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As it turns out, arriving in England is an educational experience. Techno learns three things pretty quickly.
Fact one: Baggage claim hates him and is dead set on withering his soul. Fact two: Real-life SBI provokes a ridiculous amount of joy. Fact three: Tommy is even clingier than Techno thought he’d be.
He learns all three in quick succession. Or, well, it takes the first fact about half an hour to sink in, after he waits that long for his neon pink, Ranboo-endorsed suitcase. After that, though, he yanks it off the track, with a great deal of shuffling and grunting, and sleep-deprivedly stumbles toward Arrivals.
He’s greeted quickly enough—by an enormous sign, no less, emblazoned with a markered pig face and a great deal of pink glitter, and he stops in his tracks, because—they’re there. He is here, and they are there, and somehow the five thousand miles between them have condensed into five feet.
Phil, and Wilbur, and Tommy … they’re here. They’re here, standing with enormous grins on their faces. Techno stares for what is probably an overly long time, eyes wide, then all but speedruns the last couple steps to get to them.
Tommy meets him halfway, tackling him in a hug. “Techno!” he shouts, right by Techno’s ear. Techno makes a vague “oof” noise, only half-aware of his suitcase hitting the ground with a flump, and carefully wraps his arms around Tommy’s shoulders. It only feels a little bit like he’s being strangled.
“Hello, Technoblade,” Tommy mumbles—definitely not six three—and Techno can hear the smile in his voice. “You’re here.”
“I am,” Techno says. “I am. At least I hope so. It’d be really awkward if I wasn’t.”
Wilbur clears his throat. “Excuse me,” he says, and Techno glances up to find him making grabby hands, Phil giving them puppy dog eyes in the background. “Where’s my hug?”
⸻⸻⸻
“We have to watch scary movies,” Wilbur declares. “It’s nearly Halloween.”
Phil snorts. “We’ve got a month to go, mate.”
“But Philll, I want to watch scary movies. It’ll be funny. It’ll be funny, Techno, don’t you agree?”
Techno, who isn’t sure whether he’s incredibly tired or has just discovered a new, heightened state of consciousness, offers a noncommittal thumbs up.
“See, Techno agrees!” Wilbur whirls around to Tommy, because apparently he’s checking people off the list. “Tommy. Tommy, Tommy, watch horror movies with me. It’ll be so fun, Tommy.”
Tommy side-eyes the television. (Heh, telly. Imagine.) “I mean, I don’t care,” he says, and shrugs. “Let’s do it.”
⸻⸻⸻
Listen—Techno wouldn’t say he’s good at reading people’s emotions. It’s not exactly a skill of his. He’s much better at stabbing people for coins.
But there reaches a point, when your—he doesn’t even know; friend? random child? pseudo younger brother?—when a child wraps his arms around your midriff and buries his face in your shoulder in an attempt to escape an onscreen killer, that Techno has that intelligent realization: Ah, he’s scared.
Uh-oh, he thinks immediately afterward. He’s chosen me for comfort.
“Uh,” Techno says, and pats Tommy awkwardly on the shoulder. “You … you good, Tommy?”
Tommy makes a grumbling noise. The back of his neck—as far as Techno can see, with the lights turned off for “ambience” or another of those big words he should’ve learned in college—is bright red. “Shut the fuck up, Technoblade,” he says. “I am—I—my actions are just beyond your com-pre-hen-sion.” He pronounces that last word with a great deal of practice, enunciating each syllable.
In the movie, a woman screams. Tommy makes a high-pitched noise, somewhat similar to the dying cry of a middle-school clarinet. Oh god, Techno thinks, with about as much emotional awareness as he can manage.
He’s not really sure what to do, but he lifts a hand awkwardly to pat Tommy’s shoulder. Tommy burrows further into Techno’s side, wriggling his way around Techno’s arm to get closer proximity to his shoulder for appropriate face-hiding. Techno fights the urge to aww, because that is incredibly cringe and he will not stoop to such levels.
“I mean,” Techno says. “If you are scared. Just sayin’. You could just tell us and we can watch something different.”
Tommy lifts one hand from around Techno’s waist to offer a middle finger. It would be a little more insulting if he wasn’t pointing it in the wrong direction.
“Really,” Techno tries. “I mean—I’m also scared. Very. I’m terrified.”
“You’re lying,” Tommy mutters. “And you’re a bitch.”
“One of those things is true,” Techno concedes. “But seriously—I mean, Will doesn’t really care, I think he’s just watching it to mess with you. Well, was doing it to mess with you, he seems very interested in it now—”
Tommy makes a despairing noise. “I fuckin’ hate horror movies,” he mutters. “So much. More than—more than I hated Prince Philip, and now he’s dead.”
Techno makes a mental note: Tommy is significantly worse at verbal warfare when sleep-deprived and scared.
Onscreen, somebody is violently defenestrated. There’s a great deal of blood. Phil makes a disgusted noise.
Tommy muffles his groan into Techno’s shoulder. “This is so dumb.”
“You know you could just say you don’t like horror movies.”
“That’s dumb. You’re dumb.”
“I’m speaking right now, though.”
“Wha— That doesn’t make any sense,” Tommy groans. He kicks his legs over Techno’s lap, and now they’re full-on cuddling, apparently—Techno blinks and hesitantly lifts an arm over Tommy’s shoulders.
“Uh,” Techno says. “You—you good?”
“Hmm?” Tommy says. His face is still very helpfully hidden in Techno’s Philza hoodie, but he pulls away suddenly, hair wildly mussed. “Er—shit, sorry, are you okay with me being like this? I can stop—”
“Oh,” Techno says, “nah, no, it’s fine—”
“Really, I can leave if you’re not comfortable—”
“Tommy,” Techno says, and because he’s not exactly sure how else to communicate it, he wraps an awkward arm around Tommy’s shoulders and pulls him back in. “It’s—it’s fine.”
Techno doesn’t think he’s ever felt so awkward in his life—not when that girl said she had a crush on him in high school, not when he had to tell his parents that he was quitting college to be a Minecraft YouTuber, not when he had to admit to his accountant that yeah, the reason he was spending so much money on plane tickets was to go visit some online friends in England. Friendship, he thinks wryly, the great equalizer, and then Tommy laughs.
“This is so fucking dumb,” he says, and hugs Techno tighter, elbows jabbing at his ribs. All pointy edges, just like Techno thought he’d be. “Tell Wilbur to turn off the movie ‘cause it’s scaring you.”
“I—” Techno takes a moment to comprehend that statement. “I’m not even bothered by it, Tommy, tell him yourself.”
“There, there, Technoblade. I’m glad I could comfort you, but you’ve gotta tell Wilbur how you feel.”
Techno opens his mouth for an (undoubtedly witty) retort, but Tommy shoots him a glance, and he’s got that stupid gremlin grin on his face, all smug. A surge of fondness rolls over Techno. He huffs and ruffles Tommy’s hair, and Tommy squawks, retreating to hide in Techno’s hoodie again.
“Will,” he says to Wilbur, who’s just on the other side of the couch, and has undoubtedly heard the majority of their conversation, if the grin on his face is any indication. “I’ve actually just decided I’m incredibly scared of horror movies. Change the channel.”
Wilbur’s eyes flick toward Tommy and positively gleam; he looks like he’s holding back a laugh, and it’s—it’s IRL, what the hell—that rhymed. Nice. “Ah, right,” he says. “How could I have forgotten how scared you are of horror movies with bad CGI?”
Grinning, he fumbles for the remote to turn on David Attenborough documentaries.
Tommy does not relinquish his spot, curled around Techno, even when Phil brings out hot chocolate (“Old man,” Techno says helpfully, “such an old man, imagine makin’ hot chocolate ‘cause you care about us or something—”), or when Wilbur reaches over in an attempt to tickle him. He just slurps his hot chocolate, eyes fixed on whatever bird David’s talking about now, and shrieks and elbows Wilbur in the ribs when Wilbur attempts a sneaky attack.
Tommy falls asleep soon enough, at—right, it’s twelve England time, so … jeez, four-ish in California, and Techno really cannot tell where the jetlag ends and the sleep deprivation begins. Tommy’s head slumps into the curve between Techno’s neck and his shoulder, and he starts making little whistly noises every time he breathes in. Techno’s not really sure what to do about it.
“Awww,” Wilbur coos, leaning over to brush Tommy’s hair out of his eyes. “You’re so soft, Techno. Softnoblade. Technosoft.” (Techno holds back the urge to call him a hypocrite.)
Phil also awwws, and takes a picture to send to Kristin. Techno huffs and makes an attempt at shifting Tommy off his legs and onto the couch, but Tommy grumbles sleepily and just clings on tighter, and—well.
“I can’t believe this,” Techno complains (quietly, because he doesn’t want to wake Tommy up). “Five hours in England and he’s already decided, ‘Yeah, this is a new brother’—”
“Hmm?” Tommy mumbles sleepily. “What’re you talkin’ about?”
“Nothing,” Wilbur says fondly. “Technoblade is waxing poetic about how happy he is to be here with us.”
“Oh,” Tommy says. His eyes flutter sleepily shut. “Mm. Good.”
Eventually, Techno grunts and lifts him up, just enough to set him back down on the couch. Tommy doesn’t stir, just curls up beneath the blanket Wilbur drapes over him and stays fast asleep. Phil snaps another picture to send to Kristin, fighting a smile.
“Well,” Wilbur says, and slings an arm around Techno’s shoulders, ruffling his hair. Techno’s not really sure how to feel about it—but—well. The warmth in his chest seems set on fulfilling the family dynamic. “Welcome to the family, Tech-no-blade. You’ll notice that Tommy is an incredibly clingy younger brother.”
Techno huffs fondly. “Yeah,” he says. “I noticed.”
“Also, I’ve seen that movie like fifteen times. I just wanted to spook Tommy.”
Techno rolls his eyes. “Of course you did,” he says, and Wilbur laughs and starts to collect the empty mugs of hot chocolate. “They were pretty shit movies, I’m not gonna lie.”
“Believe me, it only gets worse,” Phil says, and somehow, Techno grins at that. “Welcome to England, mate.”