Chapter Text
It’s been two years since he first set foot aboard the Argo.
Two years since a reckless, bullheaded, arrogant, wonder of a pirate offered him his hand, and he took it.
Two years since he first laid eyes on a motley, patchwork crew of the very same people he’d devoted his life to hunting down. Two years since he learned to call those people his friends.
Two years since he stared into the gates of hell itself, his family at his side, and found that even death couldn’t defeat him.
Technoblade isn’t a religious man. He doesn’t say a prayer when the tides are rough and the winds howl. He doesn’t spend his time praying to the gods that forsook his first crew to their untimely end. Still, he can’t help but murmur a quiet word of thanks to whatever twisted strings of fate brought Philza into his life.
Without Phil, he’d be a pile of bones at the bottom of the sea. Or, worse, he’d still be the same man he was in that stiff blue coat, chasing down a dream built on the lies he’d once helped sew.
Technoblade isn’t a great man.
He’s never pretended to be anything more than what he is—a disgraced captain given a second chance undeserved. One who took the hand of a criminal, and became one himself. He’s made mistakes that cost lives that weren’t his to give away, and friendships he’d be nothing without. Still, what he has is a part of who he is, and he has a crew—a family. A family that looks to him with admiration and adoration he feels he doesn’t deserve, and yet…
Technoblade isn’t a great man. In their eyes, though, he is at least a good one, and he’s content to spend the rest of his days that way.
The sound of soft laughter fills the air. The boat rocks lazily beneath his feet, the old wood creaking every now and then as though to join in on the amusement. The wind tugs at his hair, loose and tangled and damp from the mist of the sea. Beneath his prosthetic, the wood of the railing is as firm and steady as it always has been. As Technoblade looks out across the sea of faces he’s come to call his own, a smile finds its way across his own.
“C’mon, Techno,” calls that familiar, lilting voice, and when Technoblade blinks the world back into focus, it is to an outstretched hand.
He knows that hand. He knows the feel of calloused fingers intertwined with his own. He knows exactly where the little scar is along the knuckle of the ring finger, and how it got there. He knows what it looks like clasped around the finger of a giant siren, pledging undying love and loyalty in front of a crowd. He knows what that hand looks like clenched and angry, digging crescents into pale skin with filthy nails. He knows what that hand looks like, wrist bruised and encased in metal, shackled to the wall of the brig.
He knows what it looks like tinted by the blue of the sea, reaching down to save him.
“Well?” The voice startles him. Phil grins expectantly, waggling his fingers.
The crew is clapping along to a steady beat, the sound of Wilbur’s fiddle filling the air. Niki stands beside him, her voice joining the rowdy chorus as she leans against the musician, who has become a steadfast companion over the years. Wilbur, though reluctant at first, had been more or less manhandled into joining the Argo thanks to her stubbornness, and they’ve been inseparable ever since. Wilbur brings out the worst in Niki, and she does the same for him in turn, and Technoblade couldn’t be more grateful.
Tommy and Tubbo are already dancing—arm in arm, cheeks flushed and grins wide, a little tipsy even though the night is still young. Technoblade’s heart tugs a little when he realizes he can now see traces of stubble along Tubbo’s cheeks. Tommy has a peg for a leg now, too, though it hasn’t hampered his penchant for trouble in the least. Ranboo, too, has grown into themself, confident and poised, and Technoblade can rest easy knowing that any injury will now be tended to by their capable, competent hands. Eret chose well in taking them under her wing.
She stands now against the mast, smiling just as wide as the crew’s youth as she claps along with their stomping feet. Though she’d sworn she’d only see them through until the end of the journey, it seems as though the journey never truly ended for either of them.
“Techno.”
Warm hands close around his. Phil gives him a little tug, a playful pout on his lips.
“You still with me, mate?” Though playful, there’s a note of concern in his first mate’s voice. Once indistinguishable from the rest of his sarcasm and spite, Technoblade now knows the ins and outs of his inflections as naturally as his own heartbeat. “‘Cause I could just ask Kristin to dance, but I’m not sure how that would turn out with the whole…” He gestures vaguely. “…being a giant siren thing…”
“You’re the one who decided to marry a fish,” Technoblade responds dryly, but reluctantly, he stands. “I don’t see how this is my problem.” Phil feigns a look of offense, but there’s no mistaking the tell-tale melodic chuckle coming from the waters below. He counts his blessings that his friend somehow managed to fall for the one siren that didn’t want to eat him at first glance.
“Don’t tell me you’re scared,” Phil crows, that bastard smirking as he gets the attention of the rest of the crew. Technoblade suddenly feels very, very cornered. “A captain who can’t swim and can’t dance?”
“Never said I couldn’t dance,” he answers, allowing himself to be guided out as the crew hollers and cheers. “Just didn’t want you to be steppin’ on my toes when you can’t keep up.”
The music starts anew.
The Technoblade of two years ago stood on the sidelines of celebrations. He hid himself away in his quarters while the muffled sounds of music and stories filtered in through the cracks of his door. He would have never been caught dead dancing, or singing, and yet here he is now, being passed from partner to partner, wincing as Tommy, quite purposefully, stomps on his toes and cheering as Eret twirls around in her flowing skirt.
As the sun sets and dusk turns to night, and the deck of the ship is illuminated by little more than flickering lamps and the starlight high above, even the chill of the ocean winds can’t reach him. He’s warm—warmer than he’s been in a long, long time. As warm as Niki’s embrace and Tommy’s smile and the feeling of Phil’s palm in his as his friend tugs him over to the keg for another round.
Gone is the chill of grief. Gone is the feeling of hopelessness. Gone is the constant feeling of longing for something more.
He doesn’t need anything more than what he already has right here.
This is enough, and always will be.