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There’s a rocking chair on the front porch.
Two, in fact—sitting side by side.
The tundra is a lot quieter these days. The wars have all ended, once-great countries faded into little more than overgrown ruins, with nobody around to tell their stories save for the history books and an old, crumbling museum. Flags have been torn and tattered and all but crumbled into dust, and the people that once lived amidst castles and tiny dirt shacks have all moved on.
All but two.
“Come to join me, old friend?” comes a soft, rasping voice. It’s warm and fond, with the barest hint of a smile. Weathered hands clutch the arms of the rocking chair, filling the quiet winter air with soft creaks.
“Just comin’ to make sure you don’t freeze, old man,” comes the teasing rebuttal, but he sits anyway. The old wood groans beneath the piglin’s weight, but he settles down with an outstretched hand, offering his companion a cup of steaming tea.
“Aww, mate…”
“So your fingers don’t fall off from the cold.” The response is gruff, but he’s smiling. There’s a soft flutter of wings, and dark feathers envelope him in their warmth, resting snug around his shoulders. He knows those wings well, of course. He knows every old, long-healed scar hidden beneath the feathers, and the way each individual feather is meant to rest. He knows the comfort of their weight around them, and he feels it now, side-by-side with his partner.
The mug is cradled, brought close. Steam washes across a face untouched by time, making pale cheeks rosy.
“Ginger?”
“For your joints. Can’t have you keelin’ over on me just yet.”
“Last I looked, I’m not the one with grey hairs.” It’s said with fondness, but it’s true. Of the two of them, only one of them has grey hairs dusting his snout, and wrinkles at the corners of his eyes every time he smiles. The other is still as young as the day they met, though no less weary of the world.
“Bruh,” comes the short answer, and then the air is filled with soft laughter, shoulders bumping as the two friends lean together. “Low blow. You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone.”
The laughter dies, from childish giggles to a soft, breathless silence. It’s comfortable, even despite the next words that are spoken.
“…I will.”
“‘Course you will. I’m pretty hard to replace. Not every day you meet a giant talking pig who argues with the voices in his head.”
“Oh, you piece of shit. I’m trying to be soft!”
“I know.”
The piglin leans forward, grizzled features warm as he presses his forehead against the others. They breathe for a moment, just the two of them. A smaller hand is squeezed between the calloused fingers of another, and there’s a soft hitching of breath, something that could only be noticed by the one person who’s somehow still around to hear it.
“Hey.” Warm palms suddenly cradle a stubble chin, guiding the man’s face into the light. “You’re gettin’ in your head again, angel. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You’re mortal.”
“And?” The piglin grins at him, undaunted. “You’re literally married to Death, man. Pretty sure that like, guarantees you visitation rights or something.”
The angel’s lips twitch into a wobbly smile of his own.
“Besides,” the piglin drawls. “Don’t go counting me out just yet. I still haven’t had a chance to rebuild my potato farm.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“And y’know what they say: Technoblade never—!”
There’s a soft thwap, and he suddenly recoils, clutching his snout and pouting like a petulant child. The man lowers his hand, fingers still poised to flick the other’s nose again.
“Right, right. Serious conversation.”
In one swift movement, he retaliates, tugging the man snug against his chest and scrubbing at his hair with his knuckles. The bird squawks, wings flapping and trying to get away, to no avail.
“That’s it, old man. Let it happen. Just gotta shake all of the bad thoughts outta that bird brain of yours. Can you feel my affection? Can you feel it yet?” He laughs, even as the other’s hands try to swat him. “C’mon, just hug it out, man.”
“I swear to the gods, I’m gonna—!”
“Anddd that’s enough of that.” He lets go, and his companion pulls away, face flustered and hair freshly tangled. He’s smiling, though, the warmth returned to his expression. They ease back into their silence once more, though the piglin’s arm remains draped across the other’s shoulders, a grounding weight. They stare out at their home—once a commune teaming with life and plans for revolution, now just a farm owned by a couple of old men.
There are a few reminders of their old life still lingering, though. An isolated house sits nestled against the mountain, still carefully tended to even after so many decades without its resident. Deep beneath the surface, the old tunnels remain, as does the weathered table surrounded by chairs, each labeled with the name of a friend.
The piglin is the one to break the silence next.
“…Things’ve changed around here.”
“Things always change, mate.”
“Do you ever miss the way things were?”
The immortal smiles wryly.
“What do you think?”
“Right. Stupid question.”
A weathered thumb runs across furry knuckles.
“‘S not stupid, mate. It’s hard to explain, though.” A deep sigh, followed by the groaning of wood as he leans back in his chair. “I miss things, sure. It’s different than it used to be, but…” He hums, giving the piglin’s hand a squeeze. “There’s always something new on the horizon. I get to see people be born, and then grow old. I’ve seen kingdoms rise and fall—some more gracefully than others.”
They both share a laugh, clothed in thick woolen capes of pale blue.
“But, honestly? There’s not anything I’d go back and change. Even the stupid shit. Even the stuff that hurt.” He hums, staring out at the distant treeline, blanketed in a fresh layer of snow. “There are people I miss, but… well, I’ve always heard it’s better to have known ‘em while they were around, then to have never have known them at all.”
“Look at you,” the piglin murmurs. “When’d you go and get all philosophical on me?”
“Guess I really am getting old.” He cracks a grin, and they both laugh, leaning a little closer together. It’s cold out, and they only have each other these days. That, and a pack of wolves, the descendants of the ones the piglin once used to help bring a nation to its knees. The same war has left them both scarred, fingers stained black from the Wither’s curse and joints aching from wounds that never healed right.
Despite it all, though, they’re still happy.
“Guess different’s not always so bad,” the piglin muses. “It’s a lot quieter out here these days.”
“It’s the retirement you always wanted,” comes the teasing reply. “Just you and me, like always. No more countries, no more wars.” He pauses, and then adds: “…And no more ugly dirt castles on our front lawn.”
His partner snorts.
“Bruh. Talk about lowering our property value. That man had no taste.”
They both fall back into laughter, then, leaning on one another for support. It’s the only sound for miles, the world reduced to just the two of them, and yet somehow, it feels like the way things were meant to be.
“…Y’know, Phil? I think we’ll be alright.”
“…Yeah.” A soft smile, a squeeze of the hand. “You’re right, Techno.”
“Always am.”
Silence. Warm, comfortable, and right. The only sounds in the air are the distant barking of the dogs, the creak of the rocking chairs, and the steady breathing of two old friends, side by side.