes with a light flare of his wings. “It has to be taken care of, so something’s gotta give and we’re sure as hell not gonna be sacrificing the Empire’s security this early on.”

He understands that Techno and the Maritime Committee don’t get it like he does, can’t know the implications like he can. (He used to be intimate with the circles wretched men tend to walk, and the ghastly lavender hue of Phantom’s Eye residue always littered the tables when they left.) However, he has to try to get his point across somehow. He and Techno are rarely ever completely divided; still, sometimes their opinions on matters differ. It’s what makes them such effective leaders: together, they can consider more possible perspectives and present them to each other in a way they know won’t result in a political upheaval. On the other hand, if Philza can get Techno completely on his side, then they might have a better chance of swaying the Committee.

“Hey now, no one said anythin’ about sacrificing security,” soothes Techno, raising a level hand near his arm in a placating gesture. (Philza tracks the motion out of habit, though he knows that Techno won’t touch him without good reason.) “I agree that we need inspections on the ships to get this whole drug ring situation sorted out, but until we can come up with a plan that won’t endanger the economy of the ports, I don’t think we’re gonna be able to convince ‘em.”

Philza forces himself to take a calming breath, and he pulls his fanned wings back in before they bump into some paper runner rushing by. It’s the last thing he would need right now when he’s already starting to feel like a live wire between the preening this morning and the subject of the meeting he’s just endured and now the ostentatious nightmare he’s marching right into because he has to be a good Emperor and do the political thing and if a single person in this hallway makes the mistake of even just brushing his shoulder or gods forbid his wing he might actually fucking explode.

...Philza takes in another calming breath because, evidently, the first one didn’t work.

“It wouldn’t be forever anyway.” Philza hopes that the tension he feels in every nerve doesn’t come across in his speech. He folds his arms (hugs himself, really, but that’s neither here nor there) in an attempt at self-reassurance. “It’s only until we can get the situation under control, find out where their supply is coming from.”

Techno hums pensively. “Maybe if we can give the committee a time frame for how long this will be in place, they’ll be more willing to agree. What they fear most is uncertainty, so we just have to offer some form of assurance.” 

The problem with offering an estimated time frame is that they don’t know how long this will take because they don’t know how deep the ring goes. It seems like every week they’re getting a report that a new cell has been found, just when they think they’ve gotten to the end of it. But Philza also understands that he’s not going to win every battle on this one, as much as he wants to.

“That could work,” he acquiesces in spite of his own thoughts on the matter. “Now we just gotta figure out a reasonable time frame.” He can’t help but break off into a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, fuckin’ell, mate - even more hoops to jump through, huh?”

“We can talk it over later,” says Techno. “We can just - put this on the back burner for now and focus on gettin’ through the ceremony.”

The way that Techno side-eyes him as he says it tells Philza that there’s a reason for Techno offering the obvious out: Philza’s stressed and they both know it, even if neither of them will say anything on it (they never do). But, really, is that fair? They have a little time now to discuss it, or at least get the conversation started. The rest of their day is packed, and skies fucking know that Philza’s not going to want to discuss it when he’s trying to find time to sleep later tonight. “If you still want to talk about this now, we can - ”

“Nah, nah,” Techno dismisses immediately. “We should let this one rest for a minute. You know, ruminate on it before we start makin’ any decisions.”

Philza snorts. “That’s called procrastinating, mate.”

“Well now I wasn’t gonna put it that way, but if that’s what you wanna call it, then go ahead.”

Philza is getting ready to give another playful retort when a shout comes from down the hall. “Emperor Blade!”

They stop to turn, and Philza spots a young page trotting down the corridor, obviously trying not to break into a full run as he weaves expertly through the crowd. He grips the strap of his satchel with one hand and holds a tan-colored envelope in the other, golden blond curls bouncing against his forehead. Philza immediately recognizes him as Techno’s usual messenger.

“Tommy,” Techno greets the bright-eyed boy, inclining his head. He’s quick to return the gesture. “Do you have something for me?”

“The report from Northern Salthold’s Lieutenant just came in,” he replies a little breathlessly, holding out the envelope to Techno. “You told me to bring it right to you the moment it arrived, but I couldn’t find you in your study, so I asked Puffy where you might be, and she said you were probably in the Southern Wing’s conference room, but when I got there, Wilbur said that Councilor Gowd said you were on your way to the Great Hall for the ceremony - ”

Techno chuffs, taking the envelope from his outstretched hand. “Thank you, Tommy - and sorry for makin’ you run all the way around the Fortress.”

The boy just grins, scrunching up his nose in the process. “I’ll have you know, Mister Emperor Blade man, I’m the best page the Fortress’ got - could run circles ‘round this place, let me tell you - oh, wait wait wait, there was also somethin’ else, I think...” He rifles around in his satchel with one hand and produces a paper-wrapped parcel.“...Yeah, this thing came with the report. Feels like a bunch of papers, not really sure what it is. You want this right now, or should I put it on your desk?”

“On my desk would be great.”

“‘Course, you got it, big man.” He inclines his head and hurries away, calling over his shoulder, “Have fun at the ceremony!” And then he’s gone.

Philza can’t help but give a baffled laugh as they continue on their way. “Do you think he ever gets tired?”

“No,” Techno answers frankly. “That’s why I chose him to be my paper runner - he’s the only one who can keep up.” He peels open the wax-sealed envelope and pulls out the yellowed page inside, eyes darting across the paper as he swiftly takes in the information.

“So?” prompts Philza after a short pause. “What does the Lieutenant have to say?”

“Well, they’ve investigated the suspected drug cache. Turns out it was a little more than just a cache: it’s a base of operations , from what they’ve been able to make out.”

“Oh shit,” Philza remarks mildly.

“Yeah. It was abandoned when they got there, apparently. They think that whoever was in there must’ve found out they were coming ‘cause the place was stripped clean of anything substantial. They definitely found traces of Phantom’s Eye, though, and - ” Techno blinks, pulling the letter closer to his snout as he squints at the words. “ Heh? ”

“ What , what does it say?”

“It says,” Techno begins haltingly, bemusedly, “that they found evidence that the people in the base were holding...animals.”

Philza’s wing twitches. “Animals,” he monotones.

Techno nods. “Yup. Animals . Says so right here, look - ”

The letter is handed to Philza, and once it’s in his hands, Techno points a cloven finger to the passage in question.

‘Upon further inspection of the lower levels, we were able to find various rusted and broken cages outfitted with heavy chains, metal collars, and similar restraints, not unlike the sort of equipment one might find in a zoo. Presently, the running theory is that it has something to do with animals, though we are uncertain what purpose animals may have served, so we are unable to come to any conclusions. We will send more details as they come to light.’

And it’s strange - the cages and chains and collars, of course, but also the way that the discovery makes Philza’s stomach flip, makes the hairs on the back of his neck prickle and his feathers puff ever-so-slightly. There’s something not right with this. Animals ? Why in the world would the buyers and sellers of illegal substances give a damn about animals ? They could be trafficking exotic species of some sort, but it makes no fucking sense. It’s all so out of left field.

(...Unless it’s so out of left field that it’s something else entirely.)

Philza dismisses the nagging thought before it can sink its claws into him and keeps skimming as he walks, occasionally glancing up from the page to make sure he doesn’t bump into anyone. “He says that he’s sent a package of photographs of the base with the report,” Philza relays, handing the letter back to Techno, “as well as some examples of the scattered papers they found around the base.”

“That must’ve been the extra package Tommy had,” says Techno, nodding. He takes the letter, folds it up, and tucks it into his cloak pocket. “I’ll have to pass this onto the Investigative Committee when I get the chance.”

“Sir Raviril should be at the ceremony. You can hand it to him then.”

“Hm. Good thinking. Now the only issue is gonna be findin’ him in that crowd.”

Philza laughs. “Good luck on that one, mate.”

~*~

All things considered, the ceremony goes smoothly. 

Alright, to rephrase, it goes smoothly for the most part . Really, Philza should be thanking his lucky stars that nothing went wrong because there’s always some sort of technical difficulties with these things: someone shows up late, a photographer’s camera falls over, a name is misprinted on the guest list. One time, an older governor had an actual heart attack in the middle of a speech about the Empire’s recent advances in medicine. The press had a bloody fucking field day with that one.

So today, everything goes smoothly at the start. All attendees are on time, no cameras fall over, no heart attacks are had. Techno gets to deliver his speech on Councilor Blackrider’s short but remarkable career on the Council, about all the times she had gone above and beyond for the betterment of the flowering Antarctic Empire and it’s bright future. 

The way that he commands the attention of the room when he speaks will never cease to amaze Philza. While Philza can sit in a conference room and argue a point all the livelong day, Techno has a penchant for speeches. He’s got a way with words, and he’s definitely the most well-spoken individual Philza has ever met despite the fact that Common is Techno’s second language. The rise and fall of his voice is something that Philza could listen to for hours - and he has, on those rare nights where they have time to sit with each other and just talk .

In fact, the sound of his friend’s speech is almost soothing enough to distract him from the quite frankly petrifying number of eyes trained on him.

Almost.

Techno finishes his short speech by welcoming Councilor Blackrider to the stage. The elderly councilor is applauded as she steps forward, and Philza takes the opportunity to tuck his hands behind his back and assume what he hopes is a confident posture.

See, here’s the thing: Philza and Techno have known each other long enough to have established rhythms. They know each other’s quirks, their strengths and weaknesses, and have wordlessly shifted to accommodate them. 

One of these rhythms would be the matter of handshakes.

Techno knows that Philza does not like handshakes. If his knowledge on the matter extends beyond that, Philza is uncertain, though he’s about ninety-nine sure his friend has picked up on the fact that he’s not very big on touch, especially when he’s stressed. Not everything is bad, but handshakes are particularly difficult for a multitude of reasons - some that even Philza himself can’t pinpoint. Just... something about someone’s hand clasping his, gripping a little too close to his fabric-wrapped wrist, being forced to smile and endure it and let them shake his hand - 

It’s shit, to put it plainly.

So when it comes time to exchange the world’s most overrated non-verbal greeting, Techno always goes first - even with someone like Councilor Blackrider, who knows that Philza does not like to shake hands. In fact, most people working in the Fortress already know not even to offer him their hand.

Still, Techno steps down from the podium and puts himself subtly in front of Philza, just enough to ensure that she goes to him first.

And she does. And she shakes his hand briefly and firmly before turning to Philza and offering a polite incline of her head just as usual. And Philza returns the gesture. And she walks up to the podium to deliver the last speech of her career.

And that’s that. Crisis averted. No reason to be all worked up about a fucking handshake .

Blackrider finishes her speech sometime later, prompting Philza to walk up to the podium and say his piece. There’s a fwoosh! and a spark of light as one of the cameras goes off accompanied by flash powder; Philza does his best not to flinch.

Philza’s own piece is short and sweet compared to some of the lengthier speeches they’ve heard today. He focuses his attention on ensuring that his voice carries through the whole room, reaching those who reside in the back of the Great Hall, as well as not stumbling over any of his lines. The sensation of Techno’s presence behind him is a reassurance he’s eternally grateful for.

“...So without further ado,” he finally concludes (thank fucking skies, he’s actually made it), “I am pleased and honored to welcome to the stage the newest member of the Elite Antarctic Empire Council - Governor Jay Schlatt of District Slypeak.”

The applause that the name alone garners is thunderous , though Philza is certain it increases tenfold when the man actually rises from his seat and gives the audience a brief wave, perfect white teeth and polished ram’s horns seeming to shine in the blinding flash of the cameras.

Philza knows that Schlatt is particularly popular. It’s what got the governor position in the first place. He is beloved by the people of Slypeak and had played an instrumental part in picking up the lower parts of the city that had fallen into crime and poverty during the reign of the Antarctic Empire’s preceding faction. When the Council had been deciding who should replace Blackrider when she retired, there was virtually no doubt that the esteemed Governor Schlatt would be the one to fill her shoes. Not only that, but he’s to be the Council’s first Goatian member - a step forward for all non-humans in the young Empire, as far as many are concerned.

Personally, Philza would have liked someone who already worked in the Fortress to take her place. Philza had only spoken to Schlatt in formal correspondence through letters, though Techno had met him once briefly and said he was okay enough, if y’don’t mind gettin’ assaulted with a cheap smile twenty-four seven. And Philza had supposed that was good enough.

Thus, Schlatt.

Philza steps away from the podium as the soon-to-be Councilor bounds up the steps of the stage. As always, Techno places himself in front to shake his hand. Philza’s wing twitches when he notices the vibrant man’s particularly strong grip, the command and self-assurance seeped into every inch of the motion, almost cocky .

Philza scratches his taloned fingers against his palms where they rest behind his back. It’s fine, it’s all fine, that’s not his hand being shaken. He’s just going to give his complimentary nod and step aside and let the man move on to Blackrider and that will be that - 

Schlatt is offering him a hand.

Philza stares down at the extended grip, blinking owlishly, and he swears he hears the quietest of murmurs ripple through the crowd. This is...not what he expected. Maybe he should just cut it short, give his customary nod anyway, completely ignore the the damn thing being offered to him even if it makes both of them look ridiculous - 

- but he’s very aware of the weight of the crown atop his head, he has to keep his chin up, shoulders back, for people are watching, waiting, scrutinizing his every move, and Techno hadn’t been kidding that morning when he said that their reputation is bullied on the daily, that there are people out there who are skeptical of their ability to rule, and not just because they’re non-human “freaks,” but because sometimes Philza is too quiet, too distant, too cold, and Techno too intimidating but not sociable enough, and any opportunity they can get to improve public opinion is crucial - 

- and several seconds have gone by (they must have, for even Schlatt’s toothy grin is starting to waver) and Philza needs to stop being a fucking child and shake this man’s hand already, smile all pretty for the cameras and play his part in this presumptuous song and dance because it’s just a handshake, it’s just a handshake, it’s just a goddamn handshake get a grip on yourself you miserable fucking excuse of a - 

Philza forces his hand forward and places it in Schlatt’s. When Schlatt wraps his fingers around his hand, every single nerve the man comes into contact with shoots off like a firecracker, forcing Philza to suppress a wince and a shaky warble. The urge to tear away and fucking fly out of the hall slams into him like a charging ravager, but he has just enough coherency not to act on it.

Okay. He’s done it. He can barely see straight, but he’s done it. He’s put his hand in the other one. Now they smile at each other, shake, let go, and never do that again wait what the everloving fuck is he doing?

Schlatt, it seems, has had the bright idea to get his other hand involved because why the fuck not , and now Philza’s hand is being clasped by two , effectively trapping him.

Philza is pretty fucking sure air no longer exists. Holy shit. Holy shit he can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t move, he’s trapped, caged, collared, grabbed, drawn-in, come here, pretty bird - 

His arm is jostled up and down. He flinches before he can stop himself. “I’m so honored to finally make your acquaintance, Emperor Philza. I look forward to working with you in the future.”

He ends up in his spot towards the back of the stage again. At some point. At some time. He’s distantly aware of the fact that his hands are shaking where they hang at his sides, and he should probably put those behind his back before someone notices. He can’t be weak, not in front of so many people, not after that ridiculous display he put on for everyone to see. Good fucking gods, he hopes no one got a picture of him. He doesn’t want to know what his face looked like as he stared down at Schlatt’s hand like it was a ravenous endermite getting ready to bite his face off. He definitely doesn’t want that shit in the papers.

A comforting presence slides into place beside him. Philza can feel the warmth radiating off him, soothing in a way that not many things in life are. Some of the wire-tight tension in his shoulders dares to loosen.

Then, a low rumble that Philza can feel in his chest: “You good, man?”

Philza only tilts his head to the side, knowing that Techno will still understand what he means.

“Your hands are shaking.”

Fuck. Right. His hands. Philza shoves them behind his back, curling trembling fingers into each other. He tucks his wings in too, just in case they decide to start rattling - if they haven’t already.

“Schlatt’s speech sounds like it’s wrapping up. We can be out of here in ten.”

Philza releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, relief swamping him. “Thank fucking gods,” he whispers hoarsely.

Techno chuckles before they lapse into silence once again.

In the end, it takes them almost thirty minutes to get out of the Great Hall.

(It takes Philza’s hands an hour to finally quit their trembling.)

(Pathetic.)

~*~

Philza doesn’t talk as much during the training with the recruits as he would have liked.

That’s alright, he thinks. While he may have ruined the perfect first impression they were aiming for, he’ll have other opportunities to make up for it. Sparring with Techno was fun, at the very least. If anything, it helped him blow off some steam. 

Physical altercations don’t phase Philza as much as he thinks they should. Why is it that he can throw himself at an opponent twice his size without blinking but has a near breakdown while trying to shake someone’s hand? Why does he prefer the blunt, aching smart of a bruise or the sharp sting of a sword graze over a gentle caress?

Well, he knows the answer. That doesn’t make it any less fucked up, though.

Philza is still a little trembly when they make it back to their study, sparring match notwithstanding. He sits down at the disaster zone that is his desk and drops his chin into the heel of his hand, scratching his taloned fingers over the surface of the desk because he needs to scratch something and it’s sure as hell not going to be himself. Techno, meanwhile, begins to sort through the files on his comparatively neater workplace. Philza listens to the sound of rustling paper, Techno muttering document titles under his breath, and the scrit-scrit-scrit of his talons running over the polished wood beneath his hand.

The rustling and muttering stops suddenly. Philza’s hand pauses as he looks up at Techno, only to find that his friend is staring right back at him. “...Are you sure you’re alright, Phil?”

The concern is palpable enough to make Philza shrivel back into his seat. Still, he slaps on a smile and gives a meaningless chuckle. “Yeah, mate! I’m good.”

Techno’s lips draw tight, and Philza quickly realizes that he’s not going to get himself out of this one that easily. “Really? ‘Cause you looked really out of it back at the Hall.”

“ Bah , it’s nothing,” Philza dismisses, waving a hand. “Schlatt just caught me off-guard is all.”

“He looked like he caught you a little more than just ‘off-guard’,” notes Techno with a slight wince. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you flinch so hard.”

Philza’s chest twists. Had it really been that obvious? Oh skies above, there’s no way that everyone in the room didn’t see it, then. Fuck. Shit. Fuck . “It’s fine, Tech, really. My head’s just a little all over the place today - makes me jumpy, you know?” His eyes scour Techno’s desk for something to do, and he gestures with a vague motion of his hand. “That the package Tommy delivered earlier?”

Take the hint, Techno, Philza silently pleads. Take the fucking hint.

For a second, it looks like Techno’s going to hold his ground, eyes narrowed in thinly-veiled doubt, before he visibly relents and turns towards his desk. “Yeah. Supposed to be a bunch of photos and papers, right?”

“That’s what the report said.”

Techno picks up the package and starts to tear into it. Philza ambles over and plants his hands on Techno’s desk as his friend begins to fan out the evidence sent to them by the Northern Salthold’s Lieutenant. Grainy colorless photographs of dark rooms filled with empty crates, turned over filing cabinets, and desks covered in a thin layer of suspiciously white dust spill over the table. Some folded up documents, torn and crinkled, tumble out as well, but Techno sorts them to the side for the moment.

“Oh yeah,” Philza remarks, pushing the photographs around to look at the ones buried beneath them. “This is a base of operations, if I’ve ever seen one. Sucks that the people working here stripped it clean of anything of value before they left.”

“I’m more interested in the cages they found,” says Techno, sifting through the photos as well. He finds a little bundle of pictures that are tied together with twine, humming a little ‘ah-hah!’ noise as he plucks it from the mess. When the twine is pulled away, Techno holds the stack of photos so that both of them can see it easily.

Philza is confronted with the image of an old rusty cage. Just as described in the letter, there are two chains hooked up to the metal bars of the cage with thin, open cuffs attached to the ends of each. An old, thick tarp lays discarded on the floor, and the door has been flung open, though it doesn’t appear to be damaged - no forced exit or entry, then; whatever was in there was purposefully removed. 

Techno flips to another photograph. This one is a closer shot of the chains laying on the floor of the cage. They’re stained dark in places - presumably blood, given that it’s on the inside of the cuffs (it makes Philza’s wrists itch just thinking about it).

“Woah,” Techno breathes, pointing to the ground of the cage. “Look at those claw marks, man. What kind of animal could have done that ?”

Unease begins to settle in Philza’s gut when he realizes he’s been idly scratching the fabric of his trousers this whole time. It’s hauntingly familiar, what he’s seeing. With each photo Techno drags up, Philza begins to notice more and more, realize more and more…

... remember more and more.

Philza swallows thickly as more pictures go by, heart beginning to thump a little faster. He forces himself to take a silent deep breath when the image of a pile of black hoods comes up because there’s no way, there’s no fucking way that it could possibly be that . He holds back a worried chirp at the sight of ragged clothes and spare chains and large wing clippers and discarded feathers and muzzles and thick metal collars with serial numbers etched into the side. The evidence is starting to pile up, and by gods, is it damning.

But the last photo, Philza thinks, must be the most damning of them all.

It’s a picture of another cage, but this one is different. It’s taller and narrower, with thinner bars and intricate designs bent into the iron headpiece on its domed top. The chains inside are dainty, everything polished and free of blood. No scratches can be seen because Philza knows, Philza knows that scratching is not allowed in the Show Cage - 

Oh gods.

Oh, good fucking gods.

The photograph has ended up in his hands somehow. Papers are rustling somewhere beside him, crinkly with age and abuse.

A low hum. “These are item inventory records.” More rustling. “Huh… Weird... Hey, any idea what a ‘Songbird’ is?”

“Hey there, little Songbird. Sing us somethin’ pretty, won’t cha?”

“Maybe it’s code for something.”

“Your wings are so beautiful, Songbird. So many soft feathers...”  

“You don’t think that they’re talkin’ about actual birds, right Phil?”

“Don’t you know how to dance? Come on, put on a show for us, Songbird!”

“...Phil?”

“Put on a show!”

“Phil?”

“PUT ON A SHOW!”

“Phil!”

Philza sucks in a breath so sharp that his head spins with the force of it. The photograph slips from his fingers as he stumbles away from the desk, eyes darting over the dozens of images, memories of gilded cages and shimmering jewelry and greedy eyes pouring out from where he’s stuffed them away in the darkest recesses of his mind. His back collides with the rear bars of its cage, icy metal pressing through the fabric of its ornate Show Clothes. A door clangs shut, punctuated by the snap of a lock as too many hands creep in from between the bars to seize its own and force its raw wrists into the cuffs. Its Keeper is shouting, angry about what it did in the dining hall and how it should be killed for its bad behavior, but all it can do is chirp out blubbering apologies. This only serves to make its Keeper more angry because they hate it when it chirps nonsensically, when it dares to speak when not spoken to. It’s only purpose is to sing, pretty and perfect.

And its Keeper is looming over it now, demanding that it explain itself, explain what could have been running through it’s stupid fucking head when it decided to claw a man for grabbing its wing, explain what the fuck was going on, what’s “ - happening, Phil? Philza? You - you gotta tell me what’s wrong. Hah, you’re startin’ to scare me, man, just - please , can you give me some sort of sign that you’re gettin’ any of this?”

It tries to make a sound beyond the chirps pouring out of its mouth, but it can’t seem to get its throat to work. Everything is just - too much, so much. So, so much. Every inch of it is burning with the invisible imprint of a thousand unwanted hands, its wings are aching where the feathers have been pulled out, and those eyes staring at it - 

Those eyes.

Those deep, Nether red eyes.

Nether red eyes, ivory tusks, wild mane freed from its braids; a golden crown, Antarctic Blues, an emerald earring dangling from a floppy pink ear.

It - he. He, he, he. He forces out a wheezing breath. “...T-Tech...?”

Relief washes over his friend’s face, some of the creases falling away even though his knit brow still stays. “Phil? You with me?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m…” Philza sucks in another gulp of air, head spinning from lack of oxygen. His hands scramble for purchase on the desk behind him as the ground starts to roll. “I-I need to sit down - ”

Philza’s knees promptly buckle. Techno murmurs what might’ve been a curse as Philza begins to crumple, a cloven hand shooting out to guide him away from the desk before be smacks the back of his head on the table edge, but Philza gives a hiss - an honest-to-gods hiss - between his clenched teeth.

Techno releases him immediately . “Right, sorry.”

Philza eventually settles on the ground, knees bent up towards his chest and hands trembling so hard where they rest on the cool floor that he can hear his talons clicking on the tiles. And skies , since when was his own breath so loud? When did his heartbeat become a fucking war drum? There’s a low whine in his ears that he can’t place the origin of, and his chest is tight, tight like the corsets he wears - used to wear , used to wear, used to wear, doesn’t wear them anymore, doesn’t wear anything tighter than the sashes of his uniform. 

Philza tucks his wings in and forces himself to look at the feathers, clean but not overly so, aligned and patchless. He preened them himself this morning, put his own hands in his own wings and did it how he wanted.

He has control over himself now. He is his own ward. If he doesn’t want anyone to touch him, then he can ensure that they won’t. He can say no, speak when not spoken to.

It’s fine. It’s safe. It’s over. 

...His surroundings come back to him in a trickle, once he’s gotten his breathing under control. He’s aware of the tiles beneath his talons again, the oak wood pressed against his back, the soft warmth of the flickering flames in the fireplace.

Philza stares at the hearth, brows pinched. He...doesn’t remember that being lit before - 

“I stoked the fire.”

Philza’s head whirls over to the source of the sound. It’s Techno, who has taken a seat on the ground in front of his own desk across from Philza. He’s been there for a while, it seems, because he’s fully leaned his back against the wood and propped his arm up on an elevated knee - about as comfortable one can get for where they’re sitting.

“It was startin’ to get a little cold in here, and you wouldn’t stop shakin’, so I uh…” Techno sighs, scratching the back of his head as he looks away. “I dunno. I thought it might help.”

Silence stretches between them, filled only by the popping from the fireplace. Philza watches Techno tap his ring finger and thumb together in a meaningless pattern, head still turned away.

Minutes go by like this. Part of Philza wants to fill the quiet, if only to break the tension that’s worming its way into the air, but part of him relishes in the silence since his thoughts had been so loud.

The warmth from the fireplace is nice, though, he supposes.

Sometime later, he hears Techno draw in a breath. “So, Phil, I’m - I’m at a bit of a loss here,” he admits, the low rumble of his voice just loud enough to carry over the gap between them. “Like, I want to ask what the heck that was, but I’m also afraid I’m gonna trigger another one of…” He twirls his hand around in a vague but collective gesture, “... those if I do. Which I do not want to do ‘cause, to be honest with you, watching your best friend fall into a panic and then almost pass out because of it? Terrifyin’ . Zero out of ten, would not recommend.”

He gives a quiet laugh, but it’s half hearted at most. Philza himself is much too exhausted to manage anything remotely like a smile.

Techno pauses again before continuing: “What I think I’m tryna get at is this: I want to help you, Phil, if you’ll let me. So, if there’s anything I need to know, or anything I need to do, just - just tell me, alright? I’m here to listen.”

Philza draws in a deep breath and closes his eyes. Gods, what did he do to deserve his friend? He’s spent the better part of his years disgraced in ways that are unspeakable and broken in ways that are unfixable, and somehow fate has still brought him Techno. 

Techno, who’s warm, kind, and sturdy as an old oak in a winter’s storm.

Techno, who’s Philza’s closest ally, his only true friend, his emerald star.

Techno, who Philza can trust with anything.

...Techno, who looks at Philza and sees not a battered, ruined bird, but a strong, independent man capable of fighting off entire armies and ruling sprawling empires.

Philza has gone this long without revealing his shameful past, and by the skies, he won’t let it tarnish what he has now - even if it means blatantly keeping secrets from his friend.

So Philza looks into Techno’s familiar red eyes and prays for forgiveness as he simply answers, “We need to assemble the Council.”

Chapter Text

It’s almost eight o’clock at night when the meeting is finally underway. Thankfully, Philza is able to cite urgency protocols, considering the fact that enslavement (because that’s what it is) is intentionally one of the highest offences under the laws of the Antarctic Empire and is punishable by death, fullstop. It stems partly from Techno’s upbringing in the Nether, where his people have stringent moral values, one of which was based on the piglin saying, ‘ No man’s labor is worth less than another man’s gold.’ For Philza, the origins are most definitely tied to his past, and the very thought that the empire that he helped build has somehow enabled these institutions to take root so soon is downright nauseating.

In short, it’s fucked up, and now Philza’s determined to un-fuck it no matter the cost; he knows Techno feels the same.

That being said, trying to explain the situation to a roomful of Councilors who have little to no experience with the horrors that lurk in the dark corners of humanity is difficult for a multitude of reasons - the primary one being that explaining requires explaining.

“‘Songbird’,” he elaborates to the Council through clenched teeth (maybe if he’s clinical enough about this, he won’t send himself into a spiral), “is the derogatory term used by traffickers to refer to Avians who have been captured and enslaved to be performers. They’re usually ‘put on display’ for ‘entertainment’ at personal dining halls, taverns, underground clubs and the like.”

“What kind of ‘entertainment’?” asks one. Philza recognizes their voice as Councilor Evenblaze, but he’s too busy staring down at his folded hands and concentrating on not shaking to meet the Councilor’s gaze.

He lets a breath hiss out of his clenched teeth. “Do you really have to know?”

“If we’re going to be investigating the matter at such a high degree, then it’s best if we know exactly what we’re getting ourselves into - ”

“Use your imagination, Evenblaze,” Techno cuts them off. “It’s safe to say that it’s probably nothin’ good.” Has Philza taken the time to thank the gods for Techno in the past five minutes? By the skies, he doesn’t think he has.

“So you say that the photos you got from Northern Salthold’s Lieutenant are what led you to believe we have...‘Songbirds’ - ”

Philza flinches and plays it off as a glance in the Councilor’s direction. “Just call them ‘enslaved Avians,’ Gowd.”

“Apologies. You say the photos are what led you to believe that we have enslaved Avians being held somewhere in the Empire.”

“Yes. We have the photos right here.” He hears Techno rustle around in his cloak, presumably to take out the photographs. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees the pictures being passed around the table. Murmurs rise up between the councilors as they look over the pictures. 

Meanwhile, Techno settles back into his chair and drags his hand across the table’s surface to rest beside Philza’s folded ones. He gently taps the wood with a finger to get Philza’s attention, then gives a small, inquizitive thumbs-up. The question is clear, and Philza answers with a subtle thumbs-up of his own. He’s fine, he’s keeping it together. He just has to get the ball rolling on this investigation, and then he can retire to his quarters knowing that all is being done to bring the perpetrators down and save the affected Avians. 

Philza lifts a hand to rub his eyes. He’s quick about it, well aware that others are watching and not wishing to betray his exhaustion, but fatigue hangs over his shoulders like a heavy coat. Fuck, it’s been a day.

“How do we know that these photographs are indicative of the capture of Avians, though?” asks who-sounds-to-be-Waltamade. “What if these really are just for animals, like the report theorized?”

“Everything points to the exploitation of Avian instincts,” Philza explains. “Black-out hoods for compliance, extra chains for binding wings, feather clippers - ” He swallows back the sudden bile in his throat, praying that his face isn’t nearly as pale as he thinks it is. “It’s all there.”

“You seem awfully well-versed in this topic.”

Philza has no idea what she's trying to imply, but it still makes his breath stutter just thinking about why he’s so ‘well-versed in this topic’. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, mate, but I happen to be an Avian myself. Think I’d know a thing or two about our instincts.”

“But can we be certain that these photos are undeniably indicative of the holding of enslaved Avians? Is it possible that what we see is a coincidence?”

“Well - ” begins Techno, but another cuts him off: “How do we know that these pieces of evidence are recent? You said yourself that the report claimed to have found these things in the lower levels of the drug den. Everyone knows that enslavement in the area was wiped out ages before the AE rose to power. These could be from an era long past. There has been no indication in recent years that people have gone missing, or been condemned to servitude, or - ”

“The trafficking of Avians isn’t gone, Gazaway,” Philza bites. “It’s still a very prominent threat, especially overseas where factions don’t safeguard against it.” ( And here, where emperors who should know better are too stupid to bother checking for evidence of it, something snarls in the back of his head, but he fails to mention that part.) “There’s a reason why most Avian flocks tend to seclude themselves where humans can’t reach. I personally grew up on stories of Avians being taken from their homes and subjected to - ” He falters, face twisting up - “ that .”

“There’s also - ” Techno starts again, but - 

“With all due respect, Emperor, stories tend to differ from the truth, especially those passed on by word of mouth. They have a particularly nasty likelihood to warp the details or blow things out of proportion - ”

Philza’s jaw somehow tightens even more. “I’m not blowing anything out of proportion - ”

“I’m not saying that, I’m only suggesting that you may want to analyze the stories of your youth with a more critical lens - ”

“I have , and what I’m telling you now is undeniably - ”

“But you’re not hearing me - ”

“I am hearing you!”

“ - can we be certain that - ?”

A hand thumps down on the table. “Oh come off it, Gazaway.”

When the voice doesn’t register with a name in his head, Philza looks up to see who has spoken. It’s Schlatt, who is leaning forwards in his chair. A flat hand is firmly planted on the space before him, and he’s staring daggers at the offending Councilor.

Gazaway glares right back. “ Excuse me?”

Schlatt huffs, a woolen ear twitching. “I might be new around here, but even I can tell this is getting us nowhere. As it stands right now, Emperor Philza is our only authority on this since the rest of us clearly know jack-shit. If my work down in Slypeak has taught me anything, it’s that insider information is the best information you can get. Now, obviously, there are no enslaved Avians here to tell us what they know - ” Philza almost wants to laugh at the irony - “but we do have the next best thing: a trusted source with first-hand experience in all things Avian .” 

Schlatt leans in a little more, concluding lowly, “That being said, I humbly suggest that you - and everyone else here - take what he has to say as truth .”

Silence permeates through the room. Councilors shift in their seats. Some look down at their hands, some glower at Schlatt - who looks like he could not give a singular fuck about it -, and others openly stare at Philza, no doubt wondering what he’s going to say next. It takes all that he has not to reach up and adjust the crown on his head, to not fidget. Fucking skies, since when was he this jittery? He swears that council meetings have never put him so on edge before.

Thankfully, Techno clears his throat, drawing the attention of the room to him. “As I was goin’ to say before I was interrupted, the photographs weren’t the only evidence we found.” He reaches into his cloak and produces a wrinkly sheet of dusty yellowed paper, holding it up for all to see. “There is literally an item inventory report that contains a section titled - sorry, Phil - ‘Songbirds’ and a list of what looks an awful lot like the serial numbers we see on the metal collars in the photographs. Now, of course, that could totally be subjective, and I might be completely blowin’ this out of proportion, but I think we could be dealing with the trafficking of real, living, existing Avians within the Empire’s own borders.”

He all but slams the report down on the table and slides it across the glossy surface to be looked at by the others. “Is that certain enough for you, Councilor Gazaway, or do we have to waste more time debatin’ it?”

Gazaway picks up the paper, looks it over, sets it down, and folds her hands in some desperate attempt to save whatever’s left of her dignity. “It is sufficient.”

“ Fantastic . Now, movin’ on - we’ll want to notify Northern Salthold’s authorities immediately so we can get started on a new branch of the Phantom’s Eye investigation that’s going to specifically search for more evidence of Avian capture. What’s our opinion on sendin’ some of our own guys down there in case they do find affected Avians?...”

Philza heaves a great sigh once the volume of the discussion is loud enough to muffle it and forces himself to keep his chin up, his shoulders level. He’s tired, but he’s an emperor, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t look the part.

The meeting eventually ends in a record sixty minutes. Philza wants to shoot out of his seat the moment it’s officially adjourned and get the hell out of the conference room, but every single bone in his body feels as though it’s been replaced by obsidian bricks. If it wasn’t improper, Philza would just fold his wing over his head and pass out for the night right then and there. Fuck sleeping in a bed. The table’s good enough.

Philza is dragging his hands down his face when cloven knuckles rap upon the wood three times, announcing Techno’s presence (as if Philza hadn’t already sensed his friend’s warmth lingering beside him). “How’re you holding up?”

Philza exhales hard through his nose and lets his hands drop onto the table beside Techno’s. “I am, in fact, holding up,” he answers vaguely.

Techno chuffs softly. The sound vibrates through Philza’s head, pleasant. “Seems like that’s all we can reasonably expect after today. You wanna get out of here?”

“Fuck, you have no idea.”

Techno helps draw Philza’s chair back as he stands, and after a wobbly step or two, they’re on their way out.

Not before they can be stopped by someone, of course. This time around, it’s Schlatt, who’s sporting his typical porcelain grin. “Emperor Philza,” he begins, stepping in front of them. He’s what one might consider a little too close. Not by a lot, but it’s just enough to make Philza’s already frayed nerves stand on end. “I won’t keep you long, but I was wondering if everything was alright? Sorry if I’m oversteppin’, but I noticed that you weren’t looking too well during the meeting, and, well, I felt I had to ask. It wasn’t what Gazaway said, was it?”

“No,” Philza replies (it’s only a partial lie) as he inches a half step back. “I’m just tired, mate. It’s been a very long day.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

“Thank you for cuttin’ off Gazaway back there, by the way,” Techno adds, leaning in to put just the slightest of barriers between Philza and the new Councilor.

“Of course, Emperor. I mean, I don’t want to speak ill of any of my colleagues on my first day ,” he adds with a chuckle, “but she was bein’...less than productive, let’s say.” Then, much to Philza’s surprise, Schlatt reaches over and pats Techno on the side of one of his folded arms in a friendly gesture. It’s so brief that no one has time to say anything on it before his hand is back where it was. “I’ll let you go now. Again, it’s an honor to be working with you both.” He lowers his head in a shallow, customary bow. “Until next time.” 

And then he leaves, disappearing into the crowd of departing Councilors.

~*~

Philza learns a couple things over the next few weeks as the investigation carries on.

One: The drug Phantom’s Eye is startlingly easy to produce, so long as you have the required ingredients. You can make it in your standard household kitchen if you know how.

Two: Though he already knew this in some capacity, it is horribly difficult to keep things on the down low in the Fortress sometimes. Thus, word eventually gets out that another subdivision of the Phantom’s Eye investigation has been created. Thankfully, no one but those involved seem to know the details. Yet.

Three: Pulling two all-nighters in a row is utterly justifiable if every single time you close your eyes, you’re mentally bombarded with dark warehouses and heavy chains and crass laughter and too many, too many hands crawling all over you.

Four: Pulling two all-nighters in a row is what most consider ‘unhealthy’. 

Five: Techno is fully capable of conducting bodily assault with blankets and pillows and will not hesitate to do so if given reason to. 

And six: Councilor Schlatt is just like that . 

No, really. Apparently, Schlatt happens to be one of those people who communicates his thoughts and intentions best via touch. It’s nothing terrible . From what Philza has seen in meetings, it’s rarely ever more than just a pat on the arm, a brush of a hand, a bump of a shoulder, a tap on the wrist, or helping someone adjust their sash. No one else appears to mind, they’re all utterly charmed by Schlatt’s charisma and wide, wide smile - aggravating first impression notwithstanding.

And that’s fine. Honestly! Let Schlatt do what he wants, he’s not causing any harm. Really, Philza should be glad that the Goatian is here. He has experience in dealing with the parts of society that are ‘less-than-appealing’, he’s impressively efficient at helping his fellow Councilors stay on task and look at things objectively, and he’s quick-witted enough to wrangle a chuckle from the Council when things get dry. All in all, Schlatt is the universe’s most perfectly-timed godsend for what they’re having to deal with at the moment.

But by the skies, if Schlatt doesn’t send Philza’s perpetually simmering anxiety through the fucking roof every single time he comes around. Most of the time, Schlatt is stuck at his seat at the table which (because he’s new) happens to be pretty far from where Philza and Techno sit; but after the meetings, when people are milling about, Schlatt will sometimes step forward to ask a question or look for clarification. You can guarantee that Philza spends most of those interactions hardly listening and just staring at Schlatt’s hands, tense and ready to bolt if he sees a finger so much as twitch .

One time, Schlatt lifted a hand to scratch his own face, and it took all that Philza had not to scramble over the table to get away.

Philza swears he wasn’t like this before, wasn’t this ridiculous. He could withstand most brief forms of touch if he needed to (bar handshakes, of course), only avoiding them if it was convenient to do so. Now he feels like a brittle thorn bush when he walks around, that if someone gets too close, he’ll prickle, poke, tear, and crumble under their touch.

He can tell Techno is worried. His friend attempts to approach him about it more and more frequently, and each time, Philza denies him. He changes the topic, brings up distractions, cites matters that he has to attend to, or sometimes just says that he’s too tired for this conversation right now, mate, maybe another time .

And it’s true. He is tired. The constant stress bogs him down, and the low-burning panic attacks combined with the violently realistic nightmares sap him of almost all of his energy most days. Some mornings, the greatest ordeal he faces is getting up. 

(He stops preening his wings altogether. They itch something terrible, but quite frankly, he can’t be fucked to work up the courage to endure the sensation of fingers in his feathers.)

It’s another one of those sleepless nights where he hasn’t gotten a decent amount of rest in several consecutive days, he’s got too much paperwork to do, and the incessant buzz of anxiety in his bones won’t leave him be. His hands are unwarrantedly cold as well. He feels the ice in his fingers whenever he pinches the bridge of his nose in some futile attempt at staving off his mounting headache.

Philza blinks his bleary eyes hard and forces himself to start at the top of the passage and read it again, because the words were too jumbled in his head the first two times.

There’s three knocks upon his bedroom door. Philza heaves a weary sigh. “Come in.”

He hears the door hinges squeal as it’s opened, followed by the dull clack of cloven footfalls upon hardwood floors. A mug of what smells like tea lands on the little available space on Philza’s table top, and the spare chair is dragged over from the corner of the room. The wood creaks as Techno settles into it. A glance in his direction shows that he’s got a mug of his own.

Philza sets down the paper and picks up the mug that’s been given to him, relishing in the warmth that the heated ceramic restores to his hands. “How’s your work coming along, mate?”

“I was able to get through everything that needed to be done by the end of the day,” Techno replies, taking a sip of his tea. “I considered gettin’ a jump on tomorrow, but I think I’d rather check in with you, see if you need help with anythin’.”

“Mehh,” Philza mumbles, shuffling his papers around under his hand. “It’s mostly just reading, filling out, and signing at this point. It shouldn’t take me too long to finish. Hopefully.”

Techno hums as Philza picks up the paper he was looking over earlier. “You eat anything today?”

Philza raises an eyebrow at him. “Did you ?”

Techno laughs wryly. “Got me there. Gods, what a pair we are.”

“I’d say that we should have our meals taken up to us like we used to, but we’re rarely ever in one place consistently nowadays, are we?” Philza takes a sip of his tea, blinks, and pulls the mug away from his lips. “...Techno, is this chamomile?”

A sly grin pulls at his friend’s lips. “I can neither confirm nor deny - ”

“You fucker - ”

“ - that the tea in your mug is, in fact, chamomile.”

“You can just tell me to go to bed, mate.”

“Oh, like that’s worked so well before.”

Well. Philza can’t exactly argue with that, now can he. He just takes another sip of his tea as an admission of defeat, but he still gets back to his paperwork, as difficult as it is for him to read. Techno sits with him all the while, even as his friend clearly begins to grow weary. “You can go to bed if you want, you know,” Philza notes as he picks up his quill to sign his name at the bottom of the page. “I’m not gonna force you t’stay if you don’t wanna be here.”

“No, I...definitely want to be here,” rumbles Techno. “I miss bein’ with you.”

Philza huffs a laugh. “Techno, you see me all day, everyday.”

“Yeah, but - it’s different when we’re stuck in meetings or hearings or doing paperwork, isn’t it?”

Stiltedly, he nods. “...Yeah. Yeah, I think I get it.”

“And it’s just that the past few weeks have been particularly rough - I know for you especially - and I…” Techno breaks off into a sigh, his available hand rising to idly tap on the wood of the desk. “I hate to see you like this, y’know?”

Something like guilt twists in Philza’s chest. He’d really hoped that by keeping his past to himself, he wouldn’t have to worry about getting Techno mixed up in his own mess, but it seems like he’s failed on that front regardless. “...Sorry.”

“No, I’m not - gods , I’m not lookin’ for an apology, Phil, I’m just - I dunno, talkin’. Because we never get to do that now. We never get to talk. ”

Techno’s fingers continue to drum on the desk, the rhythmic taptaptaptap, taptaptaptap, taptaptaptap bouncing against Philza’s fuzzy, exhausted brain. It’s oddly soothing.

“Is it weird…” Techno falters. The drumming comes to an abrupt halt as Techno’s fingers curl into his palm. “...Is it weird that I miss you, when I get to see you every single day?”

The guilt twisting in his chest breaks into fond, aching melancholy. “Mate...”

“Cause sometimes, Phil,” he continues haltingly, empty hand flexing against the wood grain, “it feels like you’re not even here.”

Because he’s not. The memories of his past are being dragged up every hour of the day, stealing the present from him. Living in the moment is a luxury he can’t seem to afford anymore.

Techno doesn’t even know where Philza’s going when he drifts away from reality - and it’s better if he keeps it that way, isn’t it? Better to keep it contained before it can taint what he’s got here, because this life is his . Those memories, his old Keepers - they can't rob him of this. He won’t let them.

But, he considers as he takes in Techno’s forlorn expression, the sight of his lonely cloven hand upon the desk, maybe they already have.

So he does what he can: he sets down his paper and slides his hand to rest beside Techno’s. It doesn’t send a spike of fear through him like he expects it to, but he supposes that that makes sense. This is Techno , and Techno would never hurt him, exploit him, trap him and cage him and abuse him.

Thus, his hand stays beside Techno’s. Philza thinks it’s the most trust he’s put in anyone in a long time. Or ever .

They remain like that for the rest of the evening, sitting with their hands side by side, never quite touching but instead just existing with each other.

(Deep inside Philza’s chest, a soul - young and forgotten - yearns for something more than just a gesture of faith, but the sensation is so foreign that Philza can’t discern what it could possibly be.)

~*~

One stressful month after that rare quiet night, they find them.

‘Them,’ includes not only the main distributors of the ingredients needed for Phantom’s Eye, but also a dark room full of battered, bruised, and petrified young Avians all locked up in rusty cages with their wings bound and heads hooded - the first room of what is suspected to be many.

When the detailed report lands in Philza’s hands at a Council meeting, he has to excuse himself so he can go puke in the washroom down the hall.

And when he comes back, he sits himself down and grills the entire Council on what’s being done and how the situation is being handled, just to reassure himself everything is going according to how he’s laid it out for them.

Because, at the beginning of all this, he gave a list of dos and don’ts to be distributed to the teams meant to be handling any Avians that might be found: speak softly and reassuringly; ask for permission before making any moves to unshackle them; do not reach out, grab, or touch them unless permitted to do so; warn them of everything you’re about to do, and do not continue to free them of their binds if they are visibly flinching away; do not tell them to stop chirping; remind them constantly that they are safe and that their ‘Keepers’ can’t get to them.

And most importantly, never, EVER touch their wings unless it is paramount to the Avian’s health or safety. Wings are sacred, and they’ve been defiled enough.

Gods, it’s at times like these that he wishes that Avians were more common in these parts. Or just in general. It’s difficult to explain things that are second nature to him.

Regardless, the new development - as harsh of a reminder of reality as it is - is a step in the right direction, a step towards fixing the mess Philza had inadvertently caused by being a negligent emperor. Over the next few days, the perpetrators are brought to the Fortress for interrogation. Techno goes to oversee the first session, and Philza attends it with him.

It does not go well.

“Stupid, goddamn animal!” the man spits as he glares death into Philza’s eyes, straining against the guards that hold him down in his metal chair. “Look at you, parading that crown on top of your head, playin’ at being king. Feathery fuckin’ scum of the earth - I bet you like pretending to be more than just some pretty little bird, don’t cha? Is it fun, birdie? Is it fun to pretend to be a man - ?”

One of the guards slams his head down on the table, silencing him at last.

Philza does not go to oversee any more of the interrogation sessions.

(Philza does not sleep that night.)

(Nor for many nights after.)

(Funny, how a few simple words can get under his skin like that.)

(...It’s pitiful.)

~*~

Philza is...doing poorly. He can admit as much, now that there’s no one left to lie to apart from himself; he’s certain that the Councilors have picked up on the fact that he is, in some capacity, ‘unwell’.

Gods, does that put it lightly.

Philza doesn’t think he’s felt this bad since he initially escaped his Keepers with the rest of the Avians in that shithole. He’d rediscovered the world with blood dripping off his talons and his shackles still hanging off his wrists; and with no family left to turn to and only a spotty memory of who he was before, he’d stumbled through his days as a broken bird. He’d shied away from his fellow escapees, and then from the pitying strangers he encountered, uncertain in everything he did and saw.

And then, about two years later, he bumped into Techno.

Techno is, without a doubt, Philza’s north star, even if the piglin himself doesn’t realize it in its entirety. Philza wishes he was as articulate as his friend so he can tell Techno how much he’s unknowingly helped him over the years, so he instead tries to express it with what few tools he has at his disposal: stupid jokes, fond smiles, and the occasional loving chirp that goes unheard by everyone but his friend.

Even now, Techno proves to be his greatest ally, picking up the slack where Philza is presently coming up short. Techno takes control of meetings when speaking about the affected Avians becomes too much, puts himself between Philza and anyone who tries to come in too close, and offers to talk and listen again and again, even if Philza doesn’t take him up on it.

In all honesty, his friend’s presence is enough to soothe his anxieties. As of late, there’s been an undefinable ache in Philza’s chest, nestled between the panic that clings to his heart and the exhaustion that hangs off his shoulders. He understands nothing of it except that being near Techno alleviates some of the pressure, so he stays as close to his friend’s side as possible while carefully ensuring that they never touch. Keeping the right proximity is a delicate balancing act.

Hell, everything is a delicate balancing act. Even with all the support Techno offers, Philza feels like he’s on a ledge, teetering over some dark, nasty cavern that bores deep into the earth, wings bound to his back like a punishment. It fills his panicked heart with cold, molasses-thick dread.

All it would take is one measly little nudge to send him careening down into those awful depths.

~*~

It goes something like this.

The Council has adjourned on what seems to be the billionth meeting of the week, and Philza is fucking done. He had to lead it on his own since Techno was out overseeing another interrogation and by gods , was it a whole-ass ordeal. Now he’s trying to get his fuckmillion papers together so he can get the hell out of here, but some liaison from a district where some captured Avians have been found recently has pulled him aside to go over a few details of the meeting’s discussion.

By this point in the conversation, he’s already forgotten her name ( That’s probably important. Fuck. ) because he’s focusing too hard on keeping his arms crossed in order to assume a confident posture that he doesn’t feel at all. He’s also tucked his wings in so they don’t rattle with the bone-deep need to escape as they discuss the conditions that those poor Avians were subjected to, the abysmal hellholes they were taken to and where more might be stuck, trapped in the dark all alone with no hope in sight - 

“Thank you for your time, Emperor Philza,” says the liaison.

She innocently offers him her hand, smiling. 

Philza draws in a breath to hide his flinch and unfolds his arms just so that he can have the reassurance of tucking them behind his back. Yeah. No. Fuck that. Instead of doing something incredibly stupid, he responds to her outstretched hand with a lifted chin (chin up, always up, wear your crown like you fucking deserve it), a strained grin, and a nod of his head. He then promptly turns and leaves before he can get the chance to see her reaction.

So now he’s ducking out into the crowded corridor where all the Councilors and liaisons are mingling. Techno told him that he would meet with Philza outside the hall after the meeting, but Philza can’t find him anywhere. He reasons that Techno must still be on his way. By the skies, does Philza really need Techno’s presence right now, to give him a reason to tolerate this daily bullshitery of politics, anxiety, swirling guilt, and the undefinable, desperate aching in his bones.

He’s fucking tired and - yeah, he’ll admit it - a little more than bitter. He decides to head down the hall he’s about ninety-eight percent certain Techno will be coming from in the hopes of meeting him halfway. Really, that session should have ended some time ago, so Techno should be here any minute - 

“Emperor!” calls Schlatt’s voice from somewhere behind him.

Philza lets out a sharp sigh through his nose, an instinctual shock of cold panic washing over him because now just the prospect of being engaged in conversation with Schlatt is enough to get his heart going, fucking gods. He flexes the hands still folded behind his back and lifts them so he can cross his arms over his chest again. He never stops walking, though. Maybe if he pretends to not hear him, the man will give it a rest.

Politicians are nothing if not persistent, though. “Emperor Philza!”

Philza walks faster - 

“Wait - ”

His eyes scour the corridor - 

“Hold on a minute - ”

Where’s Techno, where’s Techno... Is that him coming around the corner - ?

“Stop for a second, you forgot your - ”

There is a hand on his wing.

There is a hand on his wing, and there are fingers, fingers in its feathers pulling twisting yanking fistfulls away, laughter and crooning and low rumbling voices and the smell of booze on rancid breath and the jingle of jewelry and hands, hands everywhere and it - 

- wants to scream, scream some ugly, vile song that will grate against all those listening ears, scream the shattered mess of its heart right out of its chest and hack it up like phlegm or blood and spit it on the floor so it’ll stop its callow beating and it -

- wants it to stop, everything to stop, the hands the shows the countless eyes scrutinizing its every move the fearful chirps that pour from its lips and the warbling tunes it chokes out and it - 

- hates, hates with every fiber of its being, a deep, resounding rancor that swirls and coalesces into a boiling ire a blinding rage that it feels deeper than those hands could ever reach and it -

- whirls around with the fury of a hundred years of hooded, bound, and broken birds on its talons and it -

- claws .

Claws the man’s face like the animal it is.

There’s a flash of crimson chasing after its talons as they arc through the air and a snarl it can feel on its lips and teeth, sharp as a diamond edge. The music in the dining hall stops, overtaken by a pained roar and a chorus of gasps. Murmured exclamations wash over the room as the man presses a hand to his bloodied cheek, and all at once, every single pair of eyes in the room swivel around and land on it .

It , which stands there with damning blood on its talons - evidence of the last mistake it will ever get the chance to make.

Because, as it quickly comes to realize, it is dead where it stands.

It staggers back when the clawed man takes a half step forward, fluttering its mangled wings in some fruitless attempt to fly. It hasn’t been able to fly for years - it’s not even sure if it remembers how - but still, it flaps, propelling itself backwards enough to put some distance between it and the - 

Its back collides with something warm (so warm, why so warm, why so warm? ) and solid, and when it whirls around, it finds another man (tall, wild mane, wide-shouldered, tusks , pinched face, angry , angry at it) blocking its path. It scrambles away with an alarmed chirp it knows will go unanswered, eventually hitting a wall and realizing that there’s no way out, no way out, stuck, trapped, dead, dead where it stands, doomed - 

- it slides to the ground - 

- it folds its wings around it in some laughable display of protection -

- there’s shouting, someone’s shouting, shouting at it, it doesn’t know, but he’s loud, demanding, “What in the world is going on here?!” A response, something about music and Songbirds and drinks and papers, forgetting papers, reaching for shoulders, missing, accidents, brushing wings and then clawing, clawing, clawing, clawing, clawing his face, stupid bird, you should fucking kill it, put it down -

- the new arrival turns back to it, fury ingrained in his every movement, and it hides its miserable face behind its wings, waiting for the blows to land, for the hands to grab it and haul it away to its cage or to the chopping block. It doesn’t know which it dreads more.

...Seconds pass.

...Then...then whole minutes go by.

Oddly quiet.

Oddly still.

Confused, it peeks out from behind the curtain of its crumpled feathers.

It sees…

It sees the new arrival looming over - no. Sitting. He’s sitting across from it, five feet away, legs neatly folded beneath him. His hands, cloven hands, rest on white trousers that were most likely once finely-pressed but are now crinkled from how he is sitting. A coat of chilly Antarctic Blue creases and folds from his slightly bent-forward posture. A red cloak pools around him. He’s looking towards it but not at it, red eyes, Nether-red eyes, burning low and serenely. 

Curiously, it watches, watches, watches - the arrival the man the piglin the ally the friend the north star? - how his chest rises and falls slowly, steadily, under that sash and uniform.

And Philza suddenly remembers what breathing is.

The moment he sucks in a gulp of air, everything snaps back into place. His heartbeat, once distant, now thunders through his skull, making him tip his head back against the wall behind him and groan as a wave of dizziness crashes over him. His aching wings collapse to either side and spill his unkempt feathers across the stone floors like a splash of blackened blood. He’s a crime scene, a mess held together by desperate breaths and a frayed sense of reality. 

“Phil?”

His bleary eyes flutter to his friend kneeling a considerate distance away. The name trickles from Philza's lips like a prayer: “Techno...”

Techno’s shoulders sag in a silent breath of relief. “ Phil . Geez, man, you had me worried…”

Philza hums vaguely as his attention drifts to his surroundings, trying to remember...yes. The - the hallway. He’d been leaving the session, trying to meet Techno half way, when Schlatt - 

Oh fuck, Schlatt.

His eyes dart around the corridor, eventually finding a handful of Councilors huddled down the hall. While many seem to have left, a decent amount still linger. There, he spots Schlatt among them, sitting on one of the benches outside the conference room as a guard presses what looks to be someone’s spare handkerchief to the side of his cheek. There’s a slight pallor to his face, an uncharacteristic smokiness to his usually blazing-bright gaze. Blood is splattered over his Antarctic Blues, across the lower part of one of his horns, and trickling down his neck like gnarled red tree roots. 

Philza curls in the talons of his right hand, feeling the thick moisture that clings to them, and he sucks in a sharp breath, the perpetual tremble in his bones making itself known.

“Hey, Phil?...”

Philza’s eyes suddenly meet Schlatt’s, and that dampened gaze widens with mild alarm. Some of the huddling Councilors notice too, and now they’re all staring at him, a menagerie of expressions ranging from fear to confusion to concern to - to what has to be disgust, contempt, bad bird, ugly bird -  

“...I was, uhhh, well, just wonderin’…”

Shame and embarrassment curls in Philza’s gut, cold and heavy; the weight of the crown on his head is off-kilter, slipping, fuck, fuck - what the fuck has he done ?

“...Are you okay? Feels like a dumb question, but I just wanted to - ”

“No.”

A pause stretches. “...Huh?”

“No,” Philza repeats in a panic-choked whisper (it almost sounds like a sob, almost) as his eyes finally snap back to Techno, pleading. “No, I am not fucking okay. Get me out of here .”

~*~

It’s humiliating how long it takes him to get to his feet on his own, planting both hands on the wall behind him for some modicum of support as he pushes himself off his aching joints, wings rattling all the while. Therefore, as they leave, he lets Techno do all the work leading them away from the scene. His friend brings them down narrow, quiet corridors that’re only ever used by the occasional messenger or guard, the only sound occupying the stagnant air around them being the clop of their boots on the cobble floors and the rustle of Philza’s wings as they drag behind him, too heavy to carry.

It seems like an eternity before they arrive at Philza’s quarters. Techno pushes the door open and guides him to his bed with gentle, cautious motions of his hands. Philza lowers himself on the edge of the mattress, listening to the bed frame creak as he settles his weight, then creak again as Techno sits beside him, a respectful gap between them.

Philza draws his red-stained hand into his lap, clean talons shakily tracing the tips of the sullied ones. The blood has dried by this point, effectively adhering itself to Philza’s skin; holding his wrist at this angle, he can almost see the distant scars from rusty shackles peeking out from beneath the fabric wraps around his forearms.

He swallows, takes in deep breath, and shifts his eyes to Techno.

Techno looks back at him with a level of concern that makes Philza’s throat clench. 

Neither of them say anything. The grandfather clock in the corner sounds off the seconds they waste, one droning toll at a time.

Eventually, Techno clicks his tongue. “...So I take it the meeting was stressful?”

Philza can’t help but scoff, the sound grating against his throat and tongue as it escapes him, and he replies, with a mirthless grin, “Ah, yeah, it was. It was. You know what it’s like, mate, talkin’ to the Council.”

“Like trying to negotiate with a brick wall?”

“Like trying to negotiate with a brick wall.” 

They chuckle, but it’s empty and they both know it. The levity is swallowed up by the atmosphere like a feeble sun is swallowed up by storm clouds. Philza sags under it, hardly able to bear the weight on top of all the other burdens and secrets he carries upon his shoulders.

It’s several minutes later when Techno speaks up again. This time, he doesn’t waste any breath on trying to ignore the elephant in the room. There’s simply no point. “So, uh - that thing out there sure did happen. You… You gonna walk me through that one, man?”

Philza releases a breath through loose lips, shrugging helplessly. “I dunno, I was - I was leaving the meeting, trying to see if I could catch you in the hall, and I heard Schlatt calling after me, but I - '' he chuckles, a nervous, trilling thing - “ I really did not want to talk to him, so I kept going. But he kept callin’ after me, so I kept walking, and then he - ”

Fingers, fingers in his feathers, too many hands - 

Philza snaps his lips shut and squeezes his eyes closed so hard he sees nothing but stars behind his eyelids. “...He grabbed my wing .”

“He said that he was tryna tap you on the shoulder,” Techno informs him, “thought you couldn’t hear him over the other people in the hall. He said he brushed against your wing by accident.”

“Well,” Philza bites, “that’s just fuckin’ fantastic, ins’t it, mate?” He lets his head fall into his clean hand, rubbing his face and blinking away the burning sensation in his eyes he refuses to acknowledge the significance of. “Fucking hell, I tore his face open . For just... touching me. I’m - fuckin’...” He groans and runs a hand through his hair, fingers knocking against the cool metal of his tilted crown. “Goddamnit, Techno, what the fuck am I doing ? This is ridiculous, I can’t keep - this isn’t - I’m the leader of a fuckin’ empire . I’ve seen war and murder and a whole world of fucked-up shit, I - ” 

Philza’s voice cracks painfully hard, burning his throat so much his eyes can’t help but water, and he gasps for air as the words, the truths build up on his tongue, pushing against the walls he’s erected, and…

...the dam breaks .

“I should be able to HANDLE THIS SHIT!” he explodes, voice clawing against his abused throat. “And I fucking have! I’ve put up with it for ten fucking years, kept a tight fuckin’ lid on it for so long, did such a good job of forgettin’ all that bullshit and moving on, met the best person I’ve ever had in my life ‘n built an entire goddamn empire with ‘im in the process, and yeah! Sure! I can barely shake someone’s hand and I hate bumpin’ shoulders, but who gives a flying fuck about that? That’s small shit! I can deal with that! But now I hear, I just fuckin’ HEAR about a couple of fucked-up Avians and without a goddamn SECOND to spare I’m ten-years-back in that gods-forsaken shithole - ”

The last few words succumb to a sob with a suddenness that surprises even himself, tearing out of his throat in an ugly keen. He claps a hand over his mouth to stop the words, the choked-out warbles that spill from his lips, and shuts his eyes once more. He considers leaving them shut, sinking into his mattress, and never having to face the world again. He flexes, curls, clenches the bloodstained hand in his lap, the talons biting into the flesh of his palm - not quite hard enough to break skin, but enough to sting, to leave little dents behind.

He hears the bed frame creak again - no doubt from Techno scooting in closer, given how the mattress dips ever so slightly; it makes that undefinable ache in his chest increase tenfold.

Techno inhales. Hesitates. “...Phil?”

Philza swallows and shudders. “...Yeah, mate?” he croaks, a hand still clasped over his mouth.

Another moment of uncertainty passes. Philza can practically hear Techno’s mouth opening and closing around the unsaid words. “Were… Were you - gods, I feel like I’m about to say somethin’ real stupid - were you one of those, uh… those Avians?”

Philza’s blood turns to ice, breath punched out of his lungs, but still…

...He nods . He bobs his head up and down as the tears spill over and his wings tremble with the fear of everything . He was . He was one of them. Was was was , ten years ago, but fucking skies, it does not feel like ‘was’ sometimes. He walks around thinking he’s free and calling himself free, but that’s not quite true, is it? Because he still can’t stand to shake someone’s hand or bump shoulders; because just hearing about Avians like him sends him ten years back; because someone accidentally brushes his wing and he answers by spinning around and slashing their face open.

Because he keeps it all right here, keeps this ugly little secret in his chest where no one else can see it, and calls it a victory.

It’s not a victory. It’s really, really not a victory, if the constant ache in his chest means anything - and he knows that.

But gods, is it easy to say that it is.

“Oh, Phil,” he hears Techno murmur, “ Phil… I thought it was all just because you were Avian too. I never realized - no, I didn’t want to think it was because you were… Gods, Phil, that’s... ‘horrible’ feels like such a weak word for it, but I...I don’t know what else to say. I’m just…I’m just so, so sorry.”

Philza gives a shrug because, well, what else is there that can be done? Techno can’t exactly fix him, can’t pull those terrible nightmares from his mind and reduce them into nothingness. And Techno must understand this as well.

Still, Philza’s watery eyes chance upon the gap in the mattress between them, and he sees the hand resting upon the sheets in silent invitation. 

Philza considers the invitation for a long moment. He’s worried for a second that his inaction will lead Techno to thinking that he’s rejected him and that he’ll rescind his offering; but Techno is as patient as ever. He waits, just as he always has, for Philza to meet him halfway.

...In the end, it’s an invitation Philza decides to answer. He slides his bloodied hand from his lap to rest beside Techno’s. 

With the action, the unplaceable yearning roars in his chest, buzzes like the anxious electricity that has made its home in his veins, a sense of understanding swoops through him that what he wants, he wants and longs for is right there - 

His fingers twitch, and his hand is on top of Techno’s.

He’s warm.

It’s the first thing that pops into Philza’s head, because it’s true. Techno’s hand radiates heat, a gentle contrast to the craggy texture of his skin. Philza maps out the imperfections nestled between the hills and valleys of Techno’s knuckles with his fingertips. It’s all scrapes and nicks that never healed quite right, but it’s so Techno , so coarse yet so soft and always, always warm - the hissing pop of a hearthflame. It makes the ache in his chest shift, the hum in his bones settle.

Philza is so enamoured by the sensation that he hardly processes the movement of Techno’s hand until his friend has completely flipped his palm up so it faces Philza’s own.

And it clocks in Philza’s brain that the way that Techno’s fingers start to slide between his should send panic shooting through him like a lightning strike to his spine; but the fear he braces himself for never comes. Every frayed nerve that Techno comes into contact with quiets its buzzing, smooths over like a hand dragged over ruffled fabric - a balm to a burn.

Philza’s breath begins to stutter again, but this time, it’s for a different reason: the ache is lessening, receding, unknotting itself from where it has been coiled around his ribs and heart for so long. Is this all it’s been? All it’s ever taken to satisfy the endless yearning?

Their palms slot together like two puzzle pieces, and Philza’s afraid he might start crying all over again because Techno’s running his thumb over the back of his hand like it’s the single most precious thing in the universe; and his grasp isn’t a trap or a punishment. Instead, it’s a hold. A cradling of his bloodied hand, gentle, wary, caring. His fingers are loose. If Philza wants to break away, he can.

He can .

And - looking into Techno’s eyes, seeing the unabridged love there - that’s all the reassurance he needs.

A breath flutters out of Philza as he tips forward and drops his forehead against his friend’s shoulder. The ache in his chest comes completely undone as Techno lets him hide his tearful face in the crook of his neck, shielded from the world. He feels, feels the vibration of Techno murmuring reverberate through his head as a soft hum.

He’s definitely crying now. Tears trickle over and run down his cheeks, though the taste of salt and regret never reaches Philza’s shuddering lips. Instead, the tears are soaked up by Techno’s uniform, soundlessly wicked away. What he’s left with is relief, contentment, and whimpery chirps bubbling up from the back of his throat.

Techno hums again, a partly pained, partly tender sound. “ Phil .” He breathes the name into the quiet of the room like it’s something sacred. “...Can I put my hand on your back? I won’t go anywhere near your wings, I promise, but...can I...?”

Philza hesitates only a moment before nodding. He hears the sheets beneath them shift as a hand slides onto his lower back - he knows that touch now, the warmth he vows to forever associate with Techno, his emerald star - and begins to rub soothing circles. Philza freely sobs and warbles at the feeling of his frazzled ends being delicately smoothed out. 

Techno wordlessly removes the Emperor’s crown from Philza’s head, nestles his chin atop Philza’s flaxen hair, and hums deep in his chest. He whispers reassurances that flow past his lips as easily as the thrum of his steady heart: “Hey, you’re alright. You’re safe, Phil, I promise. You’re okay. You’re okay... ”

Philza raises his free hand to fist the front of Techno’s shirt, draws him closer; and as he lets himself fall apart in the home of his friend’s arms, he starts to believe it.