Chapter Text
It started as a standard raid, one among thousands of unremarkable raids before it and so simple that Technoblade and Philza barely brought anything with them.
But then there were more illagers than expected, streaming out of the windmill with things they shouldn't have. Diamond swords, scattered sets of netherite, things no illagers have gotten their paws on before. Still, Techno was doing fine—he kept back the wave with Phil's help.
But an illager bowman got in a very lucky shot. Paces away from Techno, a crossbow bolt cut through the bright sky, glittering with poison. Towards where Phil was aloft, swooping at illagers below him. He was just still a moment. Techno couldn't call out, his throat oddly dry and stiff, a sword swinging towards him in that moment, his body dodging as his mind stayed behind.
It was enough. With a thump that shouldn't be audible at this many paces, in the racket of fighting, the bolt pierced right through one of Phil's wing joints. Now unable to flap one of his wings, Phil fell in a short spiral, slamming to the ground with panicked wing flaps and swings of his sword. Phil screeched sharply in agony, but he had no time. Illagers swarmed with furious honks in their native language. Detecting a weak link, he was overwhelmed quickly with the majority of the unwashed forces concentrating on him.
As one, Technblade and Chat screamed a bellowing battle cry. Techno urged Carl into action, slashing his sword through the crowd and decimating anyone that won't move with Carl's armour-reinforced body. Hooves slammed into the dirt and plunged Techno-chat through the swarm until he caught a glimpse of Phil's green clothing. Leaning down, Techno grabbed Phil by anything he could reach. His other hand fended off honking grey bodies, his eyes rolling in panic as they flashed bright red.
As it happens, that was the wing that Phil had injured— he was flailing the other one in the mess of muck and hay and blood, grey flesh squirming toward Phil like maggots. Every piece he cut from the casters' bodies sizzled away patches in his clothing, biting into his skin until he was more blood than flesh. Phil shrieked bloodily from the jerk, and Technoblade bit through his cheeks trying to ignore the snaps and crackles as he jerked Phil onto Carl.
Just in time, too. When the tide began to turn in the illagers' favor, a small group of casters scuttled to hide under the eaves of the illager windmill had muttered to themselves until a sparking purple portal opened to the plane this one underlaid. A pale grey limb set a claw onto the grass, and Techno didn't need to see any more.
Carl turned on a pin, sensitive as a feather against wind to Techno's requests of him, and didn't need to be told to gallop off as quickly as he can. Phil groans and curses from the jostling, so Techno grimaces and pats him in consolation. Ther's nothing he can do about it.
From the windmill, a stretch of green grass spans twenty feet in all directions. Too open, arrows from illager bowmen whistling through the air, seeking their flesh. But after that, there is dense forest that they can hide in.
Techno's mind is racing, ricocheting between conflicting visages of possible outcomes, each focused on a separate facet of this happening. Surviving first, he and Phil, then Phil's health— but he has to check. Remembering how it looked as Phil was overcome, Techno has to check.
Though, because Techno turned, there was an unforeseen consequence. Way back at the windmill's doors, small villager children and their parents were tugged from unkept cellar doors. His vision shook from Carl's rough path, but he could see it clearly as an illager caster approaches their shaking, crying forms, surrounded by illager prison keepers.
"Woah," a heckler in Chat jeers, "are we gonna see real life orphaning happening right now, but in reverse?!"
"Blood, blood, blood!" Another screeches.
Techno tried to focus on something else, gingerly shifting Phil in the saddle so he won't fall, his eyes flicking down. But his eyes have always sharpened at the threat of blood. As the caster chants, they press a knife slowly into the villager child's flesh. Tears from the child and their chained parents drip onto the blade as the kid pulls away and sobs. Drawn away from his focus on Phil for just a moment, Techno sees the slash.
"BLOOOOOOOOOOOD!" Chatter explodes, before the Mods silence it with furious tsks for inappropriate behavior.
With the downstroke, the loud illager magnifies their honk with a spell, screaming desperate commands that sound like a goose choking in fury. The scent of villager blood fills the air thickly, almost psychosomatic.
Get it together! There is no time for emotions right now, Techno chastises himself harshly, shoving down Chat and gathering Phil into his arms. Almost losing his balance from the awkward angle, Techno pulls Phil tightly to his chest, nearly mangling Phil's wings as he draws them up so they aren't trampled.
Though Techno is accostumed to high speed chases, even enjoys them on occasion with his good friend Quackity, Carl throws himself into through the tree line with wild abandon. His hooves land hard on a clay ravine edge, crashing through trees with screams and not just snaps, and he nearly slides straight off— especially with the extra, uneven weight, Carl is unbalanced.
Still, Techno acts as a counterweight. For each unbalanced tilt, he accommodates by leaning himself and Phil in the opposite direction. Braid falling undone from gripping branches, Techno pants lightly as he searches behind them for illagers or their pets. The noise is there, infernal evil honking of a twisted form of villager-speak, but he barely sees a glimpse of grey skin.
Illagers are predictable, and will not follow "prey" if they haven't been caught within forty seconds, or in forty blocks. Though Techno grits his teeth at being considered prey ever in his life, Illagers' inherent dislike of being pursuit predators like humans are is useful. Just one more way they try to differentiate themselves from humans. But some humans are like that too. Disgust fills him, and he sighs.
Still, having a time frame for being smacked in the face by tree branches, jostled around by Carl's risky horse parkour, and protecting his horribly bleeding out denfather (sends chills down his spine) gives Technoblade a surge of determination. He bends over Phil, keeping Phil pressed to him like slime stuck to a piston, carefully maneuvering himself to protect the back of Phil's neck. His arms gingerly find places to grip beneath the gaping hole of Phil's blown out wing joint to carefully close Phil's wings. Keep them off the ground and a smaller target.
At this point, Techno has been lost in the sea of green for so long that he can't hear Illagers anymore. Has he reached forty blocks? Best not to take any chances.
Green and brown and white blur together, Carl tearing up the distance with massive strides. Chat begins to swell again, cooing at the pretty kaleidoscope of colors.
“Good horse, Carl!” A few outliers chatter, ensnared by his horsely charms.
Carl snorts, his ears flicking back as the buzzing presences get closer to him.
“Stop that,” Techno snaps, his nerves thin. Though Techno tried to rouse him, Phil's eyes are closed. His cheeks pale and near-blue, veins spidering across his temples.
Pressing his lips tightly together, Techno brushes back Phil's hair to inspect him closer. Beside the obvious, blood smears Phil's cheeks, bruises already forming in mottled patches that creep below his torn clothing. Although Techno trusts Carl to take them on the right path for a few minutes, Techno drags his attention back to the green-brown-jerk-as-they-land for some sort of distraction he tells himself isn't one.
Techno's insides are squirmy, uncomfortable like they're made of worms, and that imagery only makes his stomach roil violently in a frothing cringe made of disgust. Green leaves flash by. Brown branches almost smack Phil in the face.
Unerringly, the sun goes.
Carl is a beast, but no creature of mortal sway can go on forever, so eventually, he slows to a canter. Then, a trot, and a walk.
At that point, it's getting late. Techno hasn’t detected a whiff of Ravagers anywhere for twenty minutes now. Against the comforting, familiar scent of leaf-rot and pine trees, Ravager stench should be obvious, and where there are Ravagers… there are their handlers, too.
Pulling back on the reins, Techno stops in a clearing. His vision almost… widens as he exits the hyperfocus he didn't know he was in. About a thousand different bodily functions clamour for his attention in large urgent missives with very nearly disrespectful wording.
Only thing that would be worse is spitting on his dad. Any part of Techno would sooner kill itself than disrespect his father seriously. Swinging off of Carl, Techno steadies Phil as he settles both boots on the grassy forest floor.
This biome is in the full swing of spring, not a whisper of frost touching the young branches bending toward the ground under the weight of their thick glossy green leaves. Carefully, Techno lowers Phil to the ground, his left arm taking enough weight off of Phil’s wings for them to settle on the ground semi-comfortably.
It’s been steadily darkening since Techno left the windmill. Soon he won’t have enough light to work by. Though the priority was to get Phil to safety… Phil’s crushed wing looks awful enough that Techno should have stopped sooner.
Grass blades beneath Phil’s limp body glitter with Phil’s blood.
Paying no mind to the way it seeps into his clothes, Techno kneels anxiously at his father’s side, hands unnaturally still from a dead sort of disassociation creeping on the edges of Techno’s vision. He summons every healing and regeneration potion he has.
Laying out side by side, the consumable bottles roll against each other, the splash leaning on their lengthened bottle necks. Wither potions glower in a group of melee potions, with pitch black fluid, oddly thick to show their high concentrations, straining against thin splash-glass.
Techno shoves the melee back into his inventory, shaking his head with a growl underneath his breath. That won’t work; he wants to help his father, not put him out of his misery.
Just then, a cold wind whips leaves up in the clearing, sending the branches gossiping. Behind the noise, a skeleton rattles from far away.
Techno’s shoulders bristle. He takes the supplies for a fire out of his inventory to ward off both the cold and the mobs skulking around. Runes are carved into the tinder's thin bark and charcoal stains the cotton he's to light, depicting the same protecting runes that repel monsters, and he sets it up by muscle memory.
Iron snaps against flint, and a spark catches, the magic soaking the wood sending it into lively flame. It’ll warm soon, and no mobs will bother them until that wood is ash—hours from now. Even then, the scent of the magic will linger.
Techno puffs a frustrated, slow breath. He shifts around to face Phil, and stares for a moment at the horrific state he’s in. Bloody feathers, wing bent the entirely wrong angle.
Distancing himself a little further, a rafter pushing away from shore, Technoblade gingerly puts his hands on the messed up wing. Memories of the last time he did this guide his hands until when he opens his eyes next, the wing looks… okay. Better.
The bones are in the right place, at least, and he removed debris (and the arrow, which he threw into the fire so he wouldn't have to stare at it anymore) from the wounds. High quality regen and health will do the rest—and maybe, when Techno isn’t on the brink of decapitating the next player to breath Phil’s air, Ranboo can take a look at it.
White breaths puff from Phil’s lips as the depths of the night shake warmth from their pockets and slip chill in instead, like so much loose change at the cleaner’s. Warmth from the fire wards away the worst, growing larger and larger as it absorbs ambient mana and oxygen.
Techno grabs a potion in each fist, first going in with the red-pink of a potent health potion, glistening in the firelight and winking knowingly. Energy blooms in Phil’s cheeks, forcefully shoving life back into him with a violent yank of magic from the glistening melon within it. The potion nails life there by the hide.
Before the effect fades, Techno eases Phil up off the grassy floor, eases open Phil’s slack mouth, and drips regen down his throat. Over Phil’s lips, it fizzes like carbonation, and slips down his throat easily. With the energy from the health potion, regen doesn’t dip too much into Phil’s clearly lacking stores of vitality.
Flesh twists as his bones knit fragiley back together, and wounds clot and smooth until they’re only mostly raw.
The last thing Techno does is search for fallen tree branches suitably thick with dried leaves to layer over Phil. Worry creases Techno’s brow; he kneels to adjust Phil’s thick clothes to insulate him better, carefully layering the branches over him and laying down next to him.
Techno stares through the empty shape not covered by trees, and watches the stars move across the sky. Night passes in restless hours.
In the morning, Techno pries open his reluctant eyes to dirt and leaves. Rocks dig into Techno's elbows and this annoying place on his spine just below his shoulder blades. It's unpleasantly cold, and Techno shuts his eyes slowly. Painfully dreading waking up.
“Get up!” A chatter screams.
His lips are chapped. Freezing off his face.
“Sleep is for the weak and the elderly,” another chatter states imperiously.
Maybe Techno is elderly, have you thought of that?
“Techno is never weak!” Someone gasps in his head, offended. “Don't be a nerd.”
Techno grinds the heels of chapped hands into cold eyes. And groans. “You're the only nerds here,” he huffs, levering himself off of the ground, feeling like his bones are going to snap into infinitesimal little pieces and prickle in his muscles forever. Techno imagines laying in bed, his bones gone, staring up at the ceiling in misery.
Well. He doesn't want that.
Scratching wildlife habitat from places he barely knew he had until he woke up with them in pain, Techno stands. Immediately, he turns his head to check on Phil.
For a moment, Techno stiffens with panic. There's only a pile of branches and a burnt out fire in the clearing with him! Not a lick of Phil's sleeping face to be found! But piles of branches don't have feathers, and last night rushes back to him.
Oh. Just then, Techno rushed to unearth him from the pile of insulation, casting it aside in a careless pile. Greeted with a puff of comforting warmth, Techno's shoulders relax and a relieved smile covers his lips, brushing his hand over Phil's thankfully warm cheek.
Somewhere in the forest behind Techno, Carl crunches on leaves.
"Here, Carl," Techno calls the hungry warhorse gently, twisting to beckon him closer. Carl's head is so deep inside a bush that it envelops it in its entirety. Carl's ears flick at the sound of Techno's voice. Yet, despite how happy Carl is, he lifts his head out of the bush with a tired sigh. As if Techno has never given him a thing in his entire horsey life. He even swings his head towards Techno with a heavy, baleful stare that seems to say, "but I was getting comfortable."
Planting his feet and shifting until he's completely stable, Techno slips his arms under Phil's wings and lifts with a long grunt.
Now safely in Techno's arms, Phil slumps in his sleep. And Techno scrambles to keep his grip on Phil as Phil's heavy wings slump to the ground. "Bruh," Techno says with feeling, nose wrinkling. "Only you would be uncooperative on the brink of death."
Searching for anchor points, hands explore the space underneath Phil's wings. Angled diagonally, arms shift carefully underneath Phil's wings, muscles tensing to keep Phil in place.
"Hurry up." Techno clicks at Carl, jerking his head. Messy hair covers his eyes, staining every thing a stringy light pink. Blowing it out of his face does nothing, 'cause it just falls back down again. After his hair escapes from a braid, there's no taming it until you can set a brush and lots of time to it. Techno tilts his head down to compensate.
Clip-clopping hoof steps approach. Through the pink veil, Carl stands right before Techno.
Giving the ashes of last night's fire a cursory kick, Techno groans as he pushes Phil's unwieldy weight onto Carl like a sack of potatoes that pawned its dignity for a set of broken bird wings. Then, Techno swings up himself, and the triad are off.
It takes most of the day to return to the commune. Steadily, the air went chiller… until it decided that subtlety was too much to ask of it in its own domain. And it began to snow. The temperature dropped steeply at that point. Techno shifted Carl's reins to one hand, automatically reaching to pull his cloak tighter around himself. His hand swipes at empty air. Shoulders shivering as he recalls just where his cloak had gone instead.
"We're almost there," he announces as the tops of Phil and his house peek over the ice-fogged horizon, endless hills of freezing snow glittering around their chimneys. Phil is tucked as small as possible over Techno's lap. He'd stirred a few times during the journey—after the first scratchy question from Phil's throat, Techno had immediately rushed to shift the seating arrangements.
Now, half-lidded blue eyes iced over peek from a bundle of both Techno's and Phil's cloaks. Pale blue and crimson red mingling in stripes of opposing fabric tucked around him. Carl's hooves sink into the snow, and Techno can make out the stables now. They're much closer.
Patting Phil's side—Techno can barely feel him under there!—Techno guides Carl through the white snow towards the dark insides of the stables. It's just as cold in there, clopping into the dark. Techno stoops over Phil, ducking under the stable roof and shifting his thighs to guide Carl to the most shadowed part of the stall.
Protected from the elements, Techno sighs in relief. Both of his hands ruffle snow from his hair before it can melt. Ice crystals glitter on Phil's cloaks; Techno busies himself brushing that off, too.
The moment stretches out, awkward silences and small seconds popping out of its spine. Techno exhales and looks to the side, breath turning to white ice. “… you good?”
Phil grunts, moving to slip from the saddle. “Oh, fine,” he replies lightly, his wrecked voice giving him away. Too small and bent and stooped in the dusky stable. “Don't worry about me, mate.”
“You're not very convincing,” Techno informs him with heavy dubiousness, rushing to help him off of Carl's back with a sudden, cut off noise of alarm.
Heavy wings slide over Carl's back, falling to the floor. They're limp, the good one juttering there on the ground, and Phil shudders in pain. The good wing sweeps hay and dirt around with convulsions, getting filthy.
“Ew.” A chatter retches. “He's got plauge.” Annoyed, Techno bonks it until it goes away. Do you think that helps, idiot?
Outside of his brain, Techno urges Phil, “Take it easy.” He can’t help how his mouth is intensely pulling down, brain running in circles in the time it isn't smacking away errant annoyances (Chatters), very worried about his sallow denfather. His hands curl against Phil's arms. “Let me get you inside. After I take the tack off of Carl.”
Phil raises a hand, shaking his head. Hay rustles beneath Phil's boots as Phil turns silently away, shuffling towards the exit. His cloaks drag behind him, swaying like stacked rocks on a mossy mountain top altar.
There's no arguing with him like this. So Techno regroups. Of course, it'd be unthinkable to leave poor Carl like this, so it's productive to take off his tack first. Check his water, give him food and hay.
By then, it's been half an hour since Phil disappeared into his cabin. Quickly, memories of what's worked before fall into his head like puzzle pieces shaken from a box, and they snap together to form an immediately actionable plan. First, Techno goes into Phil's cabin.
Phil isn't wearing the cloaks anymore, his normal clothing, or his armour. His back is to Techno, bad wing bound tightly in fresh gauze Phil clearly applied himself using horrible contortions that aren't good for him in his state, and he holds tea in both hands. It steams, sending the scent of green tea through the air.
The doorknob’s noise draws Phil's attention, noticing Techno.
Casually, Techno walks to him, watching Phil carefully from the corner of his eye, his hands flexing like spiders waiting in the mouth of a cave.
Phil shoots him a suspicious glance, eyes bleary, and immediately begins to shuffle away with little wing flaps of his good wing, instincts trying to help him get away faster. Techno’s lips quirk up innocently, tilting his head towards Phil.
“I'm too tired for this shit,” Phil says, shuffling away quicker. His arms stretch out to set down the tea before Techno's mischief. “Can't even drink tea around here, for Death's sake.”
Right then, Technoblade pounces. In the struggle, Phil smacks him in the face with his one functioning wing, the other limp and gathered loosely in Techno’s arms. It's the best he can do, Phil's wings are far too large to properly carry them.
“Stop trying to run, everything’ll be fine.” Techno tells him fondly. His muscles flex, and he shifts slowly to flick Phil on the forehead.
“*Excuse me,*” Phil says testily, “I'm in charge.” He tries a sharp warning click, serious but not serious enough, like he's forgotten that when Phil is the one grievously hurt, Techno will fight through anything to keep Phil safe. To inform him of this without having to say anything, Technoblade stops and stares at him.
Phil sighs, resigned. Techno simply continues his walk out of Phil's cabin and to Techno's. Failing to gnaw bitterly at Techno's fingers, Phil pinches him instead.
Unaffected, Techno scratches futilely at the door to his home. As expected, the door doesn't magically open, the snow doesn't suddenly come out, and they don't all sing kumbaya as his arms are freed by levitating light. Techno sighs heavily, mind lingering on Carl, still in his saddle after all this time…
“I'm gonna need to set you down a second,” Techno tells Phil sadly.
Phil lights up. He is suspiciously happy about this.
“He's gonna run!!” A Chatter screeches, stupidly. Phil can't run, his wing's messed up. But when has that stopped Phil before? Following yet another one of the strong urges in the back of his brain, Techno sets Phil down, but keeps one of his hands intertwined with Phil's feathers for an easy leash. If you don't have a baby backpack, make due with various body parts.
Techno opens the door, shivering at the freezing doorknob. It's warm inside, though—copious maximum strength temperature runes glowing inconspicuously on the window frames and doorways.
Runes litter Techno's home, carved into every space in pleasing edges and meticulous curves. The benefits of having an architecture obsessed ancient avian old man living next to you, Techno supposes as he ushers Phil inside. Before he steps away from the door himself, he murmurs a passcode to lock his home down. To be safe. To keep Phil from climbing out a window in grump-induced stubbornness, then dying from hypothermia.
It’s incredibly warm inside, and oddly silent due to the fact that Techno put up his animals before he left. The warmth lifts a weight off of Techno's shoulders he'd been ignoring. This entire time, Techno's bones had felt like unconstituting jelly, his poet's shirt like another layer of offputting skin. And now his muscles prickle as he warms up, and finally, slowly stops shivering as he moves Phil upstairs to the den.
On autopilot, Techno is barely paying attention to anything, just following internal prompts that tell him to bundle Phil up in his windowless den until Phil can't shift an inch. It's inconvenient, doing anything except fighting while wearing armour, but you get used to it after two hundred or so hours, which Techno breached the moment he turned six. Phil protests during this, flapping his one good wing lightly like a cursory protest, but quiets down after a bit. Probably tired.
A worried snort makes its way out of Technoblade. Another urge tells Techno to tuck Phil in, and brush his forehead against Phil's, so he does. A rush of reassurance and satisfaction fills him. Probably should give Phil food… Soup…
Potato soup. The golden ambrosia is so easy to make, and Techno can slip regen and health in. Decided, Techno pats Phil's head and stands up. Navigating around the masses of blankets and hidden trinkets in his dark, hot den, the floor creaks when Techno goes back downstairs. As an after thought, he returns to flip the latch of the den, and lock it with a special key. A small gold detail he keeps above the door frame behind a casual painting of an arctic flower.
The key goes in his pocket for valid paranoia reasons. In the kitchen, Techno starts the soup.
First, he brings out the ingredients, settling into a simple autopilot that lets the voices drift to the foreground, the rest of the noise to the back. Put the bacon strips in a pot. In the minutes they cook, Techno chops the garlic and onion he got out earlier, fetching the butter. The kitchen smells deliciously of bacon, and he sets the cooked pieces aside.
“We should make sure Phil hasn't moved yet,” a Chatter frets reasonably, gnawing on imaginary fingernails. “Just in case,” they urge anxiously, almost rocking back and forth. “It's not overprotectiveness if they're really out to get you!”
Techno brushes them aside. In the fat, he dumps onion and butter. Potato farm optimization stractegies fill his head as he leans against the counter to wait, tapping his fingers against his arm. You can remove the guy from the potato game, but you can never remove the potato game from the guy. Garlic goes in next, a symphony of scents collecting its instruments in a slow, delectable crescendo.
Recently harvested, Yukon Golds don't need to be peeled: the skin is thin and soft, near infintesimal difference in texture. Ready for the next step, Techno chops them into chunks no more than 3/4ths of an inch.
Practiced, Techno dips dry hands into unpleasantlt sticky flour. Sprinkling the flour over the mixture, he hurries to the sink to wash flour off his hands. After, Techno nearly trips over himself getting back to the pot. He stirs until the consistency gels.
Finally, Techno gathers slimy potato chunks, slivers of starchy flesh wedging under his nails, and he throws the potatoes into the pot. Hot liquid splickers onto his hands. Liquid ounces of wet ingredients and seasoning end up in the pot, flavor deepening so noticeably the scent in the air is heavy and thick. Savoury, almost unpleasantly wet and hot.
Check on him, that same urge projects into Techno's thoughts.
Instead, Techno continues making soup, shuffling around the kitchen, so familiar with his kitchen he barely pays attention. As a last touch, a potion of regeneration and a potion of health disappear into the soup. If Techno admits it, he could do with some rejuvenation too. Striding to the chests several paces from him, diagonally, Technoblade focuses on digging through the mess. He swears he knows where everything is, vaguely, like flipping through a rack of vinyls. He knows its general area.
His hand closes around a pile of wooden bowls. Well, not pile, there's just two of them under stacks of rotten flesh and lapis lazuli. Having no bowls discourages neighbors from dropping by. Techno scoops soup into both, carrying it through the house and upstairs.
The latch and lock look undisturbed at first glance. But if Techno focuses on the latch on the den door, he can see minute scratches on the gold plated metal. Gold does that, telling stories through the way its shaped. Honestly, it’s admirable.
Nudging through the door, Techno finds Phil laying innocently in slightly rumpled blankets. “I've got soup,” Techno greets. “Potato.” Heat radiates through the wood, protected just enough not to scald him.
Sullenly, Phil takes it. “I know your tricks,” Phil mutters, his breath flowing over the soup in a huff.
In no hurry, Techno settles contentedly at Phil's side. “Sure,” he acquiesces, copying Phil's huff. Tilting hot soup around his wooden bowl. “I have some too, though,” Techno notes, watching steam curl from thick savory yellow.
Phil hums, contemplating. Considering with narrowed eyes. Eventually, though, he shrugs and swirls his soup around his bowl. “Thin ice.”
Techno simply hums, not agreeing. His mind persistently returns to the horror scene Techno was a part of just a day or so ago, thinking about thin ices. Time is already blurring, confused and inconsequential. They're at least already home.
The scent of the soup tickles his nose, and impatience burns brighter in Technoblade’s hands like dancing fireants. The soup still steams warningly, but Techno does not care for rational decisions, so he blows on it one last time and takes a sip.
Immediately, Technoblade freezes and pointedly does not spit out the hot soup, swallowing it whole with potato pieces and all.
Phil points and laughs. “How many times do you have to do that before you learn your lesson?”
“There isn't a lesson to learn,” Techno says stubbornly, looking away. Another cool breath over his soup.
Because he's lame, Phil waits for his soup to cool until just on the cusp of too-warm. Every time, he gets oddly patient, ever since Techno was young. Only after Techno chugs his soup, trying to show him up by pretending not to do the same thing Techno does. As if he didn't do it every time he made his signature dish—hot watery mush their family barely ate because it tasted like shoe rubber and burning plastic.
Tiredness has pulled on Techno's body for hours by now, his spine complaining viciously about the cricks in it from sleeping on unforgiving ground for the nth time. Slowly, Techno stretches himself out. Sparks of pain scurry up his spine, and he makes a unhappy grunt.
It's barely a moment of contemplating his place in the universe before Phil sends him a look. The look had been honed over years to the precise scalpel it was, imbuing Techno's vibes with both concern and warning. Giving in, Techno puts his arms down.
His armour itches horrifically against his shoulderblades, like the worst horse brush there ever was scrubbed against his skin. Intolerably awful, suffocating in a plastic bag, breathing in discomfort and annoyance's warm mouth air like they squished close on purpose just to breathe into his face.
Technoblade can't stand it another second. He takes his armour off, and rubs the itchy areas rigorously to encourage blood flow into tissue that feels as good as necrotized. The armour itself goes on an armour stand, of course, kept in what used to be Tommy’s hovel but Techno decided needed a utilitarian makeover.
The room held a few armour stands now, on clean stone floors enclosed by clean wooden walls, and not much else.
Despite the aching in Techno's body, Techno has one last thing to do. Get in fresh clothes.
The heat of his den envelops him, and Techno nearly laughs out loud at Phil, wedged in the middle of Techno's bed and covered in blankets. Beside him lays his empty soup bowl, Phil's eyes half lidded and supremely tired. Bypassing Phil altogether, Techno heads to the back of the room, where a wooden chest sits wedged among blankets like Phil is.
Rummaging through the bin, Techno finds his cleanest pair that smells the most like absolutely nothing. He exits the room quickly, and shoves himself into the clothes like a salamander shedding skin and squirming into a new one. Is that how salamanders work? Probably not.
“Maybe it eats it,” a Voice says curiously. “Or like cuts it off and puts it in a salamander trashcan.”
Maybe. Either way, Techno returns to the warm den, going from fireplace hot to volcano boiling, just the way Techno likes it.
“Hey, Phil,” Techno says lightly, settling at Phil's side.
“Go to sleep,” Phil shoots back, pushing blankets away with a vengeance to flop himself over top of Techno. The weight of his wings bowl Techno over, and Phil squirms until he's sprawled over Techno's chest. The wings block out what little light there is in the den, and Techno can hear Phil's soft breath in his ear.
While Techno could probably move Phil if he needed to, he doesn't need to. Ignoring all the things he hasn't done, he's comfortable, and Phil's wounds are finally taken care of, they're both full of the best soup in the world, and Phil is thankfully not moving. Techno can imagine the escapades the wily ancient avian will get up to the moment the regen and health isn't sapping his strength.
So, Techno just closes his eyes. Half listening to Chat's annoying noises, but mostly focusing on the sound of Phil's breath over his ear. They're both alive, that's what counts. And his clothes are soft and clean and he's warm. Techno carefully wraps his arms around Phil.
Phil shifts without opening his eyes, patting Techno on the chest. It's like being submerged in a warm bath, full of expensive salts and elixers.
They both fall asleep like that, thoughts of their animals being safe and warm dancing through Techno's head, seeping tension out of his bones until his brain sleepily settles too, content.