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Philza lifts his wing, sliding off the thin sheet to peek under his feathers. Underneath the heavyweight is his companion, sprawled against the mattress.
They only have one blanket between the two of them, the extra limbs and nether blood keep them both warm enough for most nights.
Morning light is brimming against the windows and spilling over and under the curtains, a mere break in between the fabric is enough to let a line of it run across the room, a blinding rod of warm glow that dragged Phil up from sleep.
It’s the type of awakening he doesn’t mind. Something gradual, warm, and when Phil peeks open his eyes without the rush or excitement of royal business he finds himself in a better mood as if the morning has become slower, softer.
He doesn’t rush to get up, get dressed, or get ready for others’ eyes, he is awake and that is enough.
So he spends these easy moments staring at Technoblade’s rising and falling chest, the way his hair is stuck to his cheeks and spilling down in between them like a river, the way the morning cuts across his bare shoulders more akin to a blade sheathed on his back.
He can’t resist reaching over his hand to clasp Techno’s own. Fiddling idly with the thick, battle-hardened fingers.
Techno’s eyes open blearily, just for a second where Phil can see his pupil shrink from the sudden light, and then as he closes them again he can see his face soften. He is satisfied just as Philza is.
And then as if rehearsed, the door opens.
Phil groans under his breath and flips over in the massive bed, closing his wings back up to cocoon himself while he hears Techno, ever vigilant and suddenly chilly, rise to greet them. The door lets in its blinding light then closes, dimming everything again.
It’s the pitter-patter of small feet, a whisper that’s a touch too loud, and the tug of the bedspread underneath him that makes Phil reluctantly take a second look.
He peeks behind his heavy feathers and squints at the intruder, a nine-year-old and his five-year-old brother, with toothy grins and dishevelled hair. There is a ring of dried spit around Tommy’s mouth and Wilbur’s glasses are not on. The older boy is able to lift Tommy up on top of the mattress before heaving himself up.
He only makes it halfway and Phil, on instinct, grabs the back of Wilbur’s shirt to lift him the rest, setting him easily on top of his chest and closing his wings back up.
Wilbur giggles madly and squirms. Phil can feel Tommy’s small hands knocking and leaning against the outer feathers as he uses Phil to stand unsteadily on the squishy mattress. The boys lose whatever stealth they were preserving to get here unsupervised and progressively get louder and louder.
Phil lets out a big breath and wraps his arms around Wilbur’s back, bringing him close enough to feel his hair brushing against his skin, and peers over at Techno.
He has put his own arms around Tommy’s back and dragged him below their sheets while he squirms, the boy rambling about breakfast, sleepiness, and unfairness that no one really pays attention to.
“What are you boys doing up so early?” Phil asks, voice hoarse, shaking his feathers while Wilbur runs his fingers through the inner plumage.
The darkness of the room, not yet disturbed by the unveiling of the curtains, is like its own blanket keeping them preserved in this moment of time. For once, in a very long time, Phil doesn’t have a million things on the top of his head, the laundry list of things to do, including laundry. There is only this room, this bed, these boys.
Phil looks down at Wilbur and his squinting eyes and smiles softly, so full of love.
His wings shrink closer to his shoulders so he can see the other two across the mattress.
Technoblade has strong armed Tommy below him, into the hollow of his elbow and neck and is clearly grumbling and rumbling with a hearty purr, putting some of his sleepy weight onto the five-year-old to keep him trapped while they see Tommy’s legs kicking in the air. Techno closes his eyes and turns his affection into a loud snore that makes the young boy scream, his lungs seemingly the first thing awake in the morning.
Wilbur drags his palm across his face to move the hair out of his eyes, “We got woken up,” he says.
“Oh?”
Wilbur nods, bobbing with his whole body like a rooster, “There was a loud, loud bird outside.”
Philza hums and closes his eyes. Wilbur begins to pat his cheeks, feeling the scruff along his jaw. A loud bird? Nests and mothers and spring, summer and warmth are coming.
Techno raises his head at the explanation and turns, Tommy shrieks as if being strangled and comes out the other side, falling dramatically into Techno’s body who lets out a sharp breath when Tommy’s boney elbows hit his stomach.
“So much energy for such tiny bodies,” Techno hums. He braces his hand against Tommy’s back as the boy attempts to climb him despite Technoblade being very much a hill instead of a mountain.
The boys giggle and finally, Phil is able to push his back against the headboard of the bed, his spine cracks at the new motion and he sighs long and loud, “We hungry?”
Tommy’s head shoots up, “Hungry, hungry, hungry, I want- Lots and lots and lots!”
“Lots?”
“Pancakes!” Tommy shrieks.
Techno shrifts his eyes to meet Phil’s and says, “I don't know… last I heard pancakes were declared illegal in the empire, along with normal cake, pans, and,” he pauses for dramatic effect, his audience raptured, “apple juice.”
“No!” Tommy screams, aghast. Then when he finds no refuge in Phil’s carefully neutral face he drags out his ‘o’ and pushes his face into Techno’s chest, beating his fists.
Techno laughs and hauls Tommy’s squirming body up into the air, “Yes! It’s all gone! To jail for everyone who likes it!”
“No!”
Wilbur rolls his eyes, a near ten-year-old is not so easily distracted. He leans in close to whisper in Phil’s ear, “Can we actually have pancakes?”
Phil gives him a secret smile, “I think we can manage that.”
“-What have we said about tugging on the hair? It's not nice!” Techno scolds.
Tommy screams and in response Technoblade chucks him, dropping him lightly onto Phil who beats his wings to dislodge them, ruffling everyone’s hair, before wrapping around his two boys.
“Take your spawn,” Techno says. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and lifts his arms in a large stretch, his jaw cracks in a yawn and he opens the curtains.
Phil grins, “To jail?”
Tommy shakes his head, “No! Not jail!”
Light guides them, it’s bright and overwhelming but through the glass panes they can see the blankets of snow reflecting the rising glow.
Phil manages to remove his own legs from the tangle of sheets and hefts the boys upon each hip, comfortably carrying them out of their bedroom. It’s not going to be much longer before he won’t be able to do this so he squeezes them extra tight.
Techno has a bet going that Tommy will be taller than Wilbur, they aren’t looking forward to it.
When they open the door to the hall the windows are bright and open, a warm breeze flowing through a few.
They walk in the halls and manage to avoid most of the passing workers.
Those they do meet dip their heads in greeting, carrying fresh towels and sweeping the stones. No one comments on their appearance or destination, letting the nice morning carry on without their interference. It seems everyone is in a good mood today, not just them.
They reach the kitchen just as Phil’s grip was beginning to weaken. There is a few staff inside finishing up the worker’s first meal of the day, as well as cleaning and prepping for the next event. Phil and Techno, both only wearing robes, no shoes, are able to weave around them and deposit the children on a free counter.
Wilbur doesn’t let him go for a moment, fingers clenched in his hem but Technoblade swoops in to distract them with a wooden spoon, knocking it lightly against the back of their heads, backs, and knees, and listening to them shriek and try to wrestle it for their own.
Philza opens a few cabinets, not entirely unfamiliar with his kitchens, and picks out chilled eggs, milk, and a heavy bag of flour.
Someone totters over, a Jacob? A Jake? He can’t remember right now, “Sir, please let me-”
Phil waves the staff off with an unconcerned hand and grabs a bowl from another. He begins to mix things together, eyeing the ingredients instead of measuring them properly. In the corner of his eye, he sees a woman brandishing measuring spoons like they are knives, looking ready to take over if he falters.
Despite this the staff all buzz a little at his actions but most do turn away, sparing their glances every once in a while to look for their own opportunity to sweep him off his feet, taking back their beloved utensils and ingredients they have so much passion for, just to prove their worth, their job.
It’s almost as intense as a battlefield, the eyes and ears of the ruthless kitchen staff looking at him, but he holds up his head against them as he always has and always will do.
Phil allows the three boys to dip their fingers into the mixture for a taste and then he pours the fast-setting ingredients over a pre-prepped pan on a free stove, already lit at the bottom.
The servant who had done so, anticipating their needs, looks proud when Phil gives her a nod of thanks.
The pancake bubbles and is nearly saved by a chef but, as he was released to the floor like a battle hound, Tommy wards them off with his robbed wooden spoon that he holds as if it were a spear, knocking people’s knees.
It’s a battle to be in their own home.
If Phil could change one thing it would be that.
Not the real battles it took to get them here and the people they lost, not the hardship or the paperwork, the conservative attitudes and the ever-present rules. It would be the fighting to have space, to have ease.
He flips the pan and the other side of the pancake is golden.
Techno holds up Tommy at a safe distance so he can see Phil flip it again, revealing the other side to be cooked. They make Phil take a step back so that Tommy can hold Techno’s knuckles while Techno grabs the handle, flipping it together.
They only manage it halfway and it nearly falls into flames. They put the pan to the side and instantly Wilbur snatches it off the counter. They have to wrestle it from his grip, remind him he has a conscience, and divide the pancake in half to give to Tommy.
They could not wait for the second to cook, they were simply starving right this second and couldn’t wait another moment.
“Don't forget to wait for it to cool down,” Phil chides, he doesn’t even look down as he says it but he can hear his boys loudly blowing, giggling as they bite into it, finding it too hot and then blowing on it some more.
No utensils or plates, no syrup or fruit, the kids take their half of the pancake, still very much steaming on the inside, and sit on the tiled floor while Techno pours out the next.
Phil leans against the counter where the sun has made bright streaks against the wood, looks at them all together and wonders about when his life became a gift, beautiful and glowing.