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The first time Technoblade meets Dream, he is small, angry, and has a spark in his eye like he knows he holds the world in the palm of his hand. That part never changes.
He doesn’t know why there is a little boy—a human boy—alone in the nether. When people from the overworld come through this part of the realm, they’re typically on their way to the fortress, and they’re typically about to die without knowing it. The wither skeletons are rarely unsuccessful in doing what they do best, killing, and the only reason people are so oblivious to this fact is that those who do encounter them don’t live to tell the tale.
In a blur of green and blonde, a small mass crashes into Technoblade’s leg with a yelp. It clearly hadn’t been looking where it was going, but whatever.
He looks down at his disruptor with what’s probably an unintentional grimace. He'd expected a baby piglin, as clumsy and fast as they are, or maybe even a strider that’s been strewn away from its pool. But no, it's just a kid. A kid with a head full of messy hair and scruffs over his face and a snarl that could make the average grown man shrivel. Technoblade huffs at the sight.
The kid doesn’t like that.
“You got a problem, man?” the boy asks, voice high but jagged at the edges. “Or are you gonna move out of my way?”
He slowly looks around at the twenty feet of empty space around them.
“That’s what I thought,” he says, but his face is dusted with pink. He brushes his way around Technoblade, who’s still looking down at him questioningly, and starts to walk past.
Until he stops, and turns back around.
“You’re not like any piglin I’ve ever seen,” the boy says, a curious gaze in his eyes. They’re big and green, like emeralds. “What are you anyway?”
Technoblade just scans him up and down. Humans don’t talk to him very often—only one does, a man with large wings and kind eyes, who he’s pretty sure is trying to be his friend or something but isn’t having much luck. When they do bother him, they’re either intimidated or looking for a fight. He ignores the ones who are put off by him and entertains the ones who act on it. He’s six-and-a-half feet tall and wields a sword like one of his pinkies. It’s not like he’s exactly struggling to keep things interesting for himself down here.
He wonders who could have possibly let their child go to the nether, especially alone. And he’s not sure if he’s just being skeptical or not, but he’s never even heard of eight-year-olds who can build a nether portal by themselves in the first place.
“Whatever,” the boy says after a moment, when Technoblade doesn’t answer. “I guess it doesn’t matter. I bet you’re probably asking, ‘why is there a kid in the nether? where’s his mommy?’ Well, first off, fuck you. I don’t have a mom. And second, I’m here for one reason. You wanna know what it is?”
Technoblade just blinks at him, eyes half-lidded.
The boy grins sharply anyways. “I’m gonna go to the End. And I’m gonna beat the game before anyone else can.”
If he’s supposed to feel something at that, he doesn’t, not really. All he feels, vaguely, is pity.
It is kinda laughable, though, that this child—this orphan—has somehow convinced itself that it could possibly beat the End. At this age, at this size, and completely and utterly alone. Technoblade has seen dozens of players come and go, most in search of netherwart but never any who survive even that one step towards the ever unreachable goal. Some were young, some were old, some were short, some were tall, some were loud, some were quiet, but all were stupid.
Realistically, there’s almost no chance that this boy is any different from the rest: blindly courageous and destined for nothing great like they convince themselves they are.
Technoblade nods, just so the kid knows that he understands. He notices the way he lights up at it, like no one has ever heard him make a proclamation that bold without immediately dragging him to pieces. “But I need to get to the fortress,” he says, straightening a bit and looking up at Technoblade with determination that’s too big for his tiny, minuscule frame. “Can you point me to where it is?”
He could. He knows exactly where the fortress is. He passes by it every morning. But this kid could be the reincarnation of freaking Achilles and he still probably wouldn’t fare too well against all the mobs in that fortress. Even the route towards it is bound to kill him before he even touches the walls—brutes around here practically skin humans on sight.
He honestly doesn’t think he wants to help this kid get himself slaughtered. He might be naive, maybe a little stupid, but he doesn’t deserve that. Not yet.
And he’s feeling nice today. So.
He shakes his head. The boy sighs.
“Whatever. I’ll just find it myself.” He throws a hand up and starts to leave again. “Thanks for nothing, tall ass pig guy.”
Technoblade grabs him by the back of his hood. The boy yelps.
“Dude—hey! Hands off!” he flails, turning around and throwing punches at Technoblade’s arm. It feels like being swung at by a bag of mushy grapes. “The fuck is your problem? You wanna fight or something? I’ll beat your ass, try me.”
He bends down, on his knees so he can properly look at him, and easily smacks away a sloppy hit towards his face. He reaches for a small drawstring bag at the back of his belt, woven from twine, and plops it in the kid’s free hand—the one he’s not clutching to his chest in pain and hissing from Technoblade swatting it. Seriously.
The kid eyes the bag quizzically. He looks skeptical. That’s probably a good thing. “What is this?”
Technoblade just motions for him to check himself. He opens the bag, slowly, and his eyes go wide as he realizes what’s in it.
“You—“ his head whips up to look at Technoblade, scoffing a weird laugh that seems almost nervous, or maybe shocked, as his small hand digs through the pouch of netherwart like a first-time miner who just found bedrock. “What? You’re seriously giving me these?”
Technoblade shrugs. It’s not like he really needs them. He literally eats them like chips.
“No fucking way,” the boy breathes, eyebrows furrowing as he finally takes the bag. He looks at them a little longer, like they’ll disappear if he blinks.
And then he glares up at Technoblade again.
“No thanks,” he scoffs. “If I’m gonna beat the End, I’m gonna do it right.”
He tosses them back, a little hard and poorly-aimed, and Technoblade scrambles to catch it. His expression probably shows how much it catches him off-guard but the kid doesn’t seem to care. Just traces the handle of his sword in its sheath and turns towards the red expanse of hell, where he’ll probably head next to find the fortress he needs.
But above all else, he notices that it’s been over half a minute, and the kid still hasn’t moved yet.
So dumb.
He sighs. He really shouldn’t care about this—let natural selection take its course and gleefully watch a child who’s in way over his head dig his own grave. He should.
He should.
He taps the kid’s shoulder, who glances up expectantly at him. “What.”
He kneels down, and motions something with his hands. He places the bag in the boy’s hands and then points at his own chest.
The boy squints as he tries to understand. When he does, he lights up. “You…what? Oh. You want me to—to give you something? As like, a trade?”
Technoblade nods.
But the boy still looks hesitant.
“I don’t know…” he mutters, looking off. “It still feels like cheating. Like I’m not, like, actually finding it on my own. A real speedrunner would just get it from the fortress, wouldn’t they? That’s the right way to do it. But—I mean. It’s not a handout if we’re trading for it, right? An eye for an eye. Kinda. But, like, it’s an equal exchange, and I’m getting the netherwart either way. That would be fair. I’m technically still earning it, right? No…wait, yeah, it…no.”
He starts angrily murmuring to himself for about a minute straight. Technoblade just watches and nearly jumps when the boy finally looks up again.
“Okay,” he announces loudly, eyes sparkling with finality. “I’ll trade you for the netherwart. That way, it’s not cheating. It’s just a shortcut. I’m using my resources. I’m working smarter, not harder. Do you agree?”
A bit chilled, he just nods again. Slowly.
“What do you want, then? I don’t have much in my bag.” The kid rustles through his sack. “Coal…string…a feather…”
Technoblade waits patiently. The kid clicks his tongue.
“Okay, I’ve got it.” He grins. “Close your eyes.”
He has no idea why he obeys, but he does. He holds his hand out in wait.
“Open.”
He opens them. In his palm lays a pile of seeds.
Not even, like…good seeds. They’re literally just wheat seeds.
He has no need for seeds. Honestly, he feels a little scammed.
“Nice doing business with you, fucking sucker,” the kid taunts, zipping up his sack and pocketing the pouch of netherwart. He sticks his tongue out and runs away.
Huh.
Technoblade is only able to stand there dumbly, feet stuck to the ground with a hand full of seeds. He stows them in his pocket and exhales.
Well. He hopes he never sees that weirdo again.
—
No one else comes looking for the fortress after that.
—
The second time he meets Dream, it’s almost a decade later. A lot has changed since then, and Technoblade isn’t the same person that Phil scooped up from the underworld all those years ago. A part of him knows he’s much better off in the overworld than he ever was when he had nothing but himself, but a smaller part of him fears that he’s been domesticated. He ignores that part of himself, mostly.
Phil has been teaching him, recently, about plants. The ways roots and petals and herbs can be used to treat human wounds, certain leaves can be crushed to form a paste-like medicine, and bitter-smelling seeds can be dried and used to create poison. As often as they treat it like a mentor-mentee sort of relationship, Phil only holds so much knowledge and Technoblade picks up on things so fast that they’re really just learning about them together. It’s been like that for almost everything they’ve gone over throughout the years; sparring, fencing, mapmaking, brewing, sewing, metal casting, farming, and now botany.
There’s not really any sort of goal here, not one that he remembers anyway. He feels a lot more useful up here than he ever did down there though, even if there are some things about the nether that he used to miss. He liked the simplicity of it more than anything. There weren’t so many things to keep track of, no weather system to adapt around. He liked the way mobs handled their business with fists and arrows rather than words, which are almost never that simple. There’s a reason that violence is universal, after all.
Either way, he figures Phil just likes the company.
He’s in the forest near the prime path, satchel full of spotted flowers that he saw in one of their books. He’s nowhere close to the outskirts and even farther away from the stone path that marks the common trail, but he knows exactly where he is. He always does.
There’s a rustling somewhere, somewhere up high, too loud to be an animal. His hand rests on the hilt of his sword, but he does not look up.
A louder rustle from behind. There’s the distinct sound of boots landing hard against the dirt, and it’s only then that he spares a glance back.
Honestly, he just barely remembers him.
The years have done the boy either well or poorly, depending on who you ask. He’s taller, obviously. Not as tall as Technoblade, but taller than most other humans. He’s tall in the awkward way that means he hasn’t been for long—he can’t be older than seventeen. Still that messy head of blonde hair and a forest-green hoodie, but the softness of youth has melted off of his features, jaw sharper and gaze just a little more intense.
But a scar etches his brow bone and a bandage drapes across his cheek, dried blood slightly soaked through—and his eyes are dark, dangerous. Like a child who thinks he isn’t one, or maybe a child who never got to be one.
A smile etches his lips. It’s sharp and unconvincing. “It’s about time we meet, Technoblade.”
A gust of wind traces through the forest, shaking every leaf and branch and blade of grass. A bird squawks its displeasure and flutters into the sky above.
He doesn’t know if the boy realizes it’s him or remembers him at all. There’s nothing in his expression that screams recognition. But it’s whatever, and it doesn’t matter to him, and it won’t—so long as the nerd doesn’t try to dip his toes in Technoblade’s business, where he frankly doesn’t belong.
He keeps a hand on his sword anyways.
“Do I know you…?” he asks, looking around blandly. The boy frowns.
“You—no. No, I guess you don’t.” He steps forward, and bows exaggeratedly. It successfully gives the complete opposite effect of what a bow should be. “My name is Dream, the server operator. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
If there’s any way to make it known what kind of person you are, it’s by introducing yourself as the server operator right off the bat. He doesn’t bother introducing himself. It looks like the guy already knows. “Like what?” he asks instead.
“I heard that the Angel of Death found himself a companion,” Dream says, tilting his head. “One that’s not from this world. A flawless marksman, a promising fighter, intelligent, handsome, and half piglin to boot.” His eyes scrape up and down against Technoblade’s entirety, who just stares back with planted feet. “But you’re not a piglin. Are you?”
He shrugs.
“You can talk too,” Dream hums. “Piglins can’t do that. You’re more human than anything, but even that doesn’t seem right.”
He leans in close, as if to get a better look.
“Tell me,” he says, sharp and wide. “Why would the Angel of Death want the Blood God as his dog?”
No one has called him that in a long time. And he certainly doesn’t like the way it sounds now.
“It’s probably nothin’ a child could dream of understandin’,” he says drily, as Dream steps back curtly. Probably surprised that he got a real response. “Especially not one who thinks that leaves are a hair accessory. Definitely not easy to take seriously like that.”
The boy’s face twists, hands quickly swatting at his head self-consciously. ”Very funny. Wow. You’ve really turned the tables there.”
“Livin’ up to expectations?”
“A few.” Dream looks him up and down in a way that’s not subtle at all.
Okay. Alright. Jesus. Escape now.
”As flattering as that is,” Technoblade says, ”Can I ask why exactly you’re cornerin’ me in an obscure forest miles away from civilization?”
“I was curious. And I’ve seen you around a little, with Phil. I see most things.”
“Don’t ya got a girlfriend or somethin’? Maybe a boyfriend?”
After a moment, Dream’s face drops, and his skin flushes instantly.
“You think you’re so funny, don’t you?” he huffs, trailing into a cold laugh. “I was wondering why we haven’t crossed paths before now. Maybe I should have made more of an effort to scope out the scum from the bottom of the pantheon’s shoe sooner.”
“Ya wanted to scope me out?” Technoblade says in horror.
”You—No, I—okay, you know that’s not what I meant by that. Jesus.”
He sighs. “Dream, I am going to put this as lightly as I can.”
“Okay?”
“You are a child.”
He frowns. “No I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not a fucking child.”
“Sure, man. Sayin’ that you’re not a child definitely makes you not a child.”
“Age is just a number.”
“Please tell me you didn’t just say that.”
Smoke might as well be flying out of his ears now. ”Why do you care, anyway?”
Technoblade doesn’t really know. But if the flustered look on the kid’s face is any sign of ending this weird conversation, he definitely isn’t gonna stop. “This was a really interesting come-on, is all. You’re a little young, don’t ya think…”
“How did you—” Dream growls, stepping back. “Uh, I mean…no. Like I said, I just wanted to finally meet you, officially. Puffy said you come here, so.”
“That’s not very convincin’.”
”I don’t get it, to be frank. You’re literally not even that cool, up close. I bet you fucking read books and take walks and shit. You probably farm potatoes and think it’s a good hobby. You probably suck at fighting.”
”If this is your idea of flirting, I think I’m startin’ to understand why you’re resortin’ to a—“
In a blink, the sharp point of a sword is extended towards him, perfectly centered between his eyes.
“Just stop talking,” Dream snaps, and his face is red now, arm outstretched and posture straight. “I think I enjoyed you more when you didn’t talk. I could cut your tongue out, maybe that would shut you up.”
Technoblade has never been less impressed.
“Ya want some advice, man?” he asks, looking past the blade and deadpanning. His arms stay at his sides, no attempt at holding up the palms of his hands in surrender or reaching for his own weapon—he doesn’t see the point in wasting his own time. “You wanna get somewhere in life? Be important in the world? Allies will be your pillars, not your enemies.”
“You want to be my ally?”
“I want ya to leave me alone,” he says exasperatedly. “Either that or just admit you want somethin’ you’ll never get and move on.”
The boy lowers his sword.
“I’ve done more in my life than most could ever fathom,” he says, but it seems more for himself than anything. “I don’t need advice from you. When I want something, I take it. You wouldn’t be an exception.”
“Maybe in a few years,” Technoblade huffs, and turns away, throwing a hand up in an unenthusiastic goodbye. The sky is starting to turn warm, the beginnings of sunset just starting to show. He has dinner plans with Phil and Puffy, and the wolves need to be fed. “Until then, I’m not really interested in entertainin’ a pent-up teenager with a big ego and his boxers in a bunch.”
“Oh yeah?” he hears Dream call from behind him, as he makes his way out of the forest. “Please, go on, tell me more about my boxers, since that’s where your mind is—Hey! Don’t just—don’t just walk away from me—“
He tunes the kid out easily, twigs crunching underneath his boots as he high-tails it out of there.
—
The third time he talks to Dream, it’s several years later. At least five winters have passed and it shows.
He’s sitting on a hill by his cabin, far, far away from the rest of the SMP, like he always is—he has no desire to be entangled in everyone else’s affairs, and not enough happens in this server to warrant his attention. No one is exactly praying ‘blood for the blood god’ around here, and he’s learned that the further away he is from man-made governments, the better it is for his own personal joy.
The dusk has settled in quick today, the sky a cascade of orange and pink that shines against the land they’ve developed. Carl rests by a tree in the distance, stomach probably full with apples. The lake is completely still. There are footsteps behind him, light but far from timid, and somehow he knows they’re not Phil’s or someone else he’d expect to be here.
He looks up, and isn’t surprised that Dream is the one who meets his gaze.
“‘Sup.”
He’s obviously seen him around every once in a while. He’s heard about the server operator enough from the people who have made themselves a part of his life. He’s not dumb; he knows that he’s always been on Dream’s radar, has felt the eyes on his back when he passes through the more developed parts of the server and has crossed paths with the unpleasant, young-faced humans who wield the same cut of netherite sword that Dream did back then. Little marks of his existence, scattered in a way that felt like they were meticulously placed so Technoblade would never forget him.
The man—for he is a man now—just smiles. There’s a mask pulled up to the top of his head, and from what Technoblade can see, it’s white and disc-shaped. He had heard of a smile mask, had seen it carved against wood and stone like a crude graffiti tag, blank and knowing. His features are sharper and his eyebrows thicker, skin more tanned and rough around the edges from the wear-and-tear of life.
His smile hasn’t changed, though. Honestly, it’s much more beautiful than he remembers it being.
“Hello, Technoblade,” he says casually, and scales lower down the hill, sitting down next to him.
There’s probably a million questions he could be asking—that the sea of voices in the back of his skull is starting to make known, for some reason, as if the man’s presence is worthy of a stir—but he doesn’t ask a single one. If Dream is here for something, he’ll say so.
Instead he says, dumbly, “You look older.”
Dream grins.
“So astute. Truly. Your mind is definitely the eighth wonder of the world.” He smacks his lips. “You never seem to get any older, though. How old are you, anyway?”
“I dunno.”
“Really? No clue?”
“Nope.”
“Do you ever age?”
“Not that I know of.”
“You look younger than I remember. Maybe I just grew up, though.” He huffs a laugh. “Honestly, you look as old as I am. That’s kinda convenient.”
He doesn’t understand how it would be, but doesn’t say that.
“It’s a beautiful home you’ve made for yourself here,” Dream says, after a moment. “You’d think a man with something to lose would act like he does.”
There it is.
He stares at him. “Repeat that?”
Dream cracks his knuckles with his thumb. He looks straight ahead, over the world. “I have a few sources that suggest identical massacres across different regions. Villages pillaged and burnt from the inside out, not even the children spared. Very tragic.”
Technoblade doesn’t respond to that. But they both know what he’s talking about.
There are nights, sometimes, where he cannot fall asleep. His heart hammers with panic and restlessness that makes his fingers itch for every weapon in sight. That panic builds into a whirlwind of screams, eardrum-piercing cries that force him to look around at everything he loves and feel nothing but resentment and hatred for the peace that leaves him restless, the people who keep him docile—and he knows, deep down, that the need for bloodshed won’t go away until a debt has been paid.
Gods, after all, are not meant for inaction for so long. Especially not ones of Blood.
Dream is leaning close to him, now. Close enough to see the freckles that litter his nose and the intensity of his gaze.
“I know it was you,” he says lowly, looking deep into Technoblade’s eyes like he sees something important. “And I want to know what you would do if daddy Philza were to find out about your little late-night escapades. Massacring innocent people? I doubt he’d be very happy.”
“Is that supposed to scare me?”
He laughs. “No. No, I guess not. Just wanted to put all the cards on the table…I know something interesting about you, and you know that I know.” A pause. “But it’s my job, y’know, to keep the peace. That’s why I won’t say anything.”
Technoblade feels his eyes shift. “And why not?”
“To be short, I think some chaos is good,” he says thoughtfully, picking at the grass. Technoblade watches the movement of his hand, the shifting of his fingers as they pluck against the earth. “Chaos creates fear. Fear creates order. Without fear, people start to get ballsy…you get what I mean.”
“An interestin’ philosophy for a guy whose job is to keep the peace,” he remarks, amused. “Seems more like ya want control.”
“Hey, I’m just saying it how I see it,” Dream retorts. “Not my fault if people disagree.”
“I guess, man…”
He clears his throat. Technoblade glances at him.
“To tell you the truth, that’s not the only reason I came to find you,” he says after a moment or two, voice different for some reason. If Technoblade had to label it with something, he’d say he almost sounds a little tense. Tenser than usual, anyway. “I wanted to ask something.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you, uh…do you still see me as a child?”
The man considers him, not fully getting what’s being asked.
“Uh…”
“Because you shouldn’t,” Dream says, not looking at him. “I’m twenty-two. I’m an adult.”
Honestly, he doesn’t really keep track of anyone’s existence like that. But…he guesses the thought counts. “…Cool.”
“In the forest, that day, you—you said some stuff to me. You knew what I was thinking, somehow. You dodged me. How did you do that?”
He thinks back to that day at the forest. A day that stands out, oddly, amongst a blur of existence.
“You’re not exactly subtle, y’know,” Technoblade explains, motioning it by shifting a flat hand. “I don’t have some, like, divine ability to read people’s minds. You were just easy to figure out.”
“…Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re—it—back then, that was the first time that—that anyone did that. That anyone was so interesting to me.”
“Hm.”
“I’ve always known exactly what people are thinking, I can read them like a book and figure out where to go from there. And most of the time, people are so fucking boring. But you?” he frowns. “Nope. I don’t know if it’s just because you’re a—you, or what, but I remembered you a little bit ago and now I can’t stop remembering you. That’s not weird, is it?”
The more he thinks about it, the whole massacre thing was definitely only an excuse to come and find him. It makes him question why else Dream would be here after all these years of never speaking since that day, but honestly, he thinks he already knows the answer.
And even more honestly, he’s not mad about it. Just curious.
“Nah,” he shrugs. “It’s more pathetic than anythin’.”
“I’m not proud of it,” Dream says, rolling his eyes. “But you honestly didn’t do anything but make me even more curious about you. You can’t blame me for still being curious now. And I’m not a kid anymore, so.”
“If there’s somethin’ you’re gettin’ at you can just say it, man, I don’t bite.”
Dream exhales, slowly, breath long like it had filled his chest with unease. He lays back flat against the hill with a thud and stares up at the sky. Technoblade follows, and is glad he did. The sky looks beautiful. It’s easier to look at that than try to fill in the holes of where this is gonna lead, and what it could possibly say about him.
“I was going to try to kill you that day,” he says after a minute. But he didn’t.
Slowly, Technoblade’s head lulls to the side, and Dream is already facing him.
“That’s a fight you woulda lost,” he says. “But no, I knew. And that’s not what I mean.”
Green eyes look away for a moment, eyebrows furrowed in a barely conflicted expression. Just as quickly, they’re back, and then Dream is slowly repositioning himself so his forearm is braced against the ground, sideways so that he’s almost fully facing the other man. The fabric of his clothes brushes against the grass.
Technoblade props himself on his elbows expectantly, and their faces are inches apart. He waits.
Dream glances downwards, then back up. He’s observant and calculated, beautiful in a way that no human should be. And for some reason the Blood God almost feels himself wither under his watch, the sharpness that he’s never seen inside anyone or anything else. It bothers him a bit, and before he decides what to make of that, Dream is leaning in and carefully pressing his lips against his own.
A steady breath tickles his skin. It’s more of a sigh of relief than anything, and the thought of it alone makes him instantly kiss back. One arm reaches up to hold the side of Dream’s face as they shift against each other, breathing at the same time, and Dream moves to brace his knee between Technoblade’s legs, hovering over him. He tilts his jaw into the kiss and his eyes crack open slightly to see Dream’s eyes shut tight in concentration, eyebrows furrowing as he full-body shudders. It makes his own spine shiver a little.
Dream moves again so his legs are on either side of Technoblade’s body, straddling him, and Technoblade pushes himself off the ground with his free hand to sit up. Dream’s palms cup his jaw and smooth down to the sides of his throat, fingers wrapping around the base of his neck with a tight grip—pressure not uncomfortable, but possessive. It’s in character. His own hand rests on Dream’s hip and his thumb digs into the leather of the man’s belt, but he doesn’t move past that. He kisses him a little deeper in recompense and Dream lets out a noise that almost makes him rethink that entirely, and he thinks that’s kind of in character too.
He pulls away, head moving to the side as he plants a hand on Dream’s chest and pushes him off of him. The other man falls back to where he laid before, silently and without protest, and they both lay back against the earth, shoulders pressed against each other. Their breaths are deep and unsteady.
Don’t fall in too deep. He’s gonna die eventually.
“So?” Technoblade asks, as steadily as he can force himself. “Satisfied?”
For a moment, there’s silence. All there is between them is the sound of grass rustling against the light breeze, the chirp of birds in the distance and the light of the vanishing sun against the clouds.
And then Dream is over him, lips locked against his again, certain and eager. And it’s the first time he’s been close to caught off guard in a long time.
—
“I have to go away for a bit,” Phil says to him a few weeks later, standing by the door of their home. “I’ll be back soon.”
Technoblade nods slowly. They go on their own separate trips pretty frequently, and most of the time their lives are pretty separate. They’re not as codependent as they used to be; there was certainly a point where they ran out of skills to learn and the day-to-day of life became so routine that domesticity was all they had left. Phil no longer ached from the hole that his wife and children left, and Technoblade eventually became everything he once apprehended: so embedded in humanity, in human stories and habits and knowledge, that he might as well have been human himself.
So he doesn’t really understand why Phil seems so resigned. Why his heavier coat is on, and why the grip on his satchel’s strap is so tight.
“My boys are out there,” Phil says. “In the SMP. I hear something about a rebellion, and a new nation. I think they have something to do with it. Dream isn’t happy.”
His mind flashes to green eyes and sharp teeth, warm skin against his own, ramblings about chaos. He hasn’t seen him since that day. There’s no way he hasn’t thought about him though, not with all that’s apparently been going down and everything Technoblade hasn’t let himself be involved with yet despite the blood that draws him. Human affairs tend to work themselves out sometimes, and he doubts Dream would appreciate more trouble in a domain that’s clearly his own.
Especially not from him. So.
“If something happens,” Phil continues, “And my sons need help…”
He hesitates, as if the request is a burden. He has never asked Technoblade for anything before, never treated him with anything but dignity and companionship. Even then, they would go for the ends of the earth for each other, and maybe that’s why he knows to feel guilty.
He bows his head. It’s pitiful, to see such an action from the Angel of Death.
“Please, Techno. Please take care of them.”
His response doesn’t require much thought. Honestly, Phil didn’t even need to say please.
—
The fourth time he sees Dream, they don’t actually talk.
Contrary to what most people believe they know, he’s around to see Tommy and Wilbur get exiled from L’manberg in the flesh. The war was old news by the time he realized the trouble was far from over, and he figured it was for the best anyways—staying away from the violence, not letting himself get involved, and not letting himself get in too deep. No one would benefit from that. Instead he just lurks from above, watches from the tower’s platform as Jschlatt is elected, and knows somehow that things will never be the same.
He thinks of Phil. He watches Tommy and Wilbur, running away from the rest of the server in their undoubtedly patriotic uniforms. Some of their faces are familiar, some are not. Wilbur gets shot through the neck with an arrow, body bursting into a plume of smoke instantly, and it’s only then that he moves.
He enderpearls down to the ground and keeps out of view, ducking behind one of the buildings encircling the election podium. He hears the new president’s maniacal laughter ringing from above, yells of anger and cries of devastation in the distance, and it’s nothing but a swift reminder of why governments are humanity’s worst creation. Tyrannical, unjust, and everything that blurs the line between person and god.
He scopes his surroundings, and knows no one will see him slip past so long as he keeps away from the main paths. All he needs to do is find Tommy and Wilbur wherever they end up running to, far enough from the rest of the server to regroup and retouch bases. He knows they’ll be surprised to see him, it’s been several years after all, but he’s not exactly expecting a special reunion or anything. He’s going to help them where he can and that’ll be that. Anything beyond that point is completely out of his reach, and keeping them alive seems like easy enough of a task.
Something settles in the back of his neck—a feeling that builds with unease. His gaze shoots up to where prying eyes drill into him, and he freezes in his tracks, neck craning.
Dream watches, perched from above, legs dangling over the railing of the tower where Technoblade just stood himself. His eyes are sharp and knowing, staring right at him, and his mouth is pulled right in a straight and inexpressive line. The man’s shoulders rise and fall slowly, tensely. If he had to describe what Dream is probably thinking right now, he’d guess that he’s not surprised that Technoblade is here, but he isn’t exactly thrilled either. He’s a stranger now.
He knows that Dream knows exactly why he’s here. And they both know that they’re players for opposite sides.
Betrayal is a universal concept. No one is immune from the burn it leaves behind, not even gods, and not even a human like Dream. He’ll get over it eventually, Technoblade is sure. Even then, it’s not really his problem.
Because at the end of the day, that’s all Dream is. Human in every way that matters.
Their encounters begin to blend together as Technoblade embeds himself in the server’s affairs once and for all and Dream conducts business as any server operator would. They start coming across each other occasionally, either in passing or from afar depending on what their development warrants—whether Dream is slinking into Pogtopia to scheme with the newly-reformed Wilbur when Tommy is away, Technoblade is consoling a scorned Niki by the Greater Dream SMP’s outskirts as best as he can awkwardly manage (which isn’t very well), or they happen to find themselves in the same room while the members of the server discuss and prepare for war. Either way, they never mention that day ever again. They don’t even pretend to know each other.
—
The fifth time goes like this:
Schlatt is dead. Wilbur is, too. L’manberg is in pieces and the ache of betrayal in Technoblade’s chest hasn’t gone away. He tries to find Phil after all of the dust has settled but finds that the other man has simply vanished. He wonders what it would do to a person, to have to drive a sword into their own son’s chest. He’ll probably never find out.
Either way, it’s over. Dealt with. He’d be lying if he said his heart doesn’t burn hot with grief when he realizes that his disgraced surrogate brother is dead, like, actually dead, but his entire body feels too heavy to actually sit down and let everything hit him yet. Just walks and walks and walks until the world is finally quiet and nausea kicks in and he can’t convince himself that he did the right thing anymore.
He slumps against a tree, eyes half lidded but hard and eyebrows furrowed as he finally sighs, sword dropping out of his sore hand and crown thrown to the clearing of woods in front of him. His hair is messy, there’s some in his face. The area seems familiar for some reason, even in the darkness, and after a moment he remembers why.
There’s laughter coming from behind. He wants to shove his fist through a wall and spill his own blood against the brick.
“There you are,” the voice says cheerfully, and it’s no stranger to him, it hasn’t been in years and is like a leech clung onto his arm. His laugh is like warm honey, addicting and beautiful, and Technoblade takes a deep breath—you can deal with this right now. you’ve dealt with so much worse.
He just keeps the back of his head against the tree, chin up as he breathes. Dream comes up to his right and he doesn’t look at him, can’t get himself to, but sees the man’s state in his peripheral and can’t help but steal a glance—scraped up, sweaty, smeared with ash and gunpowder, a splatter of blood on his face that’s not his own. It sprays his cheeks like freckles. His mask is lifted off of his face for the first time Technoblade has seen today, he realizes, and there’s nothing to hide the ear-to-ear grin that matches the half-moon in the sky.
“Holy shit,” Dream says, panting, arms propped on his knees as he bends over and catches his breath. “Jesus. What a fucking day, man! What a fucking day.”
Technoblade thinks of the dirt, the fire, the arrows everywhere. He thinks of the anger that pierced through him the moment they hauled Tubbo up on stage and elected him President, reestablishing the government that Technoblade spent weeks and weeks and weeks grinding and sweating and supplying the entire revolution to fight against. He can’t say anything, doesn’t want to. Any words are trapped in his lungs. He just breathes and glares up at the sky.
“I mean, I knew what Wilbur was gonna do,” Dream is laughing now, probably pushing his hair back, reminiscing with sparkling eyes and glory. “I gave him the TNT, after all. But you before that? With the wither, and the—you should have seen Tommy’s face. Fucking fantastic, man. Props.”
Breathe.
He thinks of Tommy’s betrayed face, the way his hair was golden in the sun, the same as his father’s. He thinks of Schlatt dying on the floor surrounded by everyone who’s ever had a reason to want him gone, uselessly and pathetically and so undeniably human. He thinks of screams and cries of outrage as a sword pierces through Wilbur Soot’s heart for everyone to watch, Phil soaked with tears and crimson as his wings wrap around the corpse. He remembers Tommy and Tubbo crumbling and falling to the ground, clutching the rubble and grieving the nation they fought hard and long for. He remembers Dream laughing the entire time.
He’s still laughing now. Overjoyed, completely fulfilled. Technoblade doesn’t realize what he’s done until Dream is pressed up against the bark of the tree instead of him, eyes wide with shock as his collar is bunched up in the other man’s dirty fists.
“Shut up,” Technoblade says, voice a rumble in his chest. “Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up. Stop talkin’. Just shut up.”
“Techno? You—“
“Shut up,” he says again. It rips from his throat, makes it hurt. “There’s nothin’ to be proud of that happened today. This isn’t a game. Real people died. Don’t be so guileless. Just shut. Up.”
Dream gapes.
“Holy shit,” he says breathily, eyes wide. “You’re actually messed up about this.”
Technoblade just grits his teeth. He releases Dream’s shirt with a shove, turning away from the other man. He paces. The grass that had been here five years ago is now nothing but dirt and mulch, twigs snapping under his feet.
For some reason, Dream doesn’t say anything yet. He lets him have this, at least.
Then again, Dream isn’t very merciful, and Dream isn’t very kind.
“Talk to me,” he says.
“There’s nothin’ to say—“
“Enlighten me then,” he corrects. “Please. Let me know what the amazing Technoblade is thinking right now, I’m sure it’ll be world-altering.”
“You knew what was gonna happen,” Technoblade says bitterly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Not that Wilbur was lyin’ to them, or that he still wanted to—he—you knew that he would kill himself after—"
“Seriously? Like you didn’t already know exactly how he was going to end up?”
He knew. He could see from the moment Tommy and Wilbur threw their arms around him and screamed with joy outside of what would soon become Pogtopia. The older’s eyes were different, the madness had already settled—he was never going to get through this in one piece.
And yeah—fine. He wanted to destroy Manberg too. He encouraged it. He caused half of the damage out there, knew what he was doing when he spawned those withers in. The entire goal for him was abolishment, and when that went awry, he snapped. But Wilbur Soot was not supposed to die, and Phil was not supposed to be anywhere near here to bear witness, and Tommy was not supposed to cry that hard, and Technoblade was not supposed to ache as hard as he does now.
“It had to be done,” he says numbly. “That doesn’t mean I’m exactly shootin’ for joy.”
Dream’s eyeroll is practically audible. “We won,” he scoffs. “What more could you possibly want?”
“All that was won was a crater in your SMP and countless people who want our heads on a stick now. Yeah. Total victory.”
“They betrayed you,” Dream says. “They used you. They took advantage of your kindness, extorted your time and energy for supplies and resources, just to replace one tyrant with another against your wishes. That was your only wish, really. They fucking deserved it.” He scoffs again. “They deserved everything they got today.”
He shakes off the feeling that he’s being persuaded. It feels like an insult to his intelligence, even though he knows it’s true—feels the bitterness that lingers even now.
“You knew they were gonna reestablish that government too,” he says, “You knew they were keepin’ it from me, and you watched me help them for weeks, and you said nothin’. Didn’t you?”
A moment passes, and the air has never felt thicker—not even when the world had filled with smoke and gunpowder just hours before.
“I did,” Dream finally says simply. Not cruelly, but not remorsefully either. Just simply. “Are you upset by that?”
He thinks about it. “No.”
“Are you mad at me?”
“No.”
Dream sighs.
“Listen, Techno, this—things are hitting you right now, I’m sure, especially with Phil and Wilbur and Tommy and whatever, but what’s done is done. Like you said, it had to happen. Only a coward wouldn’t have struck them back where it hurt.”
“I thought you wanted peace.”
“I did. There was a rebellion, we gave them the war they wanted, they made a trade for peace, I gave it to them. They were overthrown, their founders exiled, and they went to war again. Now both sides are gone. The threat is burnt to ash. That’s pretty fucking peaceful, if you ask me.”
“They’ll rebuild,” Technoblade says, clutching to reason like a drowning man. “You know they will.”
“Maybe,” Dream shrugs. “But then again, their leader is dead. They won’t last long with Tubbo at the helm, picking up the scraps. Kid can barely even tie his own shoes.”
That’s right. He killed Tubbo, murdered him at the festival he decorated and left the side of his body burnt and grotesque. He’s been dragged through the mud and back, demeaned and used and ignored, and now he’s the president of nothing but a smoking crater.
What a joke.
“I think it’s cute, y’know,” Dream says coldly, once there’s no answer. Technoblade isn’t surprised by the shift; he’s been waiting for it. “That you think you have any place to talk to me about the ethics of what we did today—a great thing, I should add—when you’re just as guilty. You wanted this. Maybe you’re not as powerful as they thought you were, if your morals are so convoluted."
“I had my own reasons for protectin’ Pogtopia. I had my own reasons for destroyin’ Man—“ he grimaces, “L’manberg, too. I never owed loyalty to anyone, and especially not you. Not some desperate operator with a complex who thinks that humanity is cattle to control, to scare into submission—“
“Like you know anything about me,” Dream spits. “Or anything of humanity. There’s nothing more annoying than when gods try to act like they know all, when you act like your shit doesn’t stink. Well guess what? You’re not as great as you think you are. You shit out gold? It’s just super shiny shit.”
“Above all else, god or human, right or wrong, I’m a person,” he retorts. His chest has never felt tighter, body tired and hands bloody. He misses the nether a lot right now. It’s like the overworld’s air has made him weaker, more expendable. Or maybe it’s just himself. “One day, will people be able to say the same about you?”
Dream just glares.
And then he steps forward.
He speaks, the words clipped and kneaded with underlying venom. As though simply saying them aloud it will make them come true. “They’ll hate you,” he seethes, poking Technoblade hard in the chest with his finger as he closes the space between them. “They’ll come back for vengeance after today, they’ll hold captive what you find dear and strip it away like bark. They’ll kill you. See how your precious ideals serve you then, because I’ll be fucking laughing when that day comes.”
“Glad to hear it,” Technoblade says blandly. “I hope it makes your useless existence a little more colorful.”
He waits for the retort—waits for the shove or the raise of an axe as Dream’s face twists into a snarl, toothy and rigid and downright painful to have to see. Because for the first time, Dream is looking at him with something close to genuine hatred, and he doesn’t know what to do with that. Not when he’s remembering all the times they’ve bickered and laughed and ignored each other and been everything but this.
That look melts away just as quickly as it had settled.
“Well,” he says through his teeth, slipping his mask back on. A blank, wide smile, carved from ceramic—it’s so fake, so unapologetically him—and with it, his composure returns too: voice completely even and neutral. “I guess our business ends here, then.”
Technoblade just looks at him. He doesn’t know what to say, so he looks to the side. “Sure.”
They’re still standing just a breath apart, just a few feet too close to be normal. He’s the first to attempt to step away when Dream grabs at the front of his shirt, pulling him close.
He leans in, voice low.
“If you’re ever…bored, though,” he says quietly, like the slight gasp of whisper, breath grazing his ear. It matches the wind in the forest, the crack of shattered glass—it’s like being weighed down by a desert’s worth of sand and being wound up tight by a spider’s silk. He thinks he could be driven to do anything if it were this voice telling him to, and he’s not sure what to do with that either. “You know how to find me.”
Technoblade’s jaw tightens. Dream pats him on the chest and leaves.
He waits until the soft crunch of leaves and mulch from his footsteps dissolves into silence. When it does, he waits longer. And then he waits again. And when he knows that he’s finally alone, he shoves his face into his hands and screams.
—
Ghostbur is staring at him as he runs for his life, blue wool laced through his fingers, skin white as bone. Punz is slaughtering the members of the Butcher Army behind him, screams and shouts bloody and shrill. He ignores them.
All Technoblade cares about is the tingling in his brain, the iron in his mouth, and the feeling that the skin around his body isn’t his own. He drops the used totem of undying—Tubbo could hang it up as a souvenir, if he wanted to—and chases after the flash of green he had seen in the corner of his eye just moments before he died. The earth is uneven and ragged, holes in the ground where a wither once struck.
He follows the man into the uncovered space of an underground tunnel, which spills into a room that he does not recognize. A sign hangs from the entrance, and he thinks it says ‘Final Control Room’ or something like it, but he doesn’t read it. There’s no time. What he can’t ignore is the old, dried blood on the ground—lots of it. People have died here.
Dream had been waiting for him. Carl’s lead is pressed firmly into his hand.
“There’s a chest there,” he says, tone casual and emotionless. He points to one of the chests that line the walls, the signs faded and half-hanging. It reminds him of the supply room he had prepared for Pogtopia. “It has supplies. Good luck.”
He says nothing else. Just pats Technoblade’s shoulder and lets his hand linger on him as he slips away.
He hears Quackity yelling, voice closer than it was before. He fumbles for the latch on the chest.
There is full iron armor, enough golden apples and regen potions to last him until the end of this fight. The netherite pickaxe, newly casted and made for large hands, will be enough. But what lays in the chest that stands out to him the most is a small drawstring pouch.
He opens it, hands still shaking.
Inside is a pile of wheat seeds, useless and futile, and it might as well be the closest thing to an ‘I love you’ he’ll ever get.