Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Don’t take that, mate, that’s overkill.”

Techno glances up from where he’s hunched over a chest, an ornate dagger lying in his palm, to find Phil watching him with amusement hidden in the corners of his eyes. “We weren’t given a description for the targets,” he replies with a quiet huff, straightening and folding his arms over his chest, dagger still in hand. “You know how that ended last time.”

Phil narrows his eyes, a playful smile curling across his lips. “What are you implying? Last time went fine!”

“Don’t lie,” Techno scoffs, thinking back with contempt to Phil’s close brush with death. “If we’re coming over prepared to somethin’, now’s the time.”

Phil laughs, and Techno feels tension ebb from his shoulders. “You say that every time, Techno,” the man teases, lighthearted, and Techno shrugs. 

“I’m not wrong.”

“You’re wrong. Leave it here.”

They stare at each other for a moment, an unbroken, intense gaze. Then Phil blinks exaggeratedly, grinning, and Techno sets the dagger back in the chest with a sigh. “Fine. But if you wind up half-dead, I swear, I’ll—”

“I’ll use you as my shield,” says Phil lightheartedly, and then disappears into another room, leaving Techno squinting after him. Bastard. 

He gathers his bags, slinging one over his shoulder; they contain most of what he’ll need to spend a number of weeks in the great Rhysmel Empire’s castle to fulfill a new assignment. They probably won’t be back to this safehouse, anyway; traveling kingdoms after jobs are through is a common occurrence. 

A gaudy carriage sent by the King himself awaits outside to bring them to their destination; Techno can hear the clopping of horses’ hooves as it rolls to a stop. Phil calls him from the front of the house, and Techno takes quick strides from the back room to the door, posture as perfect as it always is as he exits the house alongside his partner.

It was easy to get in with the royal court, considering the contract came from the cabinet themselves; Phil’s been assigned the King’s Advisor, and Techno is the captain of their royal guard, which consists of a mishmash of unhappy (and frankly untrained) men. They load into the carriage quickly, and then they’re off, heading for the center of the kingdom.

The council contracted them for this particular case as a collective, which they’ve done plenty of times before but don’t see as often. Techno keeps himself in line, remembers not to head into jobs with expectations or assumptions, and usually, he doesn’t busy himself questioning his assignments from a moral standpoint— what society would consider bad people contract them to kill good people all the time, he’s sure— but even so, with this many people against the King, he’s anticipating someone vile. 

Usually, it’s one very wealthy person that hires the two of them for jobs. When this many people are against one king, Techno expects to see a monster of a man sitting upon the throne, face shadowed by greed and corruption. 

That’s why Techno is unsettled when he’s greeted at the gates by a gangly kid with a mop of brown hair from which the golden points of a crown protrude. 

He bows side to side with Phil, as is custom in most kingdoms, and the older man gives him a look when they meet eyes furtively. He can’t read it for what it is: scolding him for jumping to conclusions, or sharing the same shock as himself. 

When they straighten up, the King greets them. “Welcome to the castle, gentlemen,” he says with an obviously rehearsed flourish, stepping back and waving an arm to showcase the great, towering building that lays before them. In all fairness, it’s beautiful architecture, all arches and spires and cleanly polished stone bricks; a shame that havoc will be wreaked among the place so soon.

“It’s a pleasure, Your Majesty,” Phil replies, chipper as ever, and Techno remains silent, just nodding along to whatever his partner says. “We’re honored to have been chosen for the job.” 

“I’m lucky to have you here,” replies the brunet, beckoning them forth. “Come, come, I implore you— and please, would you take their bags? It’s dreadful watching them balance all their luggage at once,” he directs at the guards accompanying them, and though he doesn’t like it, he surrenders his things to the guards, knowing they’re trusted. 

“My lawful name is Wilbur, but you can call me His Majesty,” the boy jokes, walking backwards towards the castle; he’s far more nonchalant than any king Techno has ever seen, a few wrinkles here and there in his clothes and a lax smile across his face. He gestures towards Phil with a smile, continuing. “I’ll assume you’re Phil Watson. Only a man as intimidating as you—” his gaze sweeps towards Techno— “could be called Technoblade.” The boy waits for his answer expectantly, bright and good-natured, and Techno tries and fails to assess the nuance in his expression. Whatever— he’ll leave that to Phil.

Taking the lead, Phil chuckles. “You would be right,” he replies kindly. Techno takes the hint and forces a smile that probably comes off as more of a grimace. Stoicism is his key in most of these missions; keeping people afraid of him in the reverent sense is what helps him get his job done. They leave no trail, anyways; many of their hits are framed as accidents, and it works incredibly well for the both of them when the time comes to depart.

“Well, it’s lovely to meet the both of you.” He seems to have overcome his initial apprehension, turning and stepping towards the doors. “Join me for a tour around the castle; I’m not currently under any commitments, I’ve plenty of time to show you around.”

Maybe he is as bad as they paint him to be, Techno muses, trying to assess the boy for deceit. Then he watches the King of the Rhysmel Empire struggle to muster enough strength to pull the door of his own castle open, and he shoots a wary glance in Phil’s direction: is this really their leader? 

As they step beyond the threshold and into the grand, gaping, intricate entrance of the castle, Techno reads the gaze Phil sends back to him perfectly clearly: 

This is a boy, not a king. 

—

In a room high above the ground, kept under close watch and making himself as tall as he can on the edge of his bed, sits a boy, not a prince. 

Combed blond hair frames his face, and he’s in the stuffiest clothes he’s worn in ages. His limbs ache, and he knows his nose is pink— he can feel the flush in his face, the heat under his skin— but he looks as put together as he possibly can aside from that, eyes wide and trained on the door. 

Tommy is very, very bored.

Wilbur said he’d be back with the new Advisor and Captain soon. As far as Tommy knows, he lied; it feels like hours have passed of him sitting quietly and behaving, like Wilbur said, all for nothing. Tommy isn’t unused to boredom lately, what with practically being bedridden, but Wilbur could’ve been less strict about this whole thing.

Tommy’s back hurts; his eyes are heavy; his head is swimming with thick cotton. He wants to lay back down, close his eyes, and count the footsteps in the hall until he drifts off to peaceful sleep, just like this morning, before Wil had the gall to come knocking so early and wake him up—

The footsteps in the hall?

Tommy’s eyes fly open where they were slowly inching shut. He stiffens on the edge of his bed until his back is ramrod straight, fiddling with his fingers and then remembering to fold his hands in his lap. Voices approach, light and friendly, and Tommy swallows curiously, though it hurts his throat. 

He sniffles, hurriedly swiping at his nose with the back of his hand and then folding them again in his lap. It’s fine. He’ll just use the other one to shake. If they even get close enough to shake.

Tommy sags inside. They won’t get close enough to shake. He’s smart enough to know that, at least: he’s dangerous. Infectious. Someone called him a pathogen once when he thought they couldn’t hear them, didn’t know Wilbur and Tommy were on their way into the library, and Tommy never saw the man again.

For all his brother does that Tommy hates, at least he fires the idiots Tommy doesn’t like. 

His door creaks, and Tommy’s throat runs dry, his eyes locked on the entryway to his spacious room. In strolls Wilbur first, eyes meeting Tommy’s instantly and flashing with a million different warnings, all of which Tommy can read easily: Be good. Be polite. Don’t move. Look nice. Remember your manners. Smile. 

A blond man with a funny looking hat files into the room after, sticking close to the wall, and Tommy pulls a smile to his face. “Hi,” he greets, thrilled at least to have new faces, new visitors, after so long confined to his room. 

Then the scariest man Tommy’s ever seen in his life comes in, and Tommy immediately trains his eyes on his bedspread, heart pounding in his chest. Holy shit. Don’t cuss out loud. Don’t cuss out loud. Wilbur will kill you. 

“Tommy,” coaxes Wilbur; on the surface, it’s gentle, full of brotherly affection, but Tommy’s spent too long around his brother to be fooled. The inside is full of stress, full of pressure for Tommy to do the right thing so that these guys can get out of here before anything goes wrong— because something always goes wrong when Tommy’s involved, and Wilbur knows it. He’s holding his breath, just waiting for something to happen.

Tommy lifts his head again and finds the scary man’s eyes trained directly on him, his arms crossed intimidatingly over his chest. He despises it, but he forces the smile back, and swallows the tickle in his throat that begs him to cough. He’s in a suit, scratchy and a little tight, but it makes him look good. 

He let Wilbur mess up his cool bed hair for this. He’d better make it worth it. 

“Hello,” he says this time, mostly directed towards the tall man looming in the doorway. Eventually, Tommy manages to stop staring, dragging his eyes to the much kinder blond man. “It’s— it’s nice to meet you. I’m Tommy.”

“Thomas,” Wilbur chides softly, catching his brother’s gaze, and Tommy has to physically restrain himself from sticking his tongue out. 

When Tommy looks back to the nice man, he swears he almost sees a hint of dread written along the lines in his face. Just as fast as he notices it, though, it’s gone, leaving him with nothing but a smile. “I’m Phil Watson,” the man introduces himself, and gestures to the scary man. “This is Technoblade. We are thankful to be serving your court.”

Tommy wants to yawn, wants to roll his eyes, wants to kick his feet and say, there’s no reason to be so fancy. Instead, he swallows the itch even though his eyes water, tightening his folded hands and replying, “I’m thankful to have you working for us.”

His eyes flit to Wilbur’s for approval; his brother’s shoulders settle, just the tiniest half of an inch, and Tommy knows he’s done what he’s supposed to. He turns his gaze back to the two new men, tilting his head. “Sorry. I’m a little sick right now, so you must keep your distance like everyone else does. Wilbur hopes I’ll be better soon, though, and I do, too, so I can get back to my— my studies,” he goes on, just as they rehearsed, though in reality he’ll be ditching his studies to play in the sunshine again the first chance he gets.

He misses the sunshine. He’s pretty sure he’s losing his freckles. Tommy can only hope it won’t get worse. 

Phil dares to come closer, bending down with a kind glint in his gaze, and Tommy’s eyebrows jump up in surprise. Everything is so stiff, so formal and practiced, but this Phil man seems to break the pattern. Tommy likes that. “May I ask how old you are?” says the man quietly, and Tommy’s gaze flits to Wilbur. Is he supposed to tell the truth? A surprising amount of lying goes on in the castle, and Tommy is unlucky enough to be privy to much of it. 

Wilbur nods him on, so Tommy regards Phil with a weak smile, leaning back and trying not to breathe on him. “I’m ten. I’ll be eleven in April.” Phil seems to stall for a moment, his eyes searching Tommy’s. Unsettled, the boy diverts from his practice, blurting, “How old are you?”

It just slips out. His eyes snap wider open, and he glances to Wilbur, resisting the urge to cover his hand with his mouth. Sure enough, his brother looks disappointed— but before anyone else speaks, Phil bursts into laughter, drawing the attention of the room. Pleasantly surprised, Tommy doesn’t look at Wilbur again. See? They like me when I’m me, not when I’m Prince Thomas of the Rhysmel Empire. That’s stupid. 

Phil’s laughter seems genuine— Tommy’s always been good at telling that kind of stuff, especially after tips from Wilbur— and it soon dies down, giving way to a good-natured smile. “Very old,” the man replies to Tommy, reaching forward and then hesitating. “May I?”

“Oh— oh, no, you,” Tommy flounders, struggling and shying away slightly. “You probably shouldn’t. You’ll get sick.”

“Nonsense,” replies Phil, reaching forward to tousle Tommy’s perfectly combed hair, and Tommy grins, knowing Wilbur will be losing his mind at the mere notion of so much as one hair being displaced on Tommy’s head. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Highness.”

“You can just call me Tommy,” the blond replies without thinking, and Wilbur clears his throat from the corner. Tommy blinks owlishly, backtracking. “Actually, I changed my mind. Call me Your Highness. It’s cooler.”

Phil laughs again, leaning back and moving to fall back in line with Technoblade (who Tommy still avoids looking at), and Wilbur massages his temple, looking just as stressed as usual. Tommy feels his chest fall, turning his gaze back to his lap; he’d hoped Wilbur would be proud that Phil likes him. Instead, his brother just looks anxiety-ridden.

“Why don’t I show you to your quarters, men?” Wilbur suggests, strained, as he lifts his head. “I’m sure you’d like to get settled. Once you’re finished, I’ll see to it that my guards direct you to the kitchen.”

Phil nods, turning for the door. Over his shoulder, he glances back at Tommy. “Lovely meeting you,” he says with a wink, “Your Highness Tommy,” and the blond’s heart swells as he sniffles, leaning forward to wave unceremoniously as they shuffle out the door, Wilbur last.

“Thank you!” he calls hopefully, and then the door shuts, just a little harder than Wilbur usually closes it. 

Tommy stares, crestfallen, and then bites his lip when it quivers. He pulls the suit jacket off of himself and wrestles his way sluggishly out of the pants he hates so badly, chucking them with contempt at the floor. He fights his way through the buttons of the undershirt and then digs his pajamas out from under his pillows, anger and sorrow broiling and mixing together under his skin.

By the time he finally manages to get into his nightclothes, well aware that he’s too sick to be invited down to the kitchen for his meal, Tommy is exhausted. He ruins his neatly made bedspread and then ruins his pristinely arranged hair the rest of the way, rubbing his hands back and forth over his head as his eyes sting. 

Tommy shimmies under the covers with drowsiness biting at his heels, pulling them up and letting his head fall back against the pillow. He just wants to make Wilbur happy. Nothing he does anymore makes Wilbur smile. Tommy thought his introduction was fine, and yet, there Wilbur was in the corner, pinching the bridge of his nose like it was the end of the world.

Tommy feels the buildup and turns onto his side, wrapping his arms around himself and letting the cough roll through his body with abandon. It wracks him, won’t stop coming and coming and coming, and Tommy pulls his legs up as it grates against his throat. 

He gasps for air when he finally gets a chance, sniffing and shivering under his covers and wiping at his eyes first followed by his runny nose. He is sick. Tommy is sick, and he is a disappointment, and he fears he will never get better in either regard.

—

Techno doesn’t visit Phil’s quarters until after dinner. Wilbur’s tour, which stretched on for a couple of hours and encompassed most of the places they’d be visiting daily within the castle, is long over now, and they’ve been excused to their quarters with the assurance that real work begins tomorrow. Along the way, they learned first that the Prince— who evidently doesn’t get out much, judging by his deathly pallor— is no more than ten years old, and that the King himself isn’t even a lawful adult yet. 

Techno paces in the spacious living area that Phil is set up in, just across the hall. Yellow seems to be a theme throughout this castle, gold trimmings decorating anything with edges and yellow-dominant art and murals stretching across walls and ceilings. 

Techno stops, narrowing one eye and glancing to Phil. “He’s almost eighteen.”

“No,” Phil replies firmly, a deep-set worry in his face. “Techno, no. They are children.” 

Techno exhales. “Well, we aren’t here for the runt,” he mutters, and Phil makes a wounded noise. “Just the King.”

“He’s not a runt, mate, he’s ill. Very clearly ill, and seriously, if his face was anything to judge by.” Phil shoots him a sharp look, and Techno tries to ignore the fact that he was just thinking that, just thinking that the smaller boy was too white and boney and the older boy was too thin and anxious. “We’ve got to find another way, mate.”

“We can’t just do nothin’, Phil,” Techno replies gruffly, and his partner’s face changes as Techno shuts down, irritation flecked amongst his eyes. “At the very worst, we can… wait for his birthday.”

Even Techno bristles, internally, at his own idea. He’s never been one to worry about others' morals, but when it comes to his own… He’d consider himself to run on a strict code, one which doesn’t include murdering children. 

Phil’s eyes spark. “That’s nearly a full year, Techno. Have you lost your mind? Besides the fact that that’s incredibly shameful, it’s impossible. You know we can’t be here for…” He trails off, thinking with a furrowed brow, and Techno pulls a piece of his hair to the side, nimble fingers beginning to braid it from the top down. 

“We can’t do nothin’’,” he repeats stonily when Phil seems to be at a loss, the blond staring at the floor absently. “This is the contract. Seventeen is…” He resists the urge to wince. “Close enough to eighteen. We get the job done quickly, change our schedule, move our plans up so we can leave sooner, and maybe—” He breaks off, frustrated in the way he’s able to see Phil disagree with a frown before he’s even finished. 

He comes closer, catching the man’s attention again, and his voice lowers. “Listen. I know you may not like it, but this is our job,” he murmurs rigidly. “If we don’t complete it, we’ll be exposed by that damn kid’s cabinet. This isn’t one we can just run away from, Phil, not when that whole group of men were the ones to hire us. You have to understand.” He searches Phil’s eyes with his own, but while he closes himself off in body language, Phil does it in expression, making it so Techno can’t read his face. Dissatisfied, he pushes: “I don’t see any way around this.”

Phil shakes his head, running his hands over his face and turning away with a soft groan. Techno may be bad with emotions, but he can tell Phil is thinking the same thing as him: they’ve been backed into a corner. “Damn it. Now I see why they didn’t give us any more information beforehand,” the blond laments, and Techno sucks in a breath. The cabinet knew this would happen. Now, the two of them are bound to a contract that can only be broken by…

Death. By death. 

Techno narrows one eye, ideas immediately jumping to mind. He doesn’t like it, not really, but he imagines the boy-king struggling under his blade, and a spatter of guilt infects his lungs. “Phil?” 

His partner, though weary and frustrated, turns to him with full faith. Techno will always be taken aback by the trust he has. “Techno?”

The pink-haired man folds his arms over his chest, stepping back and glancing to the floor as his mind whirrs. If they do it right, perhaps there will be a desirable outcome for everyone, aside from those who deserve it. He shakes his head once, shocked that he’s worrying now about deserving, but Phil will do that to people. 

Lifting his eyes, Techno tilts his head forward. “How much experience do you have with food poisoning?” 

—

Wilbur tents his hands, a hard look in his eyes. 

“The first and second quadrants of the kingdom should… be fortified,” he disagrees hesitantly, and the men sitting at the table before him shift restlessly. He lifts his gaze, and it shuts them up, thank god— Wilbur’s tired of playing pretend, acting like he can’t hear their discontent, disapproval.

It’s why he needed a royal advisor, someone more qualified than the guy Wilbur threw out as soon as his parents died, whose advice they hardly took anyway. So Phil Watson sits to his right, an encouraging look across his gentle face, and Wilbur knows he’s picked the right guy.

It’s been three weeks or so since the two have arrived here, and they’re already more helpful than most. Wilbur’s new chosen captain of the guard is efficient. His very first day on the job, he laid out cleanly polished training modules for Wilbur to approve, and they were more organized than any document Wilbur’s ever made in his life, so he approved them, of course. His army is fine, but it’s nothing like it should be, especially coming out of the war that took his parents.

Always, Wilbur remembers that it tried to take him, too. Always, he remembers that his priority needs to be Tommy and the kingdom. He needs to make a good king for Tommy. He needs Tommy to be safe. 

It’s stressing Wilbur out of his mind that Tommy is not safe, and this time, it’s through no fault of his own. There’s nothing Wilbur can do. He tries to visit once every other night, tries to console the shuddering child when the worst points hit, and miraculously, he never seems to get sick himself. It works out well for Tommy, who sobs and clings to him in the middle of the night, begging him to help, to make it stop, when all Wilbur can do is watch miserably as his brother deteriorates. 

When he isn’t juggling the business of the entire kingdom, he is seeking new medical professionals, begging them to tell him what is wrong with his baby brother. They’ve tried bloodletting, tried dieting, tried herbs and medicines and potions, but everything is only temporary. It always comes back, haunting Wilbur and threatening the death of his third and final family member. 

“Your Majesty?” someone asks, snapping their fingers, and Wilbur blinks, his brain dragged back into the gathering he’s been putting off as long as possible. Right— he’s supposed to be giving orders.

As for Phil, the blond leans closer to him, setting a friendly hand on his shoulder that has grown commonplace over the days Wilbur has already spent listening to him. Much to his relief, the man seems incredibly wise— and morally appreciable, too— and it has taken some of the load off his shoulders to have someone to depend on for advice. 

“The first and third quadrants, perhaps?” Phil suggests in a helpful murmur right beside him, and Wilbur’s brow wrinkles. He glances down at the leatherbound book sitting before him and blanches.

Looking up, he fixes his mistake quickly. “Apologies, Secretary. The first and third quadrants will be fortified,” he assures, voice stronger, and some of his council relaxes slightly. Through the meetings, he’s found some of them glancing at Phil more often than should be necessary; the older man seems unbothered, though, most of his attention focused on Wilbur.

Speaking of: the entire table stares at him, waiting for what he will address next. Wilbur, head rolling with a barrage of thoughts, shakes his head once, a sigh pouring off his lips. He can’t finish this. “Temporarily adjourned,” he declares, and grumbles erupt from his council. “My deepest apologies, men. I will need some time to sort things out. You are all dismissed. Return tomorrow at the same time.”

Not a single one of them spares him a glance of mercy as they stand and file out the door. Wilbur slumps in his seat when the final cabinet member shuts the door behind him, massaging his temple and groaning quietly. 

He remembers, with a start, that Phil is still sitting beside him, and sits up straighter. In the presence of company, he must remain composed. Slipping up with Phil is foolish; he needs this man to believe he can lead the kingdom his parents left behind. He needs this man to understand that the crushing weight on his shoulders cannot be upheaved all at once just by his presence, though Wilbur wants it to be. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, but if Phil replies, he misses it, lost in his head. His parents are dead. He is still seventeen, and he was never ready to be a king. The war was short and brutal, and his kingdom is neck deep in restorations, and Wilbur doesn’t know how to facilitate them. His father would have wanted more from him as a king, but his father was supposed to teach him how to do this, and now he’s gone. He’s gone, and his other son is slowly dying in his room, and the country is falling apart because Wilbur doesn’t know how to do it right, as much as he wants to be the leader he always knew he was destined to be.

Everything is wrong. Wilbur’s eyes sting with tears, and then he’s startled by the hand on his shoulder again.

“Phil,” Wilbur breathes, and sits up, face flushing. His royal advisor is still in the room. “My apologies, I am… quite disoriented today, it seems.”

“As luck would have it,” Phil replies kindly, retracting his arm and pulling his chair around to face him, “I make a great listener, on top of all the royal advising.” Wilbur cracks a weary smile, strained, and Phil crosses his legs. “Anything you need to talk about, Your Majesty? It’s good to let it out every once in a while.”

Wilbur lets out a strangled breath and turns back to the table and leans his elbows on it, eyes hard. “Well,” he murmurs, lacing his fingers and resting his face against his hands. “There’s a lot to go over. I’m not sure exactly where I would start.” He falls silent for a moment, and hears the exact moment Phil makes to speak. 

“Maybe—”

“Perhaps the death of my parents, the former King and Queen of the Rhysmel Empire,” Wilbur says thoughtfully. “Or the approaching death of my younger brother, the last living royalty other than myself. Or perhaps the rapidly deteriorating economic state of the kingdom that I am supposed to be in charge of, all the decimated streets I cannot fix and subjects I cannot garner the approval of. Or the councilmen that do not follow my decrees as closely as I intend them to be followed, or the repairs the castle needs desperately, or the shortage in staff that I can’t ever seem to overcome, or the thousand other problems that appear in my vicinity each morning.” Wilbur’s chest rattles, and his eyes burn. “Or perhaps none of that. Perhaps the fact that I have shared my life story with a man whose job is not to hear it.” 

He sits back in his chair, watery-eyed, and finally turns back to look at Phil bleakly. When he does, the man seems just as grief-ridden as he, his face pale and dragging with sorrow. 

“Your Majesty,” the man murmurs, lacing his own fingers in his lap. He swallows, as if it’s hard for him to go on— as if he could have anything worse to say than Wilbur’s long list of royal fucking ailments. 

“Please,” the boy says, sinking into his chair and throwing a hand up, “call me Wilbur, why don’t you.” Maybe it’ll make him feel less alone. 

Phil swallows again, roughly, and exhales through his nose. “Wilbur,” he says instead, gently, and Wilbur’s eyes keep stinging. “I cannot claim to know what you are experiencing. But I am here to help you.”

“You aren’t an assistant,” Wilbur mutters bluntly. “You’re an advisor. This isn’t your job.”

“I am comfortable working outside of my required duties, especially with a pay grade as handsome as you give us,” Phil replies, and something in Wilbur’s stomach twists painfully; he stares at the ceiling.

“Don’t lie. I know you’ve been to countless kingdoms far greater and wealthier than— than mine. Than this one.” 

Phil sets a hand on his arm. Wilbur looks down and finds him staring at him with soft eyes. “You have a lot to think about right now.” Yeah, no shit. “I think it would be best if you saw a break. Perhaps tomorrow, you take the day for yourself. Visit your brother, enjoy the weather.”

“It’s barely forty degrees,” Wilbur mutters, but Phil goes right on, despite Wilbur’s defeatist attitude. 

“Perhaps reconsider the men you allow into your royal council.” Wilbur finally cracks a smile at that, and when he glances at Phil, he catches the sparkle in the man’s eyes that is proud of the humor. “You’d do well with a break,” he insists kindly. “Please, I implore you, Wilbur.” 

A rough sigh cascades past his lips. “Oh, great and mighty royal advisor,” he drones, standing from his seat, and Phil follows his lead, standing with him. “What great advice you seem to have, business related or not.” He smiles, and Phil mirrors it, tilting his head forward. 

“It will be good for you,” he insists gently. “I can help with the council’s decision, or stand in if you feel that postponing the meeting for a second time would be unwise, and you can have time to yourself.”

“You’re the one that’s supposed to tell me whether it’s unwise,” Wilbur cracks, folding his arms, and Phil laughs. A warmth spreads through Wilbur’s bones; he softens, taking in a breath. “Perhaps,” he finally admits, “a break day is long overdue.”

Phil nods approvingly. “As your royal advisor, I support this decision wholeheartedly,” he says. Then his face seems to change, and again, he looks so sad, reaching to rub a hand against the breadth of Wilbur’s shoulders. “Don’t let these things get the better of you. You’re stronger than you think you are,” he says earnestly, and Wilbur’s throat grows tight. Phil purses his lips, seeming to see with eyes that stare deep into his soul. Wilbur hasn’t felt so heard in months. “Are you going to be okay, young king?”

Lost for an answer, Wilbur opens and closes his mouth, eyes welling, and stumbles forwards. Phil is there to catch him, wrapping him in a hug that seems more suited for someone with a higher position of royal advisor. Wilbur kicks the thoughts out, pulling his arms up to wrap them around the man and exhaling shakily. When he cries, it’s silent, almost like it never happened at all; regrettably, he does leave a wet spot on Phil’s clothes when he pulls away, which makes his face flush. 

Wilbur clears his throat, elegantly wiping his eyes and adjusting his glasses over the bridge of his nose. He thinks, in some way, he does feel more whole. He thinks the bitter feeling from earlier has been kept at bay, thanks to this strangely paternal royal advisor. And though it feels wrong to replace someone for the role of father already, Wilbur knows he would have buckled soon without anyone to confide in. His ten year old brother certainly wouldn’t have been acceptable. 

“Thank you,” he finally murmurs back to Phil, who smiles in return. “For more than just the royal advising. For the life advising, too.”

“Any time.”

—

“Did I tell you that the runt was out of his room today?”

Phil glances up from where he’s folding clothes against his bed, eyes wide. “What?” He’s been telling Techno of his time with Wilbur in the council room, the poor boy-king stifling sobs that Phil so desperately wishes he could take from him. He’s far, far gone now, even after a mere couple of weeks; Wilbur has grown on him quickly and rapidly— like mold, Techno says, to which Phil chastises in amusement— and if ever there were a point where he could turn back, change his mind, go through with the hit, it’s long gone now. 

He can tell Techno hasn’t been feeling the same way, but the look on his face when Phil meets his eyes is telling. Phil has always been able to read him, especially now, after so many years; Techno thinks he’s being so secretive, so passive, but Phil can find his mannerisms even if they aren’t displayed clearly on his face (and usually, they are). “The prince was out of his room? That’s…” 

He has to hold himself from saying fantastic news. Techno dislikes how quickly these boys have grown on Phil; he should take gentler steps if he ever wants Techno to warm up to the ideas floating around in his head. So he settles: “That’s good, isn’t it? He’s doing better?” He thinks back to Wilbur worrying about it earlier. Approaching death. Phil has spent far less time with Tommy, who seems generally very sickly; he’d started to fear Wilbur was right. He’s only had a few encounters with the blond, but every time, Tommy has been all big smiles and goofy words, no matter how much coughing and shivering plagued him. He’s a good kid, just like Wilbur— he just doesn’t get to show it while he’s bedridden.

Techno shrugs once, loosely, which Phil immediately realizes as his it’s not a big deal (it’s a big deal) shrug. The other leans back where he’s seated, in the chair meant for the desk at the back of the room. “Kid came snoopin’ around the stable while I was putting weapons away after training. Said he was bored, lookin’ for somethin’ to do. Said usually nobody was in there.”

“Okay,” says Phil, with growing enthusiasm inside. “And you talked to him?”

Techno narrows one eye. “I wouldn’t say we talked.” 

With a sigh, Phil sets his clothes down and turns to face him all the way, crossing his arms and rising to his full height. Even though he’s shorter than Techno, the other is seated; it works. “You yelled at him, and got us in trouble,” he finishes, and Techno rolls his eyes. 

“I did not yell. I did tell him he shouldn’t be hangin’ around there without someone watchin’ him.”

“And?”

“And he said I was watchin’ him just fine and tried to take a sword off the wall. Kid got so dizzy reachin’ up there that he fell over.” 

Phil exhales, a worried look taking his face by storm. Techno’s own expression shifts uncomfortably, and he looks like he wants to protest against Phil’s empathy, looks like he wants to interrupt. Phil isn’t sure what his next step should be, and it’s worrying. “Did you help him back to his room?” he asks quietly, and Techno swallows, glancing away and stalling. “Techno.” 

The man shrugs again, like it’s no big deal. Like it’s nothing. “I sat him down and taught him the parts of a sword.”

Oh. 

Shocked, Phil feels his brow raise into his hairline, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. “You what?” he asks, and then a smile pulls across his face. “You did talk to him.”

Techno’s eyes flash. “I’m a captain, not a babysitter,” he snaps, but Phil waltzes over to him, poking his shoulder with a teasing grin.

“A soft captain. You babysat that child, Technoblade, and you liked it.” 

“I did not like it, I’ll have you know, especially when he coughed all over me.” Techno crosses his arms, but his face displays exactly what he’s thinking. They have to act, and Phil knows it. If they don’t act now, Tommy will die, and Wilbur will spiral. And it shouldn’t have ever become their problem, but now that they’ve grown on him so much…

Now it is. He approaches the topic as carefully as possible. “They’re good kids,” he says softly. Techno doesn’t meet his eyes. “They’re good kids, and I don’t think they deserve what’s happening to them, Techno. You know I don’t.”

The man takes a breath. “I see right through you, you know,” he mutters flatly. “Tryin’ to make me feel all bad for the brats.”

Phil smiles apologetically, and Techno finally does look at him. “I like these boys, Techno,” he murmurs, and the other man huffs. “It’s different than what we’ve been doing in the past.”

“You’re supposed to like me more, so we can get the hell out of here,” he grumbles, but his face gives way, and he sets his jaw, lowering his voice. “So what, then? We really are gonna pick off the kid’s cabinet members? Has it been long enough that it won’t look…?”

The end of his question remains unsaid: suspicious. Phil exhales, stepping forward and lowering his voice to match Techno’s. “I convinced him to take the day off tomorrow,” he says quietly. “Not out of malicious intent; it just so happens to line up with our plans.” 

A look that Phil can’t place for once flits across Techno’s face. “You don’t need to excuse yourself to me.”

“Right,” Phil murmurs, “sorry. Frazzled.” Techno nods once, seeming to accept this explanation, and Phil goes on. “Wilbur stopped in the middle of a meeting today, so I will be carrying out the meeting with his council— and without him there.”

Techno gives him a look. “Wilbur, huh.”

“His Majesty,” Phil waves him off with a breath. He touches Techno’s shoulder, trying to stress the importance of the insinuated plan. “But you’re listening, right? Tomorrow is the time. I think it’s been long enough. Have you got anything on hand, or will you need to go out and…?”

Techno hums, musing. “I could scrape something up from my bags.” Phil is simultaneously exasperated and relieved, thankful at least that Techno comes way more prepared than he has to be, because on the off chance it does pay off, it pays off well. 

“Good to know you snuck poisonous substances into a castle we didn’t need them in,” he says playfully, and Techno gives him a look, pushing his shoulder.

“It’s not the first time. You told me I couldn’t bring the dagger.”

—

A month after the new guys get here, Tommy spends the morning throwing up everything inside his body and then some. 

He’s in the midst of it when he’s brought breakfast. Retching, he waves his guards off— he’s not been hungry lately, anyway— and they set the plate down and leave again, so Tommy settles to grip the edge of the bucket more forcefully with the knowledge that nobody’s coming to make it go away. 

Wilbur’s really busy. Tommy sees him less and less lately, which is probably why he brought the new guys, but it still hurts. When he is alone on the floor of his bedroom, puking so hard he convulses, there is no longer anyone left to push his hair out of his face, dab at the sheen of sweat on his skin, help him change into clean clothes.

So Tommy’s hair gets stringy and mats to his forehead, hanging in his eyes, and his nightshirts remain sweat soaked, and he does not change every morning like he should. 

He misses his mother, his father; he misses those that would have made time to pick him up off of the floor. He misses the way his mother would have dried his tears and his father would have searched far and wide across the kingdom for a cure to whatever has been ailing him for months. Tears have just begun to litter his face, a sob wrenching from him, when there’s a stiff knock at the door. 

A gasp frees him from the prison of sick, and Tommy coughs so hard it sends shivers through his whole body, unpleasant hot-and-cold goosebumps raising over his arms. Anticipating Wilbur, he clears his throat and calls, “Come in!” though it still sounds raspy and disjointed.

At least it was better a month ago when he needed to make an impression, good enough to sit up straight. Since then, though, things have felt worse and worse, and Tommy’s begun to get scared. He hunches and prays that the nausea will pass soon, turning his face up with hope written across his expression, eager to see his brother this morning.

Instead, Technoblade ducks into the room, eyes shadowed and brow furrowing slightly when he steps further inside and catches sight of Tommy on the floor.

Wide-eyed and humiliated, Tommy scrambles to his hands and knees, shoving the sick bucket behind him. The two of them have interacted a few times before— mostly times where Tommy’s in places he shouldn’t be, since he’s so sick, though the stable was the most adventurous by far. Sneaking out that far nearly had him face down in the grass on the way there, but it was a good day, and Wilbur didn’t know, and he did make it— only to be met with Technoblade scolding him. 

The sword lesson was cool, though, he’s gotta admit, so that redeems him slightly. While he took to liking Phil instantly, Tommy thinks maybe Technoblade isn’t as bad as he first assumed.

“Hello? Do you need something, are you lost? Sorry, um…” His face heats as he glances down at himself. He’s a wreck. He’s disgusting. Wilbur would be upset. “Sorry.”

Technoblade squints. “No,” he replies, startling Tommy like he always does with his voice. It’s low, rumbling; on second thought, Tommy’s not surprised to hear it from the man, what with how intimidating he looks standing over him like that in the doorway. “I heard you gaggin’ and moanin’ from the hallway, Your Highness,” he drawls; Tommy’s pretty sure the formal address is sarcastic. He kind of likes it that way. “Thought I’d make sure you weren’t dyin’.” 

Tommy swallows bile, stomach rolling uncomfortably. Feeling faint, he blinks, forcing his eyes back open. “Uh, no,” he responds, swaying slightly where he sits. “No, I’m fine.” It couldn’t be farther from the truth, but it feels wrong to have the man in his room.

Technoblade looks around his room, brow knitting further. “There isn’t anyone in here with you?”

Tommy blinks. “No?” He gets to his knees and then regrets it, blanching. He grips the edge of his bed and pitches forward, barely catching himself from crashing against the ground. He sucks in a breath, carefully resets himself to sit, and then swipes at his cheeks, remembering the all-too-visible tears. “I’m okay by myself.”

Technoblade raises an eyebrow. “After that? I don’t think so. I saw you in the barn, runt.”

Tommy’s expression dissolves. He doesn’t like the scary man, he decides. The scary man is shit. “I’m the prince here, not you. And would you quit it with that runt thing? You should get out before I complain to Wilbur,” he bites, though his throat rasps, and his stomach rolls again. “I could get— get you fi—”

He pauses, a certain look crashing over him, and then turns, heaving into the bucket. Faintly, he hears Technoblade’s complaint— oh, gross, kid— but he’s too far gone to really think about it, lost again to the sickness that turns his entire body to rubber. Tommy doesn’t come back this time when he’s done, head feeling like it’s underwater as he pants and sweats and chokes out another cough—

And then strong arms lift him up off the floor, gathering his torso and legs and dumping him back into his bed albeit the weak kicking Tommy’s trying. For all he hates being carried, it’s like ice down his shirt, dragging him back to reality. 

The blond looks up sharply, though his actions blend and look slower and less aggressive, but Technoblade just stands there expectantly. “More comfortable than the floor, isn’t it?”

Tommy crosses his arms over his chest, hugging himself. Reluctantly, he nods, and Techno exhales through his nose, amusement playing at his lips. 

“Should empty this nasty shit. Stuff.” His eyes trail to it, and Tommy can see the shift to displeasure clear as day on his face. Then, though, Technoblade smooths his expression out, and it’s like it never happened. Like it’s gone. Nothing is there anymore; his eyes are unreadable.

Curiously, he watches. Technoblade did it in the barn, too. He’s only ever seen Wilbur do that before. 

“Your brother not around?” Technoblade asks, crouching and creeping forward a step like he thinks the bucket will attack him, and Tommy lays back against his pillows, feeling faint.

“He’s busy.”

Technoblade looks like he already knew that. “No guards? Nothing?”

“They came earlier. They’re used to it,” Tommy mumbles, exhausted even though he’s barely been awake very long. He avoids Technoblade’s gaze like the plague, and the man loiters by the edge of his bed. When Tommy finally looks up, the man seems conflicted. “You can leave. It’s okay.”

“You’re just a kid,” says Technoblade with a sigh, and Tommy shrugs. 

“Yeah. A sick kid. And your name is Technoblade. So what?”

Technoblade stares at him from his position crouched on the floor. “Call me Techno,” he replies, and then makes a minute face, almost like he’s disgusted with himself for saying it. 

A shit-eating grin jumps to his face. “Only if you call me Tommy.”

Techno’s expression shifts, and again, Tommy can’t read it off him. Then the man moves off the ground, sitting on the edge of his bed, and Tommy looks up at him through drooping lashes. Techno regards him with a peculiar, confused kind of gaze, and Tommy feels just as studied as he always has. “If I may,” he precedes, seeming annoyed that he has to do so, “how long have you been sick, Your Highness?”

It seems surprisingly respectful. Tommy hates that everything is still Your Highness, but he knows Wilbur wouldn’t be happy with anything less, anyway. From what Tommy gets of this guy, he doesn’t seem the type to bow very easily. Tommy gets the feeling there’s more to him than just a captain. “I dunno,” Tommy replies quietly. Inhale. Exhale. Think about Wilbur. Nevermind, that didn’t help. “Few months.”

“Months?” Techno presses. “How soon after your parents…?”

Tommy’s eyes flash, and for a moment, he’s reinvigorated. “That’s none of your stupid business,” he bites back, and before Techno can start to reply, Tommy begins to cough again. It carries on for far too long, and when he can finally breathe, when he finally gets a break, he whimpers against his will and then catches the way Techno’s eyes flicker afterwards. Maybe it’s better if he answers. “Right after.” 

Techno seems stricken by this information. “Your Highness,” he begins again, but Tommy can feel it: he’s losing his consciousness. “Who feeds you?”

“Guards,” Tommy mutters, an easy, one word reply. “There,” he says, gesturing towards the plate with food he left on the table next to the bed. It’s a vibrant blue and red, colors so bright that it reminds Tommy of his wealth. He doesn’t like it. “Nice plate. Mmm…” 

Technoblade leans forward, squinting at the plate of uneaten food. “You’re a handful,” he mutters, but it’s less sharp and more… thoughtful. Tommy watches sluggishly as Techno drags a finger along the edge. 

“I’m the best,” Tommy mumbles in subdued retaliation. “Ever. Shut up, Techno.”

Then he closes his eyes, and Techno doesn’t like that.

“Your Highness,” says Techno, after Tommy starts to sink into his pillows, and it sounds real this time, or realer than before, at least. Tommy, slow and sluggish and feeling dead, doesn’t want to reply. “Your Highness,” the man repeats, and Tommy feels the weight on the bed lift as he stands quickly and turns to look over him. “Tommy.”

At that, Tommy forces his mouth to move, forces his eyes to open and focus on the man. “Y’called me Tommy,” he slurs happily, reaching up and making a grab for his sleeve. “Like I asked.”

Technoblade stares down at him, seeming unnerved for a man who was so stone cold before. “You aren’t well,” he murmurs, and Tommy laughs. He laughs and laughs and laughs and laughs until it hurts, and he starts to cough, and he coughs and he coughs and his whole body aches and then he’s crying, gripping to Technoblade’s sleeve with all the strength remaining in his little body, all of what’s left of him going towards his hold. 

“I think,” Tommy rasps, and it’s terrible, so terrible, he just met Technoblade a little bit ago and barely even likes him, but he’d take help from anyone right now. Every organ in his body feels like it’s splitting apart. “I think I really am dying.” 

Technoblade seems even more unsettled by this news, reaching forward to wrap a hand around his forearm. “What,” he mutters flatly, shaking Tommy’s arm. “What— what?” There’s a pause, and Tommy’s vision blurs, everything dancing in hues of yellow. “Kid, hey,” says Technoblade, and Tommy turns his eyes on him. “Tommy.”

“This’nt your job,” Tommy mumbles, and turns his head to cough. When he’s done, he finds that he doesn’t have the strength to turn it back. “Wil said you’re a captain, not a babysitter. You don’t even know me.”

“I don’t think I’d keep my job if your brother found out I left you to die,” the man deadpans, and swallows. “And I know you well enough to know you don’t deserve to.”

“I’m ten, Techno,” Tommy chokes, still managing to insinuate the man is a moron with his tone even as he grows more and more lightheaded. Playful contempt gives way to fear, though, and Tommy’s face drags down, fright sparking in his chest. “No ten year old deserves to die.” 

“Stay awake,” Techno says, more of an order, but Tommy can’t follow it. It’s hard to breathe. Again, he feels nauseous; Tommy’s fingers loosen on Technoblade’s shirt, and he hiccups once.

“You’re not the person I thought you were,” he mumbles, voice shaky, and Techno doesn’t answer. “It’s a good thing. You aren’t that scary after all.”

“Kid,” Techno says desperately, but Tommy stares up at the ceiling, distant and afraid as his mind curves in on itself. “Tommy?”

“I’m scared,” he whispers, and Techno’s grip tightens on his arm, grounding him for the few moments he’s remained conscious.

“You’ll be okay,” insists Techno, and a ghost of a smile passes over Tommy’s face. 

“Tell Wilby sorry.”

Just like that, the room seems to flood with energy. “I’m not gonna tell him anything,” Technoblade responds quickly with a grunt, leaning down to scoop him up off of the bed again with a sense of urgency that doesn’t feel right for him. “You’re gonna tell him yourself. Come on.” 

Tommy giggles at that, nestling his head in the crook of the not-so-scary man’s elbow just in time for his vision to fade out. He’s cradled, feeling the way Techno is gentle with his limbs, and Tommy settles into his arms, tears streaked across his face. “Goodnight.”

—

There are multiple things wrong with the situation at hand. 

Techno is quick to move down the hall, eyes wide as he cradles the husk of a child in his arms. The boy still smells like vomit, and Techno pulls him tighter against his chest, ignoring the voice in his head that tells him Phil was right. This boy is dying in his arms, and Techno needs to figure out what the fuck to do about it. There are potions in his bag, maybe, but fuck, he needs to get to the King first, needs to ignore the looks he’s getting from guards as he races down the hall with the child and focus on getting there faster. 

Techno brushes the boy’s hair out of his face, an unwelcome grimace stretching across his lips, and Tommy stirs, looking pained. Techno doesn’t like what it does to his chest. 

He continues on, weaving around corners and through hallways, and just a handful of minutes later, Techno arrives at the room the king uses for his meetings, panting. He tries to knock, juggling with the kid in his arms, but he receives no answer. Narrowing his eyes, he listens in, hearing shouting from inside the room. Dismissing the possibility of consequence, Techno decides to barge in without knocking instead.

It’s like the entire room is on fire. Wilbur is pressed to the wall, eyes wide, and Phil is standing in front of him with a grim look on his face. At the table, one of the councilmen is choking, clawing at his own neck and gurgling. While death isn’t something that bothers him, he suddenly feels conscious that the kid in his arms may die in a disgraced room such as this. 

But thinking back to the plate in Tommy’s bedroom, the way the puzzle pieces clicked together, Techno feels no remorse.

The poison he and Phil laced the cabinet’s food with ranged in time depending on the person. Only one of the men died the first day. A good few died a couple of days after that. Now this one’s going out— and it looks like there won’t be many left. The people, including the King, are assuming it’s a freak accident, a rapidly spreading fatal disease, which is perfect.

The King looks frazzled and unkempt, shadows haunting his face as he watches the death play out in front of him, and Techno does feel a sliver of guilt, forcing this kid to watch as his board of officials is picked off one by one through his own doing. The boy is frozen to the spot, and Techno glances down to Tommy, whose face darkens in the loud room. 

Techno lifts his head. “Phil!” 

That does it. He catches Phil’s attention instantly, who pales three shades and grabs the King’s arm. The world seems to slow as Wilbur takes notice of who is standing in the doorway, and the choking councilman, with the others crowded around him trying desperately to help, is forgotten.

A shriek pierces the air, the kind of sound that only someone who is still a child can make. Techno blinks, and Wilbur is barreling into him in an instant, his hands hovering and his face already littered with tears, wails pouring from him. “Oh, Tommy, Tommy, fuck,” Wilbur sobs, voice breaking as his his head lowers to his brother’s chest, “no, no, no. Please, not like this.”

Techno meets eyes with Phil, who questions him intensely under his gaze. Rapidly, Techno realizes Phil is accusing him. In that moment they have a silent conversation with their eyes, and Techno sets his jaw. I would not poison this child, but I know who would. 

He pulls himself back to focus. “He’s not dead yet,” Techno forces out, and Wilbur’s head whips up, his face already a blotchy quivering wreck. 

“What?” 

“I said he’s not dead yet,” Techno snaps back, turning and pulling the limp boy from Wilbur’s grip. The boy-king comes hollering after him, and Phil grabs his arm in an attempt to calm him, but he yanks it away and yells at the man before approaching Techno from behind, pulling at his arms hysterically. Techno can’t even make out what he’s saying, for fuck’s sakes. 

“I have potions,” Techno calls over him, louder than he’s ever been, and surprisingly, the King falls silent. Techno starts to run again, beckoning him forward with a jerk of his head, and Wilbur follows, Phil close at their heels.

They reach Techno’s quarters easily, the dim room a gruesomely perfect setting for a death. Instead, though, Techno immediately lays the boy out over the bed and dives for his things. Wilbur kneels with his brother, stroking his hair, and Techno yanks through the supplies he brought, Phil kneeling on the floor by him to help him look. 

“Told you I’d need to pack this much,” Techno grunts, heart pounding uncharacteristically quickly, and Phil sets a hand against his arm, squeezing.

Phil has a disgustingly soft spot for Wilbur. Techno is beginning to fear that he has a disgustingly soft spot for the runt— in which case he’d better move quickly, because he can’t have a soft spot for a dead boy. 

Techno finally pulls the glass bottles out and flies across the room to the opposite side of the bed from Wilbur, who has quieted down and is holding one of Tommy’s hands tightly in both of his own, forehead pressed to the edge of Techno’s bed. The man shifts Tommy, whose little chest is barely rising and falling, and props him up to sit so he can pour potions down his throat without choking him. 

Techno pulls a potion of weakness from his arms first, uncorking it. He’s certain nobody has tried this yet; potions are not common in this kingdom, Techno has noticed, and surely nobody has attempted to weaken a sick kid. Wilbur lifts his head and nearly throws himself across the bed trying to stop him, eyes wide, but Techno holds him back, grabbing his arm and speaking before Wilbur can interject. “He needs to throw up,” Techno scolds harshly, and Wilbur sits back, stunned into obliging.

“Throw up?”

Phil approaches, murmuring something to Wilbur and settling a hand against his back, but Techno tunes him out, bracing Tommy’s back with a hand and tipping the potion up to his lips. 

The blond’s body trembles, and Wilbur’s breath grows more labored, more frantic, but then Tommy coughs, splutters, heaves— and just as Techno said, he vomits (all over Techno’s bedspread, which is fantastic, but that can be dealt with). Immediately after, his eyes fly open, and he gasps for a full breath, chest rising. Bewildered and disoriented, Tommy looks around rapidly, and Techno presses a hand against his shoulder.

Lead poisoning. The boy was being fed on plates with lead in them this entire time, no doubt organized by the council. Techno is no stranger to lead poisoning, having inflicted it upon many who deserved it— but this boy, this poor child, does not.

“Don’t move,” he murmurs over Wilbur’s silent sobbing, and Tommy nods, glancing down to his brother. Techno sees the moment Tommy starts to get scared again, the moment he realizes he’s in great danger; his eyes well up with tears, and his breath grows shakier, thicker. “Hey. Hey, runt,” Techno adds, snapping his fingers, and Tommy’s uncertain gaze is drawn to him.

He presents a potion of healing this time, swirling it in its bottle. “I need you to drink this,” he murmurs, and Tommy swallows, opening and closing his mouth.

Finally, with a wince, he nods. Techno hands the bottle to him, leaving another by his side, and then stands from his bedside. No matter how much he wants to stick around, Wilbur is Tommy’s brother; they need a moment, surely. 

Winded, Techno stands next to Phil, trying to catch his breath. The man stares at him with that look, the one he gets, and Techno grumbles under his breath. “You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me.”

Phil grabs his arm gently. “You saved his life,” he murmurs, eyes glossy, and Techno wants to shrug him off, wants to push his arm away and turn and make it no big deal, but he lets out a breath instead, eyes finding Tommy as he struggles to drink the potion and Wilbur as he helps him, guiding it back up to his lips. 

“Yeah,” he finally murmurs, exhaling. “I guess so.”

“You care for him,” Phil supplies helpfully, in a whisper, and Techno’s chest tightens. He doesn’t agree nor disagree, simply watching the scene unfold in front of him. His quarters are quieter, more comfortable; this will be good for Tommy. Though he’s not sure when he started caring about what’s good for Tommy and feeling guilty about the horrified looks on Wilbur’s face. 

“We have to make sure we get rid of the rest of the cabinet,” Phil finally says, quietly, and Techno glances up. 

“There were only a few left in there,” he supplies far too quickly, and a shadow passes over Phil’s face. He seems to mull on it for a second, but finally, reluctantly, he nods once. “The King will be able to replace them, anyway.” 

Phil smiles, tilting his head. “You want to stick around long enough to see it happen, eh?”

Techno’s face pulls into a tight frown; he crosses his arms. “I didn’t say that,” he protests, but Phil’s already got the look, and he already knows Techno has saved Tommy’s life— there’s not much to it other than that. 

These boys, Techno realizes, deserved better than the cards they were dealt— so Techno and Phil wiped their deck clean and dealt them a new hand. 

Techno comes forward, hand brushing Wilbur’s shoulder, and the other looks up, face flooded with relief now that Tommy’s talking and laughing again. “Thank you,” he murmurs before Techno can say anything, and then he stands, throwing his arms around Technoblade. “You saved his life,” Wilbur breathes shakily into his chest, and Techno notices the way he trembles. “Thank you. Technoblade, thank you.”

Techno buffers, glancing wide-eyed to Phil, who just grins. Techno doesn’t do hugs. His arms hover awkwardly, and he clears his throat; even Tommy gives him a smug look from over Wilbur’s shoulder, to which Techno returns with the evil eye. When the King finally pulls back, Techno exhales. 

“Call me Techno,” he replies awkwardly, “and you’re welcome. Phil and I… are going to check on the cabinet members still alive in the meeting room.”

Looking exhausted, Wilbur nods. “Please, call me Wilbur. Thank you,” he sighs again, sagging into the floor by the side of the bed again. “My apologies. This— this is definitely above your pay grade. I fear I may be indebted to the both of you for the rest of my life.”

Phil shakes his head. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he replies, a kind smile pulling at his face. “We aren’t doing this for the pay grade.”

“Speak for yourself,” Techno snorts, moving to join Phil by the door. Dramatic ass. One glance back tells him Tommy is still looking after him, a triumphant expression pasted across his face. 

“Don’t get smart with me, runt,” Techno shoots back, pointing at him. “You stay alive while I’m gone. And for fuck’s sake, put new blankets on my bed, that’s disgusting,” he mutters, gesturing to the sick and then ducking out the door with Phil. 

They move down the hallway quietly, Techno feeling for the dagger tucked into his waistband that he snagged from his room, and their footsteps echo against the walls. He doesn’t want to think about what will happen after this, after they finish their work, but it haunts him anyway: where will you go, o mighty assassin? 

He can tell Phil wants to stay. Techno has never done such a thing before, but perhaps if he’s careful… The images of Wilbur’s grief-stricken face and Tommy’s delirious eyes dance in his head, and he sets his jaw. They’re just kids. They’re just boys. Nothing has ever appealed to his sense of guilt more.

“You do care for them,” Phil points out, breaking the silence, and Techno groans, running a hand over his face. 

“Shut up, old man. Let’s go kill the guys that actually deserve it.”