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Technoblade has been staring at the door to his parents room for about fifteen minutes. He doesn’t actually know how long it’s been, but he knows it’s long enough for his legs to get tired from standing, which leads to him sitting on the cold, wooden floor.
His father had drawn back the curtains of his room this morning, spilling the light in. The sun’s rays blanketed him in warmth as he began to stir under the covers of his bed, letting out a soft gruff. Feeling a shift on his bed, Techno blinked his eyes open to see his father sitting on the side, a gentle, clawed finger tucked a strand of his pink hair behind his pointed ear before running his palm down his cheek. Of course, he leaned into the touch. Before Technoblade could ask what was going on, his father beckoned him to come to his and his mother’s bedroom when he was fully awake. He left a small kiss on his forehead before standing back up, feathers rustling when they dragged from the bed onto the wooden floor. With that, he left his room.
Technoblade has been staring at the door to his parents room for about twenty minutes now. At least he thinks so; that feels like the proper amount of time. Underneath the door, he can hear soft chattering, occasionally a laugh or two. What caught his attention the most, however, was the sunny babbling of a baby. Techno knew that he would soon have a baby brother, but he never quite allowed himself to prepare for the emotions that would bombard him.
He recalls laying his head on the belly of his mother, his hand resting in hers as she hummed sweet songs to both of her children. Techno once read in a book that, when the baby was big enough, it would be able to hear the people just outside of its resting place. So, his voice but a murmur against the fabric of his mother’s dress, pressed a promise to the baby with his lips. Turning his head, he pushed his ear to her tummy— her hand had moved to thread through his hair— waiting for a response. She laughed lovingly when a thump was felt. His face lit up as he whipped his head up towards her. Smiling tenderly with a hand on his cheek, she whispered, He heard you.
Now, standing back up, his heart thumps in his chest, beating against his ribs with such vigor he thinks they’ll crack. Through the door is his family— his loving family. Yet, he hesitates. Turning to his left, he sees the mirror down the hall, hung on the wall just above a little table. Portraits and small paintings clutter the top, but that’s not what he’s concerned about. Instead, he peers into the eyes staring back at him. Deep, red eyes that know well how to pretend to be a dark brown; sometimes, he likes to imagine that they match his mother’s eyes instead of the colour of dried blood. His tusks have begun to grow and protrude from his lips and his nails grow sharper with every passing day, despite his efforts to file them down. His tail anxiously wraps around his leg as he gazes into his reflection.
Technoblade is otherworldly at best, and grotesque at worst— this he knows. He’s known from the start ever since his father found him, abandoned by what was meant to be his own family, that he had no place in that world. But, nor did he have a place in this one. He was too human for the Nether, and too monstrous for the Overworld. His father had learned the things he had done to survive on his own in such a dangerous world. Despite being so little— too little— his small hands had known violence, and thus became the crave for it. The whispers in his mind only doubled as the years went on, until Technoblade wasn’t alone anymore. How they made his head spin, how they were so loud and so demanding and so vengeful that the only way to silence them was when he was shaking and covered in blood. His father knows what remains of his mind, but he smiled, and offered him a home anyway.
Despite everything, Phil scooped him up into welcoming arms, and carried him away into a world that he did fit into: his world. Him and Kristin carved out a spot in their hearts just for him, and he made it his own. He became their son, and they became his everything.
Technoblade takes a deep breath, fidgeting with the collar on his shirt and pushing his hair behind his ears before slowly opening the door.
The sound of the handle twisting hushes the voices inside and he peeks his head in.
His parents were laying on their bed. His father has one of his arms wrapped adoringly around his mother’s shoulders, while the other one lays dormant on his lap. Dark wings— the colour of the night sky— are draped over the covers, shifting slightly every now and then. In contrast, he’s wearing a soft green shirt and pants the colour of the earth. Short, blonde hair does nothing to hide the feathers that grow from the side of his head, flicking as if it were an ear. His gentle blue eyes welcome him with such love that Techno has to adjust his gaze towards his mother’s instead, as to push away the urge to run into his father’s arms. His mother, with her brown eyes that seem to glow golden in the light of the sun, dark brown hair— messy and long as it falls down her shoulders like a waterfall over the light purple of her nightdress— cradles a stirring red blanket to her chest, arms rocking it gently.
“Technoblade,” calls his mother’s sweet voice as she looks to him, eyes seeming tired, but that never stops the way she looked so compassionately at him. “Come,” she ushers happily. “Come meet your baby brother.”
At that moment, Technoblade feels hesitant again. A part of him wants to stand on the side as his mother and father fawn over the baby as he coos and babbles happily, completely unaware of the other presence in the room. He wants to watch comfortably from the side as chubby little hands reach for dark brown hair, or wrap his small fist around a clawed finger. The boy’s curious mind darting from one thing to the next as he traces a finger over the stone sitting on his mother’s chest. An emerald, but it wasn’t just that. It was a physical reminder of their presence and love, and how it lingered in each of their lives. One day, his mother will make one for him, and then one for his baby brother.
Technoblade, swallowing down his uncertainty, lets his feet move him away from the door; the sounds of the baby lull him to come near, and who was he not to listen? Belatedly, he stands at her side, arms hesitant as his mother gently moves the boy into his arms.
Gold. Gold is the first thing he sees. A tuft of golden hair pokes out from underneath the blanket, and it reminds him of this morning's sun— the reason for his wakinging. Looking past his hair, Techno notices how little he is— too little as he lays wrapped safely in the soft fabric. The weight in his arms is something new, completely incomparable to anything in the world. Staring down at his little face, Techno feels his heart shift in his chest.
“His name is Tommy,” his father tells him softly, a smile in his words as his parents watch with adoration when Techno holds him a little closer. He moves to sit on the bed and they help him until he presses himself into his mother’s side. Her arm is around his waist lovingly as he simply gazes at the boy, his brother’s eyes shut as he comfortably slumbers.
His brother. His brother. His baby brother. The voices in his head croon at the thought of having a brother— of being a brother— like a bird nesting on her egg. He didn’t believe he was capable of being anything more than a son, but with Tommy in his arms, now he was determined to be whatever he needed him to be.
Suddenly, Tommy whines, missing the arms of their mother, and Technoblade has to pretend that his heart doesn’t break from the sound. He pretends that the implication of Tommy’s discomfort doesn’t make him flinch. His hands are careful to keep his nails away as he holds him, but soon they begin to tremble.
“Sorry,” Technoblade forces out in a murmur, voice tight with the beginning of guilt at causing him any discomfort, “I’m sorry, don’t cry. Please don’t cry.” He begs to the boy quietly.
Despite Techno never wanting to hurt a fly, his little brother must know that Technoblade was not made for such gentle things. For his hands, no matter how much he scrubs, will always be stained red. The voices will always crave blood, and Tommy can sense that. But, suddenly, Tommy blinks his eyes open— they’re so big and blue and full of wonder— and sees that Techno was not meant for just war and wrath, but for the tranquility of love.
Tommy stops whining, and Technoblade holds his breath.
He wishes that he never held Tommy in his arms. He wishes he grabbed his little wrist before it managed to touch his face, before the baby can grow so fond of the pink strands of hair that dance delicately above him. Because if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be witnessing Tommy seeing the beauty of the setting sun’s colours before it had even touched the distant horizon, so mesmerized as he lifts his little hand to touch the ends of his hair. He wouldn’t have to feel his heart squeeze in his chest as his throat closes in on itself because, even as a baby, the boy knows the kindness of their parents. He needn't be taught, for it’s etched into his very soul. Even as a baby, the boy does not see a monster as his soft little hand grasps Technoblade’s cheek— smiling so brightly that they need not for the sun anymore— but a brother.
He hopes Tommy will always smile at him.
Years later, when they’re much older and far too distant, Technoblade would pray to the Gods to allow him to go back so he never knocked on his parents bedroom door. That, instead, he stayed under the covers of his bed, keeping out the golden streaks of sun that will always remind him of his brother. He would want to go back so that he is not to be tempted by the soft words and the bubbly giggles of a baby that slipped from underneath their parents’ door. How he would wish that he let them share that moment. To allow them to be a family as he sat against the door on the other side, a quivering smile as he listened to the joy inside. The Gods wouldn’t listen, so, as he would muse on the memory with clarity, he would never forget the way he held him so close to his chest, his little heartbeat felt against the palm of his hand as if it were his own. His arms would ache with the memory of him as if he were still there. They would remember all too well how perfectly he fit, so much so that he would not have to close his eyes and pretend that he was back in his youth, with their parents, and with his brother.
Tommy, whether or not he’d realize it, would always have a place in Technoblade’s life. It would be such small things. Setting the table with an extra plate, just in case. Building a second bedroom, making sure to never have any dust and washing the sheets regularly despite it never being used. Taking one cow away from the rest to live a little closer to his house because he’d remember how much the boy cares for the animal. Tommy, who would have long left from his life— starting a new one with his country men behind tall walls built with a strong desire to rebel— would have managed to leave a piece of himself wedged in what would remain of Techno’s heart.
After everything, after the way they would leave things when Technoblade eventually leaves their home, he would still hope to be smiled at by his baby brother.
Technoblade would wish he never took Tommy from their mother’s arms because if he didn’t, he wouldn’t later have to feel the grief and guilt that came with pushing him away. The grief that would make him want to pluck out his heart and the guilt that would make him want to eat it whole. The overlapping voices in his head would coo to him in a sick, mocking way as they would place his hands on his chest. He would’ve been able to do it. They would’ve been able to make him do it. There would be nothing to stop himself from sinking his nails into the flesh of his scarred skin and devouring himself whole— ghostly hands gripping at his jaw and forcing it open like a rusty machine.
The heart would be gone, but he would wonder if he would still feel it beat. Would those blubbering noises sit in his stomach instead of his chest? If that would be the case, he'd have to eat, and eat, and eat, and eat until there’s nothing left but his cold, bloody tusks. But would he still feel? He’d wonder if he would even be able to stomach the taste of his own blood before vile crawls up his throat and he’s staring back at the heart in his hands— beating, wet and loud.
Technoblade would always be a monster, but Tommy, despite seeing that side of him, would always see him as a brother. The boy would have trusted him more than Techno did his own mind. He’d have trusted him enough to knock on his door. Tommy would call, and Technoblade would answer because Techno would be sitting on the other side of the door, waiting for a knock, for a twist of the door handle. Just as their parents did when they waited for Technoblade to enter through their bedroom door.
Now, with their parents watching as Tommy reaches for Techno’s face, eyes bright and happy, he doesn’t care about what grief their future holds. Not now, not when Tommy is so small and new. Time doesn’t exist in this room anymore, forever immortalizing him and his family as they are now: together and peaceful. Techno, feeling their mother’s presence by his side and their father’s eyes tenderly on his, he raises Tommy up a little higher to his face. He’s still making sure to be extra careful, keeping his tusks away from the baby’s wildly, wandering hands.
Technoblade never wants his little brother to feel how he had felt before meeting their parents. So scared, and so unknowing about the world around him. He never wants Tommy to rely on violence as he had growing up, to listen to the voices that twist words in his mind, to listen as they demand for blood. Techno will give everything to keep that from him. He will make sure that the scars he gets are from his playful recklessness, instead of enemies seeking to snuff out the light in his eyes. He will make sure the calluses on his hands are from a passion he will love, whether it be music like their mother, or painting like their father. Never in the way that Techno has callused his own hands, how quick a sword is to fit perfectly into his hands the same way a baby fits into his arms.
Technoblade will make sure that Tommy won’t take after him, because for too long he’s only known brutality. There’s not an inch of him that has not been cloaked in blood, not an inch that he hasn’t worn as a cape. The swirling voices in his mind will crave maliciousness because that is what he fed them, but even they will not dare to taint Tommy with such a fate. They haven’t had a need for death in so long, but now? Now, they will desire bloodshed if it means that Tommy won’t have to crumble at the thought of being something so broken. Something that needs ruthlessness to feed the plague that sleeps in his mind.
A soft, chubby hand cups his cheek with a gleeful giggle, hushing the voices hastily. Eventually, Techno breaks. Tears well up in his eyes as he stares down at his baby brother. Tommy can’t fear the monster in front of him because he doesn’t see one, he can’t see what they will later become, torn apart by the world around them in a fit of wrath and revenge. Technoblade refuses to let that part of this world sink its teeth into Tommy’s unscarred skin. A hand grabs at his nose and his laugh is wet with tears. He hears the sniffles of their parents besides him, but he can’t pull his eyes away, he doesn’t want to.
Techno lifts him a little closer to his face, causing the baby to laugh loudly, enjoying the soft and careful movements. Nothing has ever sounded so wonderful before. Tommy, with the bright blue eyes that stare into Techno’s dark brown ones— he must see the blood in them, but he smiles anyway— reaches for Techno with both hands. He holds onto his face as Technoblade gently— so, so gently presses his forehead to his. Tommy makes a quiet, little sound in his throat and Techno breathes in shakily.
Letting his eyes close, he recalls a promise he made to the boy when resting on the stomach of their mother, when Tommy could only respond by a little kick. Instead of the familiar purple fabric of their mother’s dress, he presses his lips to the soft wisps of Tommy’s hair. Tommy’s hair— the colour of the flowers that grow just outside their home. Tommy’s hair— the thing he’ll bury his nose into when he hugs him tightly.
He whispers to Tommy— the sun he’ll see in the morning.
“I promise,” Techno swears, the words burn into his skin like the tattooed runes that line their parents arms, “I promise your hands will only know kindness.”