Chapter Text
(nature’s first green is gold)
They have a routine, the two of them.
It’s simple, really. At four in the morning, Technoblade will open his window and carefully step out of it, dropping onto the grass three feet below him. Then, he’ll walk to his neighbor’s house, lightly tapping the second window to the left.
Once. Twice.
A pale hand will reach for the handle from the other side, pulling up the glass. A familiar mop of blond hair will appear, lips pulled into a grin. Technoblade, the pinkette, will smile back, and the blond -- Dream -- will step aside, letting his neighbor and best friend into his bedroom.
And there, they’ll talk for hours, until the sun wakes from its slumber. They’ll pause, watching the previously dark sky fill with pinks and oranges and gold.
Gold, Technoblade will think, just like the color of Dream’s hair. Golden, like the way he laughs.
The colors of the sun’s awakening will splash against Dream’s complexion, and they will both be held in awe. Dream, by the magnificence of the sunrise. Technoblade, by Dream. His sun in his otherwise dark world.
There will be silence, and Technoblade will observe Dream’s face, memorizing every crevice and freckle with his mellow gaze. They’ve been at this for years now.
One day, in their freshmen year, Technoblade might note that: Dream’s face seems to be getting paler.
Even if he does, then the thought will leave his mind as quickly as it came.
When the sun rises completely, abandoning the pinks and oranges and golds it previously held, Technoblade will bid his golden-haired friend adieu, but only until the next morning.
Dream is golden.
(her hardest hue to hold.)
The two of them met in the first year of primary school.
Technoblade walked into the looming elementary school building anxiously, tugging at the edge of his soft cotton hoodie sleeves. His (inferior) brown-haired twin, Wil, followed closely behind him.
In many ways, Wilbur was completely different from Technoblade, despite them being twins. That was part of the reason that he was such a loser, in Technoblade’s humble opinion. Wil was bright, a star, all happy grins and comforting hugs.
Technoblade, on the other hand, was….definitely not.
Which is why, moments later, Wil had somehow already acquired a whole group of buddies that Technoblade assumed to be his friends. They were chattering away, and Wil seemed to be in the middle of it all, adoring the attention with delight.
Technoblade, in contrast, sat quietly in the corner and munched on some sliced carrots.
Heh. Imagine having friends. Couldn’t be him. Friends were for the weak.
He chuckled to himself, enjoying the pitiful process of making himself feel better.
“Hello!” a bright voice chortled.
Technoblade almost choked on a carrot in surprise.
A tall blond- no, a tall golden -haired kid had appeared out of nowhere, his jade eyes glinting with good-natured humor.
Technoblade didn’t appreciate getting startled by anyone, not Dad, not Wil, not his annoying gremlin toddler brother Tommy, and certainly not this green-eyed kid, so he crossed his arms and scowled. “Who are you?”
The kid didn’t seem too bothered by his hostile attitude. He smiled and said: “I’m Dream, but you can call me Dream! You?”
Technoblade glanced at the kid - Dream - for a long minute. Technoblade thought that the blond seemed like the type to already have a lot of friends, and didn’t know why he was talking to someone like himself, but he found himself answering anyway.
“I’m Technoblade.”
Dream grinned, “Technoblade! Nice to meetcha! Can I call you Techno?”
“No.” Only his family ever called him Techno. It was a very exclusive club.
“Well, alright then Tech ! You’re my friend now! No take backs.”
Tech? “I don’t remember agreeing to-”
“No take backs!” Dream grabbed his hand, and Technoblade found himself, for some strange reason, enjoying the touch.
“Hmph. Fine.”
Dream would later claim that Technoblade had smiled then. ‘A real, genuine smile from Tech! Can you believe it? It was beautiful.’
Technoblade would vehemently deny it every time.
(her early leaf’s a flower)
Someone had once told him that death may be the greatest of all human blessings.
Perhaps it was a book, perhaps it was his mother’s words to him on her deathbed, or perhaps he had just dreamt it.
But Dream didn’t understand that. He still had so much of life worth living. So much more to see. He never got to fish in the open sea, never got to see London’s glorious towers or Tokyo’s winding subways or New York’s gleaming city lights.
He hadn’t played enough football with his younger brother. He hadn’t told his father that he loved him enough. He had so many friends and so many loved ones that he never thought that he’d have to leave so soon.
No, he didn’t understand it. Not at all. He had so much more love to give, so much more things to say.
His world had been so colorful, so full of life, his shelves decorated with football trophies and fencing plaques. He had hung framed pictures of Techno, of his brother Tubbo, of his football team, and his friends all over his walls.
The bedroom walls. They were green, Dream remembered. He could still recall the day when he and Techno had impulsively bought ten gallons of the ugliest lime green and splattered the walls all over with that color. It was so terribly unattractive, but Dream loved it. Because Tech had helped him with it. Because they had dipped their hands in the paint buckets and had left their print in the space right above Dream’s bed.
He missed those walls.
The ones of his hospital room were a dull and colorless white. There were no posters, no small gadgets bought on a whim, and no picture frames.
Instead, he was surrounded by odd-looking machines, beeping. They took his temperature, his heart rate, his blood pressure- Dream couldn’t figure out half of them. Attached to them were tubes, snaking beside his hospital bed and winding along his pale arms, medical tape keeping them in place.
They were always beeping.
When they stopped, Dream knew, that meant that he would have died. Someday, soon, the rapid half-triangles on those monitors would thin into a single line, running infinitely. At least, until the nurses unhook his corpse from the tubes and replace him with another patient.
He knows. The doctors had told him, told his father, told Tubbo, that his cancer had progressed to a level where they could no longer do anything for him. Now, they were just waiting for the disease to finally take him.
Dream felt tired, now. He used to be athletic and energetic, but recently? He was tired. Always tired.
He was only seventeen, not even out of high school, but he felt fifty. Sometimes, he ached. Pain would rack his body, and he would cough. But most of the time, he just sagged in exhaustion.
Tired.
Dream wished that if he really had to die, he would die in color. Not here, in this blank hospital room.
He wanted his last glimpse of the world to be beautiful. Colorful.
The spring green of Tubbo’s eyes. The lime of his room. The glinting gold of his trophies. The fresh color of grass. The blue sky. The fluffy, white clouds. The pinks, purples, and oranges of the sunrise. The soft pink of Techno’s braided hair, the blond of his own.
Golden, Techno had once called his hair.
His hair was all gone now, the cost of a treatment that never quite worked. But it had been gold, he knew. Golden, like the sun. Golden, like the force of stars, exploding.
Golden doesn’t last.
There was a poem. Tech had loved it.
Gold was Nature’s finest hue. The most beautiful. But it never lasted. Leaves, stars, the sunrise - they died out, one way or another.
Just like how Dream would. Sometimes, he wondered how long he had left.
Sometimes . But now? Now, he was just tired.
White walls. White bedspread. White tinted windows.
Dream was tired.
(but only so for an hour)
Technoblade was naturally a romantic.
It’s hard to believe, at first. You could look at his twin, Wilbur, who wrote songs and played guitar and smooth-talked the girls he liked with a silver tongue and a charming smile. You could regard Dream, who was as confident as a lion and never held back from flirting with the cheerleaders when he had the chance.
Then, you could look at Technoblade. Brooding, intimidating Technoblade who never talked to anyone and sat only with either his brothers or Dream at lunch. Technoblade, who got into fights defending Wilbur and Tommy more often than not.
But if you asked Dream, or his father, or any of his two brothers, you would hear of a wholly different side of Technoblade.
Wilbur would laugh, and tell you stories of how Techno practically memorized Shakespeare’s operas, about how he would spend hours overanalyzing the love stories from the old Greek myths, and the brunette would break into a fond grin, lost in memories of his twin.
Tommy, the youngest brother, would grin like the gremlin child he was, and spin a tale of the many times that Technoblade had cried while binge-watching corny soap operas, cuddling into blankets and scooping large spoonfuls of mint chocolate ice cream into his mouth.
And if you asked Dream? Dream would break into an adoring smile, recounting the bouquet of flowers he had received from the pink-haired teen, right after his first high school state football championship.
It goes like this: Technoblade worries at his bottom lip, looking between the assortment of available flower bouquets at their local flower shop, feeling as if all these choices weren’t right for Dream.
Niki, the florist and owner of the shop, smiles empathetically and asks Technoblade who and what these flowers were for.
Technoblade turns to her, and thinks of Dream, causing his face to tint with a light pink. “It’s for my friend’s football championships. State. He’ll win. I’m sure of it.”
Niki takes one look at Technoblade’s face, adorned with a lovestruck expression, bursting in the colors of young love. Friend, hm? She knows better.
Smiling, she nods.
“I know just what you need,” she says, and brings forth a bouquet bursting with yellow dandelions.
Technoblade takes one look at them, the delicate blooms reminding him of Dream's golden hair, and takes them with no hesitation. They’re perfect.
He leaves with a pleasant sense of satisfaction. With a knowing look in her eyes, the florist watches him go.
It goes like this: In the stands, Wilbur and Tommy tease Technoblade relentlessly for the large bouquet he holds in his hands.
“Flowers, really? That’s cringe!” exclaims Tommy, all hyperactive energy and wild hand movements. It used to be annoying to him, but Technoblade's since gotten over it. Now, it might even be sort of endearing.
Their father, always the mediator, hums in an attempt to smooth things over. “I think they’re neat, Techno. Why’d you get them?”
Technoblade shrugs, brushing his thumb over the soft petals of the delicate dandelions.
“They’re for Dream,” he mutters. He couldn’t wait to give it to him.
Wilbur smirks, glancing at Technoblade purposefully. “Dandelions for Dream. Now, isn’t that romantic?”
Technoblade grunts and ignores him.
It goes like this: Dream wins, just like Technoblade knew he would.
The blond’s sweaty, with shoulder pads still on. Dream's sweaty, but it doesn’t matter. His grin is golden, still reeling from the victory he had just achieved.
Before Dream, Technoblade's never really been interested in sports, and definitely not football. But now? That’s different. Everything’s completely different. Technoblade had seen the final touchdown Dream scores and he had suddenly rocketed to his feet, roaring in excitement.
Now, it’s over, and Dream is grinning. He’s grinning that beautiful, golden smile of his.
He can’t help it. Technoblade takes two steps and lunges, tackling Dream to the ground with the dandelions between them.
With an ‘ oof!’ they both go tumbling to the grass, and they’re laughing. The dandelions are between them, slightly crushed and tickling at their chins, golden.
Dream's grin, the two of them, the blooms resting between them.
Everything is golden.
“Tech! Are you proud of me?” Dream exclaims, the laughter in his tone.
Technoblade, for once, doesn’t huff and look away.
“I am so, so proud, Dream. You were amazing out there.”
Dream's smile is honey.
Then suddenly, they are so, so close, but as soon as Technoblade realizes this, he sits up, resting on the grass next to Dream.
He shoves the dandelions towards the blond, blinking away the sudden rush of foreign feelings.
“Here. For you.”
Dream takes them, and gently combs through the blooms, straightening some stems that had bent in their embrace.
“They’re lovely, Tech.”
Not as lovely as you, Technoblade wants to say, but he shuts his mouth and smiles instead.
Dream grins once again, still lying casually on the grass.
“Yellow. I like that,” Dream pauses, taking time to adore the flowers. “I love these.”
“Golden,” Technoblade corrects.
Golden, like Dream's smile. Golden, like his hair. Golden, like the way Technoblade feels when he’s with him. Golden. Golden. Golden.
(then leaf subsides to leaf)
The first thing Technoblade noticed when he walked into the hospital room was how he couldn’t see the sunset. The window’s view was blocked by the other sections of the hospital, so all he could see when he looked out was more barren whites and grays. He knew that Dream would hate it.
The second thing he noticed was Dream.
There, in the bed, was his beloved.
Cautiously, he approached the cot. Dream had his eyes closed, breathing shallowly. He was pale. Technoblade had visited before. But now, he looked so much worse.
Dream looked dead.
The thought itself almost rips his heart into pieces.
Sitting on the chair next to the bed, Technoblade took one long look at the teen.
Technoblade remembered the strong, confident football captain that had beamed at him, months ago, right after the state victory. Dream had been hospitalized just before the nationals started.
The boy in the bed didn’t look like him. Dwarfed by the white of the hospital, Technoblade had never thought Dream could look so small.
“...Tech?” comes a shallow, weak voice, barely a wisp in the wind.
It’s Dream's, but Technoblade doesn’t recognize it.
Running his tongue over dry lips, he manages to find his voice.
“It’s me, Goldilocks, I’m here.”
Dream lets out a dry, wheezing chuckle. “Locks? I don’t have any more of those.”
And it was true. Dream's golden hair had all fallen out, replaced with a plain medical cap. But Technoblade didn’t think he looked any less beautiful.
“I brought you some dandelions.” He pulled out a small bouquet of yellow.
Dream's eyes widened. “Are those-”
“The same ones from State? Yeah. They’re from the very same flower shop, too.”
His lover’s smile is just as golden as it was before.
Technoblade smiles in response, though it’s burdened with a weary sadness.
Dream takes a rose, taking a whiff of the sweet fragrance. Pale, slender fingers brush over the petals, gently caressing the bloom. They’re lovely.
Smiling serenely, tiredly, the blond sighs.
“They’re wonderful, Tech.”
And just like that, Dream drifts off to sleep. He’s tired, Technoblade can tell. Because of that, he lets the blond rest.
The pinkette stood, placing the flowers in a vase at the window. It’s golden, like sunshine, the only bit of color in the room. It’s sad, to live in a place like this.
Bending down, he brushed a gentle kiss to Dream's forehead. It is clammy and cold. Just like kissing a statue, he thought sadly.
As he leaves, he pictures the dandelions, pictures Dream's smile.
Tiredness taints the gold.
(so eden sank to grief)
They have a routine, the two of them.
But today, Dream hears tapping on his window three hours too early.
It’s a break from the routine, one that they followed religiously ever since they’d first established it.
Nevertheless, he goes to open the window. Technoblade is there, smiling that beautiful smile, his pale orchid hair swinging freely behind him, out of his usual braid. He looks ethereal.
“Hi,” Dream says, breathless.
Technoblade smiles. “Hey Dream.”
His best friend climbs through the window and into his bedroom, crossing the room in a few great strides and sitting cross-legged on Dream's bed. Dream watches him closely, waiting for him to explain the change tonight.
The answer comes soon enough.
“Wil got in a fight with Dad again. Tommy’s asleep, but y’know how highschool is. Homework. The grind stops for no one.” Techno flashes Dream a dry grin, seemingly unbothered by the news he’d just delivered.
They’re both used to it.
Dream gives his friend an empathetic smile, but Techno rolls his eyes and signals for him to cut it out. Whatever he wants, then. Still, Dream can’t help but worry.
There’s silence between them for a few beats.
Then Techno breaks it. “There’s gonna be shooting stars visible tonight.”
Incredulous, Dream opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. “...really?”
“Yeah. Is there any way we can get up to your roof?”
Shooting stars. Dream doesn’t remember seeing them, ever. They were things he’d see on television, but never with his own eyes. Never. In their quiet, undisturbed suburb, this was something he’d find once in a lifetime.
“Goldilocks?” Techno’s voice breaks him out of his thoughts.
“Yeah. Yeah, I have a ladder we can use. Let’s go!”
And so what if Dream almost tripped off the roof because of a loose tile? What if Techno suddenly remembered he was deathly afraid of heights? It didn’t really matter, not to them. After a few obstacles, they settle together on the roof of Dream's house, staring up at the navy blue sky.
Dream picks out a lock of Techno’s hibiscus hair, and begins to weave together a simple braid.
Just before he could finish, the first star blazes through the sky.
It’s beautiful. Its magnificence is different from the one of the sunrise, but it is still golden. More follow.
The two of them sit in silence, captured in awe at the wondrous sight before their eyes. Dream knows that this will be a moment he will never forget.
Golden stars fall from the heavens, cascading like fireworks through the sky. It is silent, until it isn’t.
“Dream. Dream, c’mon, look at me.”
And what else could he do but comply?
The way Technoblade looks at him is different from anything Dream has seen before. It’s tender, fond, attracting - all at once. He doesn’t have a word to describe it. The glow from the stars illuminates the side of Tech’s face, and in that precious moment, they are both golden.
(There will always be a moment where two people collide: it is hard and fast and beautiful. Supernovas are made, stars are born, and worlds shift. Someone says look at me, and someone else realizes that the peculiar look in their eyes is love.)
They are golden. Bathed in natural light, Technoblade and Dream fall in love.
(so dawn goes down to day)
(There will always be a moment where two people break apart: it’s easy and sudden and painful. Black holes are made, stars die out, and worlds fall. Someone says, why did you leave me behind? and someone else doesn’t say anything at all. Then they leave - easily, suddenly, painfully.)
The ironic thing is that Wilbur finds out before he does.
In the busy moment between two classes, Technoblade feels a familiar hand grab his arm, slender fingers wrapping around his wrist. He slows to a halt, glaring at Wilbur. That annoyed gaze quickly dissolves when he sees the stricken expression on his twin’s face.
His first instinct is to flare up protectively, ready to beat up some foolish kids who decided it was a good idea to hurt his brother. It’s happened too many times before.
But there are no bruises mottling Wilbur’s pale skin.
Something else is wrong.
Somehow, that unnerves him more than anything else. “What?-”
“It’s Dream, Techno. Dream, he- he’s dead. Just now.” There are tears on Wilbur’s face now, streaking down like comets. Shooting stars.
The world tunnels away.
He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.
His textbooks drop to the tiled floor in a deafening crash.
Dream's funeral is crowded.
It’s not a surprise. Dream, by all means, was not a loner. He was the football captain. Everyone knew who he was. The team’s there. So is Dream's father, and Tubbo, now an only child.
Wilbur’s clutching Technoblade’s forearm. Tommy is staring straight ahead, not really seeing what’s in front of him. All the hyperactive energy is gone. Dream used to be Tommy’s idol, Technoblade knows. Dream used to be.
Everyone is deathly silent.
But Technoblade doesn’t notice them.
Dream is dead. His Dream is gone.
Tubbo is making a speech. The kid breaks down into hysterics in the middle of it, and everyone just watches him, until his dad goes up to the stand and helps the boy off. People are crying, whispering to one another.
Technoblade hears none of it. There’s a ringing in his ears, and it’s completely deafening.
Time is fluid. The eulogy, the service - it passes in a flash.
There’s a hand on his shoulder. A person’s crying next to him.
He doesn’t pay much attention to them. It’s gray. It might be raining. He wishes Dream was with him, and not in that cold, unfeeling box. He wishes he could hold Dream's hand, wishes that he could cup the blond’s face, run his fingers through his golden hair.
He wishes he could do so many things.
But he can’t. Because Dream's gone.
After the service, he tells his family that he’ll be with them in a minute. They look concerned, and his father opens his mouth to say something, but thinks better of it and just gives Technoblade a strained smile.
Technoblade wanders off, still in a daze.
Strangely, he can’t seem to shed any tears. There’s just a heavy feeling of grief settling on his chest, constraining him, pressing down on his lungs.
He breathes. In for four. Out for eight.
He breathes, and feels guilty that Dream can’t. The weight on his chest increases tenfold.
The coffin is sleek black. The person in it seems even paler in contrast.
It had been an open coffin funeral, and Dream was dressed up for the occasion. He was covered in a raven-colored fabric, and he looked so unlike the Dream who adorned Technoblade's every memory.
His eyes were closed, and if Technoblade hoped hard enough, he could almost pretend that Dream was only asleep.
Technoblade surveyed his beloved’s corpse, his lips pressed into a thin line. Black didn’t suit Dream. The blond had always favored brighter colored colors, especially green. He thought of Dream's lime green hoodie, probably still folded and pressed, collecting dust on one of the shelves of his closet.
Then, his eyes get caught on one detail. There was something colorful sticking out of Dream's breast pocket.
He bends to take a closer look, and what he sees makes his eyes widen.
Oh. Oh.
It’s a flower. A yellow dandelion, a recent, an old, memory. Golden. Golden. Golden.
A wave of emotion crashes over him, and he chokes on a sob, stepping back as tears fill his eyes.
“He told us to bury him with one,” a young, dull voice says from behind him.
Technoblade instantly turns, surprised. It’s Tubbo, Dream's younger brother. The boy is only in eighth grade. He didn’t know the kid well, but he remembers that the boy is close with Tommy. Childish laughter rings through his memories, but the kid standing before him is miserable and hunched.
Tubbo gestures to his dead brother. “With the rose, I mean.” A sigh. “He.. He wrote us a letter, the night before he died. And he told us to bury him with a rose from the vase at the window.”
“Oh,” Technoblade says. What else could he say? What do you say to a boy who’s lost everything, a kid who’s lost his brother and idol and still manages to hold himself together?
A sardonic chuckle comes out of Tubbo’s mouth. “Yeah. Oh. He really liked you, y’know. He talked about you a lot. In that letter…. he mentioned a poem. One that the two of you shared.”
Technoblade looks at Dream's corpse, silent and cold. He knows what Tubbo’s talking about, and it makes his heart ache. Between the two of them, there had only ever been one poem. One short, seemingly insignificant poem, one that had meant everything to the two of them.
Technoblade was a romantic, after all.
But looking back now, the verses were ironic. Dream was gold. He was sunshine. And just like anything golden, he hadn’t lasted.
Why couldn’t he have lasted?
“Nature’s first green is gold,” Tubbo recites, choking up in the middle of the words, tripping up as a flood of ugly emotions rushes out all at once, a symphony of sniffles and wails and loss. Despairing and mournful and anguished.
Technoblade, without thinking, steps forward and wraps his arms securely around the sobbing boy. Tubbo leans into the touch, burying his face into the elder’s chest, bawling.
Dream sleeps on.
(nothing gold can stay.)
“Tech, Tech, look!”
The chaotic noise of second graders is loud, but his best friend’s voice is louder. It rings through the haze like a bell, and Technoblade turns just in time to see Dream skid to a halt in front of him.
A book is shoved into his hands, worn pages bounded by leather. Technoblade immediately takes it, liking the feeling of the texture against his fingers. It’s a cool book, not like anything he’s seen before. He wonders where Dream got ahold of this.
Dream beams. “I think it’s really cool! I saw it on Dad’s shelf and thought that you’d like it! So do ya? Do ya like it?”
To be honest, Technoblade still isn’t used to Dream's loud personality. Nevertheless, he gives his friend a little smile and holds the book close.
“Mhm. It’s nice.” he says with a nod. It’s more than nice, and he was sure that Dream knew that, because a large, bright grin split across his friend’s face.
Blushing a little, Technoblade shuffles and glances at the floor.
Dream grabs his arm, and practically pushes him down into a chair.
“Read it! What’s it about?” he urges, poking at Technoblade's arm.
He smiles fondly. They have a routine, the two of them: Because Technoblade's reading level was above most of his classmate’s, Dream was always trying to get him to read things to him, even when he could very well read it himself. Technoblade always complied anyway. Anything for Dream.
So he opens the book to the very first page, and reads:
“Nature’s first green is gold, her hardest hoo...hue?” he puzzles over the word for a few moments, then shrugs and continues.
“-to hold. Her early leaf’s a flower, but only so an hour. Then leaf sub- subsid? Subsidy? ….subside. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grife, no- grief. So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.”
Dream smiles like an idiot.
“Woah…” Then his friend blinks in confusion. “Techie, what does that mean?”
Technoblade thinks it over for a few long minutes, unsure himself.
“It’s a poem….I think it means that in nature, gold’s the special-ist color. And it’s the prettiest, too. But it doesn’t really stay gold, y’know? It goes away,” he says, thinking out loud.
Dream tilts his head, soaking it in.
“Why does it go away?” he asks, curious.
Technoblade shrugs. “I dunno. It’s just how it works, I guess.”
Crossing his arms, Dream frowns. His friend seems bothered by the contents of the poem, and Technoblade observes him silently, worried. Sadness isn’t a mood that sits well on the usually cheerful boy’s face, and Technoblade didn’t want to see it again. He takes Dream's hand, and hopes that that’ll make it better.
Finally, Dream speaks. “But you’re never going away, right?”
Technoblade’s taken aback by the question. A small, confused chuckle makes its way out of his mouth, and he squeezes his friend’s hand reassuringly.
“Of course not! Why would you think that?” Reassurance and questioning weave through his tone like twins, not really understanding where all this was coming from all of a sudden.
Dream squeezes back, twice. “I dunno… I just wanted to make sure, y’know?”
Technoblade still doesn’t understand. “Yer’ my best friend, Dream. Even if I don’t say it a lot. But you are! And I’m always gonna stick around.”
Wide green eyes meet his own, the veridian irises hopeful. “Really?”
A smile flits across his face. “Yeah you nerd, really . But if I promise, then you better stay with me forever, too.”
Dream's laugh is windchimes blown by the salty ocean breeze. It rings across the whole room, through all the noise. Technoblade suddenly understands what the poem is talking about when it says golden .
“Okay! Let’s swear on it, just in case.”
Then, Dream holds out a pinky finger. Without hesitation, Technoblade loops his own around his friend’s, smiling. They shake them, once, twice.
It’s a pinky swear. But more than that, it’s a vow. A promise. It’s a commitment, a covenant. It’s an oath to keep, no matter what happens. It’s a pledge to always, forever and ever, remain steady in their friendship, one beside the other.
It’s a promise to always stay Technoblade and Dream, Dream and Technoblade.
It’s golden.