#technoblade-centric

Read: 2023-09-23

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"Dying would have been easier," says Phil. There's a strange, sharp sort of edge to his voice that Techno hasn't heard in years. It reminds him of Tommy coming home with a fistful of spider's eyes and scraped up knees, of Wilbur stumbling through the door at dawn with the smell of smoke hanging over him like mist

"Easier," echoes Techno flatly.

The fragment of his brain that remains unclouded by pain and poison, only dragged down by a thousand odd wailing voices, thinks it might be concern, but Techno is tired and there's a bone-deep ache settling over his body.

It might be concern in Phil's voice, even if it's an angry, twisted thing, but the sharpness is what's cutting Techno's resolve into bloody little shreds. He's just so tired.

And there's a fucking hole in his chest.

He thinks he'd laugh, if it was Tommy telling this story. Tommy's good at making him laugh.

But Tommy's not here now, and there's no barrier between Techno and the horrible disappointment in his father's gaze that makes him curl his tail around one of the chair legs, makes him want to hunch his shoulders defensively like he did when he was small and frail and wouldn't even talk.

And it's odd, really, because there are already tears on his cheeks, and yet that doesn't seem to be enough to stop the audible sob from tearing itself out of Techno's throat.

Something catches in Phil's expression, and it makes Techno feel sick. He doesn't want any more of this anguished despair, but he doesn't exactly know what he does want either.

Privately, he thinks some healing potions would be a good place to start. Maybe a few gapples.

Instead of voicing this, he brings shaking hands up to press into his eyes until he sees sparks. It's almost funny how quickly his mind jumps to Wilbur at that, high cheekbones carved out in glowing orange and shadow and the grin of someone with nothing left to lose.

"I'm just so tired of it," he'd whispered to Techno one night in the ravine.

"Do you know what I mean?" He'd gotten rid of the railings at that point, legs dangling over the edge and palms flat against the stone as he'd stared down into the remains of the campfire.

"I guess," Techno had murmured, digging his nails harshly into his palms. Loathe as he was to admit it, the way Wilbur's voice would drop like that, the way he would get too lost in his own mind and spend hours staring into the dying embers of the campfire was one of the things that frightened Techno most.

It had probably been the wrong thing to say.

"Techno," says Philza again, and Techno drags his palm down his face. He wonders how many times Phil had said his name, how many more times he would before giving up.

"I could feel my ribs, Phil," says Techno in a voice that's far too high and strained to be his own, and lets out a helpless little laugh.

It's horrible and grating and completely out of control. It'd sound better if his throat wasn't so clogged with blood.

He should say something, probably.

Instead, Techno folds over in the chair, wrapping his arms around his middle as his chest howls in agony, still laughing. It's better this way, at least. He can look at the ground instead of Phil, and that's something, isn't it?

There's a hand on him, warm and firm, pressing down on his shoulders until they still. Techno is left staring at the wooden planks, a stray tear dripping from his chin and leaving the faintest stain on the ground where it lands. He thinks dimly that he can feel dried blood trapped under his nails.

Read: Unknown Date been reading since the third or forth chapter.