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The first time Tommy shoots a gun, he is sixteen years old.
It’s cold and sleek under his hands, a metal barrel that’s short and stout and a trigger that gives far too easily. He’s not expecting no resistance at all when he slams his pointer down on the little slot of metal– he’s expecting a click or something, a pressure he has to push against, but in the end all he does is squeezes and the gun fires. The knockback gets him, pushing him back a step and making him wobble on his feet. It sends fiery pain blooming up his arm where the hound had bit him.
Speaking of the hound. Tommy fires a gun for the first time at sixteen and misses, a spray of dirt indicating he’d shot the soil just to the left of the menacing dog with red eyes and spikes coming out of its back instead of the creature itself.
Not good. Really, really not good, considering it is coming towards him with bared teeth and a growl that shakes the earth. Tommy, because he is a Big Man and big men are in touch with their emotions and feelings, shrieks and drops the gun. It fires again as it hits the ground, bullet going wide, and Tommy curls up with his arms in front of his face and prepares for the shredding pain of teeth in his flesh as the hellhound advances.
It never reaches that point. Before it can so much as touch him, Tommy hears the crack of a weapon, the thud of something big hitting the soft soil in front of him, and then his own heavy breathing ringing in his ears.
The bite never comes. Tommy pries one eye open (when did he close them?) and finds the hellhound two inches away from his foot, eyes glazed over with white, blood and drool spilling from its mouth as it twitches on the ground.
“Holy shit,” Tommy breathes. There’s an arrow sticking out of the creature’s head, sunk in all the way to the feathered bit at the end. He stares, and then someone clears their throat and his gaze snaps upwards to find a man standing there with a crossbow in his hands.
He’s tall. It’s the first thing he notes with little surprise– anyone who’s survived this long in a world of monsters and otherworldly creatures needs to have some kind of advantage. He’s probably a couple inches taller than Tommy, long hair pulled back against his scalp in a pink (pink!) braid, square glasses on his face. He’s got a bag over his shoulder and smaller packs that line his legs, entirely practical. His boots are sturdy and his stance is set wide, eyes still on the hound crumpled in front of Tommy as the echo of the crossbow fades off into nothing. Then, his gaze snaps to the gun on the ground, and then upwards to where Tommy stands. He can see the way his eyes catch on his cut-up arm, but before the man can even open his mouth or get a word out, Tommy is scrambling forward and snatching up his weapon.
“Well then,” he says, breath coming out rushed and fast as he shakily ignores the way the blood running onto his palm makes the metal slippery. The adrenaline is fading now, and he begins to feel the throbbing pain in his bicep from where he’d cut himself running away from the beast. “Thanks,” he says, trying to hurry this encounter up. The man is watching him still, mouth shut and eyes quiet, the crossbow loaded in his hands. “Really appreciate it, big guy. Really do, I had it handled, of course, but you know what they say, the more the merrier. Again, thanks, I’ll be right on my way now–”
“Wait.” The guy’s voice is deep, monotone. Tommy freezes. He really hopes he won’t have to use the gun again, if it has any ammo left in it at all. He feels like a deer in headlights, stuck in his spot with his feet rooted to the dead leaves and dirt as the hellhound to their left starts steaming. The man squints at him. “Do you know how to use that?”
“What?” Tommy looks down at the gun in his hand. “I– of fucking course I do.”
“Clearly not. Keep your finger off the trigger,” the man says, ducking to the side and out of Tommy’s range. Tommy quickly does as he’s told, taking his pointer off the little piece of metal and pressing it against the cool side of the weapon instead, glancing down at it. “You can have the hound. Good luck. Don’t shoot yourself in the foot.”
“What?” Tommy asks, watching the man turn around and slip the crossbow onto a spot on his hip. He moves into the brush– the forest around them is made up of tall trees and ferns, smaller bushes and brush tickling Tommy’s hips and waist as he moves forward to follow the weird guy. He did just save Tommy’s life. And he looks like he knows what he’s doing, and as much as Tommy can lie about it he doesn’t, so he presses forward and keeps his eyes on the back of the man’s head in order not to lose sight of him in the greenery. He was kind of expecting to be robbed, so color him surprised when the man moves immediately to leave. “Wait, hold on.”
“You were just itchin’ to go,” the guy says over his shoulder.
“Yeah, but–” Tommy lets out a little frustrated noise. The man has a backpack. He wonders if he’s got bandages inside. Maybe he can scam him? “I’m lost.”
“Hm.” Pinky (so dubbed for his hair, Tommy has decided) turns around and eyes him, then the woods around. “Where are you from?”
“Nowhere,” Tommy says. It’s not a lie– he hasn’t got a place to go.
“Then you can’t be lost,” Pinky tells him, like Tommy’s an idiot, and turns once more to go. His arm twinges and he surges forward, keeping up to the man like a lost little puppy despite his pace quickening.
“Where are you from?” Tommy presses, keeping up fairly easily as Pinky trudges through the woods and the birds resume chirping over their heads. They’d stopped when the hound had found Tommy. That’s a good way to know if you’re in danger, he’s found. Everything gets real quiet, and you know to hide.
“None of your business,” Pinky says over his shoulder. “Now stop followin’ me.”
“You said I could have the hound. Why would I want it?” Tommy asks instead of listening to him. “It’s dead, innit?”
“Parts of creatures can be useful.” Pinky stops suddenly, and Tommy nearly slams into the man’s back before he turns around and squints down at him. They’re very close– incredibly close, actually, and Tommy stares up at him and holds his breath, eyes wide as he catches Pinky's gaze. Pinky, who’s actually Red, apparently, because his eyes are red. Tommy blinks frantically, and Pinky snaps his gaze across his face before glancing over Tommy’s shoulder, back towards where they’d left the hound. “You’re not taking it?”
“No?” Tommy asks, a bit of his disgust slipping out through his words. “That’s gross?”
“Oh, well, in that case–” Pinky steps neatly around Tommy, heading back in the direction of the hound’s body.
“You’re weird,” Tommy informs him.
“You’re the one followin’ me,” Pinky tosses out over his shoulder, and Tommy shuts his mouth because that’s true. They retrace their steps back to the hound. Pinky slips his bag off his shoulder and lets it hit the ground with a thump, unsheathing a knife from his hip at the same time. The weapon makes a disgusting noise as it enters the beast’s body, and Tommy watches from the sidelines as the man starts slowly butchering the creature, his hands and sleeves stained red within seconds. Neither of them speak for a while, Tommy circling the edge of the trampled clearing as blood soaks into the long grasses and ferns and the man works on skinning the creature. Occasionally, Tommy glances at his bag and his fingers itch– he’s still holding the gun. He could just–
“Don’t,” Pinky says, as Tommy’s hand reaches for the bag. He didn’t even turn around.
“I could shoot you,” Tommy says, voice wavering. He’s got the gun. Pinky’s shoulders go still, and then he looks back over his shoulder.
“Don’t,” he says again, and Tommy stays where he is, caught in motion with his hand still outstretched. “You’d miss.”
“I would not,” Tommy says indignantly.
“You would,” Pinky says, and then turns back to his work. The hound’s head twitches with phantom movement. Something squelches. “Your arm is hurt.”
“Why do you think I want the bag?” Tommy snaps. He can feel the fire burning through him from the bite, and he eyes the straps again. Maybe he couldn’t shoot him, but he could hit him–
“Heck,” Pinky grumbles, and there’s a thump as he slams the knife into the dirt. Tommy flinches backwards, scrambling for the nearest tree as the man reaches for his crossbow, but all he does is set it on the grass next to the knife and then grab his bag. Without looking at Tommy, Pinky rummages through the contents and then pulls out a few things, including a plastic container that seems to be stuffed with white cotton. He compiles a couple things– the container, a roll of stained but clean gauze, and some kind of faded squeezy tube– and then turns to set it on the ground closest to Tommy. “Here. Don’t use it all.”
And then, as though he’s not just extended an infinite kindness, he turns back and picks up the knife to continue cutting the hound’s head off.
Tommy stares at the medical supplies, and then Pinky. He creeps forward once more, and when Pinky doesn’t yell SURPRISE! and turn around to kill him as he gets closer, he reaches out and takes the bandages.
He leaves the gun on the ground by his side as he patches up his arm, wiping the majority of the blood away with his shirt hem to expose the gaping gashes left by the hound’s teeth. When he looks at the thing’s mouth, he can see his own blood there still, and he swallows back his nausea in order to smear the unlabelled cream (which smells like cloves) over the hurt, pack cotton and gauze on top, and then bandage it all together. It’s not the first time he’s done this, not the first time he’s done it one-handed either, and so he finishes fairly quickly. When he looks up, he finds Pinky watching him, the hardened and spiked skin of the hound sitting neatly folded on the ground beside him and the gross body rolled slightly into the brush. He’s got one of its teeth in his hands, turning it over between his fingers as he watches Tommy. Tommy blinks at him, and then he looks away, both of them quiet.
Tommy sets the remaining supplies on the ground in front of him, and uses his foot to push them closer to the man. “Thanks,” he says quietly.
“Is that what you wanted?” Pinky asks, reaching out to take the items back.
“What’s your name?” Tommy demands, curiosity burning through him. It’s been a while since he’s met a real person, and even longer since he met someone sane enough to hold conversation. That’s not saying this guy is sane, necessarily (his hands are coated in viscera) but he’s better than most.
Nobody had expected a storybook end of the world. Tommy least of all– but he thinks he’s doing alright for himself. He’s a fast runner and good at hiding, and that’s what’s important these days.
Pinky is quiet. A survival skill, but not necessary right now. The birds are chirping.
“I’m Tommy,” Tommy says when the man doesn’t reply.
“Is this gonna be it, then?” Pinky asks, turning to look at him again. His eyes are less red now– faded, more a maroonish brown than a bright crimson.
“What?” Tommy asks. Pinky is not making any sense right now. He’s looking at Tommy like he’s a final piece of a puzzle, some kind of answer to a question he hadn’t known he’d been asking. After a second, he exhales heavily, blowing a stray piece of pink hair out of his face and then lifting a hand to tuck it behind his ear. His fingers leave behind a smudge of red on his face.
“I’m Technoblade,” he says, instead of answering Tommy. Tommy stares at him– then smiles, because Technoblade is a real living person and he might be weird but he’s not pushing Tommy away.
“That’s a weird name,” Tommy tells him cheerfully, and Technoblade just sighs, exasperation plastered onto his expression.
(Underneath, it looks like he’s smiling.)
Technoblade– Techno for short, when Tommy tries to call him Tech he gets swiped at– insists that Tommy gives him his gun if they’re going to be traveling together for a little while. Tommy has no goal in mind; he’d entered the forest with the intent to not leave the forest, actually, because even when the possibility of death had seemed terrifying it was better than what lay outside the woods. So Techno insists he takes Tommy’s gun (promises to teach him how to use it better) and gives him a big knife instead, and tells him they’re going somewhere safe.
Tommy tells him that’s impossible. Techno just shrugs and starts walking, forcing Tommy to keep up with him. He still thinks it’s impossible.
The world had ended when Tommy was twelve. Four years ago now. Not that Tommy’s been able to keep track, really, bouncing from place to place and surviving where he can. News stations and doomsday soothsayers had claimed the end of all things would come from climate change or societal collapse– religious crazies insisted God would strike the sinners from the Earth.
No one had expected magic. Magic wasn’t real, until it was, and suddenly things were thrown into chaos: creatures from storybooks brought to life, magic coursing across the landscape and shifting the energy of the core center of the world. Like the hellhound Tommy had been fighting when he’d met Techno, creatures mauled and destroyed and took. He’d seen mermaids from a distance, once, packs of wild minotaur roaming the streets of abandoned neighborhoods, had killed a banshee that screamed so loud he’d gone deaf for three days afterwards, avoided bridges and mountainsides alike to keep out of the way of trolls, and cowered under a porch one time, barely daring to breathe as a creature with a lion, snake, and goat head stalked his scent.
When people thought magic they didn’t think apocalypse . But things have changed since then.
As they walk, Tommy can feel the changes lingering even now. The forest around them hums with life and energy, trees whispering through their leaves and bark when Tommy drags his hand over them. Technoblade isn’t immune to these whispers, either– at one point on their trek, he stops and tells Tommy to crouch down and cover his ears. He does, and both of them watch with wide eyes as something huge and lumbering passes by in the distance. When Tommy takes his hands off his ears after it’s gone, they pop like he’s just climbed 5,000 feet in altitude.
Technoblade seems to know what he’s doing, at least. It’s comforting, especially since Tommy’s been winging it the past four years.
“You attach the rope to the tree,” he explains, showing Tommy the snare trap and the dead rabbit with four eyes stuck in it. That’s apparently why he’d found Tommy in the first place– he’d been doing a round of traps in order to stock up food for the upcoming winter. “Be careful not to disturb the run, though, or the animal can be diverted.”
“The run?” Tommy asks, holding the rope in his hands when Techno passes it over, looping it around his good shoulder.
“The path,” Techno elaborates, turning and pointing to show him. “Where the animals run.” When Tommy looks hard enough, he can see it– the slight dent in the brush where the creatures have come by before.
“Why aren’t we being careful now?” he asks, turning back to watch Techno clip the rabbit onto his belt.
“This guy,” Techno says, patting the fur. “They know, now. We give them time to forget before setting another one here. A couple months. Maybe longer.”
“Months, huh?” Tommy asks, and Techno turns, raising a brow at him.
“Yes,” he says. “Months.”
“Think you can deal with me that long?” Tommy prods, picking up his metaphorical stick and shoving it right into Techno’s back. “Apparently I’m very annoying. The most annoying, some might say, in fact, when you first meet me–”
“I don’t like to plan into the future,” Techno interrupts him loudly, looking back down the run as Tommy grins widely. “But yes, months.” He shifts and they keep walking, the sun never dipping farther than a touch beyond the horizon as Techno heads towards it, Tommy keeping up at his back, grinning the whole way.
He grows quite accustomed to the back of Techno’s head, glimpses of his cheek and neck, shoulders and hair. They travel single file, feet crunching the leaves underneath and Techno’s boots clearing them a path. They skirt a marsh, because apparently Tommy’s shoes wouldn’t be able to handle the damp conditions, and argue about everything. Techno’s witty but awkward, voice lilting and catching on words sometimes as he speaks them– not a stutter, but close to it. Tommy, on the other hand, tries to make up for the months of silence he’d been surrounded by before Techno had saved him. Talking makes the hours pass by easier, at least for him. He tells Techno about his old life, video games he’d liked and the real-life counterparts of monsters from them that he’d seen. Some of them he’d fought, too, and Techno has the decency to sound impressed when Tommy details his victories. Techno doesn’t share nearly enough about his own story contrast to Tommy's oversharing, but Tommy learns details anyways.
They’re walking through reeds now, thin and brittle and so thick Techno has to cut through them with a machete he’d pulled out of his bag. Their pace is slower due to it, and so Tommy lingers behind Techno, giving him distance to use the blade and still be close enough to use the trail he’s blazing. The reeds are green and fresh and pointy, and Tommy keeps an arm up to push them aside. Only once they reach a more lush area of wilderness does he let his arm and guard down, Techno still machete-ing even as it gets easier to walk.
“How do you know so much about them?” Tommy asks at some point. “The monsters?”
“A lot of them are Greek, for one,” Techno grunts. “I was big into reading.”
“I wasn’t,” Tommy tells him. Techno snorts.
“I can tell,” he says. “But yeah, I was a big reader, Greek myths especially.”
“Know any good ones?” Tommy asks, and Techno shrugs.
“Plenty,” he says. “Not as much anymore. I’ve been busy.”
“Aw, really?” Tommy asks, tipping his head and sticking his foot into Techno’s footprint he’d left behind, matching the size of their feet. His are slightly smaller, but he’s still got time to grow. Hell yeah. He’ll have the biggest fucking feet in the world by the time he’s done growing. “Not much of a reader anymore? You got dumber?”
“Well somebody opened a portal to hell,” Techno says, swinging his machete high. Tommy watches as it comes down and slashes them a path through the brush. "And now the world is all upside down. It’s not exactly conducive to studying mythos."
“You say that like you know the guy,” Tommy says with a nervous laugh.
Techno snorts. “Something like that,” he says, and leaves it at that. Tommy is quiet for a few seconds while that information absorbs.
“What?!” he yelps. Ahead of him, Techno sighs and stops walking, turning slightly to face him. Tommy sputters– “You– I–, we, I mean– you know the guy? Personally?”
“Yes,” Techno says briskly. “He was my twin brother.”
And then he turns and continues walking. Tommy gapes.
“No no no no no, wait, hold on,” he says as that processes, stumbling forward and then jogging a few steps to catch up. “You can’t just leave me with that. Your twin brother opened the portal to hell that ended the world?”
“Yes, keep up,” Techno says, smacking another stray vine.
“Are you shitting me?” Tommy asks, astounded. Techno sighs again.
“No,” he says. “I am one-hundred percent, entirely and utterly, and also unfortunately, dead serious.”
Tommy has been around the block more than a few times. He’s not the best at social cues, but Techno is also a pretty awkward guy too, and Tommy thinks he’s at least good at picking up on if someone is lying to him or not. He scours the back of Techno’s head like it’ll hold all the answers, but he just finds pink flyaways sticking to tan skin from how sweaty the man is. Ew. He sounds sincere, however, and that’s kind of what matters. The exhaustion with which he says the word “unfortunately” is also kind of telling as to the truth of the statement.
“Where is he now?” Tommy asks, because Techno has now unwittingly opened the floodgates of his curiosity. “Why did he do it? Did he mean to do it? ‘Cause like, I think it’s more forgivable if he didn’t mean to–”
“I don’t know where he is,” Techno deadpans. “I don’t know why he did it. And I can’t answer that third question.”
“Because I’m right or because it’s complicated?” Tommy asks.
“Legal reasons, actually,” Techno fires back wryly.
“There are no lawyers anymore?”
“There are lawyers in my heart.”
“Well, my lawyer is better than yours, and it’s telling you to give it up and tell me the truth.”
“The lawyers aren’t real. I’m not explaining things I don’t have to to you.”
Tommy groans, tipping his head back as the questions eat him up from the inside. “Please, Techno. I’m so bored.”
“You’ve been annoying me the past hour,” the older man points out, turning to glare at Tommy lightly. Something off in the bush rustles, and Tommy’s gaze flicks to the leaves and then back, opening his mouth. “Stop telling me you’re bored when clearly–”
In a wild rush of black and gray fur, something leaps out of the foliage and attaches itself to Techno’s back. The man hardly flinches and Tommy lets out a very manly scream, stumbling back a half step before fumbling for the weapons on his hip. Techno himself is practically bending half over at the waist as he shoves his elbow back into the creature’s side, or– face? Tommy can’t tell from the angle he’s at. A blood-curdling scream echoes through the air, and Tommy resists the urge to clap his hands over his ears and instead snags a knife off his belt. Techno himself is shouting something at him, but Tommy can’t hear it over the creature (which is still clinging to Techno with long claws that leave dark, red marks on his skin) so he does the best thing he can: with an unsheathed knife in hand, he tries to jump on the creature himself.
It’s a weird, three-person piggyback; Tommy is attempting to pull the thing off Techno and get a grip on it himself, all while the monster is gouging at Techno and screeching like the hell demon it is. The thing’s got a goat-like head, big leathery wings on the back of it that flap like crazy whenever Tommy gets too close, and a whip-like tail with a pointed end that lashes out as well. He gets a few good stabs at it, but he’s scared of hitting Techno too so he keeps the knife at a safe distance from the thrashing duo.
“What do I do?!” Tommy shouts over the screeching. “Techno, what should I do??”
“I don’t know,” Techno shouts back, and then lets out a pained noise as the thing tears into his back. “Grab it!”
Tommy tried that. The lashing tail and wings kept him from doing much– wait. The tail.
He gets an idea, and it’s kind of dumb, but…
It takes a few tries, a few staggering steps from Techno and a valiant attempt to slam the thing into a tree trunk before Tommy finally manages to get his hand around the thing’s tail. It’s scaly and long and wiry, cutting into his palm when he grabs it and the thing keeps trying to move. He drops his knife in favor of grabbing it with both hands and with one big tug, pulls.
The creature wails at a pitch higher than anything Tommy’s ever heard. He pulls harder anyways, watching as the creature lets go of Techno and turns around with its beady red eyes set on him. The pupils are elongated like a goats– it’s freaky as fuck. And it’s looking at him with a large amount of anger.
In one smooth movement, Tommy finds a second knife on his belt and slashes upwards, separating tail from demon.
The thing wails once more, thrashing as it turns around and releases Techno. Tommy staggers backwards as it follows him, desperately trying to keep out of the grasp of its long reaching claws when suddenly, it gives one final burst of speed with its wings. Then it’s in front of him and he’s staring up at it with wide eyes, terror coursing through him as the creature opens its mouth and leans down to scream at him–
A bullet carves through its head, jerking it to the side and sending it crumpling to the ground.
Techno leans against a tree, smoking gun in hand, mouth open slightly as he pants. He’s bleeding from multiple cuts and gouges, shirt shredded to fucking pieces in the back. Tommy stares at him, then down at the dead demon on the ground. Techno adjusts his aim and fires three more times, pauses, and then fires once more. The body jerks with each hit, and Tommy raises his arm to his mouth, inhaling hard.
“For good measure,” Techno spits, and then pulls the trigger one last time. The gunshots ring in Tommy’s ears.
“Holy shit, man,” Tommy rasps. There’s a twin whine in his hearing from the gunshots and the screaming, and he glances back up at Techno. “Holy– what is that thing?”
“Some kind of devil,” Techno says, straightening up a bit and holstering the gun. He shambles forward, kicking a foot out and connecting it with the weird, double-jointed legs of the creature. His face scrunches up. “Jersey, by the looks of it.”
“He grew up in Jersey?” Tommy asks, glancing down. “Makes sense. Ugly fucker.”
Techno is silent for a second.
Then, he laughs. Big belly laughs that make him nearly double over, Tommy giggling as the adrenaline wears off just enough for his hands to start shaking. They laugh together, Techno’s face scrunched up in a weird sort of genuine smile that Tommy hasn’t seen on him before now. It’s mixed with groans of pain as well, and before long they’re both sitting on the ground, cackles occasionally escaping when one of them loses grip of their tenuous sanity.
“You’re hurt,” Tommy says, noting the gashes and blood still leaking from Techno’s back. “Like, a lot.”
“Eh,” Techno says. He stretches one arm up, wincing slightly. “I’ve had worse.”
“What the fuck could be worse than that?” Tommy asks, gesturing. “Let me help.”
“It’s fine, kid,” Techno says, and then he shifts, pushing himself back up to his feet. Tommy doesn’t miss the second aborted wince.
“You can’t reach those,” Tommy says confidently. “You’ll never clean them out fully without help. And then you’ll get an infection and die. And I’ll laugh at you for dying.”
“Technoblade never dies,” Techno says casually. Tommy gets up as well, kicking the dead demon.
“Still,” he says. “Let me help.”
“No. We need to get where we’re goin’,” Techno tells him simply, gathering up all the things they’d dropped when the Jersey Devil had attacked them from the bush. He holds a bag, almost instinctively throwing it over his shoulder but stopping at the last second. Tommy raises a brow.
“Where are we going?” he asks. “Will you tell me now?”
“Somewhere safe,” Techno says. Tommy sighs. “I’ve saved you twice now. Just trust me.”
“Hey, I saved you,” Tommy points out. “Just now!”
“That was hardly a save. I had it.”
“It was defleshing your spine.”
“Yeah, and? I had it.”
“You’re such a big fat ugly liar,” Tommy says with a scowl, crossing his arms and watching as Techno starts to lead them once again, in a direction that seems entirely random to Tommy. He ignores the big wounds on his back for now, giving the Jersey Devil one last kick for good measure before following after him. “What could you have even done?”
“I dunno,” Techno says with a shrug, face turned away so Tommy can’t see his wince. He knows these games. “Kill it.”
“How?”
“With a weapon.”
“You’re so dumb,” Tommy says, still scowling. “Just admit I helped you.”
“You were there, yes,” Techno acquiesces. “And you did things.”
“I helped!”
Techno snorts, pushing aside a big fern and allowing Tommy to step over it. His hands are stained with red, and it leaves behind marks on the greenery. Tommy is too busy glaring at Technoblade to notice that the foliage thins a little bit after that, the shrubbery between the trees thinning out before disappearing altogether entirely. Even the trees start to thin out, and before long they break from the woods onto the edge of the clearing. Only then does Tommy stop bickering and take stock of his surroundings– only then, does he shut his mouth and stare.
It’s a house.
An overgrown, chipped-paint, tiny house, but it’s a house. In the places where it isn’t bare wood, the cottage is a baby blue color, shingles missing from the roof. There’s a stone wall in the front yard that stretches the entire perimeter of the clearing, and clovers and wildflowers growing in the unkept space. A large flowering tree looms above, white petals drifting softly in the wind and occasionally knocking loose, fluttering to the ground where a cobblestone path lies. It winds right up to the front door, which is a freshly-painted slab of wood, and is bright yellow. The windows don’t have shutters, but Tommy can’t see into them from here anyways.
“What is this?” he asks. Techno walks past him, heading through a small gap in the stone wall and onto the cobble path. He turns a little bit to look back at Tommy, their eyes meeting.
“Safety,” he says. It tastes like a promise.
Tommy follows.
“What kind of tree is that?” Tommy asks, dabbing the white gauze onto the bloody raw parts of Techno’s back. The man grunts. “Out front. With the flowers?”
“Dogwood,” Techno says, fingers twisting on themselves. Tommy’s not gonna be patronizing, but if he was he’d say Techno’s taking it like a champ. “Flowering dogwood. It blooms in late May, early June.”
“Oh.” Tommy’s hands still for a moment. He hasn’t thought about calendars in a long time now, and the idea of dates to follow is a little overwhelming.
“Oh?” Techno prompts.
“Just– my birthday,” Tommy says. “It was in April. We’re past it by now.”
“Sure are,” Techno grunts. They both fall silent, and Tommy picks up the brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide Techno had given him in order to gently apply it to the rag he’s using to clean up Techno’s back. It’s an ugly mess. He winces every time he reaches out to touch it.
“I was twelve when all this started,” Tommy continues.
“I was twenty,” Techno says in turn.
“When’s your birthday?” Tommy asks.
“June,” Techno answers. Tommy hums, and dabs away some half-congealed blood. He reaches out and snags a bandage, pressing clean white gauze to the man’s wound before sealing it in place. Techno shrugs, the movement aborted with attention to Tommy’s work. “Not a big deal anymore.”
“You’ll be…” Tommy’s brain shorts out.
“Twenty-five,” Techno suggests helpfully. “I was almost twenty-one.”
“Cool,” Tommy breathes. He’d thought for a while he’d never live to see his own twenty-first birthday, but Techno’s must’ve truly sucked. He thinks back to what Techno had said– “You have a twin, right?” he asks, and then immediately regrets it as the older man tenses up under his fingertips. This close, Tommy is finally privy to the small cues he gives in social situations. He’s not stoic– not at all, not like he’d first thought. In fact, Techno is expressive.
And he expresses that discomfort in a tense tone and a lift to his shoulders under Tommy’s hand. “Yup,” he drawls.
“I was an only child,” Tommy says, a peace offering. Redirects the conversation back to him. “Just me and my mum and dad.”
“You can tell,” Techno tells him, then clarifies: “That you were an only child.”
“Oi, fuck you,” Tommy says, resisting the urge to hit him. He slaps another bandage on as retribution instead, poking around at the few gashes left.
“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” Techno argues.
“No, but it was implied,” Tommy counters. Techno laughs, snorts and huffs escaping him for a second. Tommy focuses on his back once more, and reaches up to the highest wounds, near his neck. He pauses, hand hovering. “Your, uh. Your hair. Can you move it?”
“Mm,” Techno hums, and he lifts one arm up to swoop the pink locks away from his neck. Tommy is feeling very trusted right now. To be fair, he is Tommy Trusty, but that’s the joke. He’s not trustworthy, not at all, not in this world where man eats man and dog eats dog. Yet here he is, staring at the back of Techno’s neck and helping him patch up after a fight. It’s weird– trust, that is. Tommy’s not used to this kind of thing, and it must show in his hesitation because Techno makes an aborted hand movement and grunts. “Finish up. I need to check the perimeter before the sun sets.”
“I’m doing it, I’m doing it,” Tommy says with a huff, rushing fingers hurrying to lay gauze and pack bandages on top. Thankfully none of the wounds are deep enough to require stitches, but some of them are pretty nasty. Once he’s done Techno pulls away, lifting his arms up and testing his range of motion before slipping a shirt on that he’d pulled from the same dresser that the medical supplies had come from. Tommy watches, leaning back against the floral couch that they’d hurried to sit in front of as he leans down and snags a few things from their backpacks, and then straightens up again.
“I’m going to go… do that,” Techno says awkwardly. “Stay here. Don’t– don’t touch anything.”
“Sure,” Tommy says, with every intention to go snooping the second he’s gone. “Won’t move a muscle.”
“I’m serious,” Techno deadpans. “Wait for me to get back. It won’t be long.”
“I’m not twelve. I can follow directions,” Tommy spits out, and Techno rolls his eyes.
“Sure,” he says, and it’s clear he doesn’t believe him. Tommy scowls and lets the facial expression speak for him as Techno waves him off, and then ducks out the front door they came in, letting it shut behind him with a soft thump of wood against wood.
And then Tommy’s alone for the first time in three days, surrounded by a house with wooden walls that Techno had called safety.
For the first time since they’d barged in and gotten right to work patching Techno up, Tommy takes in his surroundings. Behind his back is the couch, all grandma-print florals and mysterious stains on the cushions. There’s an armchair across the room in much better condition, sitting adjacent to a fireplace whose coals have been brushed clean, the stones cold when Tommy presses his hand to them. There’s a fine layer of dust all over the place, actually, and Tommy is careful not to disturb it as he creeps around the living room. There’s a bookshelf that reaches the ceiling, most of the shelves dedicated to neutral-colored books with no titles on their spines; a few of them have been dedicated to knickknacks, however. There’s a whole shelf of picture frames.
They’re all face down. Tommy stares at them and swallows, then turns away and stubbornly ignores that, despite how much his fingers itch to turn them upright.
To the right of the front door is a plaster archway that clearly leads into a kitchen, wood flooring turning to black and white tile. He pokes his head into it, eyeing the sink and refrigerator. When he opens the fridge, there’s no rush of cool air like he sort of expects– it’s warm, and the things inside seem to all be nonperishable. The cupboards hold an assortment of cooking items and dishware, most of them also covered in a thick layer of dust. Tommy chances discovery by pulling out the top plate on a stack, on his tiptoes as he drags his finger down the ceramic and staring as his skin comes away dark gray, the grime collecting there. He wipes it on his pants and replaces the plate, now with a streak of bright white in the center, shutting the cabinet door quietly. There’s another archway in the kitchen, a second one that leads into a darker hallway.
Tommy glances back out into the living room, the light coming in through the windows there, and then traverses into the depths of the house.
A few doors greet him as he makes his way down the wooden slats. A rug lies beneath his feet, reddish with golden swirls. There are spots on the walls where picture frames had clearly hung, square patches of paint that are lighter in color than the surrounding. At the end of the hallway there’s a small table with a vase of dead flowers under a window, and Tommy pauses there, pushing back the curtains with one finger. Dust billows from them as they move and his nose scrunches, the urge to sneeze overcoming him– he shoves his face into his elbow and does so, then peers outside.
The window is foggy, but he can see some kind of garden. Plant life creeps up on either side of the window but there isn’t much, so Tommy just lets the curtains fall back and the hallway darkens once more. He glances back down, and then starts looking at the doors. There are five of them– two of them seem to have been used recently, the doorknobs not coated in dust and when Tommy pushes one of them open, it’s a bathroom. The second is a bedroom, plain and neat, the corners of the bed crisp as an apple in fall. The walls are a light gray, and as far as Tommy can see there are no personal touches at all. He shuts the door and leaves everything the way he found it, moving on to the other doors.
All three have dust on their handles, and from what Tommy knows of Technoblade, the man will notice. He glances towards the kitchen, pausing.
Curiosity killed the cat.
…but, some part of him whispers, satisfaction brought it back.
Tommy takes the knob in hand and twists it.
It’s not locked. The door creaks as it opens, hinges complaining from lack of use as he wipes the dust from the handle off on one hand and continues opening the door with the other. There’s a window in this room, one that lets in the light from outside as he steps into a time capsule.
It’s untouched. That’s the only way he can describe it– as with everything else in the house, the room is dusty, but other than that it’s like whoever was living here had just left one day and never come back. There are dirty clothes piled on the floor near a closet, the bedsheets rumpled and unmade, a guitar case covered in stickers in the corner. There are hoodies hanging off of a rack on the far wall, posters from bands Tommy doesn’t recognize taped up all over the place. One of them has fallen down halfway. He reaches out and quietly pushes it upwards, the tape on the top two corners having given up at some point, and presses it back against the wall. It crinkles under his hands, the faded words reading LOVEJOY with red marker smeared across the faces of the band members in a juvenile way, giving them all mustaches and ugly glasses. Tommy snickers, and then lets the poster fall back the way it was.
He steps forward, careful not to disturb any of the drink cans strewn about the room, and stops by the bedside. There’s a nightstand with a pair of glasses on it, round frames tucked inside an open case. A water bottle that has long since dried out, and– a picture frame.
This one has not vanished or been turned face-down. This one stands with its face brightly turned towards the rest of the room, and through the dust Tommy can make out the pink of Techno’s hair.
Fingers reaching, he grasps the wooden frame and lifts it up from the nightstand. Using the sleeve of his jacket, Tommy wipes at the dust until it’s clear.
There are three people in the photo; Techno is clearly recognizable, with an awkward expression and pink hair. He looks smaller than real life in this photo, and he’s also wearing glasses– square ones. He looks younger. Tommy’s gaze flicks to the next person in the picture, another young man with curly brown hair and an open mouth, clearly caught in a beaming smile as he throws an arm over Techno beside him. His glasses are round. Tommy glances down to the pair on the table and then back at the picture, blinking.
The man and Techno look awfully alike.
The third person in the picture is blond. Not unlike Tommy, his hair reaches his shoulders, and his eyes are blue. He’s not looking at the photographer– he’s watching the two boys, smiling fondly as crow’s feet crinkle in the corners of his eyes. He has a hand on the curly brown-haired boy’s other arm, and the photo reeks of familiarity and nostalgia.
Techno’s voice rings through his ears. He’s my twin brother.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Oh, shit.
Tommy whips around, picture frame still clenched in his fingers as he finds Techno in the doorway. The older man looks furious, hand gripping the doorknob while the other braces itself on the doorframe. Tommy blinks, his usually quick-to-quip mind coming up empty at the moment.
“I told you not to touch anything,” Techno says, and then he stalks forward and rips the picture from Tommy’s hands. He glances down at it and then recoils, before slamming it back down on the nightstand and making the rest of it rattle. “I told you.”
“I–” Tommy hardly gets a word out before Techno’s hand is gripping his shoulder and dragging him out of the room. The door slams– the whole house shakes. “I’m sorry,” Tommy says immediately. “I didn’t know–”
“You don’t know,” Techno hisses, and fuck, he sounds mad. “You don’t know and apparently you don’t listen. I told you not to–”
“I’m sorry!” Tommy cuts him off. “Techno, I just– I was curious, and– I didn’t know, okay? You can’t blame me for not knowing –”
“I can blame you for not listening,” Techno snaps. “I should’ve left you in the woods.” He keeps pulling Tommy out until they’re both in the living room once more, the bloody rags still sitting on the floor where Tommy had left them. He chances a glance towards the picture frames on the bookshelf and wonders if they carry the same faces from the bedroom, but when he looks back at Techno his thunderous expression makes it clear that Tommy will not be looking.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, because there’s nothing else to say. Techno’s fingers dig into the meat of his shoulder, and then release, the older man taking a few steps back. He shuts his eyes and sighs, clearly trying to compose himself as Tommy stands there and tries his best to look small– shoulders pulled inwards, he tips his head down.
“Never touch those rooms,” Techno says sharply. “Never.”
“Whose house is this?” Tommy challenges, tipping his head back up to look at him. “Yours?”
“It’s mine now,” Techno says. “And that means I can kick you out if I want.”
“You said it was safe,” Tommy says. “Why?” The real questions he wants to ask seem too explosive right now– who were those men in the picture with Techno, and why hadn’t he touched the room? So he sticks with the safe questions first, watching as some of the tension leaks out of his shoulders.
“I made it safe,” Techno says. “There are– wards. Runes, on the rocks. To keep the monsters out. In the walls, on the floors.” He reaches down, kneeling on one knee and uses a hand to pull up a corner of the rug. Tommy stares down at the chalk beneath it, faded but thrumming with life, and the sigils weaved into a circle.
“Why?” Tommy asks. “Why this house?”
“Stop asking me things,” Techno says, letting the rug drop and standing back up again. Tommy glares up at him. “I told you not to move while I was gone. You have to listen to me.”
“I don’t have to do jack shit, dickhead,” Tommy snaps back, bristling at the implication. “Just because you decided to drag me along with you doesn’t mean I have to listen.”
“I didn’t drag you along,” Techno says. “You followed me.”
“You saved me first!”
“Don’t make me regret it.”
Hackles raised like a dog still, Tommy snaps. “Was that your brother’s room? The one who ended the world?”
Technoblade goes very, very quiet and still. Tommy stands there and waits for more shouting, more reprimands and angry gestures and even possibly, physical violence. He wouldn’t be surprised. But nothing like that comes, and instead Techno turns away, hiding his face from Tommy. They stand there in silence until Tommy can’t take it anymore, opening his mouth–
“Don’t,” Technoblade says. He turns back to Tommy, and he doesn’t look angry, but he doesn’t look happy or sad or anything. He’s blankly neutral, a shutter closing over his face as he looks at him. “Just. Don’t.”
“I lost people too,” Tommy says, because that grief is there, still raw, still painful. Techno just raises his hand and Tommy shushes again, before finally Techno presses his fingers to his face and squeezes the bridge of his nose. He sighs loudly, and then shakes his head. Tommy’s stomach twists like a rag full of water.
“Clean up this stuff,” Techno instructs, pointing down at the medical stuff they’d left all over the floor, bloodied rags and stained bandages. Tommy grimaces, but Techno doesn’t give him time to complain. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Don’t go down the hall. You can sleep on the couch.”
“Wow,” Tommy mutters, watching him disappear through the archway. “Rude.” Thankfully, Techno either ignores him or doesn’t hear him, which is probably for the best– Tommy doesn’t want to walk on eggshells, so he just moves to do as Techno instructed.
Later that night, after they’ve had a small dinner of rabbit stew, Techno lights a fire in the fireplace and then leaves Tommy inside alone again, on the couch. He leaves the door open when he goes, however, and so after a couple minutes of Tommy staring at the flickering flames, he follows him out.
He doesn’t have to go far. Techno is right in the front lawn area of the cottage, the light coming from the windows and door barely giving outline to him as he unfolds the skin he’d taken from the hellhound. Tommy is tired– his eyes burn, exhaustion drags at his bones and while there is a cushioned couch inside, the long grass of the lawn seems comfortable enough to curl up in. He sits instead of giving in to the urge to sleep there, stretching his legs out. He watches as Techno drags a large wooden frame out of the grass, and starts to stretch the skin over it and clip it into place.
A lightning bug lands on Tommy’s leg. He cups his hands and picks it up gently, moving it to a nearby leaf.
“Why did you let me come here?” he asks. In the twilight, he cannot see Techno’s face. The sun has finally gone down.
Days stretch on and time warps. Tommy’s not sure how long it’s been, even though his body clock says four years. It could’ve been ten. It could’ve been a day.
Techno pauses, his hands constantly fidgeting despite the stillness of his torso. After a moment, he pulls out a scraping tool from the bag he’d carried the skin home in, and starts to slowly drag it up and down the hide.
“Wilbur was always strange,” Techno says finally, his voice lingering in the cool night air. Tommy shuts his eyes and leans back, letting the grass be his pillow. This feels like the beginning of a story, so he settles in. “When we were kids. He knew things. He could tell a fortune like nobody’s business, and he was smart about how he used it, too. Scammed people.”
“Crime,” Tommy murmurs, nodding approvingly.
“He was weird,” Techno reiterates. “Different. Phil used to say he was special, just like I was, but Wilbur and I both knew that while I was just… weird, Wilbur was strange. But he was my twin, so I trusted him when he told me I’d understand someday.” Tommy blinks his eyes open and Techno is still scraping the hide, keeping his back firmly to Tommy. “He used to insist we had a third invisible brother,” Techno says, and Tommy blinks. “Blond. Small. Loud. Wilbur called him Sunshine. I called him Theseus. We grew out of that when we were nine.”
“A brother?” Tommy asks, and Techno nods once.
“How does a bridge work?” he asks, turning around and pausing in his work to look at Tommy. In the dim light, his hair shines a darker color than the pastel pink Tommy’s used to. His eyes are less intimidating.
“You use it to cross over something,” Tommy answers instinctively. “I don’t get it. Who cares?”
“A bridge has two points of entry,” Techno says, his tone quiet but insistent. “And Wilbur was weird.”
“And you guys were twins,” Tommy says, the understanding blooming in his mind like a flower in spring. He sits there and twists the long grass in his hands until it becomes a long cord, turning it over and over until it snaps. “Wilbur opened the gate that ended the world. You’re still here.”
“And Wilbur said we had a third brother,” Techno tells him. Tommy takes a deep breath. “ That is why I brought you here.”
“I’m not Wilbur,” Tommy says brashly, discomfort making him push himself up and drop the strands of grass, shift to his feet and confront Techno to this rising fear. “I can’t be him.” Techno just looks at him and that fear twists, blood draining from his cheeks like water from a rag. Tommy holds firm.
“You’re not,” Techno finally agrees. “You’re Theseus. Or Sunshine, if you’d prefer.”
“Definitely not.” Tommy’s nose wrinkles up, but he feels marginally better. “Call me sunshine and I’ll punt you, bitch.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
“Get over here and be a man!”
“Not tonight.” Techno is smiling when he turns back to the hellhound’s hide, and he resumes his work. “Maybe in the morning. Go sleep.”
“I’ll sleep here,” Tommy says cheerfully, settling back down in the grass, which is still warm from the day before. Techno sighs, but doesn’t comment as Tommy lies his head down and listens to the buzz of bugs around him, the rhythmic scraping from Techno tanning, and the rustle of the trees beyond the stone wall. Sleep claims him in quiet stages of lethargy, first his eyes shutting, then his breath slowing, and finally Tommy escapes to dreamland.
He wakes up on the couch.
There’s a pillow under his head and a sheet haphazardly thrown over him– someone has taken the time to tuck it around one of his shoulders, but the other side hangs loose over the edge of the cushions, one of his arms trailing it down. His knuckles drag on the floor and his fingers are slightly numb when he flexes them, picking up his face from the pillow and shoving his eyes into the cool darkness there.
Techno had moved him, then. Probably. Definitely. The last thing Tommy can remember is the scraping of bone on hide, and the sound of crickets chirping, warm grass surrounding him. He’s not outside anymore, and when he lifts his head up the fire in the fireplace is nothing more than coals.
Something clatters in the kitchen. Tommy sits up quietly, tugging and arranging the sheet around his shoulders until he’s wearing it like a cape. Once his arm has regained some blood flow, he shuffles off the couch and into the kitchen.
Technoblade is there. Back to Tommy, fridge open and a pan on the stove. There’s a fire lit under it, and butter half-melted. As Tommy watches, the man pulls out a carton of eggs from the warm fridge and moves over to the counter, setting them down there.
Techno’s changed since Tommy last saw him– a simple shirt and pants, no shoes. Tommy’s in the same clothes he was in yesterday, and he’s starting to feel grimy. He wonders if Techno’s shower works.
“Good morning,” Techno says, and Tommy’s shoulders jump. He hadn’t even turned around. Tommy scowls, and goes to sit at the table.
“Morning,” he grunts. He’s not a morning person, not really. Techno hums at him, and they fall into a companionable silence. Tommy’s not one to keep a quiet atmosphere, however, and so after a couple seconds he speaks up again. “What are you making?”
“Breakfast,” Techno says shortly. He cracks open an egg with one hand.
“Do you have chickens?” Tommy asks.
“Yes,” Techno says. “Five. And a rooster.”
“Wow.” Tommy’s always kind of wanted chickens. He really wants a cow, but that’s unlikely. He’d name it Henry. Or Bessie, if it was a girl. Something classy. “Can I have some?”
“No,” Techno says dryly, and Tommy’s about to complain before his ears catch on the sarcasm and the amused tone to Techno’s voice. He grins instead. “Starve.”
“You’re such a bitch,” Tommy tells him, and Techno just shrugs.
“I’ll live with that,” he fires back, and then cracks another egg. Six in total go into the pan, and the shells are put aside. “Today we’re going to check on the hens. I haven’t been here in a while, so they’ve been fending for themselves. And then we’ll weed the garden.”
“We?” Tommy asks, and Techno finally looks back at him, eyes glancing over his shoulder before darting away again.
“Yes,” he says. “If you’re going to stay here, you need to learn how to keep this place afloat.”
Tommy’s heart leaps in his chest. “I’m staying?” he asks, the words like cotton candy in his mouth. From what he remembers of the treat, it was light and sweet and sticky. This feels just like that.
Techno glances back at him again. “Yes,” he says again, and Tommy can see him smiling, even if it’s faint. “Can you sew?”
“A bit,” Tommy admits, still a little lightheaded with giddiness. His fuckup yesterday hadn’t destroyed this promise of safety, and while Techno was upset, he seems to have understood why Tommy had snooped. He’d even explained Wilbur. His fingers twitch. “I can fix big tears and stuff.”
“Darn a sock?”
“What?”
“Taking that as a no, then,” Techno mutters, and then he turns around with two bowls in hand, shuffling over to plop one in front of Tommy, and then a fork. The eggs steam. “Eat up, kid. And when you’re done, we’ll head out.” He grimaces when he gets a good look at Tommy, but Tommy’s too busy shoving breakfast in his mouth to care. “Maybe you can clean up first, too.”
“‘Ounds good,” Tommy tells him through a mouthful of warm scrambled eggs. It’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. It’s also worth it to see the horrified look on Techno’s face when he does, and so he purposefully smacks his lips together and chews openly with a grin. “‘Anks.”
“You’re disgusting,” the older man says. Tommy laughs so hard he chokes on his eggs.
Techno digs out a clean shirt and pants for Tommy, too, providing a bar of soap and a bucket of water to clean himself up with. After breakfast is done with, and Tommy’s scrubbed the last few weeks of grime off himself (his hair frizzes up, long but not long enough to pull back into a ponytail or braid, which Techno regards with mild disappointment in his eyes) they head out into the back of the cottage.
Unlike the front, the back is organized and the grasses neatly clipped. There’s a clear path of cobbles and small pebbles leading to a garden full of raised beds, overflowing with greenery, and further beyond that a chicken coop with a bright red painted roof. In the distance, Tommy can just make out the dilapidated remains of a barn, the walls and ceiling slowly caving in, and even further past that is the stone wall and then the forest.
Techno takes him to the chicken coop first, and inside it are a number of them running around. When they arrive, Techno drops the bucket he’d picked up by the back door and pries the lid off, showing Tommy the inside– dried seeds and grains.
“Feed,” he explains. Techno doesn’t do a lot of that: explaining. He just does things, and Tommy is expected to learn by watching. It’s a common theme of their morning. Techno does something and then looks expectantly back at Tommy, waiting for him to give it a go. They feed the chickens by the handful, then let them out of the pen. They make their way back up to the garden and pass a well with a wooden cover on top, which Techno points to and verbally explains that that’s where they get their water from. The garden is largely overgrown, but Techno just dives in head first and pulls out a feast. Squash, tomatoes, beans, carrots, onion– all kind of vegetables are hidden in the mess, and once Tommy has gotten his hands dirty and piled cherry tomatoes in his arms, using his shirt as a makeshift carrying device, Techno starts weeding. It’s easy to see what’s a good plant and what’s not– Tommy kneels by his side and together, they rip up roots and dirt and soil their fingers together.
By the time the sun rises above the treeline, the back of Tommy’s neck is sore from leaning down and his fingers are cramping. Techno calls it quits then, and together they escape further beyond the chicken coop. Techno leaves the bucket by the garden but brings his satchel with– they trek all the way back to the wall.
“Look,” he says, pointing to a carving on the rocks. “This is what keeps this place safe.”
And now that he says it, Tommy can feel it. A hum of magic, a thrum of control and power and safety that rings this whole area. Contained within the boundaries of the wall, where nothing can ever get them. He breathes in the power and feels it make his heart shiver.
Then Techno says, “I want to show you something,” and they follow the wall a few yards, until the barn is behind them and the trees get closer to the boundary. After a minute they stop, and then Techno beckons Tommy forward.
Something in him makes him stay quiet as he shifts up to Techno’s side, eyes darting across the grass and stones. At first he doesn’t understand, and then he sees them– tiny people, figures dancing in the grass where it gets long, with glistening iridescent wings that flash green and blue when they move. The creatures are humanoid, and they notice him the same time he notices them, tiny heads whipping his way and staring openly with beetle-like eyes. Tommy gasps.
“What are they?” he asks, stumbling backwards. He slams into something firm– when he looks upwards, he finds Techno looking down at him, a fond little smile creeping over his lips. “I thought the wall kept everything out.”
“It does,” Techno says. “It keeps everything dangerous outside.”
Tommy scowls, staying where he is against Techno’s chest as he eyes the little creatures that are now watching them both with their bulbous eyes. “Aren’t they dangerous?”
“Not if you leave them be,” Techno explains, putting a gentle hand on Tommy’s shoulder and shifting him away. He reaches into his satchel and pulls out a small jar, cracking open the lid and shuffling past Tommy in order to set it down on a stone. Tommy watches as the small creatures buzz over to it after Techno’s stepped back, expressively fighting over the sweet treat as they dip their little hands into it and gobble it up. Techno smiles a bit. “And if you bribe them.”
“What are they?” Tommy asks, curious. One of them has given up getting the honey as more of the small creatures cram by the pot, and makes its way towards Techno and him instead. It flutters on small wings, not unlike a hummingbird, moving so fast it sometimes disappears. It zips around Techno’s head, then flits over to Tommy and he finds himself staring into its eyes. The creature tips its head at him, a strangely humanoid gesture.
“Pixies, I think,” Techno explains. “That one’s looking for a treat. Here.”
He’s pulled another jar out of his bag. He holds it out to Tommy, who takes it and gently twists open the top. This one has a different substance inside– when he sticks his finger in and tries it, he finds it to be sweetened milk. At Techno’s insistence, he holds the jar up towards the hovering pixie in front of him, who immediately squeaks and dives in headfirst. Tommy can’t help himself– he giggles, watching the little guy dip and dive into the treat.
“They’re weird,” Tommy says, and Techno snorts.
“Weird, but harmless if you keep them happy,” he says. “I put out honey and milk for them most Sundays. Don’t let them get too close to your eyes– they scratch.”
Tommy nods, watching the small pixie finish slurping up what milk they can and then darts out, shaking violently in the air to rid themselves of the excess liquid. He winces back from the splashing, and when he opens his eyes, the pixie is staring at him. He stares back, then holds up one hand, extending a finger. With a tiny, two-pronged hand, the pixie reaches out and presses their skin together. It’s a fleeting touch; it darts away before Tommy can really process it, and he stands there for a minute, staring in wonder.
When he looks over at Techno, the older man is smiling, a little fond, a little sad.
“I wonder,” he says, when Tommy finds himself speechless, “if the world really went bad.”
“Maybe it just went different?” Tommy suggests.
“Maybe,” Techno says. They exchange a glance, and Tommy smiles, all teeth. “Alright. C’mon, kid. Let’s do more chores.”
“Sure thing, grandpa,” Tommy teases, and Techno just rolls his eyes before picking up his bag and starting the trek back towards the cottage and safety.