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His eyes burn as the professor drones on. It’s becoming harder and harder to keep them open, his head droops and then jolts back up. Curse the attendance policy. Technoblade isn’t getting points off just because some cold thinks it can take him and make him stay home to “rest.” His skull throbs dangerously—the buzzing lights feel like a hive of bees is his skull—he tries to focus on the lecture.
The words pass painfully through his head, piercing his ears on the way in and out. No information is retained. Technoblade knows he’ll have to review whatever this class was supposed to be on later. Not now, or tomorrow, maybe he’ll just make a promise to review and then conveniently forget about it. Sounds like a plan to him.
Not soon enough, the professor finishes their spiel and Technoblade can finally leave. He doesn’t remember picking up his bag, or walking up the stairs to his dorm, everything passes in a blur. One moment he’s leaving the lecture hall and the next he’s facedown in his pillows. He doesn’t give it another thought as the world fades into nothingness.
“Technoblade!” A muffled voice calls from somewhere outside his door. Then there’s a loud, obnoxious banging. The thudding on the door(?) resounds with the pounding in his head. Technoblade pushes his face further into his pillow and pulls his blanket over his head. It does nothing to silence the sound of his poor entrance door being thrown open. Nor the rapidly approaching footsteps.
“Technoblade!” The voice shouts again as they throw his room door open and flood his room with light from the hall. With a groan, Technoblade tries to worm his way further underneath the covers. The open door brings with it a terrible breeze and a shiver starts shaking his whole body as the figure stomps over. “Why haven’t you been responding?! Dad has been worried sick!”
The intruder stops a step away from his bed, Technoblade can feel them looming above him, waiting for Techno’s answer. Technoblade ignores them—pressing the pillow against his ears.
With an irritated scoff, Technoblade’s sheets are ripped from his body and a jolt runs up his spine. He’s freezing. His teeth are chattering when he tries to wink an eye open.
“What is wrong with you?” Technoblade rasps as he glares at Wilbur with the hatred of a thousand lifetimes. The eternal nuisance that is his pseudo-brother, Wilbur, looks indignant before his face quickly transforms into one of surprise.
“Are you sick?!” Wilbur shrieks as he lurches forward, stuffing himself into Technoblade’s space, grabbing at his limbs and checking them all over before pressing a hand to his forehead. It forces Technoblade in a half-sitting half-lying position, arms shaking from where they’re trying to keep himself and Wilbur up, as he lets Wilbur check him over. Hopefully that’ll clue him in to the fact that Techno feels like he's been hit by a train and thrown into a geyser and make a good enough excuse for why he hadn't been responding.
With a stray glance around his room, Technoblade realizes that his backpack isn’t even in the room. Which means neither is his phone. No wonder their texts didn't wake him up.
“Leave me alone,” Technoblade says with an annoyed huff, weakly pushing the other’s hands away and sinking back down, blindly reaching out for his blanket.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Wilbur asks sadly, following Technoblade’s movements with a pitiful look plastered onto his face. Making sure Technoblade feels as guilty as possible. (Because Wilbur is irritating like that and knows that Techno has a soft spot for his faux-twin.) If Technoblade didn’t feel like trash, the annoyance’s guilt tripping may have actually had an effect. As it is, Technoblade just rolls his eyes and turns on his side, facing the wall.
“Give me back my blanket,” He grumbles, squeezing his eyes shut. The bed dips as the other moves closer with a pained noise.
“You’re shaking,” Wilbur notes unhappily, a hand rests on Technoblade’s shoulder. It’s warm—a welcome change to the frigid air that surrounds him. Then it’s shaking him, “Hey, are you dying?”
“Yes,” Technoblade deadpans but Wilbur doesn’t stop. Instead deigning to start poking Technoblade in the back. He squeezes his eyes tightly closed, trying to shut out the other’s existence.
“Hey, Technoblade. Technoblade, hey,” Wilbur repeats, prodding Techno’s back the whole time.
Poke. Poke.
A pause.
Poke.
Technoblade exhales heavily before finally flipping over onto his back—he stares up at Wilbur. The other man stares back with a hand poised mid-poke. Then he starts inching his finger closer. “Don’t.” Technoblade warns with a harsh glare. Quick as a whip, Wilbur pokes him in the cheek and Technoblade finally retaliates.
Pouncing forward, the other tries to turn to make his escape but Technoblade is quick to grab him. It devolves into a wrestling match as his pseudo-brother goes down with a surprised cry. Contrary to what Technoblade thought, Wilbur doesn’t continue the struggle. Instead, he suspiciously calms in his brother’s arms, attacks ceasing.
Wilbur lays silently on Technoblade’s chest, facing the ceiling. Techno can’t see his expression. If he did, he’s sure he would see the man wearing a mischievous expression—planning some scheme. But what Techno does know is that he now has a new blanket. One that even produces its own heat. Finally the rich prick can put himself to use instead of annoying Technoblade.
Technoblade’s eyes grow heavy as exhaustion tries to pull him under, tired from the short fight. His face pressed into the back of the other’s head—at least his curls are soft. (Thanks to Technoblade. The man had a pitiful hair routine before Technoblade took mercy on him.)
He blinks at his fake twin, a welcome warmth spreads in his heart. He realizes with disgust that it's fondness. It’s exasperating that, despite how troublesome this particular nuisance is, he wouldn’t tolerate anyone else. Not that he'd ever tell the other. Wilbur would never let him live that down.
He doesn’t understand how his pseudo-twin has done something that not even his one childhood friend has been able to do—and in less than half the time. From thorn in his side to forcing him to come to family dinner every other night to actually enjoying the other’s company, Wilbur really is something. So... he guesses he doesn’t mind that the other has come to bother him—even though he’s sick. The man has wormed his way into Technoblade’s heart and the other must now reap the consequences. No take-backs.
He supposes being the other’s doppelganger helped. That reminds Technoblade that he needs to re-dye his roots. The pink is starting to be taken over by brown. A problem for future Technoblade. Right now Technoblade is comfortable and going to go to sleep.
He’s out before he hears the sound of a camera shutter. Blackmail for the future.
- - -
Technoblade wakes up slowly. He vaguely recalls dreaming about being in a car? Something about expensive pajamas? It doesn’t matter. He’s warm and his bed seems especially soft in the early hours of the morning. Something bulky weighs on his chest. His roommate must have left the windows open again, letting in the stray cats. He doesn’t mind. Maybe they’re the reason he feels so much better already. Sure, his eyes are heavy and his body aches and the fever still burns strong and his head pounds, but… Can’t cat purrs promote healing or something?
Probably. Anyways, last he was aware, he was sick in bed. Did he set his alarm? Wait, he didn’t miss class did he?
Technoblade jolts awake, eyes shooting open and attempting to sit up, stopped only by the weight on his chest.
The thing laying on him groans. When did cats learn human mannerisms? Is this new? Did the apocalypse happen while he was sleeping? He could definitely write a paper on this and get rich. (Assuming the apocalypse hasn't happened.) No more worrying about paying for college.
“Go back to sleep Technoblade, I’m tired,” Wilbur grouses. He’s laying across Technoblade’s torso with his head resting on his shoulder, arms wrapped around his waist, pressed firmly into Techno’s side. This clingy-
“Bruh, why are you here?” Technoblade questions tiredly. How did this loser even get into his dorm? He vaguely recalls Wilbur bragging about knowing where the outdoor key was a couple months ago.
Or… earlier wasn’t a dream. Wilbur seriously barged into his dorm and then turned into a blanket. Metaphorically. (Was the car trip and pajamas real too? Oh gods, did he actually weep over being given fancy pajamas? He’s never going to live that down. He forces the memories away. Nope. Nooo. Never happened. It was all a fever dream. Yep. Definitely.)
He would say he was surprised the man hadn’t left, but that would make him a liar. His pseudo-brother is incredibly clingy. Both in the physical sense and in the can’t have not communicated in some way with him for too long. Technoblade didn’t respond to his texts for one day and Wilbur got his dad to find him.
(It was quite embarrassing having to explain to his not-actually brother’s bio dad that he hadn't responded to his texts because he dropped his phone in a bowl of instant noodles. At least the older man got a laugh out of it.)
“We’re at home, of course I’m here,” Wilbur retorts sleepily. Adjusting his head on Technoblade’s shoulder, pushing his face into his neck. He better not have drooled. The last thing Technoblade wants to worry about is more laundry. The student will have to clean all his sheets after he’s done being sick and all the rest of the stuff he touched. There’s enough work on his hands as it is.
“Didn’t know you were paying rent,” Technoblade huffs.
“I don’t need to-” But Technoblade doesn’t wait to hear the rest because as Wilbur speaks, his stomach starts roiling in an uncomfortable motion that tells Technoblade he’s on a timer. Technoblade rapidly pushes himself up. Wilbur rolls off and starts to complain but must see the seriousness in Technoblade’s face because he quickly detaches himself and helps Techno up.
It’s as his feet touch down on lush carpet that Technoblade confirms that they’re not in his dorm. But he doesn’t have time to dwell on the thought as Wilbur rushes him to his bathroom, pulling his hair back as Technoblade leans over the toilet and heaves.
He hates being sick. Hates every bit of it. Especially vomit. Couldn’t his gut just get good? But nooo, it has decided that the only way to cure him is to expel what little he had for breakfast. The man doesn’t even remember if he had breakfast. His gut seems to think it did.
Technoblade doesn’t know how long his stomach repulses itself, but the end doesn’t come soon enough, he flushes the toilet and stumbles to his feet. Wilbur is at his side helping him up.
Wilbur leads him to the sink and then starts digging around in his drawers, pulling out a new toothbrush still in its case and unpacking it to hand it to him with some toothpaste.
The toothbrush is pink.
He rinses his mouth out three times and then some to get all the nasty yuck and taste out and rubs water down his face, trying to fully eradicate the stench from his flesh. He observes himself in the mirror for a moment.
He’s seen better days. Face flushed red and eyes puffy, it’s clear he’s ill. Wilbur is next to him, leaning into his shoulder, hands loosely wrapped in Techno’s baggy pajama shirt. He looks like he’s dozing off.
He tries to shake the man off.
“Nooo,” His brother protests.
“Why are you so tired? I’m the one who’s sick,” Technoblade scoffs, half-heartedly trying to dislodge the human leech from his side.
“Because someone didn’t remember that viruses can be transmitted,” Techno startles at Phil’s voice. Phil is stood in the doorway of the bathroom, medical mask covering his lower face and tray held securely in his hands.
So that whole thing really wasn’t a dream. Well, maybe Wilbur turning into an actual blanket was, but besides that.
“Idiot,” He mutters to Wilbur who just knocks his head against Technoblade’s shoulder weakly. Phil chuckles good-naturedly.
“Alright boys, back to bed,” Phil ushers, moving out of the doorway for them to shuffle through. Is this the time where he leaves? That kinda felt like a dismissal. He tries to head for the exit to leave—maybe they’ll let him stay in the usual guest room they lend him—but Wilbur just pulls him back in the direction of his bed.
“Wait, I should go. I wouldn’t want to-” Technoblade tries. He really doesn’t want to overstay his welcome. Or do anything else embarrassing.
“No,” Wilbur finalizes, pushing him back on the heavenly mattress. It’s the perfect mixture of soft and firm—enough support for his body but still feels like resting on a cloud. The real rich people stuff. He’s always surprised whenever he lays on it. The bed in the guest room they let him stay in whenever he spends the night is even better. Like they picked it out just for him.
He supposes he might be convinced to stay. But he still has to try—to make sure. He doesn’t want to make any mistakes with them.
“It’s no problem mate, you’re family,” Phil says kindly, his tone warm and welcoming. Like he always is when he’s insisting that Techno can stay the night with his “It’s far too late to head back right now,” or his, “the drivers are crazy this time of night, just take a room mate.” A truly peculiar kindness.
“I appreciate the sentiment, but I really shouldn’t-”
“Nonsense, I’ll hear no more of this,” Phil says as he pulls the blanket up around Techno’s shoulders. Then, as though it’s second nature, he brushes some hair out of his face. Feeling his forehead before giving his face one parting pat and copying the same with Wilbur, who more eagerly leans into the touch. He gives each of them that same fond look, as though he’s seen something truly adorable. Like kittens curled up for a nap.
Then he reaches for something on the tray he had sat on the bedside table. “Alright, take these for the fever,” He hands them little plastic cups with some viscous, purple liquid in them, “Then drink some water and I’ve got some cheese crackers if you think your stomach would be able to handle that. I know it’s a bit touchy at the moment.” Phil gives him a sympathetic look at the last sentence.
Technoblade absently swallows the foul tasting liquid. It tastes as bad as it looks. Then Phil is handing them each their own cups with straws. Technoblade feels lost. He’s never had anyone take care of him when he was sick. Before he aged out of foster care, he’d usually just hide away until he got better, maybe snag some meds if he was lucky enough to not get caught.
It’s… nice? He thinks. A bit weird. But this family has always been like this. The second Wilbur found him in that library, he attached himself at the hip, declaring themselves twins. Sure, they look scarily alike, but he doesn’t get why they get so defensive whenever he reminds them they’re not actually related. Besides, if they were actually related, it would be kinda awkward to learn that they gave up just one twin and kept the other.
“Stop thinking so hard, you’re giving me a headache,” Wilbur complains, flopping back onto Technoblade, resting his head on top of Technoblade’s head—his arms find themselves back around Technoblade as the other sags into him. The glass nearly spills, he’s careful to set it back onto the side table with Phil’s help.
“Heh? That’s not how anything works,” Technoblade shoves Wilbur lightly, who retaliates by further draping himself over Techno, his hair blocks out Techno’s eyesight. Technoblade sighs. Then he maneuvers his elbow in between the two of them and jabs it into his faux-twin’s side.
“Ow! What’s wrong with you!” Wilbur exclaims as pulls back, rubbing his side dramatically. It wasn’t even that hard, he’ll be fine. “Philll, tell Techno to stop bullying me.”
Phil is observing their antics indulgently, eyes crinkled in amusement. “Behave you two,” He says with a playful shake of his head. Then he pats his legs and stands up, grabbing the tray but leaving the two glasses and snacks behind. “Is there anything else you might want, maybe an ice pack?” Phil suggests, head tilted in consideration.
“No, this is really more than enough,” Technoblade insists, he doesn’t want to be a burden. “I’ll be out of your hair soon-”
“Don’t worry about it mate, you just focus on getting better,” Phil firmly maintains. And with a final pointed look in their direction to behave, he leaves. The door clicks shut, deciding his fate. With a heavy exhale, Technoblade flops back on the bed, his stomach and head throb menacingly at the action. He figures he might as well make the most of their good will. If they get annoyed with him and kick him out, it’s their own fault.
His eyes grow heavy, the medicine already kicking in probably. Wilbur is suspiciously silent, his back turned and arms crossed. Ugh, he can’t go to sleep with Wilbur like this.
“What are you planning?” Technoblade calls. Wilbur doesn’t give any indication that he’s heard him. “Wilbur?” He repeats. This time the other does react. He “hmphs” indignantly and turns up his nose. “Are you mad at me?”
“No Technoblade, really? Why would I be mad at you?” Wilbur says sarcastically, in that tone that definitely means he’s upset with Techno for something. Technoblade rolls his eyes. What could he be mad for? Was it the elbow?
“I’m sorry for elbowing you,” Technoblade deadpans. He’s not actually sorry but Wilbur has a way of making him feel bad. Sometimes, he’s half-convinced that they actually are connected. That through some tragic twist of fate, their strings were pulled from the same thread and separated only temporarily until they might be rejoined. Sometimes Wilbur just gets him like no one else. They’ve had plenty of conversations that were just the two of them finishing each other’s sentences. Conversations conveyed in the flash of eyes. Their thoughts uniquely their own yet privy to each other if only they look.
It’s funny. Having a brother. And incredibly annoying.
“Do you mean it?” Wilbur slouches, looking past his fringe with wide watery eyes. Dramatic jerk. He learned that trick in theater class. Techno knows that because the second he learned the skill, he showed Technoblade and then convinced him to join his scheme to guilt trip some fast food employees for free stuff because “his dog died.”
“No, but you’re not actually sad anyways,” Technoblade scoffs, settling back down and closing his eyes. If Wilbur isn’t actually hurt, he’s going to sleep. But minutes pass in silence and the bed doesn’t move to indicate that Wilbur was laying down. He peaks an eye open and finds Wilbur still hunched over with his arms crossed. Ughh, he’s not going to let this go. And Techno can’t go to sleep with Wilbur’s angsty brooding.
So he pushes himself up, evaluates his target, and throws himself at his brother. Wilbur shrieks as Technoblade wraps his arms around the other’s torso and pulls him back down. Wilbur goes down kicking, trying to squirm out of Techno’s arms.
“Let go of me you pig bastard!” Wilbur shrieks as he struggles.
“I thought you wanted to go to sleep?” Techno taunts.
“Well now I’m not tired,” Wilbur declares prissly, but he’s settled down now. Laying on Techno’s chest, breathing together in time with the other. They stay like that for a moment, Technoblade’s eyes start weighing closed again, but Wilbur speaks, “Hey, Techno?”
“Hmm?” He responds lethargically.
“You know you’re my brother right?” Wilbur says seriously, tone shifting from the childish humor to a stony earnestness.
“Sure Wilbur, whatever you say,” Techno scoffs.
“No, like, we came out of the same womb kind of brothers,” Wilbur insists sincerely. The fever must have really got to him. It makes sense. He’s probably in the earlier stages of whatever cold they’ve got—the fever worse.
“Just go to sleep Wilbur, your fever is making you say things.”
“No Tech, I’m being serious.” Technoblade sighs as he resigns himself to having a talk with his fever-induced pseudo-brother.
“Wilbur-” He starts but Wilbur hears his tone of disbelief and quickly interrupts.
“Phil adopted me when I was four but he was never told that I had a twin.”
“I think I would have remembered-”
“We were separated at birth, Techno,” Wilbur shuffles, pulling out his phone from his pajama pocket, he pushes the phone into Techno’s face, “Look, I even have the tests.”
“What- Wilbur, that can’t-” Despite his doubts, he immediately grabs Wilbur’s phone and pulls it close, focusing in on all the words. It’s a genetics test. Then there’s another, with the same results. And another. All with the same answer.
Siblings.
A leaden stone sinks in his gut. A terrible feeling that worsens his headache and makes his eyes teem with moisture.
“Have you only been hanging out with me because you thought I was your twin?” Technoblade asks, face warped in betrayal. Wilbur twists to meet his eyes, then flicks him on the forehead.
“No, you idiot. I just thought we were doppelgangers at first. I didn’t even know I had a twin till we did that DNA family tree test thing a couple months ago. Remember the free one hosted by the school?”
“Oh,” Technoblade breathes. He forgot they did that. They got free pizza too. Wilbur bursts out into giggles. Before breaking into a coughing fit, with breathless laughs interspersing them. It lifts the boulder from his chest, leaving only his twin.
“You find out we’re actually related and the only thing you can say is ‘oh,’” Wilbur taunts. If Techno’s face grows redder, no one will know thanks to his fever.
“Shut up,” Technoblade screws his eyes shut and turns his head away from his laughing brother (brother) who is resting his head on his crossed arms on Techno’s chest, “Why are you even bringing it up?” He asks as he tries to divert topics and the other’s laughter.
Seriously, what was the point? Just to get a rise out of Techno? Or was it just the fever? Or is this why Phil has been so nice? But he’s been nice like he is since he met him which was a long time before the whole DNA test thing. Maybe… maybe they actually just like him. It seems impossible.
“I don’t know… Just felt like it. Maybe it’s the fever,” Wilbur closes his eyes contentedly, a wide smile still pressed into his features. He can’t believe this imbecile seriously got himself sick just because he wanted to be close to Technoblade. Dramatic idiot. “I love you, little brother,” Wilbur tacks on as he relaxes.
“Little brother? If we’re twins then we’re the same age,” Technoblade says, offended.
“No, I’m definitely older by two minutes,” Wilbur defends.
“As if, you just made that up,” Technoblade scoffs.
“Nu uh, it’s on the test,” Wilbur denies.
“Then show me,” Wilbur looks away childishly.
“I don’t want to,” Wilbur mumbles and reaches for his discarded phone slyly. He’s definitely bluffing. Technoblade grabs his wrist and tries to reach the phone first. The other immediately contorts himself in his efforts to grab the device. Twisting his body around to try and swipe the phone back. Then it’s an all-out brawl, the two of them wrestling each other out of the phone everytime one of them gets it while slowly being sapped of their energy—eyes growing heavier and movements sluggish as their bodies eventually shut their antics down.
When Phil finds them later, sleeping peacefully with Wilbur laying on Technoblade’s chest, Techno’s arm loosely wrapped around Wilbur’s neck and Wilbur’s arms wrapped around the one arm, he’ll think nothing of the phone dropped on the carpet. No idea that a war had been fought over the device, only put to an end by the combatants’ own sickness.