Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"The kid from the closet stole my face."

Philza looks up from the phone and looks at his son. Wilbur stands bathed in the morning sun through the window of the cramped kitchen, in pajamas, with shaggy hair, with a completely calm face and looks with his big, viscous brown eyes. His feet are bare. The smell of toast is in the air. The coolness drags from the open window. Coffee is steaming in a mug.

"The boy with the red eyes?" Phil politely clarifies, trying to look casually inquisitive.

"With bloody ones," Wilbur clarifies, as if this is a very important detail. He begins to shake his hands, as he does when he gets bored of standing still, and this eerie calmness on his face, clear after waking up, finally disappears, giving way to furrowed eyebrows and a look to the side. "Yes. Tonight he was looking at me again, but now I could see his face, and it is very similar to mine. It annoys me, Dad, why take my face without asking? I think it's rude. But I haven't told him anything yet."

Phil hums significantly and prefers not to answer, but only to call the child to the table. Wilbur instantly forgets about all the incidents of the night, skips to a chair and soon drinks tea, eats sandwiches and selflessly swings his legs — breakfast is back on track.

The light envelops the kitchen comfort, birds are trilling outside the window, the washing machine is rattling in the bathroom. Wilbur sniffs, sipping his tea, Philza has almost finished his coffee.

"...You know," the boy says after a silence, prompting his father to be wary again. Wil looks thoughtful, he looks at the table and runs his finger over the oilcloth. "Maybe this kid really needs my face. He didn't have it before, but he probably liked mine, and he decided to make himself the same. And he didn't ask permission because he’s shy. We need to make friends with him already, but he's always hiding! Should I try to leave a candy at the closet for the night?"

Phil sighs. This was not how he had dreamed of spending this morning.

***

Wilbur started seeing the red-eyed child almost a month ago. When he ran into Phil's room for the first time in the middle of the night, he was not so much scared as surprised, and immediately took his father to look at the closet in his bedroom.

"Of course it's empty! He ran away when I came up — he didn't even say anything! Do you think he broke into our house because he has nowhere to live?"

From the version with an ordinary homeless boy, however, Wil quickly refused. He claimed that he could not make out the face of his "guest" in any way, although he perfectly saw in the light of the moon or a lamp and torn clothes, and thin wrists, and pale legs, and long shaggy hair. It was as if under the unkempt strands there was not a head, but just a piece of loose, eye-straining darkness, just with bright scarlet eyes. Clever Wilbur, at the age of seven, already understood exactly what was abnormal in this world, and that it was definitely not a human appeared in his closet at night.

Phil asked his son if he felt danger from this child, if he was afraid of him, but Wil always refused. No bad premonitions, no bad dreams or fear, just a slight awkwardness, curiosity and annoyance that an unknown visitor does not respond to anything and is constantly hiding.

Wilbur never had any imaginary friends — and why does someone need a friend who doesn't even come out to you? A child psychologist offered some versions of the explanation of this phenomenon, which, however, did not fit well with Wilbur's condition and environment. But Philza would not have paid attention to his doubts and would have taken Wil to the doctors again, if not for one thing.

Phil saw this kid too.

Only a couple of times, blurred by the shadow at the end of the corridor or in the corners, but not only these visions served as proof: things moved in that minute, while no one was present to the room, doors opened, lights turned on and off. The roots were once dug up in flower pots, the earth was lying on the floor. Bare children's feet stomped in the empty rooms.

There was no gas leak or anything like that. Philza did not deceive himself with thoughts in the spirit of "it's just the wind, wiring problems and Wilbur's pranks" and accepted the fact that something settled in their apartment.  

He tried to find information on the Internet, but received only a bunch of ordinary horror stories and tips on appeasing the brownie. And careful questioning of neighbors revealed only that a couple of times they saw lights burning in the windows or the sounds of someone being in the apartment when Phil and Wil were absent.

Is it a ghost? Why did he come to them? If this red-eyed child had always lived here, he would surely have appeared at least a few years earlier. What does he want? Can it cause harm? Why, finally, should he copy someone else's face?

Maybe Wilbur should start sleeping in Phil's bedroom?

***

Wilbur stops pretending to be asleep and looks around the room. The summer evening sky has finally lost its light, and the curtains on the window plunge the neighborhood into even more mysterious twilight. The carpet on the floor, the mess on the table, all the favorite toys and the wallpaper familiar to each pattern change with shadows, as if they turn into something else — although not as much as it will be when it really is late at night.

The boy sits down, rustling the blanket, and turns on the night light, the space pours soft and loose light. Wil stopped using this nightlight at the age of five, but recently Dad found it and put it back on the nightstand because Wilbur asked for a flashlight. He probably thought that Wil was afraid of the dark, but actually the child just wanted to get a better look at the night visitor.

He rummages with his palm under the pillow, finds what he was looking for, gets off the bed and goes to the closet, trying not to stomp too much. Dad may not forbid it directly, but clearly does not want Wilbur to try to make friends with the boy from the closet. But after all, they need to know at least each other's names, since he now lives with them! Therefore, he need to be friendly.

Wilbur stops and peers into the ever-ajar closet with louvered doors. Only his clothes are in the dark, of course, because the kid usually comes a little later. In front of the closet, on the edge of the carpet, Wilbur puts two candies. Actually, he planned to bring three, but one was his favorite and... when they make friends with the boy, then he will think about whether to share something expensive with him!

The silence of the night seems to cover not only the room, but the entire distant planet outside the window. Even if Wil knows that if he opens the door a crack, he can see the light at the end of the corridor and hear the tapping of his father's fingers on the keys. Now the nursery is a separate little world. Dark and very quiet.

"Hey, can you hear me?" Wilbur asks in a loud whisper. Suddenly the child has already come, but just hides as always? Lately, he's been dropping in more often, almost every night. "I left you some candy. To make friends. Do you understand?"

Silence is the answer. Probably it would have been better to write a note and put it with the sweets, but how will the boy read in the dark? And in general, does he know how? Eh. Wil stands and listens, hoping for at least some rustle, but instead feels the hairs on his arms and back gradually rise. And the back of the head begins to burn as if ringing…

The feeling of the gaze.

Wilbur turns around abruptly and manages to notice how the black silhouette of a long-haired head disappears into the darkness under his bed. Wil immediately takes off and almost falls to his knees, looking in there, but sees nothing but dust and toys lying around. He frowns, puffing out his cheeks with displeasure, pulls his head out from under the bed and turns to the closet.

The light of the nightlight barely reaches the door, but Wilbur catches his eye on something that stands out. The bare foot inside. Wil immediately forgets about his discontent, because he realizes that the boy is here — the rest of his body and hair merge with the silhouettes of clothes on hangers and are lost in the shadows.

"...It's a gift," Wilbur says, explaining the meaning to him. He doesn't risk moving anymore: so he sits, half-turned and holding his palm on the side of the bed. "We have to get acquainted. Because you live at our house and took my face for yourself. Agree?"

The child in the closet bends down and shows his eyes. Bright and not just red, but bloody — this is the color Wilbur saw when he cut himself on paper recently and watched a drop pour on his finger, this color was now flickering in the darkness of his closet. Wil couldn't see anything else, but for some reason he knew for sure that the child had his facial features.

"Are you shy?" Wilbur is curious. "Come on, you're already playing with my toys while I'm gone, and you come to my sleepovers. And according to the rules, we must first make friends."

After long seconds, the child blinks, lowers his gaze to the sweets, but immediately again chained it to Wil. He sighs.

"Okay, I’ll turn away," Wilbur covers his eyes with his forearms and buries his nose in the blanket. Listening to.

There is an empty silence for a while. Then the closet door makes a noise, opening. Candy wrappers rustle. Silence. A barely audible step back.

Wilbur opens one eye and looks out. The bloody eyes are now looking at him from the other side of the closet. Now it is clear that the kid, as always with fluffy hair of some obscure color and in stretched old clothes, awkwardly holds sweets in a palm lock. It's unusual to see him with a real human face, and not a patch of darkness. He doesn't smile, doesn't frown, and doesn't express any special emotions at all — he just stares.

They look at each other for a very long few seconds, but when Wilbur opens his mouth to ask something, the child retreats behind his clothes and disappears. Wil snorts, taps his cheek with his fingers, turns off the night light and climbs back into bed.

***

The front door slams shut behind them, bags rustle. Wilbur, clutching a fresh children's magazine to his chest, pulls off his sneakers and throws his backpack on the floor by the table, and then runs up and puts the magazine on it while Philza is still slowly taking off his shoes. They walked around the mall with Kristin and had a great time — they went shopping, had a snack in the dining area, played enough on the vending machines, Wil jumped on a trampoline for a year ahead. Phil smiles, replaying the memories in his head. Warmth spreads across his chest from thoughts of how well Kristin and Wilbur get along, as if they have always been family.

"Wi-i-il, wash your hands!" Philza goes to the kitchen, and Wilbur, not reaching the bathroom, clings to the handle of the door to his room.

"I know, Dadza, I'm ju…"

A creak and a couple of loud pounding steps are followed by silence. Wil doesn't finish the sentence. Phil, alert, puts down the bags and walks towards him at a brisk pace, rapidly nervous.

At first glance, the bedroom looks quite normal. Wilbur is standing in the middle, with a neutral, clear expression on his face looking at something on the floor. Philza follows the direction of the gaze and swears.

By the bed, on a pile of crumpled napkins, lies a small dead bird. And next to it is some kind of shiny bottle cap.

Wil blinks. Phil comes closer and covers his chin with his knuckles. So, it is capable of causing harm.

"Is this a return gift?" Wil asks himself, arching his eyebrows in slightly shocked incomprehension and slightly wrinkling his nose. "Oka-a-ay…"

"A gift?" Philza turns to the son. Actually, on the contrary, he thought it was a threat. The napkins and the lid, however, were confusing.

"Well, u-u-uh, I just gave him candy yesterday..." Wilbur begins to knead his palms and stares stubbornly to the side and up, slowly rocking on his heels, "To the kid from the closet, I mean. To make friends. So, um, he probably wanted to give me something in return, and... and that is it."

Wil takes a quick glance at the bird corpse and looks at his father with an awkward smile.

Phil looks into this "innocent face", turns first to the closet, then to the "gifts". Ponders the situation. He sighs and restrains himself so as not to rub his eyes.

"Go wash your hands, I'll take the bird away. Jesus, and what kind of congratulations can you expect for your birthday in this case?"

Chapter Text

Actually, Techno wanted to catch a bigger bird. But of the bigger birds in the area, there were only crows, and they very cleverly avoided him and always looked from high branches very mockingly and too smart. Previously, the crows in his path were not so cunning. Maybe they are also unusual? 

In any case, it seems that humans were not enthusiastic about the bird in principle. The Adult threw it and the napkins (on which Techno put it so that it would not stain the carpet) away and wanted to throw out the lid, but the Little One did not let him — he stamped his foot, crossed his arms over his chest and puffed out his cheeks. As a result, the Adult agreed to leave the lid for him, but only after it was thoroughly washed. Techno wonder why he agreed to get rid of the bird, but not the lid? Does he really like lids or does he really dislike birds? 

Then the Adult and the Little One went into the kitchen, rustling bags and cooking. Apparently, they really didn't eat birds. 

The Adult is a tall man with blond hair, he often wears green, works on a computer and likes to hum while cooking. His voice is pleasant to listen to. Techno would like to know what his beard feels like. 

The Adult's Name Is "Dad". The Little One calls him that all the time, although sometimes he says "Dadza". It's probably a nickname because Technoblade has heard the name "Papa" a couple of times about other people, but "Dadza" has not. He likes both options, but as far as he knows, humans call each other by nicknames only when they know each other well. So it's Dad. 

The Little One is a human child, as tall as Techno itself, he is loud, talkative, has fluffy brown hair and a bright smile. His name is Wilbur, but Dad often calls him Will. He has a lot of different things in his room — "toys". 

Technoblade took his face. 

He hadn't had new faces for a long time, and Wilbur's face felt very good, like it was molded, comfortable and suitable. In fact, when Techno tried it on, he felt as if an inconspicuous, but sometimes irritating itch had disappeared from the border of his skin. Nice. 

Wilbur is trying to make friends with him. Yesterday he explained that this is exactly what humans do when they live in the same apartment and share faces. Although usually humans don't share faces , so Wilbur probably came up with this condition specifically for him. 

Technoblade liked little sweet things in funny rustling wrappers ("candy"). In this house, he actually tasted human food for the first time, before the child ate only fear and, a couple of times, birds, because he felt sorry for stray cats and dogs. Sharing food is a sign of something trusting, right? 

But the lid is probably good too. 

It's evening, and Techno is sitting in the back of the closet, merging with the darkness. The Adult and the Little One have already had dinner, looked at the rectangle on the wall together, and are now brushing their teeth. People do this before going to bed, although usually only Wilbur goes to sleep, and Dad continues to do his business for a while. 

But this time Wilbur, dressed in night clothes, when he enters the bedroom, closes the door and squints his eyes, looking around. He doesn't go to bed, doesn't start playing with toys, and doesn't even pick up his new magazine. He just turns off the lamp light, turns on the night light and busily, as quietly as possible, goes to the closet and sits down on the floor in front of it. 

"H-e-ey! Are you there?" he whispers. "Can I talk to you?" 

The Little One bends down and tries to peer into the darkness, and Techno, sitting quietly to the left of the direction of his gaze, holds back a laugh. It's always fun to watch Wilbur trying to figure out if he's talking to the air. 

"Pf, well, okay, don't answer." the boy straightens back up. "By the way, I came to thank you for the gifts." 

Technoblade raises his head in interest. After thinking about it, he gets up, becomes more material and comes closer to the closet door so that he can be noticed. It is not good if the human is offended because of the lack of a sign. 

Wilbur freezes at the sight of him and stares at him for a few seconds. Then he smiles: 

Hello! I'm Wilbur. What's your name?" 

Techno thinks for a while. He looks at the Little One, presses himself against the door, covering his face with his hair even more, and finally decides. 

"...Technoblade." 

The voice comes out hoarse from disuse. Wil perks up in surprise and peers into the darkness of the closet even more closely. Techno awkwardly pulls his head into his shoulders and looks away. 

"That's a cool name!" Wilbur exclaims in a loud whisper, smiling even wider than before. "Thanks for the gifts, Technoblade! I am very pleased! Did you like the candy?" 

Techno nods and belatedly worries if this movement was visible. He steps aside a little so that more light from the night light falls on him, although the human, judging by the delighted face, saw the nod. Technoblade clears his throat. 

"You threw out the bird." he says, stating the fact. "Don't you like to eat them?" 

"Uh..." Wilbur freezes for a couple of seconds. "No. Um, I'm sorry. I like to eat chicken, for example… Cooked chicken. Not raw. Let such birds chirp better in the trees. Uh... did you catch it yourself?" 

"Yes." Techno nods again, clasping his hands behind his back in embarrassment. "I can hunt myself." 

"Wow," the boy seems impressed, which makes the little monster feel a surge of pride, "Cool! Although I wouldn't eat just anyone if I were you. What if they carry some kind of disease? Animals can do that!" 

"Oh... I haven't been sick yet." it turns out to be interesting to talk. When you understand what is being said to you in response, and you are not being scolded for trespassing or something. "Maybe they only carry them for humans?" 

"Maybe." Wil chuckles thoughtfully. "You're probably immune." 

Techno is not quite sure that he understood the new word correctly, but he is shy to ask again, so he only looks away. 

"Okay. I'm sorry, I got a bad gift. Are we never going to be friends now, or can I try to give you something better?" 

"Ah, Technoblade!" Wilbur frowns, so shocked by his words that he almost forgets to keep his voice low. "It was a very nice gift! I liked the lid! I still want to be friends with you! And in general, it is not necessary to give gifts to make friends. It's just a nice gesture." 

"Oh. Allright," Techno blinks. "I'm glad. So everything is fine." 

"Yeah. Just don't give me dead birds anymore." Wilbur says with a smile, and then, after thinking about it, adds: "And in general, anyone dead." 

Techno nods. Everything is clear. Pretty simple rules. 

The children are silent for a while before Wilbur leans slightly towards the closet. 

"Can you come out? I mean, now, while I'm looking at you?" 

"...why?" Technoblade asks. 

"I just want to look at you. Can I? Ple-e-ease?" 

In this tone, the boy usually begs Dad to stay up longer or get more sweets. Techno grunts, thinks about it and steps forward. 

He steps onto the floor outside and looks at the surprised Wilbur. 

"Wow, do you have pink hair?!" 

Technoblade picks up his tangled strand and examines it in the dim light. Well, he wouldn't call it pink. Rather, a pale red or dirty crimson. Even in daylight, it's a little hard to understand. 

"Probably." the child shrugs, the torn shirt hanging loosely on him like a sack. 

"Why didn't you have a face before? And why did you take mine?" the human sparkles with curiosity, almost jumping up and down. 

"I was born like this." Techno shakes his hands. "Sometimes I take other people's faces for myself because I can. And your face is very good. I like the way it fits on me." 

"Oh." Wilbur hesitates, grunts and nods. "Thanks. I like my face too. Although at first it was strange to see it on you. I'm not offended! It's just that usually my face belongs only to me!" 

Silence again. Techno thinks a little and sits down on the floor too. But he doesn't know what to do next. He's probably dealing with friendship too slowly and clumsily. The child already wants to apologize for this, but Wilbur supports his jaw with his hand and speaks first. 

"What is your favorite color?" 

Technoblade does not understand why he needs this information, but begins to think. Hmm. Red is good. And familiar. Pink and white are not bad either. But still, probably his favorite… 

"Blue. It's soothing." 

"Great!" Wil nods. "And now you ask me." 

Well, it's probably important for humans to know other human's favorite colors. It is unclear how this helps in survival, so this is a special condition for human relationships. He wonder if someone doesn't have a favorite color, does they become an outcast in the human pack? Techno belongs to a solitary species, therefore it can only assume how things work for others. 

"What's your favorite color, Wilbur?" 

"I love yellow! Purple is also beautiful, and blue too," the boy gestures, "Orange is cool, and red is cool. Here! Now we know more about each other! That's how people usually make friends." 

Technoblade hums with interest. It's lucky that the Little One is so sociable. Otherwise, the monster would probably have had to leave this apartment long ago. 

"Okay, listen up!" Wil claps his hands noiselessly. "Dad and I still can't figure it out: who are you?" 

Techno blinks. 

"I'm not human." 

"Pf, well, I know that." the boy rolls his eyes, Techno snorts. Funny. 

"I am a creature. I'm not an adult yet. I can do what I can do. That's it." 

"That's it? Don't you know anything else about yourself? I may also be a "creature" called human. Are you a ghost?" 

"Ghosts..." the child recalls his street life. Yes, he knows who the human is talking about. "No. Ghosts are dead people. I'm alive." 

"Huh," Wilbur frowns and taps his cheek with his fingers. "Okay. Well... what about your parents? They should know who you are, right?" 

"Parents?" Technoblade chuckles. "I don't have any parental individuals. They probably were once, but they left when I became independent, and I don't remember them." 

"...Leave?" Wilbur's frown deepens. "Parents don't just leave! Are you sure that... Did anything bad happen to them?" 

Techno thinks again and strains his memory. He generally does not remember his childhood well, but he knows that it was not much different from his current life before finding this house. It must have been a little harder for him because he was small. And then the boy showed himself to humans more often to feed on their fear, not really knowing how to scare. 

"I can't remember. I think I've always been on my own." 

The human is silent, looking down and thinking about something. His face is as pouty as when he sits over notebooks and does some tasks. 

Techno hears soft footsteps in the hallway. He turns to the door, and then jerks away into the shadows behind the bedside table to the side. Wil jerks up and looks in surprise in the direction of his disappearance, but he also notices footsteps and quickly, almost noiselessly sneaks under the blanket, pulls it almost up to his ears and buries his face in the pillow. 

The door opens slightly. The Adult cautiously looks into the bedroom. After making sure that Wilbur is "asleep," he enters and looks around, his lips tightly compressed. First he goes to the bed, looks at the child, then at the night light, then at the place where Techno's gift lay. Fits in the closet. He looks at it carefully, bends down and looks inside, but, of course, finds nothing but clothes. Technoblade has already moved to the ceiling, and now it crawls over the Adult, behind the back of his head: people never look there. 

Dad exhales through his nose, rubs his face, takes one last look at Wilbur and leaves the room. His footsteps are moving away. Looks like he went to bed. 

Wilbur chuckles and presses his palm to a spreading smile. Techno crawls over to the ceiling corner above his bed and watches curiously. 

"Pfff... phew, I almost got caught!" whispers the boy, turning with a smile to Technoblade, whose hair hangs down, and his eyes stand out brightly in a distorted shadow face. "Why do you always want to laugh so much when you pretend to be asleep?" 

"You need to really fall asleep already." Techno lifts the corners of his lips. "Otherwise you'll be whimpering again in the morning." 

"Hey! I'm not whining! Wilbur puffs out his cheeks and looks at him sternly, which doesn't look at all threatening, but is interrupted by a yawn. He rubs his eye, looks at his watch and sighs. "Okay. Hey, Techno… Can I call you Techno?" 

The little monster thinks about it and nods. 

"Techno, are we friends now?" 

Technoblade smoothly but unnaturally tilts its head to the side. Actually, that's what he wanted to ask. 

"If you want." 

Wilbur smiles. 

"Friends, then. Good night, Techno." 

The human turns off the night light, once again sends a smile to the shadow on the ceiling and settles into bed, closing his eyes. Technoblade waits for a while longer, listening to the soft sensations in his chest, quietly slips out of the bedroom and goes to settle into the darkness behind the sofa in the living room. It's time for him to sleep too.