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“You really don’t have to do this,” Technoblade says, putting in a little effort to try and sound concerned rather than bored.
The guy opposite him, supporting a broken nose and some already-deepening welts sneers, lifting the knife a little higher, probably mistaking Techno’s quick-glance at the blade for fear rather than distaste. Knives always mean trouble.
It gives the man an unnecessary, and unneeded confidence boost that makes him wave it around, probably trying to be threatening. Techno would rather the guy accidentally stab himself, but he’s never been one to be so lucky.
He’s halfway debating between drawing his sword or just grabbing the guy by the collar and headbutting him, knowing his battle-carved agility is more than a match, when there’s a sudden tangle of noise from somewhere above—anger-panic-surprise-amusement—before a mass of clothing, shattered glass and limbs slams directly into the want-to-be thief attempting to mug Technoblade behind the inn.
A head of golden-blond hair wrestles its way out of the clothing and Technoblade blinks in surprise at the familiar face.
“Techno!” Philza greets, grinning bright and warmly, clambering to his feet like he hadn’t just thrown himself out of the inn’s second story window. Technoblade looks up, trying to judge the distance, wondering if there was another, not-as-high-window, and is met with a pudgy, red-faced man glaring down at them, shoulders squished in the window like he’s tried to follow Philza and thought better off of it.
“Get back here, you light-fingered, bed-swerving—"
“Ah ah, manners!” Philza yelled back, cheery and unfussed, stepping over to Techno with only a half glance at the man that had cushioned his fall. “I’d love to stay and chat but old friends and short hours,” he continues with a wave of his hand, shooting a cheeky, infallible grin, edge with one raised eyebrow like he has the right to be questioning someone attempting to mug Techno in an alley while he’s jumping out of two-storey windows with irate inn patrons on his tail.
Not that Philza gives Technoblade a chance to answer the silent question because he simply slips his arm into Techno’s, elbows linked and promptly drags him out of the alley and back into the main streets of the small town they’ve both found themselves in, glancing around and keeping them moving like the souls of his feet were on fire.
“The hell was that?” Techno asked, when they’re far enough away that Philza allows Techno to yank his arm back, fingers sliding easily off his gauntlets, not catching on the straps; Philza allowing as much where he’s satisfied that the inn patron isn’t going to chase after them. He’d probably send the town guard if they happened to spend luncheon in his watering hole as opposed to any of the other twenty-or-so spread out between the cobblestone streets, which is probably why Philza is lingering as opposed to thanking Techno for the not-save and ducking away to swipe what he can from market stalls or sweettalk shop-keeps into ridiculously fair prices.
Techno has been known in the past to be a deterrent for most city guard.
“That was me saving your life,” Philza grinned, having already taken a wide step back before Techno could take a swipe at him, throwing glances down both ways of the street they’ve ended up on, pasting on an easy smile for any passerby that thinks to glance their way. “And you haven’t even offered me a thank you.”
“You didn’t save me,” Techno hissed, rolling his eyes, trying not to get caught up in Philza’s pacing. “You just happened to fall on a man that thought he was mugging me. It was a coincidence. Nothing more.”
“Still saved you,” Philza muttered beneath his smile, but the petulance of his tone told Techno he was only pulling his leg, falling back into the playfully banterous way they’ve built up their somewhat-friendship over the years.
It probably is a friendship, for all that Technoblade doesn’t have friends. He doesn’t allow it—doesn’t allow anyone close enough—and yet Philza has manged to duck and dodge every obstacle Technoblade has ever thrown at him, having found the gaps in his defences until he’s…. Well. Technoblade can count on one hand the number of people that are welcoming of his presence, rather than cautious considering his hulking size, gruff attitude and general displeasure of people’s company in the first place.
Techno sighs, loudly. It’s mostly put upon, but also, mostly not because his meetings with the charming cut-purse always follow a similar sort of routine.
Technoblade is too tired to go through all the ins and outs of their usual conversation—the one where Philza laments the way he’s down on his luck while also glad to have reunited with Technoblade and pulls him back to whichever inn or tavern he’s bargained a room for the night; Philza inviting Techno to join him for drinks and a meal and inevitably convincing him to share the room so that Philza has a perfectly good alibi for when he slips out in the small hours and pokes around at the houses while the town lays sleeping—and he cuts right to the part about ending up in the same tavern, throwing a thumb over his shoulder because he’s already procured a room at the Golden Throat.
It’s a little more pricey than what he usually frequented at, save for the fact that the barmaid had offered him a night for free if he agreed to look in on the old ruins a little way up the valley. Something about a rumour of firelight that has some townsfolk thinking bandits and pillagers, while the more superstitious and panicky are speaking of Ender Magic and tears in the realms that could encourage Nether monsters to creep back into the world.
Apparently one fool was even muttering about Aetherics, claiming the light wasn’t torches or campfires, but Aether blood, and while Technoblade could only scoff silently at the lengths people will stretch the truth, he’d agreed to check it out in exchange for the few nights free board.
Except when Techno offers the spare bed in the room and company for the evening, Philza hesitates. It’s only a spilt second, only a moment brief enough that most others wouldn’t even notice it, save for those that are familiar—and it catches Techno off guard to realise that he is one of those few—before Philza’s plastering a bright grin on his face and says an afternoon catching up with an old friend sounds like fun, but he can’t stay the whole night, places to be, things to steal—
“You’re in trouble,” Technoblade says, not bothering to pretend he didn’t see Philza’s restrained-panic, or the way he had forced his easy-going, carefree ease into the conversation that stutters with Techno’s blunt accusation. “Who have you pissed off now?”
“What?” Philza forces out fake laughter that only deepens Techno’s scowl. He flounders for an excuse, hand coming up to wave through the air like he could physically knock Techno’s finger-pointing out of the air. “That’s not—I’ve never—”
“You’re literally wanted dead in Quesadilla for trying to steal, what was it, their Death Idol.”
“Santa Muerte,” Philza corrects him, huffing air because that wasn’t the point, “and it was a replica, made out of solid gold, like how could I not—”
“Exactly,” Technoblade interrupted, standing taller, giving a half glance to the quiet street they’d found themselves in. At one end was a square with a fountain where some of the womenfolk were doing laundry while the other led back towards the upper town. It was luckily fairly empty for the hour, but not a gift horse Technoblade was ignoring. Still, he lowered his voice in case anyone was listening in that shouldn’t be, and was able to connect dots they’d prefer left unconnected.
“It’s always the same. You see something shiny and you go all bird-brained and need to steal it. Like literally five minutes ago,” he adds, crossing his arms and getting in Philza’s space when he has the nerve to roll his eyes at him. “What did you try and pinch, in broad daylight, that had you bailing out of—”
“Okay fine,” the other snapped, true frustration bleeding into his tone. He dragged a hand over his face, before holding it over his mouth and half staring, more so glared at Technoblade, although the anger didn’t feel directed towards him—Techno has had many a hated-glare thrown his way he’s learnt to decipher them quick—and more like he’s debating something.
Turning thoughts over in his mind, deliberating—
“Alright. Alright,” Philza sighs, low and heavy, glancing each way up the street. “It’s not—I won’t discuss it here. And I’m not in danger if that’s what you’re worried about,” he says, continuing to speak when Techno opens his mouth to say he’s not worried, all evidence aside. “But I may have bitten off more than I chew, not that I regret it because—well, you’ll understand when you see,” which doesn’t explain anything, but there’s something jittery beneath his words that Techno picks up on.
And now that he’s really looking, Philza looks… off. Tired. Cautious. What Techno had thought him looking for towns-guard or the irate patrons seemed more than caution, but when they turn from the cobbled street, his pace is measured and almost leisurely, and his smile falls easy on his lips.
If Techno hadn’t seen it falter, he wouldn’t have guessed anything was wrong.
He wouldn’t have guessed that Philza would’ve needed to lead them so far out of the town to speak either, and he’s a little surprised to be following Philza into the shadow of the valley ruins that has the townsfolk so worried as of late.
It makes him laugh quietly to himself to discover that Philza is the source of the rumours, and that someone’s only caught glimpse of a torch, or lambent firelight and the rumour mill has vastly twisted the truth into something large enough a travelling sell-sword has been given free board and food in exchange for a little investigation because apparently the guards weren’t eager to go traipsing off into the woods in search of actual danger.
Techno follows behind as Philza picks his way deliberate over cracked, mossy stone and trailing roots with an ease that suggests he’s chosen to sequester himself to the ruins instead of paying for a bed in an inn for more than just one night. Although, it makes sense. Philza is almost allergic to parting with his gold with how sporadic he actually allows it. If something can come free he doesn’t often pay, regardless with how much trouble it usually brings him.
“So who’s got you so worried you’re sleeping out here instead of a nice warm, actual bed,” Techno asks, raising an eyebrow to Philza, who has turned back from where he’s left the main stairwell that leads up to the main structure and has ducked off to the left, towards stretching evergreen and the sound of flowing water.
Techno doesn’t miss the way the other isn’t as light footed as he normally is. He’s picked up on the way he keeps throwing looks over his shoulder, frequent enough that it’s got Technoblade on edge and he’s doing the same thing even though he’s certain no one is following—
“Not so much a who,” Philza says, the words sounding like they have to be ripped out of him; very different to his usual, relaxed, devil-may-care attitude that he’s worn as a shield and cloak both. “But, like I said. I may have bitten off more than I can chew.”
It’s another not-explanation, and Techno isn’t so impatient as to demand answers when they’re steadily making their way to them; Techno following as Philza ducks through and old crumbling window half-curtained by ivy and twisted moss, whistling as he goes, though less like a song and more signal-like.
Inside is a make-shift camp; a half-smouldering campfire, a familiar sack and bundle, and a larger bedroll than what Technoblade would’ve expected Philza would need, but before he can really take in the finer details, there’s movement towards the back of the room, and Techno’s hand is halfway to his hilt when he realises—
“You stole a child‽”
“Didn’t steal,” Philza says, like that’s the issue, and not the fact that there’s a young kid making his way into the small room from the small, unbarred doorway, arms laden with firewood that is suddenly dropped so that he’s holding one branch—more kindling than weapon—blue eyes wide in panic, blond hair familiar enough that Technoblade sidelines the idea of kidnapping to the fact that the kid is Philza’s—and there is another fucking child clinging to his hip, sharing the same blond hair, blue eyes and the same half-glare being sent as Techno like he’s debating the best way to fight back—
“Tommy, Chayanne, it’s okay, it’s fine, this is Techno, my friend,” Philza says, completely and entirely ignoring where Technoblade is stood as he hurries towards the children—the older maybe ten, the other probably only three years younger—with raised hands like he’s surrendering, or trying to encourage them that they don’t need to fear Techno despite his hulking size and the sword hanging from his hip; his gloved hand paused mid-flex where he’d been reaching for it.
“We found each other in town,” Philza is saying, as if implying the two of them had agreed to meet here, on the outskirts of wherever, and Philza didn’t just fall out the sky and into his lap. So to speak.
Technoblade is blindsided enough by the literal children that he doesn’t question Philza’s easy admittance of their friendship, falling into a familiarity with the boys that Techno has only seen briefly throughout the few years he and Philza’s paths have crossed in one place or another. Any question—coloured by a heavy number of insults and curses—is squashed as Philza gives Techno a disarming, sheepish smile and introduces him to Tommy and Chayanne both.
Brothers, by obvious likeness of one another, and Techno doesn’t want to stick his foot in his mouth to ask if Philza is sure they’re his, even though the hair and eyes are the only real likeness. And the stubbornness.
Techno’s pretty sure Philza threatened him with a frying pan when the first met, so being brandished kindling is pretty on par with his kids.
“The hell?” Techno asks again, the words kind of washed out of him, once Philza has gone through introductions—Tommy and Chayanne nodding their heads and giving greetings; Chayanne unsure and sceptical, Tommy’s thrown out like an insult—as well as an impromptu early evening meal lunch that sees the four of them tucked into the small room warmed the campfire Tommy’s helped Philza stoke and build, the kids content with munching on food Philza’s stolen from the market and whispering between themselves with odd glances towards Techno.
And sipping from an overly large waterskin, that had been the thing that had chased him out of the inn, after having pilfered it off some travelling merchant.
“Kids needs drink more regularly than what the road can offer,” Philza says to Technoblade’s confusion, not understanding why Philza would risk being chased otherwise. “I did look in the market, save risk someone paying too close attention to me,” he says, which is just as confusing, because Philza—well, he’s not greedy, but he gets what Techno calls bird-brained over shiny coins and the like, so it’s surprising that Philza would pay for expensive leather just for the sake of keeping a few extra pair of eyes off of him.
“And you’re taking them, where exactly?” Because it’s not like they can stay here, after the townsfolk have been whispering about bandits. “The barmaid in the inn I’m staying at have asked me to come check it out,” Techno had said, quick to try and disperse Philza’s worries, “you know rumours get out of hand; some folk were talking about realm tears and the nether—and I think they wanted me to maybe swing my sword at whoever’s holed up here,” he’d said, his flat tone meant to imply his dry humour, because they both know that Philza is nimble and quick enough to out-manoeuvre any idle swing Techno throws in his direction.
He doesn’t really care about the finer details of Philza’s plan, but he is a little confused on how the thief is going to continue to manage living his carefree lifestyle with two kids as his tagalong. He throws the remnants of his meal into the campfire, bringing gloved hands back to rub one another, soothed by the weight even if he can’t feel it; fingers moving to fiddle with the straps of his bracers while he turns the thoughts over in his mind.
He’s sure there are plenty of churches or farmsteads he could leave them, make sure they get left with a childless couple or an apprentice-less hedgewitch, or maybe even just taking them back to their mother, even if Philza has never spoken of being with someone or women in any real measure, because they’re path-companions at both, for a few days, barely a week, they’re barely friends—
“No idea,” Philza sighs, keeping his voice quiet where the children in question and entertaining themselves. He leans back against the wall behind him, hands stalling where he’d been pulling apart dried jerky. Techno caught a glance at his sack, and has noted the dwindling supplies; half his own shared without thought because he knows he’s a capable hunter that doesn’t need to worry about replacing it. And besides, Philza has pulled more arrows out of his back and stitched him up enough times between their nights of drinking and splitting costs on an inn room that it’s… payment. Of some sort.
Philza lets his eyes slip shut. “I’m just making this up as I go.”
Techno shouldn’t, but he can’t help himself. “And… their mother?”
Philza lifts his head enough to meet Techno’s eyes, face deliberately plain of emotion or thought. It’s not the first time Techno’s seen it, but he’s caught off guard all the same, yet reflects nothing back; hands pausing between fiddling. Just waiting, to see if Philza will offer him the whole story or not, because he still hasn’t exactly explained where the kids have come from, even if they are his.
Then, “no idea. But I couldn’t have left them there, if that’s what you’re implying.” There’s just enough of an edge to his voice that Techno shakes his head, even if that, kind of was what he was implying.
They may be barely friends, travelling companions at best, but Techno knows Philza well enough he’s not the type of person to hang around in one place for too long. His bird-brained isn’t just because of shiny coins and the way he’s always whistling or strutting or picking at his clothes like some preening peacock, but the man is migratory by nature, always flitting between cities and towns, kingdoms and countries.
He swings south in the colder months, follows rivers and sunrises and the smell of the ocean when the mountains grow boring for him and he’s always on the move that Technoblade has long since stopped feeling guilty or to blame when he rolls over on (usually) the third night of their companionship to find the other bed empty and Philza’s things packed up and vanished along with the man himself.
Now that he’s somehow responsible for children and the unspoken reason as to why Philza is keeping them hidden here in the ruins rather than taking them into town—
“Come with us.”
Technoblade is kind of getting bored with Philza catching him off guard quite so regularly. He’s still got a thousand and one questions tangled in his mind, and he’s painfully aware that Philza is omitting a lot from all of his explanations and desperately trying to navigate the conversation without giving away more than he intends even if nothing explains why the children would be why he was in trouble.
Unless they aren’t Philza’s children.
Ah fuck.
He did steal them, didn’t he.
But there is something about how the boys don’t seem too concerned that they’ve been kidnapped. In a sense. Dammit.
Which probably means Philza has, in some roundabout way, saved them or something. And it’s not like he’s worried about his own reputation, but maybe the townsfolk might recognise the kids, or something similar, and it’s not like Philza’s bird-brain saw shiny and said mine, he’s gone and fucking got attached to children that he—
Fuck.
“How much trouble are you in?” Technoblade sighs and tries really hard not to feel like he’s shovelling his own grave. At least he catches Philza off guard this time, who blinks owlishly. “Huh?”
“You’re asking me to come with you,” Techno reminds him, glancing towards the children who are doing their best to pretend like they aren’t eavesdropping. Tommy scowls when he notices Techno’s eyes on him, and he purposefully does not scowl back. Instead he returns attention to the older. “You wanted me to help you….” He trails off, hand coming up to wave at the air, for Philza to explain just what he needs.
“Just… just to the walled city? Or even just to the next town,” Philza says, amending his words by whatever he catches on Techno’s face. “I wouldn’t ask—I didn’t plan on asking at all,” he says, rubbing his own hands together, like he’s suddenly cold or he needs to fidget, or something. “But we’re on the edge of the wilderlands now, and I can’t risk leaving the kids in camp when there are monsters around, but I also can’t risk taking them near other people—”
“Why not?”
Philza stalls. Looks away.
Alright. Techno knows not when to push. And it’s not like he wants to travel, but, glancing at the kids. The way Chayanne keeps peeking out from behind his brother; the way Tommy keeps himself between them, the look in their eye that speaks of something children shouldn’t yet understand. It gets under Techno’s skin and he doesn’t like it.
“Fine,” he sighs, and purposefully keeps his head turned away so he doesn’t see the way Philza brightens. “But,” he adds, lifting up a finger and jamming it towards the other, “only to the next town.”