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"What do you think, Techno?"
A soft breeze flutters through the summer field. It shimmers like a mirage, as if the air itself was excited to be in the presence of two gods. The duo is sprawled across the windswept grass, tickled by honeysuckle and dandelions. Pink hair is tangled in the weeds, chocolate curls brush the glass blades. They'd been traveling together for some time now, finding solace in one another's immortal presence.
Technoblade hums in response, not entirely paying attention to Wilbur's ramblings. "About what?" he murmurs, eyes fixed lazily on the wisps of clouds above them.
Wilbur huffs, not used to being ignored. "About them," he says, nodding pointedly at the little village in the distance. "How does the almighty blood god feel about mortals?"
Technoblade blinks and follows Wilbur's gaze, towards the small settlement. There are little dots, people, bustling about, and when the breeze blows just right he can pick up on their faint laughter and muffled conversation.
He knows what Wilbur expects him to say. ‘ Oh, I don't think about them at all! They’re so annoying! So pesky, so miniscule and so insignificant!’
He wouldn't be wrong, if he did think that, because mortals are miniscule and insignificant and so easy to kill. But, if he was honest with himself, he didn’t really dislike them.
How could he, if he himself was once just like them? Young, naive, and arrogant enough to think that his puny life held any meaning at all. How stupid had he been when he was a mortal? Stupid enough to believe his existence held any bearing over his cruel society, that snuffing it out would bring progress or change?
He sighs, and looks back towards Wilbur, whose brown curls and round-rimmed glasses make him look no less fragile than the mortals laughing in the village.
"I pity them," he says, after a brief silence. Wilbur's eyes narrow just the slightest, like he couldn't tell if Technoblade was being genuine or just sarcastic.
"Why?" he asks, shifting slightly to roll closer to him.
"Because they are pitiful creatures," Technoblade says, harsh and honest. "They live their lives pretending like it has any meaning, talking and eating and working everyday until they run themselves into a grave, acting as if they are happy all the while." He closes his eyes. The description sounds all too familiar.
The sky is dimming now, slightly, as the sun inches closer to the horizon line. The village chatter is growing quiet.
Wilbur frowns, seemingly hurt by Technoblade's words. "You think mortals can't be happy?" he questions, a sharp edge making its way into his tone. It's defensive, and Technoblade wonders what part of his words offended him.
"I don't think anyone is," he says, nonchalantly, as a joke , but Wilbur's brows only furrow deeper. He sniffs and peers into Techno's face with more intensity, brown eyes taking in the scars and angles that line Technoblade's visage.
"Well, I’m happy," he counters.
Technoblade hums, gravelly and deep, as he watches orange and pink seep into the blue sky. "And what makes you happy, Wilbur?" he asks. He's curious, genuinely curious, how someone who has lived as long as Wilbur has can still find real joy in a world he's seen so much of.
"Songs," Wilbur replies, simple but confident. A fitting answer for the God of Music. "Lyrics and instruments and tunes. Music makes me happy." He glances at the village, which has grown near silent in the dusk. "And mortals, when they sing and dance, just for the fun of it." It’s a cliche response, but to some degree he thinks he can understand the appeal of supple melodies. Techno thinks that Wilbur's speaking voice is music on its own, sometimes chirpy and bright, always fluid. When he tells him so, the brunette laughs, and Techno thinks his laughter is musical too, like church bells and the crisp popping of bubbles. Absently, he wonders when he'd become so fond of the other deity.
"Are you unhappy, Techno?"
It's an easy question, maybe the easiest question in the whole English language. How are you? Are you okay? How do you feel ?
Are you unhappy?
Technoblade is silent. He can't remember a single time he's answered that question with anything other than an "I'm alright." He also can't remember a single time he's answered truthfully, or a single time he's felt anything other than tired. Not when he was a mortal, in that terrible arena. Not when he was reborn, choking and gasping and alone. Not when he finally escaped, when he traveled, when he mowed down mobs and armies on his own. He can't remember the last time he smiled.
"I'm alright," he says. His voice is low and rumbly and monotone, like it always is. And he turns back to the music god, expecting Wilbur to shrug and move on with the conversation.
The sky is more pink than blue now, and the sun is just barely brushing the horizon. Stars are beginning to kiss the clouds.
"You didn't answer my question," Wilbur quips. The notes of his voice carry an airy quality to them, jovial and lighthearted, so unlike Techno's hulking heaviness.
He doesn't know what to say.
"I asked you, if you are unhappy ." Wilbur is looking at him again, and his eyes are honey brown in the copper sunset. They're searching his face, again, and it's the first time anyone's ever questioned Technoblade since he thrust a sword through his own chest.
Are you unhappy?
Would a happy man kill himself for the sake of a city he never loved?
Technoblade is never vulnerable. Rarely to himself, and never to anyone else. He wants to say again, ‘I’m fine!’, and brush off Wilbur’s misplaced concern.
But he hesitates, because Wilbur’s gaze is still on him, and it doesn’t itch like the stares of strangers. He hesitates, because for once, he is faced with someone who might understand. A friend . The first friend he’s ever had. Wilbur doesn't treat him like the blood god; he looks at him with adoration and mischief instead of fear. He brings him to sunny meadows and emerald fields. He asks about Techno's thoughts, opinions, dreams. He laughs like bells and finds joy in mortals. Wilbur, strong and immortal and superior to humans in every possible way, still cares about villages and their songs and dances because they make him happy.
He asks, twice , if Technoblade is unhappy.
And belatedly, it hits him: Wilbur wants Technoblade to be happy. Friends want their friends to be happy.
Techno’s never had a friend before, and he’s definitely not good with social cues, but he thinks that Wilbur is not so happy with how closed off Techno is. How stubbornly reserved Techno has always been. And now, it’s all coming to a head with the easiest question in the world, a question that should break ice between two strangers, not heighten tensions between friends. He would bite off his own tongue before he dropped his singular companion for his inability to just speak his damn mind .
"Yes," he whispers, suddenly. "I'm not happy."
His voice wavers and cracks, not baritone and dull like it should be. Like how he wants it to be. He’s embarrassed, making such a big deal about admitting to something he has always known about himself. He wants to backtrack for making a normal conversation so heavy all of a sudden. Wilburs eyes stare into his, honey on amber as the sun finally creeps below the horizon, the sky quickly fading from rustic warmth to a deep, silky night.
Techno expects a chuckle, maybe, for being overdramatic, or a playful eyeroll or even a simple “oh.” Rejection, judgment, a sympathetic silence - whatever.
Instead, Wilbur says, "That's alright," kind and honest and gentle in a way Technoblade could never anticipate. Wilbur tells him, "I think you will be alright, eventually," with a certainty so wholehearted that his heart actually leaps to the tune of Wilbur's words.
"You're okay, Techno."
Something inside him cracks at those words, those three easy words. A dam bursts, a bottle breaks. He breaks. Techno won't cry (he'd never let himself cry), but the dimples in Wilbur's cheek and the softness in his tone do bring a glossy wetness to his eyes.
He exhales shakily. His nose twitches, the corners of his mouth tremble, and he notes how the village is lit up again, with lanterns and streetlights and tiny candles on the windowsills.
His chest feels warm. He wants to thank the music god, or say something, anything, that could convey how much Wilbur means to him., but he can’t. Yet. So he just swallows and mumbles a hoarse "thank you", his low, grating voice struggling to match Wilbur's smooth syllables. But Wilbur still smiles at him, sweet, bright, and meaningful.
And, For the first time, ever, in his whole, miserable, lonely, pathetic life, Techno smiles back.