Chapter Text
The winter chill sets into Tommy’s bones as he strides forward, enthralled by the lights strung up around Hypixel’s buildings. It’s not his first winter as a player— far from it, in fact— but they capture his gaze every time, drawing him in to visions of hot mugs and snowball fights.
He won’t get any of that here. There’s plenty of what he has come for, though: light violence and the smell of success.
Tommy stuffs his hands into the pockets of his furred coat, a little too big on him. As most things are, it was a gift from Hypixel, in exchange for his service. Service, alright— it makes them loads of money, he knows, so it’s worth it, keeping him around.
Regardless, the walk from the hotel to the arena is never his favorite part. It’s usually either too hot or too cold, and kind of lonely, and his feet end up hurting by the end, and then there’s the matter of figuring out what time they actually start announcing teams, because it changes from time to time and he usually sleeps through the disclaimer a few days prior— and he hasn’t told Ranboo this, mostly because he knows the other would feel some sense of obligation to pick up his slack if he did.
So Tommy walks to the arena on his own, hands still shoved into his pockets in an effort to keep them warm. For all they do to keep this place warm, it’s still December, and the arena is always colder than the hotel. There are plenty of people coming in, enough that Tommy could pick from a number of conversations to eavesdrop on, but he can’t tell who are participants and who are audience members.
Oh, well. The live feed will be broadcasted to stations everywhere. It’s not like Tommy’s worried about who will be watching, anyway, especially when the only person he cares about will be in the arena with him.
When he finally pushes his way inside, holding the door for a husband and wife who toss him a smile that he returns, he finds that the building is heated far better than last winter. They must have had some budget expansions, then; Tommy can’t help but wonder if it’s his own winning streak donating directly to Hypixel’s event funding.
Couldn’t hurt to win again, then, he supposes with a suppressed grin.
He steps the rest of the way into the building and immediately feels silly wearing such a big coat when nobody else looks as decked out as he is. In his defense, they didn’t tell him it was gonna be so nice in here. In their defense… they probably did, and he slept through it entirely. Go figure. Maybe he really should tell Ranboo why he’s late so often.
Speaking of: he spots his familiar friend in the mingling crowd of participants, two-toned hair and lanky build sticking up far higher than anyone else. He’s alone, and he looks nervous; Tommy’s been there. It’s been years since Tommy was in his shoes, sure, but while he grew quickly accustomed to startup season, Ranboo seems to have a perpetual habit of nerves.
He catches Ranboo’s eye and waves. The boy breaks into a smile, lifting a hand in return. Tommy, satisfied, allows himself to be whisked away by the flow of the crowd, carting him off to the sign-in desk.
It doesn’t take him long. The lady recognizes him as always, her kind smile ever-present throughout the years as she directs him to the west wing. Tommy’s always found it funny that the whole building’s shaped to resemble a very large donut, the arena being in the middle. When he met Ranboo, a few seasons in, the boy had shared the same exact sentiment.
“Ranboo, my man,” Tommy says, jogging to catch up with his friend. The taller one whirls around to face him, surprised, and then breaks into that same grin from before, lifting an arm to clasp Tommy’s outstretched hand in a greeting.
“Hey, man!” he replies, clearly jittery; Tommy feels for him. “What took you so long? I was worried you were going to come in late again.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder to the huge screen behind them, which displays the timer that counts down until teams are announced. It’s got just over a minute left. Nice.
Tommy shrugs. “Couldn’t find my shoes,” he lies easily, hand sliding from Ranboo’s as he leans forward, bumping their shoulders together. “You good? You look nervous.”
“I’m always nervous,” Ranboo replies, but Tommy can read the faraway look in his eyes, that same story of nowhere to go, nobody to celebrate his successes and triumphs with. Fiercely, Tommy thinks, Ranboo will celebrate with me. We’ll celebrate together if he wins.
He won’t, but that’s okay. They take any excuse to celebrate— even just making it out alive is an achievement.
“Could be your big break,” Tommy teases, and Ranboo smiles weakly, the din of the shuffling crowds overshadowing the gentle bing, bing, bing of the countdown overhead.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re the one taking home the gold.”
Taking home, he says, as if Tommy’s home isn’t a gaudy Hypixel-owned hotel room in the middle of fuck knows where.
“I’ll take your word for it,” Tommy says, and finally, the excitement starts coming back to him, his eyes widening with anticipation. Ten seconds are left on the clock. “You think we should go get in line?”
Ranboo nods. As the timer runs out, a buzzing sound filling the air, they edge their way into the rest of the crowd of players, lining up shoulder to shoulder and letting the others flank either side of them. Tommy’s gaze rakes over each person as they join the line, a sticker on each of their shirts or jackets that will read their participation number.
The fur of Tommy’s coat hides his. Judging by the stares he’s already starting to get, he’s kind of satisfied that his number isn’t on display to confirm any suspicions.
Ranboo leans over to whisper to him: “I really hope I get a fair team this time.”
Tommy shoots a sympathetic glance his way, bobbing his head in a nod as the buzzer fades out. Last season, a couple months ago on the fall equinox, Ranboo was paired with a newcomer boy who hardly knew a compass from a flashlight. Teams are usually ‘randomly’ assigned by Hypixel, and aren’t negotiable, so there was nothing he could do when his partner’s ignorance led to their inevitable doom. Ranboo’s way too nice to cause a problem about it, anyway.
Tommy’s last partner was fine enough. Then again, he could probably win playing alone, so maybe it doesn’t matter who they put him with, as long as they’re willing to take a comfortable backseat to his lead— and once they figure out who he is, they usually are.
Tommy leans over to whisper back. “I hope I get someone who can’t fight at all,” he murmurs, and Ranboo throws a lopsided grin at him, shaking his head.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“That’s the point.” Tommy smirks cheekily and turns, finding the announcer’s box high up on the wall. The person manning it changes from season to season; right now, Tommy can’t see enough of them to figure out who they are. It doesn’t matter, though, because he places Quackity’s voice as soon as he starts speaking.
“Welcome, all!” he greets, and just those two words have the audience erupting in thunderous applause. They’re roped off behind the contestants, farther back to give people room to find their partner when the entire thing blows over. Once the ruckus dies down, Quackity goes on. “We’re so excited to see such a large crowd for our winter solstice competition this time around! You’ve blown us all away with your overwhelming support.
“We’d like to start off by informing our new participants and reminding our returners of some of Hypixel’s most important tournament rules,” says Quackity, and Tommy zones out almost immediately after that.
Most people are focused on the announcements, which gives Tommy some time to snoop that he missed by showing up later than everyone else. He leans forward slightly, hands clasped in front of him, and scans the competition to his left.
There are some familiar faces, but Tommy’s not concerned with the ones he’ll already know how to deal with. No, his focus is completely on the newcomers, bold and confident as they stand with puffed chests in the line. Everybody wants to win, after all, and some returners are already shooting him dirty glances, catching his eye to glare his way.
Tommy only grins lazily, barely refraining himself from lifting a hand to wave. They’ll get what’s coming to them, if they don’t want to applaud his success.
There are always fifty participants, so Tommy doesn’t bother to count. He loiters in line, Quackity’s voice echoing and melding together in his brain until none of the words make sense anymore. Tommy picks out a woman with a chiseled face, deep set eyes and strong brows, that he’s never seen before. Instantly, he decides she’ll be a threat if she doesn’t get out early on.
He keeps looking. There’s a tall, spindly guy with orange-ish hair that Tommy doesn’t recognize. Another woman, friendly-looking yet taller than those flanking her and broad-shouldered with frizzy white hair, catches Tommy’s attention. He decides right away that he likes her; she looks like she knows how to have fun while still winning. He wouldn’t mind getting paired with her— that’s his specialty.
His eyes dot along the line again, picking out old and new faces, young and elderly, hopeful and deadset. Usually he has no problem discerning exactly who will be good competition and who will be out on the first day. Then again, Ranboo looks like a puppy with his tail tucked between his legs every time teams are announced, and he usually sticks it out until no less than midway through the tournament. The only time his team placed lower than fourteenth was his first.
Tommy’s gaze wanders to his left next. He passes through redheads, brunets, raven-haired individuals, and everyone in between, but his gaze catches on the pink head sticking up out of the line, taller than even Tommy. Damn, the group is tall this time around; Tommy leans forward the slightest bit more to find a shorter, kinder-looking blond man standing at his side. They both look determined, one more intensely than the other, and Tommy decides they’ll be interesting in the arena as well.
The two are having an exchange of sorts, it seems. Tommy is extremely curious as to what they’re saying. Maybe if he listens closely…
“And now,” Quackity says, startling Tommy into straightening back up. When he shifts his eyes to the announcer’s box, it seems almost like the man is staring straight at him, teasing him for his poor attention span. “The moment you’ve all been waiting for: team assignments!”
This should be good.
They’re called up one by one. First, the orange-haired man is asked to step forward. His partner follows shortly, a shorter, stockier man with an enthused smile and a pair of glasses that look like they’ve been glued together multiple times at the bridge.
The serious-looking woman is next, and then a shorter, pudgier man Tommy doesn’t recognize at all, and then a girl hardly older than him with a boy about her age— once they’re paired off, they all step back into line. Tommy wonders if they’ll save him for closer to the end this time. After emerging the victor of a few (read: seven) seasons in a row, he’s not exactly surprised that he’s attracting some attention.
It is nice. It’s not that bad. But it’s also really, really fucking annoying sometimes.
“Tommy Soot,” Quackity announces, and Tommy snaps to attention, his body thrumming with anticipation and intrigue. He steps forward two paces, pauses, and then keeps going the rest of the way, his eyes trailing to the screen where an outdated picture of him from a year and a half ago is there to greet him.
The box next to him is blank. Tommy wishes they’d put his competing name up on the screen instead of his full legal name. Surely there are newcomers who won’t know who Tommy Soot is.
“An extremely skilled young participant, and one we’d like to keep a hold on for a while to come,” Quackity jokes, though it doesn’t at all feel like one, when he thinks about it too hard. He wishes he’d just call the other name, the one that’ll go next to his, the face that will appear in that second box. “Thank you, Tommy, for your participation this season, and all those before it.”
Like he has a choice. Tommy lifts a hand and smiles, tossing a grin over his shoulder to the crowd behind him, and then drops his arm to cross his fingers and hope for a Ranboo pairing.
“And your partner this time around, Tommy,” Quackity introduces grandly, “will be Technoblade.” Tommy glances around to find with surprise that the tall, scary-looking pink-haired man from earlier is taking slow steps forward, bulky arms crossed over his chest.
Tommy catches his eyes and finds them to be filled with as much vitriol as will fit.
The announcement rings in Tommy's ears as he takes his place back in the line, finding only enough focus to flash Ranboo a sad smile. He can feel the pink-haired man’s eyes on him. Quackity gives them no break, and Tommy watches as the few remaining are paired up— including Ranboo with the blond guy, whose name Tommy misses entirely while he’s cheering for his friend. When all the teams are assigned, Tommy’s gaze wanders to Quackity, manning the PA system, who is grinning down at the participants; his eyes avoid Tommy. Whoever orchestrated this arrangement clearly wanted to cause some trouble.
Tommy’s not a bad person. He wouldn't call himself that, not when he's repeatedly ordered to show up to these events, and he doesn’t want to hurt anyone, not really. The problem is the newcomer, the man whose eyes drill into him pointedly. Tommy's lips quirk. This guy will figure it out sooner or later, won't he? That Tommy’s just along for the money he provides to Hypixel?
"A child," he hears the blond man’s voice float over, one Tommy doesn't recognize well. It's half astonished and half teasing. "They've paired you with a child, Techno."
The man— Technoblade, the announcer said, so he must be Techno to his friends— doesn't reply, merely staring over at Tommy from across the decorated room. Tommy grins wolfishly, abandoning Ranboo to make his way over and figuring the boy will probably follow once he’s ready to face his own partner.
"Hey," he greets, eyes alight, and extends his hand. "Looks like we're teamed."
The older man glances at Technoblade, who stares blankly at Tommy, completely uninterested in the peace offering. "Are you even old enough to be here?"
Oh. So that's how it's going to be, then.
"Yeah," Tommy replies casually, retracting his hand and stuffing both of them into his pockets. "Fifteen's the limit, innit?"
"I didn't know actual fifteen year olds signed up for this," says the blond man, looking particularly bothered, and Tommy laughs.
"Oh, I'm not fifteen,” he snorts. "I’m seventeen. I don't think there's anyone younger than me this season. I could be wrong, though, we have a young crowd. So maybe you’re lucky you got me.” He tilts his head, brushing a piece of lint off his shirt that he missed earlier and then glancing back to the pair. "You betting that I'll lose?"
"Was countin' on it, actually," Technoblade finally pipes up again, eyes raking judgementally over him. Tommy bristles, but pushes it down, the grin still sharp across his face. "So, what? You joined to drag down whoever’s sorry ass you were teamed with?"
This will be fun. "Nah," Tommy replies with a shrug. "I'm a good fighter. I expect us to do well, don't you? You look like a good fighter, too."
"You look like you still have nap time," Technoblade deadpans, and Tommy gets a real good kick out of that one, considering the sleeping powder incident from last season's tournament. "Do they really expect me to team with you?"
"Sounds like it, Technoblade," Tommy says, tilting his head forward. "Sorry. Were you looking for someone else?"
Technoblade spares a bothered glance at Phil before bored eyes return to Tommy. "I assumed that much was obvious. And you know my name because...?"
"Oh, it was obvious, but it's polite to let you offer that yourself. And they announce everyone's names when they're calling teams," Tommy replies innocently. “It’s good to know who you're paired with, if you have any hope of getting things sorted quickly. I mean, they have the faces on the screen and shit, but still."
"Isn't it a waste to try and memorize everyone's names before the tournament?" the blond throws in, having been watching the two of them in intrigue this entire time, and Tommy shrugs loosely, half-amused by the fact that he’s one of the only ones whose name Tommy missed.
"Helps me know who I'm up against." His eyes track to Technoblade, who still seems miffed by the entire thing. "You gonna let me introduce myself?"
The energy in the air is charged with tension so thick Tommy could cut it with a knife. Technoblade stares at him, and Tommy notes that his eyes are a surprisingly reddish shade of brown, flecks of crimson among the hazel. It seems like the man is barely stopping himself from scowling; internally, Tommy finds humor in it. "Might as well," Technoblade finally says, flat and disinterested.
So Tommy extends his hand again. "Tommy Soot, 004," he replies, upbeat, and Technoblade takes his hand to shake it this time, though with reluctant scorn.
"That the name you go by in the arena, too?" he asks, and Tommy grins. “Just Tommy?’
"Competitor name Theseus,” he replies.
Technoblade stills.
Theseus is the name of the boy that’s taken Hypixel by storm, the boy who has angered countless participants and bested dozens more in combat. Tommy is Theseus and Theseus is Tommy, in the way that the front of a playing card is different than the back. Tommy is the plain yet intricate decorative cover on one side of the card, hiding Theseus and his talents behind his back all the while.
He doesn’t normally brag— only when somebody deserves to be bragged to.
The blond nudges his friend in amusement, and Tommy picks up right off the bat that Technoblade is good at hiding his emotions, playing his cards close to his chest. Tommy shifts his weight from foot to foot and waits. “It’s nice to meet you,” he finally says, when it’s clear Technoblade isn’t going to do much other than stare and calculate, and the blond snorts.
“I’ll go, then,” he says, and nods past Tommy. “Why don’t you call your little friend over here? The one they put me with?”
Tommy smiles good-naturedly. At least Ranboo is technically an adult. He swivels to find the boy watching them, half-buried in the crowd, and lifts a hand. “Oi! Ranboo!”
His best friend hurries over with a drink in his hand already, eyes wide and nervous. “That was so loud,” he mutters, glancing around as if someone’s going to be judging them from the sidelines, and Tommy laughs, slapping him in the shoulder.
“Ranboo, this is my partner, Technoblade,” says Tommy, gesturing to the pink-haired man, “and his mysterious friend.”
“I thought you said you memorized people’s names as they were announced,” the older man replies, mischief in his eyes, and Tommy decides he’s a lot more fun than Technoblade.
“Usually. This time around I was busy trying to figure out what kind of stupid-ass name Technoblade is,” is his response, and he finds delight in the way the man’s eyes flash in amusement as he elbows his friend again.
“You gonna sit there and take that?” says the blond, and Technoblade glances at him with a withering glare. “Okay, so yes, then.” He directs his attention towards Ranboo and Tommy, inclining his head. “So you’re Tommy, and you’re… what did he say? Ranboo?”
Ranboo dips his head in a nod. “Yeah, uh. It’s nice to meet you… sir?”
“Oh, god, no,” the blond laughs, running a hand through his hair. “No, call me Phil. Jesus, that makes me feel so old.” Tommy has to restrain himself from commenting that he looks old— older than the target demographic for the tournaments, anyway.
“Well,” Tommy says, finding a jovial sort of thrill in his chest at the introductions, “should we take the grump with us and go get some food, then?” This tournament is already proving to be much more interesting than the one before last, where Tommy’s partner was a pathetic pushover of a guy who could hardly tie a knot to save his life.
Not that Tommy didn’t like him. He was really nice. He was just like Ranboo on steroids: insanely jittery, nervous, and completely unsure of himself.
“Sure,” Phil replies casually. “I take it you’re both returners, then?”
Tommy grins. “You catch on quick. Yeah, you could say Ranboo and I have been around the block a few times. This ain’t our first rodeo, right, Boob?”
Ranboo rolls his eyes, fidgeting with his fingers. “Stop calling me that whenever we meet new people.” And then, to Phil as a reassurance: “He’s not usually like this, I swear.”
Phil laughs, and Tommy expects something out of Technoblade, but he gets nothing. He catches the pink-haired man’s eye for just a sliver of a moment, and their gazes lock in a bitter twisting of emotion, Technoblade distrustful and sour and Tommy intrigued and relentless.
Tommy snaps his fingers, breaking the gaze, and turns around. “Let’s go, boys. Dunno about the rest of you guys, but I’m starved. I want one of those good ass fancy dinner rolls.”
—
“They want us to stay here?”
Tommy looks up, trying (and failing) to properly fit his key into his lock. Technoblade has pushed his door open, staring into the other room in the suite that Tommy will share with him until the competition starts. They’ve made their way up from dinner, during which Technoblade continued to act like he had a stick up his ass, and Tommy did his best to ignore him and socialize with Phil. Ranboo, at least, seemed oblivious.
When Tommy glances over, Technoblade looks, for lack of a better word, flabbergasted. Tommy pulls back from his door and approaches, leaning over to peek over his shoulder. It’s not much different from his own room, though much nicer and cleanly polished; Tommy forced room service to stop coming around ages ago, so if he doesn’t clean his room, it doesn’t get clean.
“Yeah?” Tommy replies, standing back and looking up at him. “Is there, like, a problem with that?”
Technoblade glances into the room again and then back to Tommy. “Everythin’ in there looks gilded,” he mutters, and Tommy blinks.
“Well,” he says, shrugging. “It’s Hypixel.”
Technoblade squints. “What’s that supposed to mean, kid?”
Tommy shrugs awkwardly, unsure of how to continue without getting himself into serious legal trouble. “I mean, it’s… they want you to be… comfortable?”
Technoblade leans back, setting his bag on the floor and crossing his arms. “You’re a terrible liar,” he says, eyes digging sharp daggers into Tommy’s skin, and the blond shifts under his gaze. “Anyone ever tell you that?”
Tommy holds his gaze defiantly. “Lots of times.”
“Great,” Technoblade says, flat. “Now you’re gonna hear it again. I don’t know what they were thinkin’, pairin’ me with you—”
“Probably that they wanted you to win,” Tommy interjects for his own amusement, earning himself a nasty look.
“—but I don’t think it’s funny, and I’m not about to spend this tournament listenin’ to a child with a superiority complex,” he finishes, practically spitting on the words.
And that makes Tommy mad.
He suppresses a sneer, managing just to look mildly annoyed at best. “Is it really a superiority complex if I’m right?” he fires back, glancing over Technoblade’s shoulder down the hall to make sure nobody’s listening in. “I’ve been playing in these competitions for over two years.”
“Trust me, kid, that doesn’t make you any more experienced than I am,” Technoblade mutters, but Tommy shakes his head.
“I’m Theseus,” he insists, eyes hard and sharp. “Theseus as in the guy who has won this tournament the past seven times in a row.” He waits, trying to decide if Technoblade will interrupt him. When the man doesn’t, Tommy plows on. “I get it if your poor little ego is shattered at the mere idea of working with someone under the legal drinking age, but in this tournament, Technoblade— I’m better than you in all the ways that matter.”
Technoblade doesn’t take kindly to this, his eyes flashing with scorn that Tommy is sure is displayed purposely. He takes a step forward, and Tommy doesn’t move an inch as he leans forward, inspecting him. Finally: “You are a child,” he says quietly, dripping with venom.
“And that makes me less of a person than you?”
“That makes you inexperienced,” the man snaps. “And naive, and gullible, and every other word under the sun I can think of. We’d be here for hours.”
“I’ll wait,” Tommy says, jaded, but Technoblade’s jaw clenches.
“I won’t play second in command to you in this tournament, kid. I know what I’m doin’.”
“I have a name,” Tommy replies, sharper than he probably should, “and so do I.”
“You have no idea what it’s like—”
“I want to fight you,” Tommy interrupts, and Technoblade pauses mid-sentence, his eyes searching Tommy’s face for some hint of a joke, some hint that he’s kidding around. Tommy stares back at him with intensity written in his eyes. The hall around them is quiet, and dim, and smells vaguely of the pine-scented air freshener that they always use before participants enter in the winter.
It’s his hallway. It’s Tommy’s hallway, and Tommy’s suite, and Tommy’s tournament, and as much fun as it may be to mess with this guy, it’s really starting to annoy him how stupidly uptight he’s being.
“You,” says Technoblade, gesturing to Tommy and then to himself, “want to fight me.” And, to be fair, on the outside it seems a little laughable— Tommy standing next to his new fighting buddy Technoblade, taller and broader and clearly grizzled, and challenging him to a fight.
But Tommy’s not kidding. He’s going to fight him, and he’s going to win.
“Yeah,” he replies, slouching and sticking his hands into his pockets, and echoing the same exact sentiment that just ran through his brain. “I want to fight you. And I want to win.”
Technoblade barks out a humorless laugh. “You want to win,” he echoes, and Tommy only shrugs. “And where, pray tell, are we goin’ to fight?”
“There’s a training room on the first floor,” Tommy replies fluidly, easily, casually. “Near where we lined up, but you take a left instead of a right when you’re on your way to the dining room. It’s at the very end of the hall, last door on the right.” He rolls a coin between his fingers that he found on the floor in the dining hall earlier. “They don’t announce that until tomorrow morning. There are only three rings, it’s usually packed by the time people get down there.”
“So?” Technoblade replies. “You want to fight now? Because I’m not—”
“So,” Tommy interrupts, “meet me there at six in the morning tomorrow, before the eight o’clock announcements. Gives you time to shower after you get your ass kicked.”
Tommy takes a step back and then pulls the lanyard with his key up again, retreating into his room while Technoblade stares after him like he’s grown a third head.
When he makes it all the way into his room, shutting the door quickly behind him, a funny feeling falls over him. He grins and kicks dirty clothes and old vinyls out of the way, making his way through the mess of his room to his bed. Tommy flops down and relishes in the comfort it brings his sore back, rolling over.
And then he frowns. That was a stupid decision. That was the stupidest decision ever. He’s supposed to be some kind of strategist, and on his first day meeting this season’s teammate, he’s already solidified his place as an annoying brat with a superiority complex and threatened him. He’s been training with Ranboo all through the off season, but Ranboo is no Technoblade. Ranboo is built more like Tommy, lankier and taller and clunkier and sometimes bony in the wrong places, and not at all perfectly toned and muscular like the man they’ve paired him with.
Tommy’s muscular, sure, but not visibly. He has muscle, but it’s mostly used for picking up his room whenever it finally starts getting too dirty, and making a fool of himself in the pool during the hotter months. He’s a teenage boy. It doesn’t matter how well he fights; Technoblade is a grown man. He’ll have him down in no time. Or maybe not— Tommy’s beat plenty of other grown men before. Fuck, but Technoblade looks so…
Tommy swallows, crossing his arms over his chest and pursing his lips. He refuses to be intimidated by that dick. After laying for a few minutes, staring up at the ceiling plastered with posters that showcase things he doesn’t actually give a shit about anymore, he throws a hand out, patting around on the shelf behind his head for his communicator.
He pulls it out and towards him, glancing down to find that he has new messages from Ranboo. When he selects them and pulls them up, his best friend’s anxiety is audible through the messages, the way he sends text after short text detailing his experience walking back to his suite with Phil.
Phil seems nice. Bitterly, Tommy finds himself wishing Phil was his partner, and not Technoblade. Then again— Ranboo would faint, getting paired up with someone as much of a bitch as Technoblade already seems to be, and Tommy can handle it. He just has to stick it out and hope they’ll work out some way to stop constantly bothering each other every time the other opens his mouth.
Tommy types out a message but then deletes it before sending it, conflicted. He does it a few more times before finally giving up, just tapping a sentence or two out about how he’s happy that at least Ranboo’s partner isn’t some kind of freak or someone Ranboo violently dislikes.
He doesn’t mention the fight. He was going to invite Ranboo, but upon further consideration, it feels… wrong, somehow, to put his match with Technoblade up to an audience like that. Besides, he has no idea if the guy’s even going to show up, and it’s embarrassing for one’s friend to watch one get stood up. Ranboo needs his sleep, anyway. Tommy will go alone.
He wonders if Technoblade will tell Phil. Judging by what he gleaned from the dinner conversation, the two seem like good friends.
He can’t help but be curious where they came from. He could ask, sure, but there’s no way Technoblade will give him a clear answer, and it’s not like Tommy’s actually that interested. It’s not like he’s ever going to go anywhere other than here.
Some days he finds himself wondering if this truly is the only thing left for him, if this truly is where he will spend decades and decades until he’s too old and too unwell to fight anymore, at which point… Well, he presumes they’ll throw him out.
Tommy shakes his head, letting his eyes fall closed. He’s a good fighter. He’s a good fighter, and maybe it was stupid to challenge Technoblade to a duel— especially when he’s got no idea how the other fights— but Tommy’s known for his bad decisions.
Because he’s a good fighter, but a better moneymaker.
—
Tommy starts his morning off right: by falling out of his bed the second his alarm goes off.
It’s probably because it’s earlier than usual that it scared the shit out of him. Though his backside aches, he chooses to see this as a blessing. He probably would have considered skipping the duel entirely if gravity didn’t force him up. There’s no way he’s going back to sleep now.
It’s half past five. That’s plenty of time, Tommy thinks, lumbering to his feet and pulling himself over to his wardrobe. Thirty minutes is enough to come to his senses, and if it isn’t, then Tommy’s training this past offseason has all been for nothing. When it gets too cold to go outside, too cold to run around and jump in pools and bike up and down out on the pavement with Ranboo, Tommy finds other methods of practice that get his body accustomed and battle-ready.
Not all of them are combat oriented. Some of them are basic awareness practices, including the thirty minute rule.
Tommy dresses simply, flexible Hypixel-branded sweats and a boring monochrome t-shirt, and doesn’t bother to fix his bedhead. He wants Technoblade to know he just rolled (literally) out of bed, just woke up— it will make winning, if it does happen, all the more sweet.
After checking his breath (gags), Tommy decides to give his teeth a once-over and then grins at himself in the mirror, offering two thumbs up to himself and then dropping his arms awkwardly. That was stupid.
You could win this, he says to himself, focused in his mind. You’re Theseus. You have a perfectly warranted superiority complex. That guy’s just an asshole.
Tommy doesn’t let it get to him as he slips out of his room at five ’til, slinking down the hallway. The sun hasn’t even risen yet, so everything is quiet and serene. He takes nothing with him, though he wonders if he should have brought a hair tie. His hair isn’t very long now, but it gets in the way sometimes, so he keeps them lying around, and Technoblade sure looked like he could use one.
Nah. Surely, if he’s an experienced fighter, then he understands the importance of pulling his hair up.
Tommy makes his way to the stairwell instead of using the loud ass elevator (too early for that) and slides down the banister, landing softly on the first floor after a winding curve that nearly finds him tumbling down the stairs. He’s done it before, though, so he fixes his posture and keeps his balance and doesn’t fall. Score.
He does know well enough to keep an eye out for security on his way (they don’t like him up before six), so Tommy stays close to the walls and the shadows, hunched over himself in what probably looks like a very suspicious way, which is definitely counterintuitive somehow. He ignores this and keeps hunching, half because it makes him feel sneaky and half because it actually eases his mind.
Thankfully, if any security does see him, they’re kind enough to mind their own business and let him get where he needs to go, because he doesn’t run into any problems. The trip down the final hall is quiet, dim, dusty, and all the way there Tommy wonders if Technoblade will even show up. Tommy wonders if six in the morning is too early for him, or if, by six, he’s already up planning strategies with Phil.
He didn’t wait for an answer when he asked. Technoblade never even agreed. Tommy tries to ignore the fact, pulling the door open, that he might not show at all.
And then Technoblade is already standing in the leftmost ring.
Tommy tries to hide his surprise, letting the door swing shut behind him as he steps into the training room. He pushes his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants and approaches the ring Technoblade has chosen, leaning on the ropes.
“Good morning,” he says, and the man casts him a sideways look, eyes shrouded. He looks like he’s not tired at all. Tommy has his thirty minute rule, sure, but he knows for a fact that to everyone else he looks like a dead man walking; he doesn’t know how Technoblade does it. “Been here a while?”
“No,” Technoblade says, and doesn’t elaborate past that point. Tommy didn’t hear him moving around at all in the room connected to his by the locked door, though, so he assumes Technoblade may have been out of his room before Tommy even woke up. Terrifying. “Gonna quit stallin’ and fight?”
Tommy finds the familiar spark of adrenaline, half-buried in the sandbox that is his chest, and his face crinkles into a grin. “Yup,” he replies, sliding his gaze to the left, where a wall of weapons awaits. “I was thinking we’d do weapons, if that’s fine,” he tosses out, lacing his fingers to crack his knuckles. “No use beating the shit out of each other when we could just spar until someone has to tap out.”
Technoblade’s eyes narrow slightly. “I don’t know if I trust you enough to fight you with a bladed weapon,” he says, which means he definitely doesn’t, and Tommy stifles his amusement.
“In case you’ve forgotten, I’m your partner for a free-for-all doubles tournament,” he responds. “Which means I need a double to play. So I dunno why you think I’d sabotage myself by hurting you.”
Seeming unhappily satisfied with this, Technoblade steps over the taut ropes and exits the ring, his body language stiff and unwelcoming. Even in sweatpants, he’s intimidating, his shirtsleeves hugging his biceps and pink hair pulled tightly into a braid that snakes almost all the way down to his waist.
He’s cool. He looks cool. Tommy only ever looks stupid when he watches back clips of himself in the arena. A flame of envy ignites in his chest.
When Technoblade chooses a double-sided axe, pulling it from its hook on the wall and testing its weight in his hands, Tommy snuffs the envious flame out and approaches with confidence. An axe is an obviously poor choice when Technoblade had all these other options, Tommy thinks, eyeing the wall hungrily as if he’s not going to choose the same thing he always does.
Tommy leans forward, reaching up to unhook his favorite shortsword off the wall. It’s less of a shortsword and more of a very long knife, but Tommy is in love with it no matter what it is. As he and Ranboo spar more and more, this knife has basically become his own. He twirls it in his hand, and it’s just as familiar as always. He wonders if he can sweet talk Hypixel into letting him take it with him into the event.
He turns to find Technoblade watching him. “Ready?” Tommy asks, and Technoblade’s eyes trail to the blade in his hands. Tommy shrugs lightly, doesn’t comment, and Technoblade sniffs.
“Alright,” he says, moving back for the ring, and Tommy follows hollowly in his footsteps.
The training room is wide and spacious. Tommy’s always liked that about it; if he shouts loudly enough, it echoes. He and Ranboo have spent more than a few days here that are usually more a waste of time than anything. They can’t be training nonstop, after all, or the tournaments and their off time would bleed into each other, and Tommy would lose the ability to tell his left from his right.
Right now, though, he’s not here to have fun. He should remember that. Right now, he’s not here to focus on the flickering light near the back wall, or the old leathery smell of the mats, or the way the ropes creak under his weight when he throws one leg over and into the ring and follows suit with his other.
Right now, he’s here to prove something, and he won’t stop until he succeeds.
“Okay,” Tommy says, eyes alight, and tries to remember to stay calm. “So— if you can’t tap out verbally, you hit the mat three times. That’s my rule with Ranboo. You can fight however you want. I want to see your style,” he says, a grin spreading across his face, and Technoblade scoffs.
“I’m not going to fight you the same way I’d fight someone in the arena. You’re a child.”
“Pretend I’m someone you hate,” Tommy replies, upbeat.
“I don’t have to pretend.”
Well played.
Tommy only laughs, glancing down at the long knife clutched in his right hand. Technically, he’s ambidextrous— been training himself to write and do things with his left— but he still has a dominant hand and isn’t as good of a fighter with his left, so he doesn’t try. They probably never will be completely even. “Whatever you say,” Tommy replies good-naturedly. “Just know there are no limitations. Well— try not to fuckin’ kill me, obviously. You just want me out. But that’s it. We’ll count off from three together to start.”
Technoblade presses his lips together before nodding once. Tommy blinks once, and the man has gone from stiff and stoic to prepared, knees slightly bent and feet staggered shoulder width. For all Tommy doesn’t really like the guy already, he’s got to admit that his stance is good. He’s got good form. Tommy wishes somebody would have taught him a form like that.
Instead, he learned it himself, through trial and error. Tommy assumes his own flawed form knowing Technoblade will be judging him for it internally, and says, “Three.”
Technoblade’s brow creases in the middle. “Two,” he says, at the same time as Tommy.
Their voices blend, low undertones clashing with lighter, boyish overtones: “One.”
Technoblade looks like he’d be the kind of guy to circle around his opponent for six years before actually landing any solid hits, so Tommy is the one to jump forward first, eyes alight with determination. He brings wild energy with him, hair sticking up every which way and teeth on display as he bares them with a smile.
Then it starts, Tommy lifting his knife and bringing it viciously down towards Technoblade, who blocks sideways with the axe. Tommy can tell he expects recklessness, carelessness, out of him, so he makes sure to look where he plants his feet, look how he holds his weapon, look and predict where his enemy will be in the next step to match it forthwith.
It’s like tunnel vision. One moment, he can see everything— flickering light, ropes, mat, and anything else in his peripherals. The next, his eyes are locked on his target, a specific spot that he thinks Technoblade may not know is a weak one.
He takes a step back and swings for Technoblade’s side, not with his full strength. The man blocks him easily and throws his knife across the ring, which, hey— Tommy did say he could fight however he wanted, but hey!
He grits his teeth as Technoblade descends on him, ducking and weaving and dancing out of the range of Technoblade’s axe every time it twists and swivels and swings for his head. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Technoblade was actually trying to murder him. He seems smart enough that he could make it look like an accident.
“Are you actually trying?” Tommy inquires with very ill timing, because Technoblade’s axe comes very close to a sweeping shot at his leg a few seconds later. Tommy swivels, lifts a leg, and then launches himself into a front handspring, his body propelling itself across the mat and towards his knife again. He swoops it up and turns to find Technoblade glaring at him like he killed his puppy.
He grins. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to hit a sore spot with that one.”
“Shut up and fight.”
So Tommy does. They trap each other in a waltz, blade clashing against blade. The sound of metal on metal is sharp in Tommy’s ears, filling the room; the only other thing he can hear is the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. He’s attuned to Technoblade’s every move, tunnel vision finding hints and spots where he doesn’t protect himself well for split seconds. He analyzes him as they fight, storing and filing information away for later, figuring out exactly where he needs to protect Technoblade once they get into the arena and fight as one unified mechanism.
Tommy takes a chance, stepping forward and wrapping his heel around Technoblade’s. He yanks forward, and Technoblade wobbles off balance, and Tommy’s eyes light up. He celebrates too soon, gets excited too soon, finds his opening too soon.
Before he can get his knife against Technoblade’s throat to render him helpless, the tables turn. Tommy loses himself, distracts himself in visions of earning Technoblade’s respect, and in one fell swoop, Technoblade has him down with a very well-timed counter sweep of the legs.
Tommy hits the floor with a gasp, barely keeping hold on his knife as the wind is knocked out of him. The pink-haired man leans forward before Tommy can roll away, his free hand splaying out against Tommy’s chest. He raises an eyebrow, but Tommy doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t tap the mat. Instead, he stares into Technoblade’s eyes, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the axe to come down for his neck. Technoblade can’t hold him down with just one hand, no matter how much he thinks he can.
Right now, he’s cursing himself not for coming unprepared or challenging Technoblade in the first place, but for being stupid. He distracted himself. He got too ahead of himself. Technoblade didn’t even have to fight dirty to win.
Unless. Tommy’s eyes track to his elbow.
Unless Technoblade hasn’t won.
“Forfeit,” Technoblade finally says, half a question and half an order. His eyes are sharp and confident, triumphant and sure of himself. Tommy can’t wait to wipe the look off his face. He expects the axe to drop, but Technoblade just holds it at his side.
So Tommy smiles. “No,” he says, and kicks up, knocking the inside of Technoblade’s elbow with his knee. The man crashes to the floor alongside him, and Tommy throws him off, breathing heavily. “Forfeiting is for losers, and I don’t lose.”
He rolls away and to his feet, Technoblade following shortly after, and the battle continues. This time, though, Tommy is more analytical, confident, silent. He longs to taunt like he does in real battle, but he refuses to give into the urge, circling Technoblade. They exchange blows, blade on blade as usual, and Tommy narrowly avoids a real injury a few times, shooting Technoblade nasty looks whenever his axe gets too close to Tommy’s skin.
He has the man down in less than three more minutes.
It’s at a moment where Technoblade doesn’t see it coming. Their blades clash, and then Tommy abandons the weapon entirely. He grabs his opponent’s shoulders and hooks himself around, fights dirty, throws himself onto Technoblade’s back and leans forward to knock his entire body off balance. The pink-haired man stumbles, grunting with exertion, and Tommy leans harder until they topple to the floor.
Technoblade makes to throw him off, the axe just a few inches away, but Tommy scrambles upright and puts all his weight into pressing a knee into his stomach, inching it up to his sternum after a few seconds. He twirls his knife and then brings it forward to settle it against Technoblade’s neck, his enemy’s eyes sharp.
Tommy's knife draws a quiet white line against Technoblade’s bare skin, never daring to break it, and the man grits his teeth, scarlet eyes dancing across Tommy's own. Tommy knows what he's looking for; Tommy can see it in his face. A phantom crowd roars in Tommy’s ears, and a shockwave runs down his spine at the familiar yet missing sound.
It almost looks like he's not going to say anything more. Technoblade want him to stand up, probably— he's long since won the fight, and he’s made that clear— but he hasn't gotten what he came for. Expectantly, he glares down at Technoblade, hunting for the words he longs for. “Well?”
Technoblade’s eyes stray to the side. He reaches out with an arm, but the axe is far beyond his reach. He could probably throw Tommy off, if he went at it with sheer manpower, but he does seem to understand the unfairness of that situation. Finally, after one last calculated glance down at the knife, he sighs and speaks flatly: “I forfeit.”
A smile breaks out across Tommy’s face. He lets up on the pressure immediately, moving back to stand. Technoblade watches him, an unreadable expression on his face, and Tommy moves back, stepping over the ropes and out of the ring.
“See you at breakfast,” Tommy says, wiping sweat out of his eyes and hanging his blade up on the wall before ducking giddily out of the room without a second glance Technoblade’s way.
—
The next few days are a blur. Tommy wakes up, eats, thinks, trains, and sleeps. He meets Technoblade over mealtimes and in between sparring sessions, and practically has to yell at him to get any of his points across concerning the tournament. They don’t know what terrain they’ll be fighting on, and they don’t know where they’re going to start off, so all Tommy has for reference are his other winters with Hypixel.
But it’s like Technoblade doesn’t believe him. It’s like Technoblade doesn’t think that Tommy’s status as a returner gives him an advantage. This will be his fourth winter— which he doesn’t usually tell people, because he did lie to Hypixel about his age when he first started, and he did pretend to be fifteen when he wasn’t yet, and they did find out a handful of months ago and thankfully didn’t really do anything much other than a slap on the wrist— and that gives him a decent idea of what the arena will be like.
But Technoblade is stubborn, and flat, and unswayable. He thinks everything he says is right, always smarter than Tommy in some way, and it’s getting annoying as fuck.
Tommy tells Ranboo everything, but not everything everything— he thinks Technoblade would probably burn him at the stake if he shared one too many potential offensive plans. Instead, Tommy tells Ranboo all about beating Technoblade that first morning (though Technoblade has bested him a few times throughout their other spars, which end up sort of evenly distributed), tells him all about dinners full of nothing more than arguments or silence. In turn, he gets stories about how great and respectful of a guy Phil has turned out to be.
That’s why he finds himself at his best friend’s door the night before the solstice and the start of the tournament, wracked with nerves and frustration after another team dinner full of brooding. In less than twelve hours, he’ll be out on that field with Technoblade, his breath making clouds in the air, and they’ll be completely fucking aimless because they haven’t been able to agree on even a simple starting move this entire time.
“I hate him,” Tommy says as soon as Ranboo opens the door. Seeming to understand his frustration, his best friend only moves aside to let him into his freakishly clean room; Tommy makes a beeline for the twin bed built into the wall, flopping down on it as if it’s his own. With the amount of time they’ve spent in each other’s rooms, it basically is, anyway.
“You hate him,” Ranboo repeats, perching gingerly on the edge of the desk chair he’s turned around to face Tommy. “It’s really that bad, huh?”
“He’s a dick,” Tommy groans, lifting his hands and pressing them into his face. “We don’t even get any actual planning done. All we do is argue and then spar, and when he kicks my ass, he kicks my ass.” He’s a little sore, to be quite honest, which doesn’t bode well for startup tomorrow. “I have no idea how you got so fuckin’ lucky, Ranboo.”
“Well,” Ranboo tries tentatively, steepling his fingers. “Phil’s friends with him, so he can’t be that bad.”
Tommy whines into Ranboo’s pillow. “I don’t care about Phil.”
Ranboo hums. “Well, I know. But I don’t think he’d pick a bad person to be friends with. They seemed close, didn’t they?”
“Fuck that,” Tommy mutters, rolling onto his back and sitting up. “We’re close,” he says, fiercely. “And both of us are good people. Technoblade isn’t a bad person. He’s just a super obnoxious, unbearable, massive piece of shit.”
Ranboo nods solemnly. He doesn’t really swear, so he doesn’t echo this time, but Tommy gets the same sentiment from the emotion scrawled across his face as he ponders.
“I think you’ll do well,” says Ranboo finally, and Tommy’s jaw drops.
“Ranboo, no way.” At the start, he thought Technoblade’s clear experience and intimidation tactics were going to help Theseus continue his win streak and sweep the entire tournament. Now, he’s worried of the exact opposite— Technoblade is so disagreeable that it’s going to be impossible to work together at all. “He’s going to fuck everything up. It’s gonna be completely fucked.”
“You could win,” Ranboo insists, his eyes alight. “Should, actually. If Technoblade is good enough to beat you sparring…”
“I’m not,” Tommy begins, but then falters. Tommy’s won more, but Techoblade has proven that he’s more than skilled enough to beat Tommy. It all comes down to finding openings, and maintaining an unpredictable consistency. “I don’t know. I think we’re going to fuck things up at the very beginning and we won’t be able to bounce back.”
“I think it could go either way,” Ranboo shrugs. “Phil seems optimistic. Usually I’m with people who sorta, uh. Sorta look down on me. But he’s really nice to me, so. I think the optimism is helping.” He cracks a grin, staring down at Tommy on the bed. “You should try some.”
“Fuck off,” Tommy crows, but he does grin back, brow furrowing. “You think it could go well?”
“I think you’re underselling yourself,” Ranboo offers, which just makes him feel bad, because Tommy’s ego is massive. He knows it, and he doesn’t do anything about it, letting it live on inside his head, which is probably a mistake. As long as it doesn’t slip out too often, it’s completely fine, he figures.
“I don’t think so. I’m a good fighter,” Tommy replies, crossing his arms. “And I know that. I just don’t know what’s going wrong with Technoblade. It’s like he has to argue with everything I say. I can never be right.”
Ranboo blinks, eyes widening. “Oh,” he replies, “that’s it,” and Tommy about tears his hair out.
“What’s it?”
“You’re used to your teammate taking a backseat and listening to you,” Ranboo says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world and doesn’t make Tommy sound like a dick. “And he’s used to anyone he works with taking a backseat and listening to him. So it’s not going well for you guys.”
“I’ve had partners who don’t just listen to everything I say before,” Tommy spits defensively, and then he remembers the last one of those, a woman he fought endlessly with. That was before his streak. They’d lost. Tommy groans again.
“You can do it,” Ranboo interjects between his lamenting. “It’ll be awesome, Tommy, if you just put your mind to it. I believe you guys can learn to work stuff out.”
“I am putting my mind to it,” Tommy moans, stuffing his face into the pillows again. “And it’s giving me a fuckin’ headache.”
He lets the frustration, irritation, ebb away as Ranboo crosses the room to sit on the edge of the bed. He’s quiet, but Tommy appreciates his presence more than he probably knows. He’s the best friend Tommy’s ever had, and he’s not ashamed to admit it.
After a few minutes of dedicated sulking, Tommy only feels dread. The anger’s gone, replaced with anxiety for the upcoming morning. With each gentle tick of the clock, the second hand plows on, and the time grows closer to startup.
He lifts his head and then pulls the rest of him up to follow suit, joining Ranboo at the edge of his bed. “Thanks, Ranboo,” he says finally, though it makes him feel silly. “You’ll do well, too. I’m sure of it. Phil looks really capable.”
“Thanks,” says Ranboo, beaming, and Tommy feels something warm in his chest. “I’m really excited. I think it’s going to be a good tournament for both of us.”
Tommy smiles, asking genuinely, “Think you’ll win?”
Ranboo stares back at him, his eyes flickering for a moment. In that second, Tommy can’t read him, unsure of what’s going through his head as they sit there in the too-clean Hypixel hotel room, adorned with gold trimmings along the baseboards and fancy lamps hanging off the walls and a nice, floral pattern along the walls. Ranboo’s walls and ceiling aren’t lined with any posters. His one decoration is an old wire silhouette of a bird, singing its praises to deaf ears.
Ranboo’s gaze is steady. His room smells like vanilla and sugar; Tommy settles into it like a warm hug, like a woolen blanket, his bones heavy inside his body as he takes up space on Ranboo’s bed. They’ve been friends for years. There’s nothing they can’t tell each other.
Finally, Ranboo smiles. “Well, the point is kinda to hope I do no matter what,” he replies gingerly, and Tommy feels something tighten inside him like a knot he doesn’t know how to untie yet.
There’s nothing they wouldn’t tell each other, yet Tommy can’t shake the feeling that Ranboo is hiding something from him.