Chapter Text
Phil was alone most of the time.
Techno was normally hibernating— though Phil would never know how he slept through all the noise— and, predictably, rather dreary company. Not that Phil couldn’t make do with that. In fact, he spent a lot of time with him anyway, arguably more time when Techno wasn’t awake to question it: sitting at his bedside: chirping hushed songs, broken melodies he had heard far too long ago: on particularly bad nights curled up in his side. He was never quite touching, but as close as he dared without explicit permission to be there. They were not new actions. Techno had said, time and again, that they were fine. They were just actions that required a reason— a problem— something to be going wrong to justify the comfort. To justify the effort and discomfort.
And nothing was really going wrong; not anything new that justified the touch. There was no reason for him to want to be close. No reason to impose. No logic behind it. It was just—!
It was just…
Well...
It was hybrid instincts. That’s all it was at the end of the day. Shity, animalistic, clingy bird instincts.
Hybrid instincts that called for (flock and comfort and safety) things he didn’t have. Things he couldn’t have— because if his absurdly long life had taught him anything it was that you shouldn’t get attached. It was that people were almost never who they seem to be at first, and by the time you figured out who they really were you would either have a knife in your back or they’d already be dying and leaving you alone again. That was how people worked. That's what people were, a flock included.
Well, besides Techno.
But Techno, no matter what Phil wanted him to be, was not someone he would force into the role. Not when he knew better. He knew Techno expressed his love through gifts— verbal affirmations, sometimes— but not touch. Nothing more than a pat to a shoulder or a brief hug; and even then, the actions were rare, brief, and laced in an underlying discomfort. That wasn’t something Phil would force on him. Not when he knew the piglin wouldn’t say no.
(Not when he knew the Piglin wouldn't leave. That he would cater to his stupid, incessant, childish wants without complaint. That his image would slowly degrade then. He would gradually become less of a partner or a friend and more of a leech. More of a burden.)
If his shit instincts could get that particular memo that would be really fucking nice.
He sighed, fighting back the trill trying to escape his throat. It had become a more common urge since he… well, since he got to L’manburg, lets say. He had been in a near constant state of lethargy, and restraining his hybrid side was always harder when he was tired.
A hybrid side that was currently buzzing— locking his eyes to where Techno’s hand was laying on the table. Unoccupied. Unassuming. It would be so easy to just—.
(— Not even for a moment; not even to hold. Just a casual brush, maybe. Nothing big. Nothing he couldn’t play off as an accident and—!)
“— are you with me Phil.”
Phil blinked, willing his instincts back under control. “Yeah mate. Sorry, just zoning out a little.”
“Bruh.”
Phil chuckled, turning back to his plate. Breakfast. That was right, they were eating. “Sorry, sorry— what were you saying?”
“I was just sayin’ that—” his hands tapped on the table rhythmically— one, two, three— before dropping still— “the Syndicate. There’s probably some—” they moved off the table and to his lap. Phil had to fight to not track the movement to obviously— “we don’t know about, so I was thinkin’ we could do some recon round the area.”
“Sounds good to me mate.” Phil took a bite. It tasted like ash.
“Good, then lets start in the south.” Techno paused, “unless there are any places you know about that we could start on?”
Phil snorted, forcing himself to take another bite. “Not really. I’ve just been here. We could ask Ranboo?”
“Kids gone for the day. In the mines, I think. Somethin’ about needing to earn more money?”
“Isn’t he already, just, insanely fuckin’ rich?”
“Bruh, I know. Kid must be tryin’ to save up for a castle at this point.”
Phil laughed, a trill leaking in before he could stop it. “I wouldn’t be shocked. Isn’t that the first thing you did when you got money?”
“Bruh my dark past—!” Techno yelled, mock horror on his face (he swore Techno was more dramatic than Wilbur sometimes. His tone was just a bit more monotone then—).
(Well, then Wilbur used to be).
(...)
(Don’t think about it).
“Why don't you go brew some potions and I’ll clean up here? Get the dogs all set and stuff?”
Techno nodded, standing up. “Meet in an hour then.”
Phil hummed approval. He did not look at Techno as he walked to the ladder.
A longing flared in his chest, but he pushed it down with practiced ease. There was no reason to call him back. He had asked him to go for fucks sake, and it was stupid that he even considered it.
(But his mind was buzzing, begging— wait. His instincts: his hybrid traits. They were screaming. He was perfectly fine, thank you very much. He did not need Techno to stay, because he knew Techno was just going upstairs. He was not being abandoned. He was not useless. He did not drive him away, and he didn’t have to stare at Techno not going out the door to know that so—).
So he stared at his plate. He hadn’t eaten much, but he barely had the heart to attempt a few more bites before he was standing up to clean the plates off. More food for the dogs anyway. They would appreciate it.
The dogs. The dogs were a welcome reprieve, even if most of them hated him.
They were Techno’s dogs— war dogs at that— so it wasn’t unexpected. It was still annoying that they barked incessantly at him everytime he got close. Maybe they could sense what he had done. After they calmed down (read: all took turns bounding over each other to sniff his hand), they were lovely company. They were soft and cuddly. They weren’t his— not in any way that mattered— but they would tolerate him petting their fur. Tolerate him sitting with them.
(And his hybrid side would panic at being so close to a predator— a pack of them— but he could ignore that bit. He was adept at ignoring his instincts. He could allow himself to fall into their piles, letting the plush fur ease the constant ache for flock and comfort— but never safety. Some part of him would always be aware enough to keep his wings away from their mouths, mantled, even as they shook from the effort. Some part of him would always be aware that, when he left, they would bark if he tried to come back; that they would not remember him. That when Techno woke up, they wouldn’t need him to feed them anymore.)
(He wouldn’t be needed anymore, and he would be abandoned like he always was.)
He walked up to the pen with something that could be construed as excitement, despite the way his wings shook beneath his cloak. The dogs started to bark. They bounded towards him, pushing up against the fence separating them. Phil reached his hand out, waiting for them to remember that he was the one who fed them most days and settle down a little.
Soon enough the threats turned into excitement, a massive pack of animals wagging their tails and jumping up on the fence, trying to bite the food bucket out of his hands. He chuckled as a particularly eager one stepped on another dog's head, almost tumbling to the ground themself.
“Calm down ya’ little shits. There's enough for everyone.”
They did not calm down. Being dogs, they only had a tentative grasp of English at the best of times, and no reason to actually listen to whatever Phil was saying. Aside from food, which somehow was never good enough. Though they did bolt away from the fence when Phil lobbed a particularly juicy steak over their heads, so maybe the food did have some sway.
He laughed, stepping into the pen to leave some more food. The dogs that hadn't already bolted flocked around him immediately. Their tails wagged violently, shaking their entire bodies as their tongues hanging out, smearing drool in their siblings fur. Phil laughed as one of the more excited dogs jumped up on him, nearly toppling him before he could chuck another stake off somewhere to the right. They bounded off.
Phil kneeled down, scratching one of the remaining dogs behind the ears. They licked at his hands, whining. Another jumped on his back (pinning his wings (danger danger hurt danger trapped threat danger) where they were tucked under his cloak), licking at his hair with a bark. Friendly. Not a threat. Definitely more interested in the food than him.
Ah. Yeah, of course they were.
He dumped out the rest of the food around his feet, laughing as the dogs shoved their entire faces into the mess. He chuckled, patting the nearest dog. They were warm, despite the arctic chill surrounding them, and if Phil let his hand linger an extra second no one would notice. They wouldn’t notice the chirp that escaped his lips either.
Just a moment. He would only linger a moment.
The rest of the dogs were bounding back, growing and scrambling, climbing over their brothers and sisters in a fever to get to the food. Phil smiled, watching the chaos for a moment, before leaving the pen, turning towards the house to look for Techno.
Oh, there he was.
“Ya’ know, if you were standing there the whole time ya’ could have said something.”
He was standing on the bridge, arms crossed over the railing. He was looking at Phil with something Phil deciphered as amusement.
“You looked busy.”
Phil snorted (don’t ruin this). “Yeah, with your dogs. Ya’ coulda helped or something.”
“Naaaaaaaaaaa. You got it.”
Phil snorted, resisting the urge to (lovingly) flip him off. It was a pretty easy urge to stifle, as it turned out, because an unprompted bark had him jumping. Then flipping off a dog instead.
“I already fed you!” The dog barked again, growling. Phil could feel his feathers puffing out on his back at the threat, and he had never been so glad to have them in his cloak. “Techno call off your fuckin’ hounds!”
He laughed— something that in no way expressed the surge of panic his instincts had given him— but that was fine. He didn’t really want to express that panic anway. It was more akin to discomfort than a reaction to an actual threat, and he could put up with discomfort. He would much rather the whole thing be taken as a joke; that he, the thousand and something year old adventurer was afraid of a fucking tamed dog. A caged dog no less. A dog that he had been in the same pen with moments before.
“Naaaaaaaaa.” He could hear the smirk though Technos normal monotone— practically see it. “You got it.”
That was… good. That's what he wanted, and the second laugh felt a little less wrong then the first had. He let his feathers relax on his back. Maybe forced was a better word, but the result was the same so why get caught up in semantics?
Techno waved his hands and the barking stopped. Of course they obeyed him immediately, even without the bribe of food.
“... These little shits.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing mate.” Phil walked towards the door, ducking in behind Techno (ignoring how close they were, how he could reach out and touch him if he only—). “We all good?”
“Just waiting for the strength.”
Phil laughed, crossing his arms (letting his hands grip into his shirt as tight as they could because no, he wasn’t going to ruin this for something so stupid. He wasn't going to reach out and—). “... why do we need strength?”
“Recon Phil.”
That did nothing to answer his question, thank you very much. “We’re not going into a fight, mate. Sounds like you're just trying to justify your potion addiction.”
“Phil, strength—” Techno spluttered— “it’s just a good potion to have!! What if we get in a fight there and—”
“— And you could stop at any time?”
“Bruh the slander!”
Phil laughed, walking past the couch and over to the brewing stand. Watching as the bubbles rose to the top of the concoction.
The house was warmer than the outdoors, but comfortable. He could still hear the dogs outside, muffled, but unmistakenly harassing whatever poor squirrel had wandered just a little too close to the pen. This… this was good. This was nice, it was the softest thing he had had since (Wilbur left), and he wanted to keep this. If there were compromises to that, that was fine. Beating his shit instincts into check with a metal bat? Easy. Simple. A normal Monday.
(He did not know Techno was standing behind him, close enough that he could hear his breath. He was not imagining leaning back. He was not imagining the thump of a heart where his friend's chest met his concealed wings; his very soul, almost. He was not imagining comfort and safety as arms wrapped around his middle, grounding him there. Keeping him there, safe and comfortable and flock and hugging him back and running his hands though the tangled hair he knew Techno was neglecting and—)
“—? It’s done... Phil?”
Phil chuckled, snapping back. “Sorry mate. Zoned out again.”
“...”
“What were you saying?”
Techno pointed. “Potions done.”
… Ah. They were.
Phil reached forward, dislodging two of the three potions before handing them back. They did not need three fucking strength potions, no matter what war Techno thought they were charging into.
Techno looked... concerned. Thoughtful might be a better word, actually, but with a worried tint that made something in Phil’s stomach twist. Something was troubling him, in anycase, and that was probably not a good thing.
Phil’s laugh took on a nervous trill before he could stop the sound. “What's wrong? Somethin’ on my face or some shit?”
“... you’ve been zoning out a lot today Phil. Your age finally getting to you?”
Phil had known Techno long enough to know that that was a real question, even if he couldn’t spot the worry on his face. Not the age shit, but the other part. The unspoken ‘are you alright’, doused with an easy out just in case it was nothing. An option to just continue as things were.
Techno, for how long he had known Phil, should have known Phil was a coward. He was an old man, stuck in his ways, and he always took the easy out.
“You callin’ me old mate?”
“Yepp.” Tehno drawled, “the oldest person I know.”
“That doesn’t mean shit you socially awkward hermit.”
Techno raised an eyebrow at him, daring him not to see the hypocrisy in that statement. Phil laughed.
“Okay fair point.”
(He did not feel guilt for the lie. He pushed down the feeling before it could really register. Besides, it was worse admitting to it; forcing Techno to cater to him like he needed it. Like he couldn’t put up with discomfort for a bit. Like it was something worth all that. That would make him more guilty then a little white lie would.)
“We ready then?”
“Soon as we get you a cane old man. Don’t want you keeling over before we get there.”
Phil scoffed, knocking Techno upside the head as he walked by (it was not warm. He was not tempted to linger a moment longer. He pulled away before the feeling could set in beyond a pleasant tingle of blessed contact). Techno— the absolute tank of the piglin he was— had the audacity to pretend the light, absolute love tap of a hit, actually hurt. He stumbled back, clutching the side of his head dramatically.
Phil started laughing again.
“That did not hurt you dramatic fuck.” More dramatic than Wilbur (used to be) Phil swears.
“Nope. I have a concussion now. I am concussed.”
“No you’re not.”
“How would you know?”
Phil looked at Techno— and the fucker was definitely smirking— and sighed. He stepped forward (stiffly to keep himself from taking another), pulling Technos hand (and the contact almost stung before— (warm safe comfort comfort safe flock warm)) away from where it was pushed against his head, humming.
“There's nothing there mate.”
He forgot to let go of the hand. He forgot, even as there was a constant tingle of warmth shaking up his arm, making itself known as he had to bite back a content hum at the (comfort safe safe safe flock safe comfort flock flock safe). Technos hair was soft in his other, where he was pulling it away from the ‘wound.’
He was taking liberties and he knew it. Techno was probably already uncomfortable, but he wasn’t pulling away so he let the hand linger, endlessly gentle as he (pretended to) look at the supposed injury, combing through Techno’s hair. (It felt like the last puzzle piece sliding into place. It felt like home. It felt like safety comfort flock and—)
He pulled his hand away, stepping back before the feeling of loss could hit him like a truck. He took another step back when it did.
(Don’t ruin this. Please. Phil had already lost so much he couldn’t lose this too. He couldn’t take that.)
“Yeah mate, nothin’ there. You’re fine.”
Techno snorted. “Sounds like a guilty conscience to me. How bad is it really doc? I can take it.”
“Oh fuck off and let's go. We’re just burnin’ daylight at this point.”
“I prefer the term procrastinating.”
He was already walking to the door— maybe a bit too quickly— but he was moving. Moving away (because his traitorous hands were twitching where they were locked at his sides and his wings were shaking under his cloak).
(And there was still a tingle of warmth under his skin, burrowing, and if his instincts had been yelling before they were screaming now because oh—! Oh, the context made it worse; knowing how good it could be— the (warmth comfort comfort safety complete safely flock flock flock)— was infinitely worse.)
Phil took a deep breath. The arctic cold was biting but grounding. Something to focus on besides the clawing under his skin. The burning, traitorous want, for something. Something he would never have. Something he would never ask for. Something he didn’t need or deserve. Something he would always want.
But Phil was used to suppressing his (thoughts) instincts, and this was no different.