Chapter Text
Techno glances up as Theseus steps out from the bathroom, words dying on his tongue with a twist in his chest as the other looks sharply up, meeting his gaze with brown eyes, Wilbur’s coat brushing at the bend of his knees.
The shade of the hair is nearly perfect, curls brushing down messily, shorter than Wilbur’s but-
For a moment he’s taken back in time, sixteen-years-old and watching his brother spread his arms dramatically with a turn in the mirror, fingers brushing over the pattern of scales on the sides of the mask, eyes gleaming.
“You look like an Enforcer,” Techno had told him with a grunt, glancing up from the book he’d been reading, something new Phil had picked up for him.
Wilbur had pulled his gun from the holster, twirling it around, long fingers wrapping around the mouth of it and handle tipped against his mouth with a curving smile.
“That’s the point.”
Theseus is skinnier, gangly, had always been since Techno first ran into Dream’s loyal dog, but the two weeks with Warden had left a hollowness to his cheeks with shadows ghosting dark under his eyes, something that only further accentuated the likeness to Wilbur, ironically enough.
Wilbur had always been thin and lanky, shooting up like a string bean with a clumsy awkwardness to him when Techno first met him and it had made his instincts twitchy to protect him.
Techno’s tail flicks behind him, eyes drifting down to the fist that gets shoved out towards him, twisting around to reveal the golden ring with a protective curl of fingers.
“It doesn’t work over the glove and it won’t fit under it,” Theseus tells him, shoulders set and chin raised in challenge.
Techno wonders if he’s aware of the way his fingers twitches, instincts clearly telling him to keep it, tail flicking back and forth with a curl of the tufty blonde end, agitation clear even as his eyes doesn’t veer away.
Wilbur would get the same look in his eyes when he was being stubborn.
Techno is stepping forward, palms settling over Theseus fingers, closing his fist with a squeeze and a low warning chuff as the other jerks, shoulders drawing tense but not moving to escape his grip.
“Keep it,” Techno rumbles. “I’ll find you a chain and you can wear it around your neck.”
It’s not Wilbur who stares back at him but his heart aches when Theseus pauses, studying him with clever but wary eyes.
“Won’t that be annoying if we get into a fight?” He demands, tugging at his hand.
Techno’s mouth curls, releasing the other and stepping back with a turn and swish of his cloak. “You just gotta be good enough to make sure they can’t take it.”
“Git gud he tells me,” Theseus grumps as he falls easily at his side, as if he belongs there. “There are more sensible options for jewelry you know?”
“Like a bracelet?” Techno drawls with mocking irony.
“Oh you can fuck right off-“
-
Eret observes quietly as their fellow Hero steps into the room, dressed in Siren’s gear, gun tucked comfortably into the holster on his thigh.
For the first time, he doesn’t stand out like a sore thumb as Red Chaos amidst Villains, heavy boots threading across the wooden floor instead of sneakers, shoulders set and coat moving with his steps, his new pink arm hidden and tail tucked out of sight.
They turn their head, glancing at Philza as the man rises from his seat.
Eret doubts that Philza, for all his age and wisdom, had expected the picture Red Chaos’ made in Siren’s outfit.
“Well, this is a surprise.” Phil’s voice is smooth but his wings betray his surprise even as his hands spreads to distract from it.
Once down in the dark streets of the Pit no-one would be looking close enough to pay attention to the ill-fit shoulders and sleeves brushing just a bit too long over gloved hands – the other Hero had even gone out of his way to get the wispy stray curls of Wilbur’s fringe beneath the maroon beanie.
It’s strangely endearing.
Eret had always admired Red’s tenaciousness, the motivation to get up over and over again, no matter what life threw at him.
He’d been playing a dangerous game from the day he was announced on the television, Dream’s sidekick, not an officially ranked Hero but quickly proving himself worthy of it with cleverness and danger, red streaking around his body in an echo of Dream’s neon green.
A likeness that had been striking for a reason, it turned out.
“What, the fact that I clean up nicely?” Red’s voice filters with a higher hollowed echo through Siren’s mask, tone sharp and biting as he steps forward, afraid but doing his best not to hide it with index and thumb framing his jaw with a cocky ease amidst his enemies. “I even shaved.”
“Not that it can be seen behind the mask,” Techno huffs, staying close beside Red instead of moving to Philza’s side Eret observes with interest, the Villain’s tail visible instead of tucked away, swaying almost idly behind him with a small flick of the pink tuft at the very end when Red folds his arms.
He’d been mocked by the world for the role he took pride in, then discarded for that very same role by the man he’d sworn his loyalty to.
Beaten down, his powers robbed from him, caught and tortured, humiliated with his weakness broadcasted to his enemies.
“He looks like an idiot,” Fundy grumbles under his breath, just low enough for Eret to catch it, seated on the arm of the chair beside them. “Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean- he knows you as a Hero, doesn’t he? Won’t he get suspicious?”
Eret turns their palms up, staring down at their hands, covered by gloves.
Hands capable of death with a single touch.
“Niki is my sister,” they say eventually.
“And you’d do everything for her, I get that.” Fundy leans surreptitiously closer, fingers clenching in the leather to keep from sliding. “But things are bad in the Pit and the last thing we want is to give Schlatt an excuse to enter it.” A twitch of his tail, just visible at the end of the poncho. “I don’t really get what the plan is,” Fundy admits quietly, eyes on Red Chaos.
Fundy would never be a part of the Syndicate, no matter how he ached for it beneath the vitriol.
He’d burnt that bridge long ago.
Just a Vigilante, used for his connections, a denial about it he clung desperately to.
“Philza isn’t one to play foolish games,” Eret settles on diplomatically.
“No, but he’d see the world burn if it meant Wilbur safe.” Bitter envy crawls raw into his voice.
Eret doesn’t comment on it – they’d seen the aftermath of Fundy’s decisions and while he’d managed to crawl back into being useful, he’d never be what he could have been.
His cowardice and disloyalty had paid its price.
“… He really looks just like him,” Fundy says quietly.
A Hero dressed as a Villain.
“Blade filled me in- the bare-fucking-bones of it but I’ve got the gist of what you want from me.” A tilt of his head. “Chaos is kinda my brand so- leave shit to me and I’ll handle it.”
Philza’s hand dips into his pocket, pulling out an earpiece. “Yours slot into the side of Siren’s mask,” Phil throws one to red who snatches it up easily, flicking it between gloved fingers with an easy once over and a nod. “We’ll keep contact to a minimum but if anything goes wrong-“
“I’ve got it,” Red interrupts, twisting the square piece of the mask over his ear and sliding it in with a deft click. “Not my first rodeo.”
“You’ve never worked with us before,” Techno rumbles.
“No, but I’ve been on the other side.” Red’s eyes gleam and the pull of his skin tells of the grin beneath his mask. “Read all the reports.”
Careful, Eret thinks, observing the tension of the man’s shoulders and tremble of fingers hidden with a curling tightening of them that pulls at the leather of his gloves. You’re playing a dangerous game.
The Angel’s eyes sharpens, wings curling and-
They stand smoothly, feeling the way Techno’s eyes tracks them with every step towards Red Chaos who flicks his gaze up, meeting their eyes without recognition, wariness clear.
Eret is born with roses that bloom in the palm of their hands with the use of their powers, spilling out like ink that carves deeper into their palms with every taken life, sins permanently written into their skin.
On their left palm faint lines patters out in a light white scar, their life as Royal, careful to paralyze but never kill.
On their right palm the grooves run deep and ragged, bone deep with ink that clings dark to the ridges, never quite fading with Eris.
“Sounds like it’s an opportunity for all of us then,” Eret says smoothly, stretching their hand forward. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”
Most won’t touch them, knowing their power, both as a Hero and Villain.
Red hesitates, head tilting just an inch, giving them a deeply scrutinizing look before reaching forward, hand clasping theirs with a squeeze.
“Likewise.”
There’s a reason Eret has always liked Red.
-
“Weak.”
Tubbo slams his fists against the wall, chest heaving as he spins around, grabbing for the nearest vase and throwing it across the room.
“You’ll always be weak.”
His knees hits the floor and vines span and crawl in a web from his fingers, couch lurched up with a loud crash as it vaulted into the television, tearing down the bookshelf beside it as it topples over, narrowly missing the window.
“You’ll never be anything compared to Red Chaos.” Schlatt’s fancy shoes steps over his legs and Tubbo jerks them back, curling on himself with bruises on his skin as the Number Two Hero presses down on the light switch, ignoring his desperate protest and closing the door shut before he could reach it. “I don’t know why I bother.”
His hands presses over his ears, fingers brushing over his horns before tangling in his hair as he tucks them tight, chest heaving as he stares out over the destruction around him, mouth twisting with grief and self-loathing.
-
Quackity swears, straining desperately, broken wing twining with pain as Enforcers grabs at his arms, pinning him tightly in place, jaw pried open and a cloth gag slipped between his teeth, knotted tight with a catch of his strands that makes him wince.
A palm finds the back of his neck with painful forced bow of his head, breath straining around the cloth he bites down furiously at as he glares at the floor.
Sweat drips from his brow from the heat coiling up his bare back, the door to his cell pulled open with a heavy rattle and steps quiet against the obsidian flooring.
“You don’t think you’re exaggerating just a bit?” A voice, heavily accented and drowsy makes him jerk but he’s pushed further down, the muscles in his neck and shoulders aching in the strain to prevent himself from going face down on the floor. “The obsidian has already drained his powers away at this point.”
“Schlatt’s orders, sir,” the Enforcer keeping his head down responds, grip painfully tight. “He said-“
“Don’t care,” the accented voice interrupts with a yawn. “He’s not exactly here right now, is he? And I want to talk with the prisoner on my own.”
“Sir-“
“Now.”
The hands releases him suddenly and Quackity jerks, blinking furiously with a flaring of his nose.
“We’ll have to report this to Schlatt, sir.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Quackity’s head jerks up, locking onto 404 rubbing tiredly at the back of his neck, goggles over his eyes with dark visors and a white mask over his mouth and nose – circular holes patterned through it for his sleep powder to span out with a breath.
Dark cargo pants, a plain turtleneck shirt and one of the standard protection vests from the academy strapped over his shoulders but blue instead of black. There’s a red stripe on his shoulder with 404 marked clearly in white and sensible dark grey boots that moves quiet as he pushes away from where he’d been leaning half-slumped against the doorway.
There’s still one Enforcer linger and 404 turns his head, eyebrow raising up. “Go on then.”
They salute, heels clacking together, pulling the door shut behind him and locking it tight with a rattle of metal.
“I’m not really supposed to be here,” 404 breathes, taking a step forward as Quackity draws back, staring up at the Number Ten Hero. “And we don’t have a lot of time, places to be and all that.” He waves a hand. “I’m kinda- avoiding some people at the moment so it would be a bit awkward if I was still here when they get the news.”
404 crouches down, hand raising to trail against the cloth of the gag in his mouth, ignoring his flinch and finding the knot with a tug as he leans closer, mouth angling close to Quackity’s ear.
“I need access to your slimes,” the Hero breathes, arms wrapping around his head, fingers fiddling with the knot, carefully tugging caught hair in it away from it and smoothing it down.
The gag is loosened just enough for Quackity to work it out of his mouth, licking his lip.
“And why,” he demands with a rasped hiss, “would I give that to you?”
“Oh, I forgot, I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of meeting officially yet.” 404 draws back, palm pressing his goggles up, revealing brown eyes, mask unlatched to reveal a pretty face. “I’m George.” The accent is even heavier without the voice changer, distinct in a way that’s hard not to notice. “I think Sapnap might have mentioned me.”
Quackity gapes at him. “You’re Gogy?”
George’s face pinches but the twist of his lips is fond. “Yeah, that would be me.”
-
Karl curls his hands tight in his lap, his powers tugging at him with a slow blink, blood trailing wet from his eye down his face.
His breath shudders, cold clinging heavy to his skin, a bowl of mashed potatoes left abandoned on the table in front of him beside a bottle of cola.
“Do you think I’m doing the right thing?” he asks the small Slimecicle as it hoists itself up on his knee, struggling briefly before making itself comfortable. “Red- he’s too young but- he’s a game changer, you know?” He laughs weakly, hunching forward with a breath that strains against his ribs. “I think- I think I can trust him.”
“You want Jester back.” Slimecicle claps its tiny hands together. “If he can help, isn’t that a good thing?”
Karl sucks a breath, eyes closing shut with teeth that bites into his lip to catch the tremble.
“Maybe- I don’t-“ He exhales heavily. “I can’t leave Quackity with Schlatt.” He curls further on himself, arms tight over his chest. “Sapnap- Sapnap he’s a Hero and things are going on and-“
A small hand presses against the side of his neck, trembles wrecking through him.
“It feels like I’m losing both of them,” he confesses, tears spilling wet down his cheeks, mixing with the blood as he laughs. “I don’t- I feel like I’m losing myself because I can barely- I can barely think but I can’t just stop.”
“Please be okay,” he prays weakly, forehead pressing down against his clasped fingers, trembling as a small arms span against the side of his neck in a hug. “Please let them both be okay.”
-
Sapnap stares at Schlatt who grins back, cigar tapped without looking away from him, ash trailing to the ground.
-
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Ranboo squawks, helplessly following along with the clenching of fingers around his wrist, hunched down with a flare of panic running through him. “We promised-“
“I don’t care,” Tubbo interrupts, coming to an abrupt halt, a wild look in his eyes that he fixates on him. “Schlatt is up to something and I can’t- I can’t stay on the sidelines anymore, ‘Boo.”
“You were fine with it yesterday,” Ranboo fumbles out, twisting his wrist to curl his fingers around Tubbo’s wrist in return, feeling the racing pulse against his skin and forcing himself to keep the eye contact. “I don’t understand what changed.”
Tubbo falters, head lowering with a brush of his fringe over his eyes, lip twisting and fingers clenching around the mask clasped tight in his hand.
“Everyone is getting ready to move,” he says finally. “This is- I think this is bigger than anything we first expected.” A hard breath. “No. I know it is. Red- he cut his arm off and if that isn’t evidence enough then I don’t know what it is.” The hard grip on Ranboo’s wrist loosens, squeezing in apology. “If I can help- they’re entering the Pit and they’re going to need a distraction until whatever they have planned with Red Chaos.”
Ranboo’s eyes widens. “You’re not-“
“If Schlatt is looking for me,” Tubbo interrupts, stubborn desperation in the pull of his skin, “then he won’t have time to focus on Jest- on Quackity.”
Ranboo hesitates, guilt curling thick in his gut because he’d promised Eret and Techno that he wouldn’t do anything.
But-
“Niki is in Pandora as well,” Ranboo says quietly.
Niki who had taken him in along with Eret, giving him a home, a family, when he had had nothing but scrambled memories and a reliance on Techno who had found him.
“She is,” Tubbo glances cautiously up at him. “They saved us.”
Ranboo’s mouth feels dry and he swallows thickly.
“Don’t you think we owe the same in return?” Tubbo presses. “Red, he had that paper from Schlatt’s tower, I know that bastard is still looking for me if he had that laying around. I’m a loose end that he can afford to let go public. He still wants me.”
Vines twines up his arm, stretching a webbed path between Tubbo’s fingers, small flowers blossoming in their path with bright petals against his suit, the tips of his fingers creasing down the fabric.
“Please.”
Tubbo stands, shoulders drawn, hand wrapped around his wrist, avoiding his gaze and awaiting judgement.
“Through sickness and health.”
Tubbo jerks, gaze shooting up.
“We didn’t actually do the vows-“
“In joy and sorrow,” Ranboo interrupts, leaning closer.
“We married for the tax benefits-“
“For better,“ Ranboo presses, meeting his gaze steadily, “and for worse."
“As long as we both shall live,” Tubbo finishes with a choked breath. “Thank you.”
-
“Nemesis!” Rose croons, skirt flaring as she kneels down, Niki’s blood staining her knees, a hand tangling in her hair and jerking her head up. “Don’t you go falling asleep on me when we’re just starting to get to know each other!”
Niki lets her body remain loose, allowing her head to be tugged back and forth until Rose abruptly lets go, her cheek splashing into the warm blood beneath her.
“Fine.” Rose puffs her cheeks out. “You’re far more boring than I thought you’d be.”
Fingers tug at her hair, carding through the knotted strands, sorting them out almost absently as Niki focuses on keeping her breathing deep and even.
Time passes but Rose shows no sign of wanting to leave, tugging at the drying pieces of blood and wiping them off on her skirt, muttering quietly to herself.
“Schlatt- he said you and Eris are siblings,” Rose says quietly, separating Niki’s hair into three sections. “I don’t really know of that’s true or not but-“
No one is supposed to know that.
There’s blood coagulating stickily on her cheek and ice crawling down her spine as Rose’s fingers starts on the first braid.
“They did something to me, you know?” Rose hunches closer and Niki carefully pries one eye open just enough to catch sight of her face, young with haunted eyes, the thin beautiful wings on her back flecked with spots of red. “I’m not- I’m not stupid. I know something is wrong but I don’t- I don’t know how to fix it.”
Her brown hair, normally impeccably styled, hangs limp over her shoulder,
The braid is finished, a small pink elastic band tying it off, fingers brushing the tail end with surprising care, her mouth thinning out, wings fluttering gently behind her.
Oh little fairy… what did Eret do to you?
-
Sam circles a thumb around the rim of the coffee mug, staring past it, down at the thick white fur of Fran deep asleep in the middle of the floor, sprawled out with her back towards him, faithfully keeping guard of the door to the café.
It’s closed, he has no plans to open it for the next week, and yet-
“I thought I’d find you here,” Ponk yawns, stumbling in behind him with a tired stretch of his arms above him.
Sam places the mug down on the counter, turning the ear instinctively to the right.
As on cue Ponk’s hand sneaks past him, fingers curling into it and bringing it up.
“It’s still hot-“ Ponk chugs it straight down, throat bobbing with every swallow and Sam’s mouth tips with a helpless sort of warmth, for just a moment allowing himself to bask in the normalcy of morning as Ponk places the mug down, wiping his arm with the corner of the sweater Sam recognises as his own.
The other man sways tiredly closer, almost cautiously pressing against him, the first morning light just beginning to stretch between the tall buildings outside.
“Still nothing from them?” Ponk asks after a long moment, hand reaching to catch at the hem of Sam’s shirt, fingers curling gently.
Sam’s mouth twists, drawing a hard breath.
“Nothing,” he admits roughly.
Tommy had disappeared without a trace, his apartment left abandoned, and with Quackity’s capture-
There’s a deep vicious darkness coiling inside of him, Warden’s uncompromising wrath a thing he can taste on his tongue with the gunpowder smoke curling in the depth of his throat.
He breathes it out, Fran jerking from her sleep with a twisting of her head, bright yellow eyes finding his as Ponk stills beside him.
“Red Chaos is working with the Syndicate now.”
Ponk still, drawing back from him, shoulders pulling tight as Sam glances at him.
“What’s wron-“
“Don’t you think you’ve done enough?” Ponk interrupts, voice tight but wavering. “Two weeks, Sammy. You tortured Red Chaos for two weeks and you can’t- don’t you think it’s about time you let it go?”
Ponk looks up at him.
“The man clearly knows nothing and he might not even be involved in Quackity’s disappearance at all! You might be-“
“He was the last one who saw him,” Sam interrupts sharply. “He was the last one who saw Quackity and he won’t tell me anything.”
“Maybe you’re going about it the wrong way?” Ponk suggest with hope creeping into his voice. “I don’t really know the guy but-“
“Ponk.”
The other inhales sharply.
“I’m just saying that there might be another way of doing this!” Ponk pushes, right arm drawing over his chest and curling into the too big sweater. “You don’t know definitively that Red Chaos knows anything, or is even involved! He was kicked out of the Hero tower, right? He might just be this dude struggling and you’re-“
“Ponk.”
The gunpowder smoke wafts thick from his mouth, a grey cloud of danger that makes Ponk take a jerky step back, staring at him with large brown eyes.
Sam forces himself to draw a deep breath, smothering it down.
“I didn’t mean-“
“Look at yourself!” Ponk bursts out. “This isn’t you, Sam! The Sam I know would never hurt someone just for the heck of it! There’s plenty of other ways you could have gone about getting information from him but instead you dragged me into it! Made me an accomplice to- to torture.” Ponk’s arms curls tighter around himself, the silence stretching thick between them. “I swore an oath, and it might not mean much to you, but it meant something to me.” Ponk’s eyes burns into his. “And you took that away from me.”
They stare at each other, brown finally lowering down from gold.
“I can tell you’re not listening to me.” Ponk takes another step back, away from him. “You know, I really thought you were different,” he laughs, Sam’s fingers twitching at the joyless tired sound and Ponk’s hand clamps down on the stump that remains of his left arm. “You were supposed to be different.”
Sam hands curls tight, knuckles straining white against the stretch of his skin.
“I’m getting Quackity home,” Sam says roughly. “And I’m not letting anyone stand in my way.”
Ponk stares at him and the distance between them is only a few feet, and yet it feels as wide and gaping as a ravine.
When they had been young, just children, growing up together in the orphanage, they used to play the floor is lava together.
Ponk complaints had been loud as he struggled to keep up, calling his name when he’d get stuck until Sam realised and climbed back to help him to a pout that always made him grin sheepishly.
“I wouldn’t leave you behind,” Sam had promised him. “You just have to keep calling my name until I hear you because I have a bit of a one-track mind, okay?”
When they meet years later it’s with eyes staring wide at him with disbelief but the trust slots so easily between them, leather bitten down on and an arm left behind in a pool of blood, Sam making sure that the Warden was seen at the sight, leaving little doubt for the survival of the Healer.
“Then, let me remove myself, before you decide that I’m the one standing in your way,” Ponk’s voice wavers, thick with unspoken words.
“You have a contract with the Syndicate,” Sam says coldly.
“The Syndicate,” Ponk turns his back and it feels short, final. “Not with the Warden.”
-
“Glass?” Red lifts the small vial up, studying it with a little swirl of the blood inside.
“There’s eight of them.” Phil holds the belt he’d adjusted for the task. “Here- you can slide them in here, see?”
Red takes it with eyes that flicks cautiously to his for just a moment before focusing down, fingers running down and finding the slots easily, counting them out with his thumb and a low hum.
It’s eerie, how much he looks like Wilbur, down to the curls of his hair messily brushed out over his eyes, the contacts hiding the once blue colour.
There’s a cautiousness in his body language that reminds Phil achingly of Wilbur when he’d been younger, wary and disillusioned of the world he’d grown up in, distrusting of him but desperate to trust in the same breath.
Techno glances back at him, as if reading his mind, and there’s an understanding there between them.
Wilbur is coming home, no matter what.
There’s a rustle as Red loops the belt in place, adjusting it before looking up expectantly.
There’s a body language of a solider written into his every move.
A want to follow, a want to be needed, lost with the one who had conducted his moves.
Phil isn’t a fool, he knows that Red can’t be much older than Techno, and there’s a tragedy in that, for someone to be so young and readily ready to throw everything away when he’d barely started to live.
It’s admirable as well, a stubbornness that’s far too familiar in the gleam of his sons’ eyes.
“We got everything we need?” Red, a near perfect replica of Wilbur, his son, the scent of sandalwood and nicotine still clinging to the coat, and Phil’s instincts croon at the loss of his son at his side.
“Yeah,” Techno grunts, crown proud on his head and his piglin features more distinct than they had been only hours before. “We’re just waiting for you now.”
Red whips around but his excitement gets the better of him, a barely caught bounce in his step as he trots over, falling easily at Techno’s side as they move towards the door.
His son pauses in the opening, their eyes meeting for a moment as Red disappears out it.
They don’t say goodbye, life is too short for them.
“See you on the flip side,” Techno says instead, in an echo of Wilbur.
It startles a laugh out of him and he sees the gleam of satisfaction before Techno turns, lengthening his steps with a call to the Hero in front of him to slow down.
Phil folds his wings around him instead of stretching them out as his heart aches for, to take to the sky and find Wilbur, to challenge the very world if needed.
He knows it’s not so easy and his claim on Wilbur pulses steadily, letting him know that his oldest is yet alive.
Hurt, but alive.
He breathes in, sitting down heavily, the mark on his back glowing warm.
“Watch over our sons for me,” he prays to his love, his Goddess of Death with a press of his hand against the pendant resting over his heart. “They're too young to know your embrace yet.”
-
“I don’t know how he moves in this,” Tommy grumbles, tail end flicking against his side where it rests curled around his midriff and tugging at the coat. “You’re all impractical fuckers.”
“Says the person running around in a hoodie in minus ten degrees.”
“You’re wearing a heavy cloak and a crown, you have no room to talk.” Tommy gives up with a roll of his shoulders and a sigh “I’ve seen you in the summer heat.”
“Piglins are netherborn mobs,” Techno tells him with a glance of red eyes. “The heat is where we belong.”
Tommy quiets at that, fingers brushing over the lapels of Siren’s coat.
“I thought it was rumours,” he says after a long moment.
“What?”
“That he- that Siren doesn’t wear armour.” The white button-up is soft against his skin. “Seems a bit, you know, impractical.”
“He always hated them,” Techno says, voice hard to read, mouth curling down at the corner. “Claimed he had no need for them.”
“That's dumb,” Tommy mutters, fingers curling over the feather and ring resting against his skin beneath the shirt.
Techno huffs a quiet sound. “Looks like we’re finally in agreement about something.