hey.

this is a pre-written one-year anniversary chapter for this fic. it'll most likely be the last post for... however long it takes for me to be alright with writing techno.

a comment had mentioned that it'd be the community's turn to keep techno alive via fanworks, and i agree with that. i've decided to keep writing him, if only to honor what he'd left behind. he'd also probably like for fanfic writers and artists and the like to continue making fan content—techno's generally appreciated said content from the beginning.

i'll most likely never write any au related to the modern world with him in it, though.

if you disagree or are unsatisfied with me deciding to continue producing technoblade-related content later in the future, i understand if you leave. thank you for sticking around this long.

as this was pre-written, i'm fine with posting this. and get to other parts of this chapter, which are much fluffier as they go on. i don't remember if there's any other techno mentions so that's why i put "almost all of them," and i'm sorry if there are any techno mentions outside the nightmare sequence.

like you've most likely done with this entire fic.

when i update again, i'll take the a/n chapter down.

i hope you enjoy reading whatever parts you can.

===

Tommy wakes up to someone jostling him. He can tell who it is—the texture of their palms isn't calloused like Techno's or Phil's, nor is it small like Tubbo's, so it must be...

"...Wilbur?" Tommy grumbles, stubbornly squeezing his eyes closed. He curls under the safety of the blankets over him a little longer, to hold on to the warmth that clings to it and him. The hand shaking him only gets more insistent, so Tommy cracks an eye open to a mostly-dark room, just barely registering the darkened figure of—yeah, he guessed right, it was Wilbur. "Wha' the fuh's goin' on...?"

"Get up, get up, get up!" Wilbur whisper-shouts, practically ripping the blanket off of him. Tommy's eyes shoot open as he lets out a yelp at the sudden cold ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶t̶a̶k̶e̶s̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶t̶a̶k̶e̶s̶,̶ ̶d̶e̶v̶o̶u̶r̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶ ̶w̶h̶o̶l̶e̶ ̶u̶n̶t̶i̶l̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶r̶e̶ ̶i̶s̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶b̶u̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶v̶o̶i̶d̶ ̶o̶n̶l̶y̶ ̶D̶e̶a̶t̶h̶ ̶c̶a̶n̶ ̶g̶i̶v̶e̶.

"What?!" Tommy groggily whisper-shouts as he reluctantly sits up, sleep still hazing his mind. Instead of standing, he just glares up at the older brunet who's currently tossing the poor blanket on the ground far away. The ground! First throwing the blanket around, and then waking Tommy up at probably ass-'o'-clock in the morning, and now this! What disrespect! "What's fuckin'—what's going on?!"

Wilbur doesn't answer, looking at him with a—smile? Yeah, seems like it, though this one's more wider than usual. It's j̶u̶s̶t̶ ̶l̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶H̶i̶s̶,̶ ̶j̶u̶s̶t̶ ̶l̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶D̶r̶e̶a̶m̶'̶s̶,̶ ̶l̶e̶a̶v̶e̶,̶ ̶l̶e̶a̶v̶e̶,̶ ̶L̶E̶A̶V̶E̶-̶ too dark to really see what was truly on his face. He strides off without another word, exclaiming, "Let's go, child!"

Sighing quietly, Tommy looks at Tubbo across the room. The brunet's sleeping soundly, snoring so loudly it could possibly shake the walls. They're mostly soundproof anyway due to this exact reason, so it doesn't matter much.

Tommy does not pout, nor is he ever envious as to how Tubbo sleeps so soundly through everything. He isn't, truly, because Tommy is the biggest man ever.

(He blinks—

Horns curl around Tubbo's head, the left cracked as if broken ruthlessly. A ring is around the other, the simple gold band glinting off of the light coming through the ajar door of the room. There's a crown of flowers nestled into his hair, mixing gradients of purples and blues and reds, but only a lone yellow flower is tucked behind his ear. His—goat ears...

Tubbo is not in his pajamas. He is in a heavy woolen jacket with a green outside, the collar fluffed up and an off-blond shade, tipped with gray.

On the sleeve Tommy's facing, there is a plethora of more flowers embroidered in that crawl down, small by the shoulder, exploding into bloom near the junction of his forearm and upper arm, and closing in near the wrist. The brunet shifts, and Tommy can see a—a small gun that glints underneath his coat and through the fur layers. And when—when Tommy takes a sharp inhale, it smells of gunfire and smoke and nuclear radiation.

Tubbo twists over with a grumble, revealing his face. His face—oh Prime, his face—it's—it's marred by a scar that—that covers the left half, a streak sprawling across the bridge of his nose. Tommy—Tommy reaches forward, moving to graze it—

Tubbo's eyes snap open to give him a blank expression with a blinded eye, the other one with a nuke symbol for a pupil. The stench of radiation grows stronger, and—Prime, is that nuclear eye fucking—glowing?

Tommy reels back, hand pulling away, and—

—he blinks. Tubbo... isn't looking at him anymore. In fact, he's... his back's turned to Tommy again, like nothing had happened. He's in his bee pajamas still, yellow hues overly bright even in the dark room.

"What the fuck," Tommy whispers, reaching his hand out before pulling it back in repeatedly. It settles for carding through his hair again and again and again. "What—what was—"

.̸̻̔̑̀̊͌͒̀̿̽͒.̸̨͔̬͇̳̾̋̀͝.̷̨̺̖̦̣̘̺͔̥̹̰̂̏̊͗̍̂̾̑̄͆̂͝

...Tommy shouldn't think about it anymore. He's just—yeah, he's just sleep-deprived, innit? Tubbo's okay, he's right there, and he... Wilbur woke Tommy up like a few minutes ago, and his mind is still in dreamland, and he's seeing a nonsensical hallucination because of it. Maybe he had a weird fucking fever dream and it's still stuck in his head.

Yeah. Yeah, that has to be it.

...What was the hallucination again?

A chilling fear sweeps through him like the coldest of winters. Faintly, Tommy smells gunmetal and radiation.

No, no—maybe he doesn't want to know.)

Sighing again, Tommy hastily slips off of the bed, wincing at the creaky floorboards that sound when his feet lightly press on them. He reaches to the blanket on the ground without moving further from the bed, fingertips just barely grazing the fabric whilst his other hand grips the mattress like a lifeline. Huffing determinedly, Tommy snags the blanket with his index finger, tugging it back like that and wearing it over his shoulders like a cape.

Tommy moves his feet to the non-creaky side of the floor, stepping on it with feather-light feet. With caution, he moves out the bedroom and into the corridor; a glance to one of the entrances shows that someone's turned on the lights for that area, most likely Wilbur.

The teenager subconsciously bites his nails, staring at the light. The fuck does he want, at—Tommy glances at the clock on the wall—fucking... twelve in the morning? What the fuck?

Wilbur usually sleeps at ten in the afternoon and wakes at three because of his fucked sleeping schedule. Tommy and Tubbo are hyperactive in the morning only because they drink Phil's coffee when he isn't looking, and then they pass out at about nine and wake up at six.

Really, Techno should be the only one up right now because his sleeping schedule's just as bad; only Phil is the most responsible when it comes to sleep out of all of them. Not saying that Tommy isn't responsible—Phil is just Philza Minecraft.

Tommy grips the ends of the blanket he holds tighter. ̶R̶e̶f̶l̶e̶c̶t̶e̶d̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶o̶r̶a̶n̶g̶e̶ ̶l̶i̶g̶h̶t̶,̶ ̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶s̶k̶i̶n̶ ̶l̶o̶o̶k̶s̶ ̶t̶o̶o̶ ̶p̶a̶l̶e̶,̶ ̶a̶ ̶s̶l̶i̶g̶h̶t̶-̶b̶l̶u̶e̶ ̶t̶i̶n̶g̶e̶ ̶u̶n̶d̶e̶r̶ ̶i̶t̶.̶

̶H̶e̶'̶s̶ ̶c̶o̶l̶d̶.̶

He shakes his worries away—a little literally, what with how he can't help but roll his shoulders a bit to get a good stretch in. (...Why was he worried in the first place?)

Striding into the lit room, Tommy hisses quietly at the orange-ish light that blasts his face. He curses, blinking rapidly as his arms shoot up to cover his eyes. When he thinks he can finally look up, Tommy does, squinting his eyes in suspicion as his vision clears. "What the fuck," he begins, "are you planni—"

Tommy stops. "Is that—are those baking ingredients?"

Wilbur, clad in his yellow sweater and loose pants and currently setting a bag of flour on the table, practically whips his head towards Tommy. However, the blond's too busy staring at everything else—the mixer or beater or whatever, the bowls, the pans, the non-stick shit, the tools...

Tommy looks at the paper near the tools. It's written with a shit-ton of loops and elegance, like imperfect calligraphy.

He snorts. "So Sally told you what you needed, eh?"

Wilbur's face turns into a red tomato. "Shut up!" The simp hisses, his hand snatching the paper out of sight. "How'd you even tell she wrote that, you gremlin child?"

"You should really hide those poetic love-letters you've been sending to her before someone else besides me and Tubbo finds 'em, y'know," Tommy says casually, face morphing into a grimace. "You're so incredibly... affectionate, that I almost threw up when I first read them. I mean, 'my love for you is as insurmountable as the stars and the skies?' You kidding with that shit? And then there's all the letters she sends you, oh my Prime don't even get me started—"

Wilbur sniffs pointedly even though his face looks like it's gonna burst from embarrassment. "I guess I'm not helping you make a cake, raccoon child," he says, and Tommy immediately shuts up.

"Cake?!" He exclaims with a grin, rushing over. "We're baking cake?!"

Wilbur smirks triumphantly. "Don't say a word about what me and Sally send in our letters and I'll help you do this shit."

"I'm perfectly fine by myself, thank you very—"

Wait. If Wilbur's here, maybe their combined forces would make the cake faster than compared to if he was alone.

...He also didn't say that Tubbo couldn't talk about it, too.

"Actually, never mind! 'S a deal," Tommy decides, holding a hand up. Wilbur takes a look at his face and looks weary, but he still grasps it anyway, and they shake on it.

Tommy lets go first, adjusting the blanket to make sure it doesn't slip before rubbing his hands together in excitement. They haven't had cake in—in... forever, ever since... ever since Kristen... ̶d̶i̶e̶d̶.̶ ̶J̶u̶s̶t̶ ̶l̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶,̶ ̶T̶—

No. There's no need to think about that now. It's—She's still a sore spot for all of them, and Tommy can't ruin this moment.

So he doesn't. He beams instead, making it as genuine as he can.

"Well," he says, ripping the flour bag open and coating his hands with flour. It clouds the air a little and makes his nose itch, the too-large tear letting some of the powder spill onto the tile floor. "What are you waiting for, bitch boy?"

Tommy smirks, quickly whirling to Wilbur and throwing the loose flour that clings to his hands to the brunet's face. Like intended, it strikes near the bridge of his nose and gets on his glasses. Some of it actually gets into the other's currently-open mouth because the brunet was probably gonna reprimand him for tearing the bag open like that.

Watching Wilbur sputter and choke on flour while also desperately cleaning his glasses with the hem of his sweater is so, so fucking funny.

Wilbur soon shoves his hand in the broken flour bag too, a calm smile on his face that his twitching eyebrow says otherwise about. It's entirely ruined by the flour around his mouth, the stains on his sweater, and the white specks in his hair. "Oh you fucking gremlin," he says after spitting the rest of the flour out, which, ew, "I'm going to ̶k̶i̶l̶l̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶—"

Tommy freezes. "What—?"

.̸̻̔̑̀̊͌͒̀̿̽͒.̸̨͔̬͇̳̾̋̀͝.̷̨̺̖̦̣̘̺͔̥̹̰̂̏̊͗̍̂̾̑̄͆̂͝

Wilbur splays flour on his face before he can ask, and the comment is forgotten as Tommy absolutely does not shriek, but does retaliate with a larger handful of flour.

===

Tommy leans on the counter, exhausted out of his mind as the oven whirls in the background. Wilbur slumps next to him, seemingly just as tired. Both of them are caked in flour, bits of egg shells, a little sugar, and then some. Maybe some frosting here and there, too, even though the cake (the recipe had turned out to be for velvet cake) wasn't even done.

The floor and countertops are splattered with broken or misused ingredients. Tommy can't even find the recipe under this mess they've made.

Flinging the dollop of frosting, flour, and bits of egg at Wilbur's face with the spoon (or the best makeshift slingshot ever) was something he'd never regret, though.

I̶t̶ ̶h̶a̶d̶ ̶f̶e̶l̶t̶ ̶s̶o̶ ̶e̶a̶s̶y̶,̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶a̶i̶m̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶a̶t̶ ̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶f̶a̶c̶e̶,̶ ̶a̶t̶ ̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶h̶e̶a̶r̶t̶,̶ ̶a̶t̶ ̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶n̶e̶c̶k̶.̶ ̶T̶o̶o̶ ̶e̶a̶s̶y̶.̶

T̶o̶m̶m̶y̶'̶s̶ ̶h̶a̶n̶d̶s̶ ̶s̶h̶a̶k̶e̶ ̶i̶m̶p̶e̶r̶c̶e̶p̶t̶i̶b̶l̶y̶.̶

He glances at the clock. 3:42AM, it reads.

Ah. Maybe that's why he feels so exhausted. ̶M̶a̶y̶b̶e̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶b̶l̶a̶n̶k̶e̶t̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶s̶t̶i̶l̶l̶ ̶h̶o̶l̶d̶s̶;̶ ̶m̶a̶y̶b̶e̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶t̶e̶t̶h̶e̶r̶s̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶w̶o̶r̶l̶d̶ ̶t̶o̶o̶ ̶m̶u̶c̶h̶.̶ ̶H̶e̶ ̶s̶h̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶d̶ ̶e̶ ̶a̶ —

"You..." Tommy starts, out of breath. He picks up the blanket, now partially slathered with flour and eggs, and sets it around his shoulders again despite its stains. "You need to exercise more, big man."

Wilbur gasps, offended, a flour-caked hand reaching up to hover over his sweater where his heart should be. "I'm perfectly fine the way I am, child!"

Tommy disregards the mock-annoyance the child comment brings in favor of using it against Wilbur. "If I'm a child... but you're just as out of breath as me... then what does that make you, huh?"

Wilbur falls silent, gaping at him like a stupid fish.

Tommy smirks. "Exactly, you wanker."

"Oh I'll show you who's a wanker you motherfucker—"

===

They lather the white frosting on the cake generously when it's done baking, or when they've stopped brawling enough to notice. Bits of flour fall from their arms like mist, and they have to pluck out some egg shell bits which fucks up the frosting. That causes them to have to apply another layer to cover it up because neither of them are precise enough to smooth it out well with the tools they have. There's still some bits of flour that fall on top, though, and really, because they just kept stacking frosting, the one-layered "cake" looks like an igloo now, but who the fuck cares?

...They only cleaned up enough of the kitchen to even cover the cake, too, but that doesn't matter!

Tommy licks some of the frosting off of the frosting spreader or whatever it's called, pointedly ignoring Wilbur's disgusted look. It was store-bought, but frosting's frosting, and the sweetness makes him grin. "So what now, big man?" He asks.

Wilbur's already shuffling through the knife drawer. "What else, gremlin?" He says, holding a knife towards him ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶m̶o̶r̶p̶h̶s̶ ̶i̶n̶t̶o̶ ̶a̶ ̶s̶w̶o̶r̶d̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶i̶s̶ ̶d̶e̶a̶d̶,̶ ̶d̶e̶a̶d̶,̶ ̶d̶e̶a̶d̶— "Let's cut the cake!"

This is exactly when Techno finds them, followed by Phil. The winged man stops, a look of pure despair on his face. "What the fuck happened here?!" He practically shouts, but there's a choked-off laugh somewhere woven into it.

Wilbur looks at him and unabashedly does a silent "ta-da!" motion. Tommy follows with a grin. "We did! Sorry, Phil," the brunet unapologetically smiles.

The piglin hybrid, on the other hand, raises an eyebrow questioningly, looking at Wilbur. The brunet seems to mouth something in turn. Tommy frowns; unfortunately, he can't read lips, so they just look like idiots. Phil seems to know, though, because his faux-despair expression grows to a genuinely happy one, and his wings shift in a way that shows that joy.

"What? What's going on?" Tommy questions, frowning when Phil goes off to a random but specific direction to—something. Techno's put himself on one of the chairs to the dining table, toying with his long pink hair.

Wilbur brings the "cake" to the center table, setting the knife next to it. "Nothing, child," he practically sing-songs with a smirk.

Tommy protests with "I'm not a fucking child!" Nothing else he could've said would've given him an answer anyway, what with the look on Wilbur's face. So, he turns to Techno.

"Techno, my man, my bestest brother," he drags out, leaning towards the man who moves away in faux-annoyance.

In his peripherals, Wilbur gasps dramatically. "So you're just making Techno take my place?" He grumbles.

Tommy ignores him, even as the brunet sighs and follows Phil out."Let me in on your secret code!"

Techno pretends to think for a moment. "Nah," he says in the end. Tommy grumbles something intelligible. "You'll figure it out soon anyway, Theseus."

"But I want to know now!" Tommy isn't being a petulant child, it's just that they're all being secretive and shit! Who wouldn't want to know what's going on?

Techno still doesn't give him an answer, bringing out a book from Prime-knows-where and casually flipping to a bookmarked page. Tommy leans over, aiming to snatch it away, but Techno's easily able to maneuver it out of his reach with his long fucking arms.

Tommy huffs, crossing his arms and leaning back into his seat. "You all are wankers and bitches."

"Mhm."

"This is stupid. Why can't I know about what you all are talking about?"

"'S top secret."

"Mmm, maybe it's 'cause you all are lower than me, so you have to use a special code that I can't figure out to be on a little more of an advantage. That's absolutely fucking it, actually, because I'm the biggest man ever."

"Yep."

"Why did Wilbur want to make a cake anyway? Why did he force me to help out? D'you know why, Techno?"

"Nah."

"...I'm eating all the cake without you or Phil or Wilbur."

"Nope," Techno says, promptly dragging the cake away from Tommy's grasp before going back to his book. "Not yet." Tommy does not pout because he is better than this, but he does scowl.

Phil files back in, holding a pack of—candles? Yeah, a pack of candles, and a candle-lighter, too. He looks content and happy, setting it on the table as his wings flutter.

Tommy narrows his eyes. Candles?

"Wait, who's birthday is it?" He asks curiously, tilting his head to the side.