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#i wil never let the red snowing ship sink
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Ruby [stood beside Snow and David]: They are a couple, and I am a third part of that couple.
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jeagerism · 3 years
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(i tried writing this mostly for @sallysoot dodisid) but since it's like canon that philza was techno's mentor as a kid and into adulthood, i'll just say
don't think abt being the third counterpart in the sibling-ship that tommy and wilbur have. don't think abt techno coming over all the time to train with phil - which was good, because whenever techno came over, phil stayed around. it was almost like he was an actual father, nevermind how much it stung to see him ruffle techno's hair whenever he did something that made him proud. he doesn't speak much, at least not to you. sometimes you catch the rumble of his voice as he asks wilbur a question, or answers to tommy's increasingly whiney begs to hold his sword. don't imagine feeling a tugging at your chest whenever techno let's his shoulders fall, releasing tension from keeping his guard up, rays of sun casting a pretty glow onto his face during the summer.
don't imagine how you notice that he always looked empty, for someone so young. how he always kept his face covered by that familiar mask, never let himself reveal whatever lied underneath to any of you. all you knew of him were striking eyes and thin pink lips. don't imagine how, one day, months after his first appearance, you're looking out from the kitchen, gazing at the snow that lay in blankets around your family's home. and you see him. phil had said he was dismissed hours ago, but there he was, still going. huffing, you reach over onto the table in front of wilbur, taking the unattended mug of tea you'd made minutes ago, and starting towards the door. your brother doesn't mutter a word, too enamoured with the book in front of him - you're pretty sure he'd snuck into phil's study earlier, but you'll let him do what he wishes. it wasn't as if the older would notice.
don't imagine slipping your coat around your shoulders as you step out, thin socks soaking through to your bare feet as they meet the snowy ground. keeping a hand over the top of the mug, you stumble awkwardly over to the area where he's always occupied in front of your home, for months now. you begin to set the cup onto the bench you frequent on days warm enough to come out and watch - nothing but simple curiosity - when a frustrated cry rings throughout the empty space, bouncing off of nearby trees and echoing back to you. turning, your fingers become loose around the ceramic.
don't imagine seeing techno sling the mask off, tossing it to the side with disdain. as he begins to face where you're standing, your fingers slip from around the hot mug, liquid arching up and back down onto your feet, splashing parts of your legs.
cursing, you yank the cup from the floor. when you look back up, startling ruby eyes meet your own. they all but steal the air from your chest. there's a shake in your legs as you swallow, gathering as much confidence you can into the swell of your throat as you speak. "sorry, i was, well, i...its cold and i had tea and then." you shake your head, trying to clear thoughts of the way his cheeks looked so pink from the cold - his hair nearly matched. "im sorry." once you're back inside the confines of your home, back pressed to the spruce of the door, you release air you weren't aware you were holding. tommy asks why you look so shocked. wilbur snickers to himself, but when you open your eyes to glare at him, he's only giving you a coy smile. the book he had is closed in his lap.
don't imagine the months of that winter after that being spent inside, never even daring to go too close. don't imagine the spring that comes after, slowly bleeding into another summer, an entire year of the presence of technoblade. don't imagine continuing watching countless training sessions from the same bench you'd finally seen him from - memorizing the way his hair looks really pretty the way it is now - long enough to be put into a ponytail that gathers at the nape of his neck, baby hairs slicked to the skin with sweat.
don't imagine going between watching the combat in front of you and paying attention to the enchanted book wilbur had given you as a gift days before. you'd found it strange at the time - you hadn't thought wilbur listened much to the rambling you did about wanting to train yourself - but you'd let it go anyways, accepting the leather bound book.
don't imagine techno sitting on the bench you stay on to watch as he learns, taking a moment to breathe, dragging a hand down his face. and you're in awe. you'd always been starstruck at seeing him, but this is new. now he's up close. and it's just you and him, for now. the only interaction the two of you have come close to is the singular nod he gives you when he enters your kitchen - he seldom does this. you think it's because he doesn't want to intrude. as if he could. he was pretty much royalty around here, with how much tommy droned on about how cool he was, and how many times wilbur had mumbled in agreements to that.
don't imagine the way his head tilts to the side as his shoulders rise and fall with a quiet breath. how he softly speaks your name. and you're confused, because you've never introduced yourself, yet he knows your name. to be fair, he'd never directly introduced himself to you either, but you'd peeked your head around the corner on one of his first days here, and had heard phil ask a simple, "how was your trip here, techno?" don't imagine how he'd quirk an eyebrow up at your gaping silence, a hand reaching out before it drops back down to his lap. he coughs out, "i, um, i'm technoblade."
"i know." your hands are tingling with nervousness, because he's close, and he smells like pine and parchment paper, and his hair looks really soft. don't imagine him scratching the back of his neck, shaking his head the tiniest bit. he did that a lot, you noticed. most often when phil let him take a short break from whatever he was being taught. sometimes he'd mutter a few words, always harsh whispers, before standing straight as if he'd cleared his head with the action.
"do i....scare you?" don't imagine the way he looks embarrassed to even be asking, fingers curling round the old, chipped wood he's sitting on. he'd abandoned the red cape he normally donned earlier on, now just sporting his signature white button up, sleeves unbuttoned at the ends and pushed up to his elbows.
you let out a shocked chuckle. "um, no? i mean, i don't think there's much to be scared of." you want to say how nothing as pretty as him could be scary. intimidating, sure, but not scary in the slightest. "i simply have habits of embarrassing myself in front of people i barely know."
don't imagine the quiet invitation of, "i'd be more than happy to know you."
and so it is. don't imagine how his eyes seem to find yours at least once through every session he has from that point on. he's still not as talkative - in fact, you spend more time in silence than anything, but it's nice. it's comforting. when you're not outside to watch, he begins stopping by the kitchen window that opens directly over the sink. you hand him a bottle of water whenever you see the pink head of hair pop up over the window sill.
don't imagine watching him grow - a thin, wire framed face growing into itself, long legs that he often tripped over at moments growing steady. he grows along side you and tommy and wil; techno teaches them what phil had always refused to. he teaches you himself in quiet moments shared between the two of you. brings you gifts as a thank you for helping him with extra training, as if he wasn't the one teaching you most things.
one evening, after he's ran and fought himself dry, the length of his hair crowding his face - you'd considered telling him of how awfully pretty he looked with long hair. you'd bitten your tongue when any chance had presented itself.
technoblade had always been a friend; he'd been the one to teach you how to make stew properly, had bandaged your finger when you'd burnt it from not paying close enough attention to how close your hand had been to the flame. you remember the way his hands had shook as he'd wrapped the fabric around your fingers. he'd stumbled and tripped all over his words as he'd scolded you.
the evening brings about the chirping of nearby pond animals and the clanking of whatever lay in the woods after sundown. techno takes a seat on the ground beside your bench, shoulder knocking into your calf. staring hard at the hair gathered around his neck, you wet your lips. "can i braid your hair?"
you don't reach out to touch him until he gives you a gentle nod. that was one thing about him - he hated being touched. the only person you'd ever seen touch him was phil, and he'd always let his shoulders brush his ears in embarrassment when that happened.
you shift your body towards him, gathering the amount of hair in your hands, letting it lay across your lap in bunches. as you begin weaving strands between each other, technoblade sighs. "wilbur told me about the land - manburg?"
you click your tongue at him with a soft laugh. "l'manburg", you correct, "and yeah. they've already uh, got people there. started building and stuff." you furrow your brows at the strands of pink hair in your hands. "its good. i mean, i always wanted more for them than this. and they always knew they deserved more."
"so do you." he's still as you loop the last remaining tufts of hair around each other. "and it wouldn't be so bad to have you a little closer."
you try not to pay too much attention to the warmth that blooms in your chest, rising to your ears, across your cheeks. "as if you're not here all the time anyways," you chastise, flipping the end of his braid off your lap. you can feel his eyes follow you as you scoot back to your original spot, gathering the things you'd carried out when you'd sat to watch him at the start. sighing, you meet his gaze with a dead stare. "i will consider it."
techno hums, rising to his feet with the noise. tugging the things you're holding from your grasp, transferring them into his own hold, he nods. "good."
don't imagine the way he helps you move all your stuff into chests weeks after, loading them onto the horse you'd helped him find on the eve of his last birthday. he let's you ride with him for every trip to drop your stuff off to where you'll be living - a small cottage not too far from where he is. on the final trip he helps you down with a hand held out for you to grab, pulling you in close for a moment before he leads you inside.
don't imagine the way he stays with you the first night until sundown, dismissing every worry of the dangers he may face on his way home in the dark. he stays on your couch, sandwiched in between you and the corner of the cushioned material.
"don't worry your head over it", he tells you to quiet your worries, "i'll be fine. im technoblade, remember?" when you roll your eyes at his antics, he bumps his shoulder into yours with a grin. "you act as if you want me to leave so badly."
you scoff into the mug of tea he'd prepared for you after the two of you had set nearly everything up. "whatever", you say, before clearing your throat. "you're ridiculous."
when you fall asleep he's sitting next to you, and when you wake he's gone. there's a red cloak around your shoulders that slips down at your wake - you lift it to your nose with a sleepy smile. pine and parchment.
the next day, he stops by around noon with extra supplies. he's got nothing but that white button up on, and when he sees the cloak draped over your lap as he carries things in, he shakes his head with a breathy, barely there laugh.
don't imagine the way things change. he's with you nearly every night - he makes you food, tells you about his day, listens intently when you tell him of yours over bites of bread and stew. he's always there as you fall asleep. most days he's gone before morning light. others you wake to his rumbled humming as he slips on his shoes to start his day.
the days tommy and wilbur visit, he still shows up. makes conversation with the two over the plans for the nation. often times you catch them hurriedly wrapping up a hushed conversation of serious whispers when you reenter the room. techno's brows always furrow, a crease forming between them that you always want to smooth out with your finger.
when they leave, those are the times he seems troubled. sometimes so terribly inside his own mind that he doesn't flinch when you accidentally brush against him. other nights, when it's just the two of you, he complains he's messed up his hair, because no one does it like you, and spends the minutes it takes you to redo it humming and poking into your calves.
don't imagine the day he visits that he knows something is off.
your mouth if pursed into a frown, something troublesome brewing within. but he carries on as he normally does. an unspoken rule between the two of you - the two of you would talk about bothersome things when either of you chose.
as he sets down the plate in front of you, you catch his wrist with your hand. he tenses for a second, and you give him a regretful glance. "sorry", you call out, and he nods, sitting beside you as he normally does - side to side.
"you knew they were starting a war." it's not a question. your fingers dig into the cushions of the couch. the fire crackling across the room fills the silence after your words.
"i did."
"it's not fair." a sigh. "you should've told me."
"i know." it's his turn to apologise, as his pinkie knocks against your thigh. "i'm sorry."
"it's not as if i wouldn't have been able to handle it."
he wets his lips. "i know." tapping his pinkie against your thigh again, he sucks in a breath. "i was selfish, with you. i didn't want you to worry." you lean your head onto his shoulder; he rests his own atop yours. "im always selfish with you."
just as the last embers of the fire begin to burn, your pinkie wraps around his own.
don't imagine months of travesty involving the land. countless nights of curling into the shoulder of your best friend with whispered doubts. he always quiets them with a brush of his lips against your forehead and a soft "technoblade never dies, you know."
don't imagine seeing techno one night. he's quieter than normal, doing that same old dance of shaking his head, mumbled whispers and sharp breaths. but the grip he has on your pinkie is constant, the same as it always is. the weight of his arm around your shoulders is just as warm as it always is. hands engulfing yours as he fiddles with your fingers, countless unintelligible words and heavy sighs.
"you're sighing a lot for someone who's never worried." your comment seems to jumpstart him again, as he tsks at you.
"well, i'm not worried." a few beats pass. "i'm...contemplating."
"contemplating what?" you glance up at him, eyebrows raised. he shrugs - you think you've seen him shrug a handful of times since you met him. if he ever didn't want to answer something, he just didn't. and if he did, he was always as straight forward as one could be.
you let go of the topic regardless, standing a few minutes later to carry glasses back to the kitchen. the warm water runs over your hands as you rinse away leftover drinks from the cups. once your finished, you shut the water off with a hum, shaking your hands into the sink below you.
when you turn around, he's standing there, eyes slightly widened, his cheeks pink like the cold had been nipping away at him. "techno?"
"you know that i", he shakes his head, eyes darting from every thing they could land on except you. "that i, um."
"are you o-"
"im selfish with you." he breathes the words out like a prayer. "i am, and i...ever since i saw you drop that stupid mug on the floor i've been...all i've known is you."
you swallow as he takes a step closer to where you are. you feel the cold metal of the sink through your shirt. "im really, really selfish and it's even more selfish of me to tell you, but i." techno let's his eyes fall on your face. "i don't want to have missed out on ever telling you that. i don't want that moment to pass me by."
"does this mean i get to keep the cloak?"
and he laughs. the type of laugh that you know means he's caving in on himself, hands twitching, throat dry. "if....if you want to. it's kind of...always been yours anyways?"
"techno."
"yeah?"
"will you kiss me?"
you don't have to ask him twice. the weight of his palm on your cheek is warm, and you'll always wonder how his hands are so soft with all that he does. his fingers take their place along your jaw to tilt your head up; and he's kissing you like a man starved.
when he parts from you with bubblegum cheeks and a small smile, you laugh. that night, he stays. he presses another warm kiss to your cheeks, the tip of your nose, your forehead. you fall asleep with your head tucked into the crook of his neck.
don't imagine opening your eyes the next morning to the sun. it casts shadows and patterns from where it enters the window. when you look up, he's glowing just like he did when you were kids. he's more now, longer hair, his features sharp and mouth pulled down into a permanent straight line. you think he's harder, somehow, but the light softens out all of his harsh edges just fine.
don't imagine ignoring the fact that he probably needs to be up - that he has some meeting with wilbur to attend, some kind of planning for whatever is happening next. you turn into his embrace once more, letting his arm tug you closer as he breathes out slowly.
you'll be selfish with him for a bit more.
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