Chapter Text
Walking Corpse
Comfort, Suicide Attempt, SBI
Can someone be alive and yet feel as if they are dead? Techno wonders how a person might feel if they were to lie in their grave while somehow having an omniscient sort of consciousness, allowing them to experience the situation without living it – like a ghost trapped inside their corpse. Would they feel the stiffness in their fingers, the lack of life in their skin and pallid, dead eyes? How would they feel, seeing their families mourning for them? Would they feel the weight in their soul and the regrets of killing themselves? He wonders what they would feel like if they became spirits and were able to see their casket being watched by the crowd of black suits and dresses and everything in between, all of them there to commemorate and grief them. What would they think, watching as their own casket is lowered into the ground?
Sometimes Techno wonders if he is dead. The chilling air of October has crept not only through the exposed skin of his hands, making them dry and cracking for a couple of weeks now, but to the rest of his skin, draining away the color and life and any warmth produced from his living, breathing self, and yet he does not shiver. He rarely ever shivers nowadays. When was the last time he reacted to the cold with such a will to defy it?
Techno remembers his days living in alleyways and under bridges. Cold, dirty stone is what he often found himself sitting on as noon turned to twilight. Sometimes, he still feels it against his skin in the early hours of the morning, waking anxiously from remnants of bloody memories before daylight in his bed, sheets halfway to the floor. This season always reminds him the most of those years. His body still remembers. It reacts by making him lose his appetite because sometimes he still smells and tastes stale dumpster scraps, and sometimes he will find himself wanting nothing more than to find a safe, enclosed place to curl up in, despite nothing to threaten him.
He has caught himself walking aimlessly on his morning walks with Floof, canvassing the area meticulously so that he is aware of where everything is, watching people to discern whether or not they are dangerous, and gripping the little dagger Phil got custom-made for him two years ago. Sometimes when he comes home, he feels an emotional wave hit him, almost like disbelief, and he is taken back to that time 7 years ago, when Phil had first taken him in while holding his hand tight, leading him through the entryway with that calm, guiding British voice.
“ Come on, I’ll draw up a nice warm bath, and I’ll have mashed potatoes and steak ready when you get out. ”
He wonders if that feeling will ever go away.
Floof yips. The little Maltese is pattering up to him, giving him puppy eyes that lets Techno know he is ready to go inside and get served a temperate meal. It’s time to go home.
Techno enters the house, the classic squeak of the windscreen snapping closed behind him followed by the complete seal of the heavy oak door. As usual, the warm temperature of the house merely feels like a scratchy brush across his skin. It has yet to penetrate the cold that encases him like a shell. He feels the mildly uncomfortable physical shock, and when the heat eventually infiltrates him, he knows he will feel that warm sultriness that makes him want to waltz right back to the cold outside.
His skin won’t stop feeling stiff, and he wonders if likening his body to a corpse is considered too morbid. Unhooking the leash takes several tries because his fingers feel like they’ve been taken by rigor mortis, and he mechanically puts away his shoes together on his spot on the shoe rack and loops the leash on the coat rack. The routine breaks when he finds himself not immediately going into the kitchen to instead root himself in the hallway while Floof runs to the kitchen. Floof needs to eat. Why isn’t he going into the kitchen? Why can’t he find it in himself to continue the routine?
“Techno?”
Techno looks to the end of the hallway, where Phil is leaning in from his office door. Techno blinks, realizing his expression is too blank and is making Philza look at him in confusion, and forces himself to move, taking steps forward instead of remaining in the hallway like an idle, zoned-out ghost. “Yeah?”
Phil seems to peruse dialog options in his mind for a moment before he speaks. “Want to help me cook dinner?”
Techno shrugs. “Sure.”
The smell of hot chocolate greets him in the kitchen, and he knows he would have smelt it the moment he walked in had his nose not been so dry, and his throat not so raw because of all the cold, humid-less air he has been breathing in for the past hour.
“You want some? I think it's still warm,” Phil offers with his warm, perky smile, cleaning his empty mug in the sink. Something on Techno’s expression seems to instantly degrade it though.
“No thanks,” Techno says. Techno wants to ask if there’s something wrong because Phil seems tense, but words fail him. Floof offers a distraction by pawing at his pants leg, reminding him to whip up a bowl from the cabinets.
“Did you wear a jacket while you were out there?”
Techno waits until he sets the bowl in Floof’s designated corner before answering because his ADHD barely allows him to multitask without failure. “Uhh, no.”
Phil’s eyes don’t meet his. They stay down-turned onto the broccoli he is chopping. “Doesn’t the cold bother you? I noticed you haven’t been wearing jackets much at all. Do we need to go shopping for a new one?”
Techno pauses at the warmth he feels in his chest. It’s times like this that make him feel grateful for Phil, making it painfully obvious that Phil cares and loves him. That warmth becomes stifling just as quickly. He shouldn’t have thoughts of wanting to off himself. Techno knows he is most likely going to take away his own life soon, but how much of Phil is he going to bring down with him? It’s that warmth that makes it so hard for him to lie to himself that Phil will get over his death quickly.
Phil looks at him finally, confused at his lack of response describable with a lifted brow and the paused knife upon a half-chopped potato.
“I don’t need another jacket. Mine fit and are warm enough, just… I don’t know, kind of like the cold. You know I have to prove myself against everything, including the environment, Phil.”
Phil snorts, and the chopping resumes. “Of course,” Phil affirms, shaking his head with a smile. “Technoblade could never be deterred by something as little as the cold .” They both have a chuckle, and it feels as if he has successfully drawn the attention away from himself.
They set up a rhythm in the kitchen. Phil chops up a set portion for the potatoes and Techno oils the pan, adding butter and spices to sear and heat. Techno checks the beef and veggies sweating in the glass-closed pan slow-cooking on the back-burner while Phil cleans and puts away what dishes there are in the dishwasher. Phil sets to flipping the frying potato slices and watching them simmer at high heat while Techno preps the table, and while he is in there to think for a moment by himself, a question settles on his tongue. He wants to ask Phil a question, but he isn’t sure how he will receive it. How well will Techno be able to disguise the implications of it? Is it worth asking?
In the end, curiosity of Phil’s answer won out, and Techno became confident he could ask without raising hackles. Upon finishing the table and stepping back into the kitchen, he finds Phil peacefully humming Your City Gave Me Asthma while portioning out the steaming broccoli between their two plates. The smell of it all combines and blankets as safety, as a reminder of every meal in this warm little home of him, Phil, Wilbur, and Tommy they have made together throughout the years of thick and thin, through laughter and subdued, comfortable silence of company shared.
Will it continue when he’s dead?
“Hey, Phil… I have a question.”
“Yes?” Phil hums, glancing at Techno with attention as he grabs the plastic wrap out of the middle drawer. Techno grabs the emptied pan off the stove to cool in the sink water and wash, feeling a little less nervous with them both occupied. It doesn’t cure his nerves, and his hands shake as he scrubs unnecessarily roughly against the non-stick Teflon, bending the bristles of his brush.
“What would you do if I died?”
Silence grips the air almost instantly, and he swears he can feel Phil still behind him.
“Like in a car crash, or something. I don’t know, I was just—random question is all,” Techno says quickly. He dries the pan with more attention and thoroughness than he has in his whole life because Phil is chewing on the question like its gristle.
“Well… What would I do ?” Phil finally begins, tucking silverware between the steak and the fries. He hands Techno his plate, breaking him out of his mission to wipe the long-dry pan so that they could take a seat in the dining room. Now that the warmth of the house has soaked into him, Techno feels that uncomfortable stuffiness, and he wonders if the sweat building along his hairline is visible.
“I would be very sad, that’s for sure.” Phil begins. He is seated across the table from Techno. When Tommy and Wilbur are not there nor expected for the meal, Techno and Phil sit at the serving chairs, ignoring the captain’s chairs where they usually sit, foregoing the positions of sovereignty for closer proximity. It is moments like this in which he feels closest to his best friend and foster father, and it sets him a little more at ease. “I would have to force myself through funeral preparations.”
Techno chewed a small bite of food, sipping his water too much because he needs a distraction. His heart pounds like it’s caged in his chest as he forces his calm exterior and waits for Phil to continue. Phil’s face is crestfallen, as if conjuring the scenario in detail.
“Following your death, I would look into programs and case managers for me, Tommy, and Wilbur. I would make sure we get the grief counselors that are right for us, and I would make sure Tubbo gets whatever help he needs, too.”
Phil falls silent as he picks at his food, and Techno swallows against his dry throat. Guilt sits like a giant paperweight on his chest, and feeling as if a physical weight is pressing atop him, Techno slumps, breaking the stare he has had on Phil. Phil shakes his head from the corner of Techno’s eye. “It would be horrible. Don’t even want to think about it, to be honest.”
Phil blinks and it’s like the illusion fades, and he stabs a fork into a cube of steak and broccoli. Those eyes turn on Techno, and Techno flinches. Phil’s eyes narrow. “Why?” he asks. The suspicion Techno feared the question would bring presents itself, and he feels his chest constrict with the adrenaline.
“No reason.” Techno is so conscious of his lie that Phil’s every movement and expression feels accusatory and astute. Techno holds his Technoblade Never Dies mug to his lips with both hands to sip his water against his parched mouth, his gaze in the other direction and carefully without expression.
The sound of forks against plates and the munching of their meals take over, but it’s just for a moment.
“Hey Techno?”
Techno glances at Phil to show he acknowledges the question, but can’t hold eye contact. “Yeah?”
“Is everything alright? Why did you ask that?”
Techno sees Floof peak his head between the curtains under the half-turn stairs. The twinkly lights Tommy set up inside Floof’s little space shine through with him, as if emphasizing how sublime the little stray is. Somehow, the distraction gives Techno the motivation to answer.
“Everything is fine, Phil. Just a curious question I got because my latest essay got me thinking about it.”
“Oh? And how is college, by the way?”
Techno’s heart slowly calms as they began speaking of his classes and how things were going, and the nonexistent essay he is writing about death and grief. He is reminded that Wilbur and Tommy are staying with Tubbo as they work on their own essays because Wilbur turned his own in early for the sole purpose of helping them. Wilbur says it was because Tommy wouldn’t stop nagging for his help, but the proud grin on his face as he and Tommy got ready to head to Tubbo’s had said otherwise.
“I did not just call you Wilby,” Tommy mutters as he circles behind the couch after having rushed downstairs, blush heating his cheeks and scrunching his lips as he got all defensive. Wilbur only grins dotingly as he mows the stairs in a mission to ruffle Tommy's hair, smiling like he won a grand prize.
“Aww, yes you did.” Wilbur reaches his hand to Tommy's messy blonde locks, but Tommy dodges and flashes a scowl that for once, does not work. Wilbur continued to laugh and tease Tommy, capitalizing on Tommy’s little slip of the tongue as they make their way out the garage door. “Don’t worry, little bro, I'll still help with your essay."
Phil’s sullen eyes and quiet voice repeated itself. “It would be horrible. Don’t even want to think about it, to be honest.”
Techno is pulled by the duel, opposite instances, of the memory from earlier today that told him everybody will heal well after his death and the instance of five minutes ago, with Phil’s crestfallen expression from the mere thought of Techno’s passing. It makes him feel helpless because he wants to die, he knows he is going to die soon, and yet the evidence of the consequential sorrow harolds itself in the way they talk to him like he is ingrained into their family. Like death is an escape that will leave them all behind in shards. And yet he can't bring himself to live anymore. Because if he thinks about his actions-to-be and the aftermath for what they are, try to argue how committing suicide when he could force himself to live, then he would lose. And yet he can't find it in himself to get up in the morning and find the will to live.
He doesn’t want to think about it. Instead, he ushers Phil back to his office so that he finishes his work in his office while Techno cleans up, makes sure Floof's water bowl is clean. Then he folds the laundry from the dryer, reads a section in his textbook that is being discussed in his Computer Science class next Thursday, and does the last bit of homework for his online statistics class due tomorrow. Anything to stave the awareness of his own two-faced morals. The feeling in his gut churns and makes what food he put down feel undeserved.
Later, while he is in his room, he slips out his leather folder from his bookshelf, slips it into his lap while he sinks into his bonded leather recliner. He knows he has lost some weight because of the way the chair and the plush throw encase him more. Thankfully, Phil has been the only one to acknowledge it, and that had been one time a month ago. Why eat when you are going to die soon?
He gently pulls the leather string away. It’s a little faded because the bookshelf is felt by evening sunlight coming through the small window in the corner of his room. The leather folder was a gift on his sixteenth birthday two years ago, Tommy had said something about it being for his hopes and dreams as a writer. Techno wonders if he should laugh or feel pity for the younger, even though he knows he can’t do either. Emotions — besides those that constrict his chest — are such a rarity, nowadays. Lately, all he feels is exhaustion, and the only thing that makes him feel is his perpetual imagination detailing his death.
Inside the leather folder are letters perfectly aligned. Every graze of his fingers against the dry baronial envelopes produces a sound so solemnized. The act of taking these letters out and running his fingers along them has become a sort of ritual. He got these vintage envelopes at a garage sale a year ago with Wilbur. Techno stares at the wax seals he stamped with the first letter of the family’s names — W for Wilbur, T for Tommy, and P for Philza.
He’s spent more time on these drafted suicide letters than he has connecting with the others in recent months. He knows what his actions speak, has grown aware of how much he is isolating himself in favor of researching suicide methods, types of coffins, grief counselors nearby, and avoiding webpages that are begging him to call a suicide hot-line because “You deserve help, life is worth living.” It might be for most others, but he has long lost any sense of motivation to carry on as a living, breathing thing.
Techno often finds himself refraining scoffs at these attempts to “save him.” They're misunderstood. He doesn't have some mental anguish strangling him, and he doesn't feel worthless, unloved, or feel a need to take a blade to his wrists to "feel something." No, his problem is that he is going to kill himself, and that's only a problem because of the impact it will have on Phil and the others. Techno could care less about living. He has no will to. It's his choice to do this, and if he could ask for something, it wouldn't be help, but for Wilbur, Tommy, and Phil to accept his choice. That won't ever happen.
He doesn’t need to be "saved." He doesn’t think he’s worthless, he isn’t abused at the home and turning to suicide and or self-harm as a means of escape, and he’s certainly not down in the gutter, alone and afraid and in desperate need of therapy like every article of online research makes him out to be. If he was desperate for help, he would have knocked on his wall and Phil — being a light sleeper and an attentive parent — would have dragged himself into Techno’s room, asking what he needs.
There is a question he found the hardest to answer in his drafts. Why do I want to die? It felt like a question that, once the answer came, it would tumble and tumble until every shattered piece of the answer came clattering out, inhibitions be damned. Techno asked that question to himself as he stares at his finished classwork, driving his challenger home after class, while tumbling into fits of laughter with the others amidst a game of Bedwars, while laying upon fallen leaves and dirt shinning with crystals, eyes to the shrouded deep blue skies, imagining himself six feet deep into the earth.
Sometimes, he will form fragments of the answer in his mind, but it is as if they come and go by their own volition, as if with a mind of their own. That seems to be with a lot of things inside his head, nowadays. The suicidal thoughts, the guilt that nibbles at his heart, the random moments in which his emotions seem to function again, where he realizes he has been under the duress of a strong fog of fatigue and depleted energy.
Ah, there it is. That’s the answer. He’s sick of all this fatigue. He feels useless and disposable when he lays in bed all day, only ever functioning when he needs to study, finish classwork on his computer, or shower to attend a class. He’s grown tired of the effort it takes to even find the energy to come downstairs, knowing it’s another soulless night with the others with only the feeling of confusion to wonder where his love for them went. Everything he does feels wrong, and he can't stop thinking he's better off dead. He spends more time perfecting his suicide notes than finding it in himself to force himself to live for them, so it is only natural he rids himself before they see through his act.
Sometimes, he feels like he’s become someone else. The moment they realize he is no longer that stoic, hermetic teenager with moony aspirations and a penchant for competition in gaming, then things will change. It’s better to go out sooner, before he slowly exposes himself under his own inability to keep himself in check. The memory that they have of him will have to do. He is saving them so much trouble in the long run.
Sometimes, to clear his moral standpoint on it all, he justifies it with an image of a scale. One of those old-timey brass balance scales. On one end is the outcome of forcing himself to live, of staying here with Phil, Wilbur, Tommy, Floof, his best friend Dream, and everyone else under the sun with whom he has built a connection. It would be so easy, wouldn't it? He's thought about it too often, thought of saying those four little words that would break the mirror, degrade the illusion, tear his walls down. I want to die. He's almost uttered it among the silence while he and Phil were reading books in the living room, while he and Wilbur were watching Scream, when Tommy asked "What's wrong?" one night, when he found Techno staring at the wall in the middle of the night. But on the other end of that scale is every reason he should die. It always weighs heavier, and so he shuts his mouth without having revealed anything.
His fingers catch on his letter to Phil, and he pulls it out to stare at it. It’s inevitable that this would happen, Phil, he thinks, an echo of his words written within. I have been dead for months. My body is dysfunctional and my mind is not my own anymore. I’m just putting a faster end to the process of my decay.
Techno slips the letter back with the others and re-ties the leather string. His plan to commence his death suddenly looms to mind. There’s a miniature Minecraft chest in his closet that contains his ticket to his own euthanization, but an ample opportunity to use it has yet to present itself – one of the others are always home. He doesn't know much about trauma, but he suspects his death here maybe be a source of grief for them, so he plans to off himself in the backyard. Still, he wants to die here because although it isn't where he was born, it's where he felt alive. He wants to die where he lived. He hopes that explanation written in his letter to Phil is enough.
The Minecraft XP level-up sound effect sounds its little bells. Techno checks his phone for the text.
NOTICE TO ALL PROVIDENCE STUDENTS
All campuses will be closed Thursday and Friday due to weather. Classes are canceled for this time, although online coursework will remain on schedule. Check Canvas for any additional changes. Snow is predicted to fall Thursday and coat the roads till Saturday. Roads will be iced, drive with caution.
The bells chime again. A text from Dream.
Eyy, no class
Now I can finally get some sleep
Techno chuckles. Dream’s room at the dorms had recently flooded, forcing him to move back to his parents' place a 45-minute drive away, and his little sister has used every bit of his free time to get him to help her with her homework. He can imagine Dream laying on his bed with his big grin as he texts this, ready to fall asleep.
Techno texts back a brief and rudimentary response before thumbing back to the weather warning from Providence. He reads it over and over, entranced with the ideas it brings to mind.
Soon. Sooner than he thought, this will all be over, and he will have nothing but the cold embrace of nonexistence.