#techno: betrayal of the highest order..... how could you.....

[cirrusea]

He likes to be tall :]

[onecanonlife]

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 5,482

Chapter Warnings: swearing, blood, referenced (temporary) character death

Chapter Summary: In which Wilbur overhears a conversation that is not quite meant for him, and then they all set out to pick up Technoblade. It’s not the worst road trip in the world, but it’s not exactly the best, either.

(masterlist w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Thirteen: wipe the dirt off of your hands (i)

They settle on two hours as a timeline. Two hours before they leave: he, Phil, Tommy, and Tubbo, the four of them off to the tundra. He’s left the rest of them to decide whether they want to stay in the castle or be among those braving the rest of the server in order to warn the others, to bring anyone who wants to come back with them to their base of operations. Safe and sound, or as much as anyone can be, now.

Two hours. It feels like too long. Dream could be doing anything with that time. The Egg could be doing anything with that time. He feels restless, irritated at the wait, even though he knows it makes sense, knows that pushing everyone too hard too soon will do more harm than good, that two hours, in the grand scheme of things, isn’t very long.

(but isn’t it, though? two hours can change the tide of a battle, can mean the difference between success and failure, life and death, a surrender and a victory)

He finds himself pacing the hallways of the castle.

It’s in greater disrepair than he expected. Almost every room he walks into is coated in dust. No one has stayed here in—months, probably. No one other than Eret, perhaps, and he said he’d been away. It puts him in a strange mood; he remembers this place when it was new, when it was lived in, spilling over with light and movement, and he hated it then, of course, hated what it stood for, what it represented, but it made others happy. Niki, for one; she always liked Eret, despite his efforts to persuade her otherwise. Fundy,

(and the memory is fuzzy, indistinct, because Ghostbur did not want to remember this, did not want to confront his own inadequacy, but Fundy stands in front of him with papers clutched in his hand and he’s saying something about adoption and all that he feels is crushing abandonment, crushing guilt, and it is wiped away in the blue only a moment later but for that moment, he is overwhelmed by the knowledge that he has failed his son, failed him badly enough that he would run to the arms of a traitor, and the word adoption drips like sodden soil, drips like words that die useless on his tongue)

because he always liked Eret too, even though he was there that day, even though he lost a life to his machinations, his betrayal, even though he should have known better. He’s pretty sure he remembers HBomb staying here as well, though he never knew the man well enough to pay attention. But now there is no one, and the castle is empty, and every step he takes feels haunted by ghosts of people that still live.

The castle is a relic. Perhaps he is one, too. A relic of an older time. This server has moved on, has changed so much, and he plays at being the general again, puts on the general’s mask as it is needed, but he doesn’t know if that’s right, if it makes any difference at all, if the general can find his footing in an altered world. How useful is a general that doesn’t know the lay of the land?

(how useful is a general who has not won the war within himself?)

(the part of you that could lead broke a long time ago and you know it and it was not the ravine that did it you were broken before then broken under the weight of a position you did not know how to handle and your shining city stood for freedom stood for those you wanted to protect but it became harder and harder to get out of bed in the morning and you crumpled crumpled like wet paper like the documents that signed your emancipation and meant nothing at all in the end because the ideals fell apart long before you set the final nail in the coffin you built for yourself)

Two hours. Less than that, by now, surely. If Phil were to see him, he’d tell him to rest. Perhaps that’s part of why he’s doing this. Wandering alone. Because if Phil were to see him, he’d tell him to rest,

(hypocrite that he is, because Wilbur knows that Phil is not resting, knows that he’s situated himself at the castle’s highest turret, eyes cast to the distance, shoulders tense and posture still, waiting, a live wire)

but he cannot, cannot dispel the energy that buzzes through him, even though his mind is fogged with exhaustion. He cannot rest, and not least because he doesn’t know what kind of dreams would greet him, what would rise out of the darkness now that he knows precisely what lurks within it.

So he walks. Walks, and walks, and tries not to count the minutes as they pass, walks several laps through the castle’s corridors before the sound of voices breaks him out of his fugue.

“—talking about?” someone says, and it’s Tommy. He slows to a stop outside of a closed door, identical to all the rest but for the fact that there is someone inside.

“I mean it,” comes the reply. Tubbo. His voice is muffled by the barrier between them, but Wilbur can understand him perfectly. And for a moment, he considers moving onward. Whatever they’re discussing, they don’t need him listening in on it.

Instead, he inches closer, and leans against the wall just outside the door. The stone is hard against his back, unforgiving, cold.

“I can do the most good here,” Tubbo continues. “You all don’t need me to come with you to get Technoblade. That’s—Tommy, this is serious, you know?”

“I fucking know,” Tommy snaps. “I don’t see why that means you’ve got to stay behind.”

“Because I can actually help here,” Tubbo replies, his voice rising slightly. “Tommy—listen, Tommy, I know about these kinds of things. Not enough, but some, and I can help. I can try to keep it out. I can put enchantments all over the place and stuff like that, try to make sure it can’t get to us. Try and make it a safe place. That’s something we need right now.” He pauses. “Take Ranboo with you instead, yeah? He lives up there, he’s close with Techno, he should go.”

“I don’t want to leave you here,” Tommy says.

Wilbur closes his eyes. There is more emotion in his voice than this situation alone would warrant, he thinks. More history. More history that he, perhaps, is not privy to. That he hasn’t asked about, that he didn’t want to ask about, because he didn’t want to prod at wounds that have not yet closed. He regrets it, now. Perhaps then he would have context for the crack in Tommy’s voice.

“I know,” Tubbo says, his voice soft. “But you’ve got to. We’ve got to do what we’ve go to do now, big man. You and Wil go get Techno and look at Phil’s books. I’ll be here when you get back.”

He expects strong words from Tommy at that. But instead there is silence. Wilbur strains to hear, leans in closer, but there is nothing.

“This isn’t like then,” Tubbo says after a moment. “We’re both safe. Wilbur won’t let anything happen to you. And nobody here’s gonna let anything happen to me. I’ve got Eret, and Sapnap, and Puffy.”

“Oh, well, if Eret’s here,” Tommy mutters, and Wilbur jerks. Tommy’s voice is choked, wet, and for a second, his instinct is to open the door, to step inside and offer what comfort he can, but his feet feel glued to the floor.

(this is not for you not for you to heal these hurts when the root of the hurt is of you this is them their moment and you are on the outside looking in a trespasser and if you move anywhere it must be to go)

“I thought you forgave Eret,” Tubbo says.

“I do,” Tommy replies. “This is—this isn’t about that, and you know it, I just—”

“I know,” Tubbo says, “I do, I know.”

There is silence after that. A rustle of clothing. And then a few muffled noises. Wilbur knows all too well what it sounds like, someone crying into someone else, allowing themself a moment of grief, of terror, of unbridled emotion. He should leave. Leave them to it. Leave them to this. It’s the least he can do; this is his fault, his fault that they’re involved in this, his fault that they’ve been dragged into conflict once again, his fault that anything terrible happened to them at all. His fault they’re not all still at home, on a server far away, in the house that he and Tommy grew up in and that Tubbo may as well have.

(you took them with you and made soldiers out of them, soldiers out of children. you took them with you and set the weight of the world on their shoulders, and the way their eyes dimmed is because of you. the burn scars on Tubbo’s face, the tremble in Tommy’s fingers that he tries fruitlessly to hide, this is all because of you. you took children and gave them grownups’ clothes and grownups’ weapons and guided their hands to pierce the heart, guided their hands with your own and claimed the blood for yours though it did not change the way their hands were painted, and then you abandoned them, abandoned them to yourself and then, at the last, fully, abandoned them in every way possible, abandoned them to the wolves and the ruins and you should have known better, should have known that even if the land was not important to you it was important to these children, these children you sent to hell with songs on their lips)

(but then, there is this also: they would not have had it any other way. they looked at you with stars in their eyes, and perhaps they were blinded by the fire of you, but they loved you. they loved you then, and they love you still. and they will follow you yet despite it all despite what you have done they will follow you and their eyes are open to what you are and they still follow and it must be for love little though you deserve it it must be for love because love is not about deserving)

He breathes. Puts his back to the wall, and then slides down. Sits. Listens to Tommy cry. Presses his eyes shut, and then presses the palms of his hands to his eyes until spots of color flicker on the back of his eyelids.

He stays there for a long time before lurching to his feet once again.

----------

“I didn’t miss this,” Tommy mutters, rubbing his arms, glaring balefully at Phil as if he controls the weather.

Phil offers a short laugh. Out of all of them, he’s the only one really dressed for the climate; Eret offered them all heavier coats before they left, but there’s heavier coats and then there’s coats meant for a blizzard, and these are not the latter.

“We’ve got some better stuff once we get to the house,” Phil says. “I’ll make us some hot drinks, too.”

“I don’t want your stupid tea,” Tommy says, but he seems mollified.

“I’ll take some tea,” Ranboo says immediately afterward, and Wilbur is having to slowly revise his opinion of this kid. Anxious as all hell, sure. A bit of a pushover, definitely. But he’s got a streak of hardness in him, though he tends to back down upon being challenged. Like right now: Tommy directs his glare toward him, and he apologizes immediately. But he’s a bit of an enigma, this Ranboo. Hidden depths. And Ghostbur liked him, which doesn’t always count for anything, but in this case, he thinks it might.

“Everyone who wants some tea can have some tea,” Phil says, another laugh in his voice. He looks a bit better than he did earlier, though his smile seems strained, his movements rushed, obviously anticipating their arrival at their destination. His wings are hidden again, disguised underneath a thick cloak, and Wilbur hates it all the more, if that’s possible, now that he understands exactly why. He remembers Phil telling him, once, that he disliked keeping his wings under his clothes, that it was uncomfortable, itchy, cramped. And now Phil does it as if it is second nature.

“I wouldn’t mind some tea,” he says softly, and glances away when Phil looks at him.

“Of course, Wil,” Phil says, matching his tone, and then they pass out from under the trees, and Technoblade’s quaint little cottage comes into view.

The windows are dark. No smoke rises from the chimney. It’s a far cry from the last time he saw it, when it seemed to him a bastion against the pervasive chill outside, warm and welcoming, no matter his trepidation about who waited within.

“Well, that’s ominous,” Tommy says, and Wilbur winces.

“Maybe he’s sleeping?” Ranboo tries. “I’ve never lost a life here, but, um, y’know, I used to live on Hypixel. Did some of the arena stuff, respawned a few times. It always made me tired.”

“That’s probably it,” Phil agrees, but his eyes are pinched, and Wilbur can tell that he’s worried. It is an easy thing to read, Phil’s worry. Easy to read, for how common it is. He strains to remember whether this stress he carries with him was nearly as prevalent when they were kids, and he comes up empty.

“Well, let’s go wake him up, then,” Tommy declares, and strides forward with determination, still talking. “I fucking hate this place, it’s such a stupid little house—” Ranboo follows after him, but Wilbur grabs Phil by the arm, delaying him for a second even as he tracks the kids’ progress ahead of them, like they’ll fall into some misfortune if he looks away for a moment.

“You’re worried,” he says.

“Respawn can be tough,” Phil says. “I need to lay eyes on him for myself.”

He knows, of course, what Phil is talking about. He remembers the sensation all too well. Remembers the pain

(in his throat as Punz slashed it, his lifeblood spilling out on his hands as he clutched the wound, his voice silenced, silenced as he tried to breathe but choked on thick copper and it took him a full minute to bleed out on the floor, every second edged with desperate, consuming fear)

(in his back as Punz’s shot sailed true, hit his heart, his vision darkening around the edges as terror flooded him, terror not just for him but for Tommy, for Tommy, his little brother who he never intended to bring down with him)

of dying, and then the void, but not the true void, not the void he remembers all too well,

(not the void that cradled him even as it ate away at all he was)

but a transition, a place both within life and out of it, and a howling second-minute-hour in which he could feel nothing at all. And then, slamming back into consciousness, every nerve burning with the phantom agony of disembodiment, of every cell destroyed and then forced back together, made anew,

(but there was no time to rest no time to work through it because they needed to go needed to run)

gasping back to the living world shaking and barely cognizant.

Respawn can be tough. Is tough. He knows that Techno has experienced it before, if rarely, but that was on different worlds, worlds that do not limit a person’s lives. He has not lost one here. Has not lost one that counted so dearly.

But there is nothing to do now but walk forward.

The house is cold, the fire unlit. Tommy has sobered, and his arms are crossed, almost hugging himself. Ranboo shifts uneasily, gaze flickering around the ground floor, the unlit furnaces, the chests stacked against each other, the windows slanting thin light into the room. Wilbur catches Phil’s eye, and Phil sighs.

“Up here,” he says, and starts up the ladder. He waits a beat before following, something in him oddly reluctant.

He didn’t venture up here, when he visited—how long ago? Not more than two weeks.

(two weeks breathing, two weeks living, and it feels like so, so much longer)

He’s not sure what he was expecting from Techno’s room, but it was probably something like this: chests shoved against the wall, a bell out on display, an emerald block for good measure, bookshelves in every available space. It is very Techno, sparse and yet not, filled with only the things he cares deeply about, cramped but lived-in. But the bed is empty, and it takes a moment for Wilbur to spot where Techno is. When he does, his heart leaps into his throat.

Techno is sitting against the wall, and on first glance, he looks fine. But only on a first glance, because a second tells Wilbur that his breathing is labored, his eyes screwed tightly shut, sweat beading his forehead. His fists are clenched, and fine tremors run through his body, a constant shuddering that must be exhausting.

There is a new scar on his neck. Thick and white.

Ranboo makes a sound, a startled warble. Tommy inhales sharply, and is silent.

Wilbur feels frozen where he stands.

Respawn can be tough. But somehow, this feels like something else.

(his brother is supposed to be invincible unstoppable impervious to pain he is not supposed to be hurt he is not supposed to be hurt and he doesn’t know what to do for something of this magnitude because he knows how to help when the voices get to loud when his voices drown out everything else and give him migraines but this is not that this is deeper than that worse than that)

Phil steps forward, robes swishing as he kneels by Techno’s side. His hands hover, but he does not touch. Wilbur wants to join him, wants to help, but he still can’t make himself move. He’s not sure why this sight has frozen him so; perhaps it’s because he wasn’t prepared for it, even with all his knowledge of the possibilities, even being well aware that no one comes out of losing a life unscathed, ready to jump back into battle, not even Technoblade.

Perhaps there really isn’t anything that can prepare him to see his brother in pain. Even now.

(and the general is useless here, because this is family)

“Hey,” Phil says quietly. “Techno? You awake?”

To his surprise, Techno stirs. Shifts just a bit in place, wincing, and then his eyes crack open. They are dazed, glazed over, the usually piercing red dull and clouded and—

Gold. There is gold in his eyes, too, flickering, flashing, and every time Wilbur catches a glimpse of it, Techno jerks, a convulsion just barely distinguishable from the rest of his shaking. It is a shimmering gold, the same color as the burst of light that hailed his resurrection, that hailed his renewal, that hailed Technoblade never dies, the burst of energy that vibrated in his bones and sent heat skidding across his skin. The light of the totem is in Techno’s eyes, somehow, and it—

It is hurting him.

“Shit,” Phil mutters. “I was worried about this. Techno, can you hear me?”

Techno swallows, his throat bobbing, and Wilbur’s eyes are drawn

(Dream’s axe in his throat and the blood spurts hot and red and he only has a moment to stare at the gaping wound before the sentence comes down and his brother is)

to the scar again. Almost imperceptibly, Techno nods.

“Okay,” Phil says, and his hands finally land, one on Techno’s shoulder and one on his hand, and Techno immediately grasps his fingers in a death grip. Phil winces, but makes no protest. “Okay, you’re gonna be okay, Techno. Not much to do but wait it out, but I can get you some pots that should help. Would that be okay?”

Technoblade huffs, and then nods. Again, just slightly. His eyes flicker around the room, half-lidded, and Wilbur’s not even sure that he’s aware they’re all there, except then, his gaze lands on Tommy and stays there. Tommy flinches, face paling, and he edges back toward the ladder, hands clenching and unclenching, like he thinks that Techno is going to leap up and attack him, somehow, in this state.

(but that’s not it at all—this is the attack, seeing him in this way, seeing him weakened, seeing the result of the action he took, because Wilbur knows himself and he knows Tommy, and he knows that for all his efforts, Tommy takes after him in some ways. Tommy internalizes a lot. internalizes blame, takes responsibility for things outside of his control, things with vast, terrible consequences, even as he avoids responsibility for minor faults, things that no one takes much issue with in the first place. he’s strange like that, Tommy, but he knows all too well that Tommy watched Technoblade die in front of him, for him, and decided immediately that it was his fault. he would have done the same thing. has been doing the same thing)

(Dream’s voice, smooth and confident and hated: how many people are gonna have to sacrifice themselves for you before you learn?)

(the answer: at least one more, always one more, but somebody needs to get it through Tommy’s skull that he is worth it, worth a sacrifice, worth everything that people are willing to give him and more. someone needs to tell him, because he doesn’t think he knows)

Technoblade grunts something, short and clipped, and it takes him a second to realize he’s speaking in Piglin. Not for the first time, he regrets his barely rudimentary knowledge of the language. But Phil understands, and something that is just slightly too pained to be a real smile passes across his face. He answers in kind, and Technoblade relaxes marginally. He sighs, eyes falling shut, and he tips forward a bit, resting his head against Phil’s chest. Phil begins carding a hand through his hair, the motion seemingly automatic.

“Any of you have a weakness pot on you?” Phil asks, switching to the common tongue. “Healing and regen will do more harm than good for him right now. Best thing for him to do is sleep through it.”

He certainly doesn’t. Tommy shakes his head mutely. But Ranboo raises a tentative hand.

“I don’t have any on me, but I might have one at my house?” he offers. “I can go see.”

Phil nods. “Thank you, Ranboo,” he says, and Ranboo nods back, climbing down the ladder, casting once last glance at Techno before he goes. The front door opens and shuts a moment later, and the four of them are alone.

“What’s wrong with him, then?” Tommy asks, after a pregnant silence. “I mean. Respawn fucking sucks. But why is he like this?”

He’s trying too hard not to sound concerned. No one in this room is going to fall for it, except maybe Techno, who seems too out of it to be listening at all, really. But Phil doesn’t call him on it, just grimaces.

“I’ve seen it a few times before,” he says lowly. “Various wars I’ve been in. People could use a totem and then die again in their next breath, if they were unlucky. Respawning from that is always difficult, because the magic from the totem doesn’t have time to work its way out of your system, and it’s not the kind of thing that a respawn wipes away. It’s the opposite, actually. So he’s still got that shit raging through him, except now there’s nothing for it to do, so it’s stuck there until it dissipates. And it’s not—it’s not pleasant, from what I’ve seen. That shit’s potent. Not good to have it in you for too long.”

“And there’s nothing we can do about it?” he checks.

“Short of killing him again? No,” Phil says. “Even that might not work. It’s been a few hours, so he should be coming out of the worst of it pretty soon. But until then, he just needs to rest.”

“C’n hear you,” Techno mumbles suddenly. He shifts so that his face is half-visible, and Wilbur’s not sure he remembers the last time he saw his brother look so vulnerable.

(on a stage in front of a crowd, perhaps, perhaps, peer pressure that he knew Techno would be unable to withstand, an impossible situation laid out before him, to blow his cover or not, to blow his cover and ensure the death of he and Tubbo alike, perhaps, perhaps, and which is better, to pull the trigger and save yourself or refuse and damn you both? but Techno made his choice, and he can only imagine what his face was doing, because a mask covered his expression that day, as it did so many of those days, a barrier between him and his brother. a barrier between the man he became, dark and shadowed and laying out plot threads like he thought himself one of the Fates, a man with the power to chose his own archetype, a barrier between that man and the man he strung along in his wake, cold, impersonal, intimidating, distant, and nothing like what he should have been. what they should have been, together)

It is hard to imagine that this man prides himself on being undefeated. Hard to imagine that only hours ago

(and it feels like days, like weeks, like a month)

this man was gleefully engaging Dream in combat, was winning before Dream decided to play dirty, before he dragged Tommy into it, before he took advantage of what he must have known Technoblade would do if Tommy was threatened, if his final life hung in the balance. Because for all his feelings of betrayal, for all his insistence that he’s done, finished with them, finished with trying, finished with involving himself in their troubles when he gets nothing in return, for all of that—

For all of that, Technoblade still cares for them. He knows that. And Technoblade is loyal to those he loves. Despite it all.

(and it is a bitter pill to swallow, after everything, but if Techno did not want to stand by their sides, he would not have come, whether Phil asked it of him or not. but he did. he did, and this is the price, the consequence)

“Yeah? Then can you hear me calling you a bitch?” Tommy says, and absolutely none of his usual bravado makes it into his voice.

Techno huffs, and if he’s going to say anything, it gets interrupted by the door down below opening and closing again, and then the ladder creaking as Ranboo climbs up.

“Weakness potion,” he says, holding it out, and Phil accepts it, handling it where Techno can see it.

“Taking this ought to help, Tech,” he murmurs. “I know it’s not your first choice, but there’s no point in you being awake while your body sorts this shit out.”

Techno flicks his fingers, a gesture that might loosely be interpreted as meaning go ahead, and then he sags, as if even doing that much has taken up all the energy he has left. But Phil takes it as an affirmative, and he guides the flask up to Techno’s lips, and Wilbur looks away as he prods Techno into swallowing its contents. It feels strangely intimate, uncomfortable, like he’s intruding on something private. Which should be a ridiculous thought; this is his father and his brother, and perhaps he’s never seen Techno hurt as bad as this, but he’s seen him hurt, and Phil has taken care of all of them like this at one point or another.

(but you see this and you cannot help but project and perhaps the intimacy discomfits you because it is not for you because you cannot help but imagine it for yourself and come to the conclusion that you do not deserve it would not deserve it if your positions were reversed)

(or perhaps you see this, and you see yourself standing there, doing nothing, not even speaking a word, and you just feel useless)

“He’s out,” Phil says, only a beat later. “He should be better by tomorrow, maybe even tonight if we’re lucky. These things just need to run their course.” He smooths a bit of hair back from Techno’s face, which is more peaceful now, slack in sleep, only a vague tightness to hint at disquiet.

“Um, well that’s good,” Ranboo says. “What do we do until then?”

“What we came here to do,” Phil says, and gets to his feet, lifting Technoblade in his arms in the same motion. It looks a bit awkward; Techno has more than a foot on Phil, but Phil carries him to his bed with apparent ease. “We came here for information, so that’s what we’ll try to find.” He pauses, frowning. “I don’t like leaving him alone in this state, but he should be alright, and we’ll be—”

“I’ll stay with him,” Tommy says.

Wilbur blinks. Tommy scowls. He looks a bit surprised, almost, like he didn’t expect the words to come out of his mouth. But when faced with the attention of the entire room, he doubles down on it.

“Look, someone should make sure he doesn’t keel over again in his sleep, right?” he says. “Not that I care, but it’d be—it’d be downright inconvenient, now, wouldn’t it? So someone oughta stay, and if we’re gonna be looking at, at books and shit, well, that’s not really my thing. Could be, if I wanted to! But y’know, it’s boring, and I have better things to do quite often. Like, like women and shit. So, maybe if you want to be doing research, I’m not—ugh, maybe I’m not the best man to help with that. So I can stay here with him.”

Phil cocks his head, apparently bemused. “I suppose?” he says. “But, Tommy, are you sure—”

“Oh Prime, yes,” Tommy says, and flaps a hand at all of them. “I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t sure, would I? So go and, go and look through all your stupid old man books, and I’ll stay here. Look, he’s even got a seat for me already.” He stalks across the room and throws himself down on the emerald block, pulling his legs up to sit criss-cross. “It’s like it was made for me. An e-mer-ald throne. Go on. Shoo. Fuck right off.”

His cheeks are a bit flushed. Embarrassment, no doubt, at being caught caring about Technoblade, because that’s what this is, deep down. But he’s fidgeting, too, like he’s nervous, though nervous about what, Wilbur isn’t sure. Nervous about being alone in a room with Techno? Maybe, except Techno is out like a light. Nervous about the rest of them confronting him on it? Also maybe, and Phil looks confused enough to push him on it, so Wilbur decides to step in.

“Good of you to volunteer, Tommy,” he says. “Come get us if he starts making odd sounds or something, I suppose.”

Tommy pulls a face. “Odd sounds,” he repeats dubiously. “That right there, I don’t appreciate the way you said that.”

“Ookay,” Phil says. “Right, then. Come get us if you need us, Tommy. Wil, Ranboo, I’ll show you where we’re going.”

Wilbur follows Phil back down the ladder. But not before looking at the scene one last time. Techno in bed, dead to the world. Tommy perched on an emerald block, staring at their brother with intensity, something dark and inscrutable flashing in his eyes. Wilbur wonders at the wisdom of leaving Tommy alone here. There is bad blood between them. Bad blood, despite what Techno just did. And it hurts a bit, having to consider things like this, having to consider the likelihood of his brothers trying to murder each other if they’re left alone together,

(and it is partially his fault, he knows, one more thing to add to the list, the pit looming large in his memories)

but there’s nothing for it now. If he brings his concerns up, Tommy will just buckle down further, his pride rearing up. So Wilbur follows Phil and Ranboo down the ladder, and tries to think positively.

It’s difficult. He’s out of practice at it.

“Alright,” Phil says, and once again, Wilbur is struck by how old he looks, how worn down. “Suppose I’ll show you two the stronghold, then.”

A beat passes.

“The what—”