Archive of Our Own ^beta

Techno doesn’t let himself sleep.

Not well, at least. It’s one of those little jagged pieces that makes up his daily routine, a habit he can’t shake no matter how long he feels safe.

No matter how kind Phil tries to be.

Sometimes the day starts early. Wilbur or Tommy will flinch in their sleep, and Techno, ever alert, will cradle them in seconds. That’s another habit, born from one too many irritated foster parents — Stay quiet. We’re okay, don’t make anyone mad. Everything we need is right here.

Everything Techno’s brothers need, that is — because Techno himself would never bother someone with his nightmares.

And if he sleeps shallowly enough, he won’t get them.

The routine starts simple. When morning comes, Techno will wake his brothers. Help Tommy get dressed, with his clumsy six-year-old fingers. Pack Wilbur’s backpack — and if the foster family was nice enough to offer food, tuck a few treats inside. Rearrange their nest, always gentle with Tommy’s favorite plush and Wilbur’s washed-out geography pillowcase.

And then the day would come — a mess of keeping baby-faced Tommy from swearing, of holding back scrawny Wilbur from playground fights, of putting himself between every single thing that could possibly hurt them.

Then, the evening. Chores. Washing and folding their clothes, cooking supper, helping with their homework. Still keeping them quiet, urging them not to laugh too loud or complain too loudly about their hunger, never satisfied by what Techno was allowed to give them.

Finally, night. Tucking them gently into the nest, laughing quietly at Tommy’s objections and Wilbur’s sleepy grumpiness.

And then, preening their wings.

It’s just part of living. Techno’s proud he can do this for them — gently brushing their feathers into place, covering them in blankets, coaxing them into sleep. Taking care of them, no matter how long it takes.

And when they’ve fallen asleep, breathing soft and even, Techno takes care of himself.

Yes, he has to wrench his wings forward, biting down on his lip in pain. Yes, he can never reach some aching feathers, digging into his too-small shoulders. Yes, he sometimes cries in the darkness, always quietly, always quick to stop.

Because it’s all part of the routine, of being the oldest.

Of being easy.

The routine, however complex, however painful, was something to cling to. Something that told Techno he was helpful, keeping his brothers warm, safe, happy — and most importantly, easy to keep.

And Phil’d torn it apart with gentle hands. With his care. Cooking for them, mopping up their messes, consoling Techno each time he desperately apologized.

And so, so slowly, Techno had let his guard down. His routine had been left on the doorstep of their home, ever-so-softly shattered.

But some broken, aching pieces stayed the same. His habits, his instincts — not the ones Techno chokes down, but the ones he’s built for himself. Stay quiet. Be helpful. Keep Tommy and Wilbur happy, so that they can be loved.

And if he feels loved, it’s just a nice side effect.

One he’ll never ask for.

“I want a hug.”

Techno huffs, nudging a pillow into place at the edge of the nest. “C’mere then. I can’t reach if you’re poutin’ all the way over there.”

Tommy’s frown deepens, eyes two sullen slits. He huffs right back, wings fluffing as he crosses his arms tighter. “I’m not pouting. And I don’t want a hug from you.”

It doesn’t hurt. Techno’s heart doesn’t twinge, not even a little. “Wil’s brushin’ his teeth, kid. Save the grumpiness for a sec, he’ll be right out.”

It’s… strange. None of them should be grumpy. The night had been perfect, even for Techno. Wilbur and Tommy had settled down for an after-school movie, hardly even bickering over what to watch. Techno had smiled as he slipped into the kitchen, barely tensing as Phil’s eyes fell onto him.

Is there anything I can help with? he’d asked, barely managing to strangle the polite ‘Sir’ that tries to follow. The one Phil’d told him wasn’t necessary.

Phil’d smiled, glancing back to the soup. Not really, mate. I’ve already got it made, we just have to watch it.

Techno had stumbled right to him, letting himself smile back. It was… nice. To not have to cook, even if a part of him winces at the fact that he hadn’t helped one bit.

And it was perfect to stand next to Phil, quiet and safe, listening to the man’s feathers shuffle each time he shifted to stir the pot.

No. Not perfect. ‘Perfect’ would be nudging himself beneath those wings. Maybe even getting a hug, even though he’s probably too big to be picked up like his younger brothers could be.

But it’d been close enough to perfect, so Techno hadn’t asked for more. Even if Phil had offered — a ludicrous, stupid, childish hope — he’s not sure if he’d find the words to accept. Even now, he’s practically dizzy at the thought of it. Of being held close, of being comforted—

“No. I want a hug from Phil.”

Techno flinches hard, heart jolting as he whirls to face Tommy. The kid glares at him, arms still crossed.

“What?”

Tommy’s glare falters, expression flickering with… hesitation? Fear?

Before Techno’s gut can twist, Tommy’s eyes go right back to blazing. “He— he said we could ask for things we wanted, and I want a hug.”

“No,” Techno practically gasps, shaking his head. “No, no. Tommy, you can’t ask for that.”

“Why not?” Tommy whines. There’s an edge to it, though. A hesitant question, evident as he looks up at Techno through quivering lashes.

Because we don’t deserve that, Techno almost says. But that’s far too brutal. And maybe… maybe a little untrue. Tommy deserves everything, so does Wil. Techno’s tried so hard to give it to them, and Phil’s already helped so much with that.

Still, Techno can’t find the courage to say, Because he’s probably tired of us.

Don’t ever ask him for more.

He doesn’t have to say it. Wilbur slips out of the bathroom, yawning and shaking out his tawny wings. “He’s probably sleeping already. You shouldn’t bother him, Toms.”

Tommy pulls back, gaze softening — but not from relaxation. No. There’s moisture brimming in his eyes, accompanied by a telltale sniffle. “Then… tomorrow?”

“No,” Techno says, before he can stop himself. Tommy flinches, brow furrowing, and Techno tries to make his voice softer. “C’mon, Tommy. It’s okay. We’re just goin’ to sleep, okay? We don’t need a hug—”

“But I want one,” Tommy whines, loud. He shoves his fists into a nearby pillow, knocking it from the nest. His tiny hands are shaking slightly — whether from anger or fear, Techno can’t tell.

But Techno’s hands are absolutely trembling from terror, heart jerking in his chest as he reaches out. “Shh, shh. Hey. I can give you a hug, okay? Is that okay?”

“No,” Tommy snaps, batting his hands away. Techno almost sobs. Please. Please be quiet, don’t wake him up. We were good today, don’t ruin it. “I want— I want Phil, he said—”

“Tommy,” Wilbur snaps quietly, dropping into the nest. “Shut up, you can’t keep—”

“Don’t tell me to shut up,” Tommy practically screams. Techno almost whites out right there, ears ringing from far more than Tommy’s shrill wail. He stumbles to the kid’s side, feet tangled in the nest’s blankets as he throws an arm around Tommy’s shoulders.

Something in Techno’s expression must shut him up, because Tommy pales and claps his mouth shut, watching him with big, watery eyes. Wilbur does the same, suddenly tense.

“Okay,” Techno chokes out. No. Steady. He has to stay calm, even as the panicked thing in his skull screeches to hide, to fly away. “Okay, we’re— we’re goin’ to be quiet, okay? No more yellin’, just— just lay down, it’s goin’ to be okay—”

“Boys?”

Techno flinches, hard. He’s shifting in front of Tommy before the word’s even registered, one wing slightly extended to block Wilbur from view.

It’s stupid. Because the silhouette in the bedroom door is from the only person who’d never hurt them.

But Techno’s heart still plummets.

“I’m sorry, s— Phil,” falls awkwardly from his lips, the ‘Sir’ strangled worse than the apologetic, desperate chirp that threatens to burst from his lungs. “We— I’m sorry about the noise.”

“It’s all good, mate,” Phil says quietly. Techno can practically hear his reassuring smile, though the hallway light’s still blinding despite the shadow of Phil’s coal-black wings. “Can I come in?”

It’s nice that he asks, even if Techno’d never dare refuse. “Of course.”

The silhouette shifts, stepping into the room. It’s darker here, only lit by the tiny nightlight Tommy had practically begged for. For the nightmares, he’d whined to Phil, even as Techno desperately tried to stop him.

I’m supposed to help with your nightmares. Don’t bother Phil.

But Tommy still asks for things. And a quiet part of Techno wants to let him.

Maybe he doesn't have to be as scared as me.

“I thought you’d gone to bed,” Phil says gently, settling at the edge of the nest, wings mantled. His hair’s still tied in that loose, high wisp, even if he’s already changed into pajamas — pants, patterned with blue-winged fairies and some triangle symbol Techno doesn’t recognize. Soft, warm, comfortable, like the clothes he’d bought for each of them.

Techno still hasn’t found a way to pay him back.

“We’re getting ready for bed,” Tommy corrects, in a carelessly lighthearted way that makes Techno’s heart skip. He scoots closer to Phil, beaming as he scrambles out from behind Techno’s wing. “Look. I’m wearing my Minecraft pajamas.”

Phil beams right back. “I see. You look very cool, mate. All ready to curl up and sleep?”

“No,” Tommy says, his kindergartener’s volume making Techno’s insides shrivel. Don’t yell. Don’t be too loud. “Techno’s still gotta preen my wings.”

Phil goes dead still.

Techno tries not to flinch when the man’s eyes flick to him, brow furrowing ever-so-slightly. The crow’s feet at the edges of his still-soft eyes crinkle, deepening even more as Techno shivers.

But even Phil’s concern makes Techno sick with worry.

“Oh,” Phil says softly. Like the word hurts. Like he’s realizing something, like the world’s shifting and it’s not moving back.

Floored by quiet fear, Techno hopes that he still has a place in that world.

“I’ll take care of him,” he manages to squeeze out, scooting closer to Tommy and praying Wilbur stays still. “C’mon, Tommy. Come here.” Don’t bother Phil. Let him leave.

But Tommy doesn’t budge. He pulls away. One elbow almost bumps Phil’s knee as he crosses his skinny arms with a huff, and Techno’s heart somehow manages to spiral further.

“Tommy,” Techno repeats, breathless. Please. Phil’s watching, lips parted in confusion, brow furrowing deeper and deeper like the grave Tommy’s surely digging for all of them.

For Techno. Who can’t control his brothers, who can’t keep them quiet, nice, respectful. Who’s failing at his only job.

And he just keeps failing. Because when Tommy’s eyes light up, glowing with an idea, Techno can’t stop him—

—from turning to Phil and stupidly, recklessly chirping, “You could preen my wings.”

Oh.

Oh god.

“Tommy,” Techno chokes out, chest practically imploding with the force of it. “Don’t— you can’t ask for that, you can’t—”

No.

No, no, no.

He whirls to Phil, mind already racing. Damage control. He should be prepared for this, trying to salvage what his brothers inevitably break, but he can barely choke the apology out. “I’m sorry, sir. He doesn’t know what that means, he— he wouldn’t have asked otherwise—”

And Tommy interrupts, yelling, “Hey, I know it means, don’t be a bitch—”

“Tommy,” Techno says, strangled, every inch of him trembling. “Don’t— don’t—” Don’t swear, don’t yell, don’t ask for things, don’t—

“If you want me to.”

Phil’s voice is quiet.

He’s not looking at Tommy. No. His soft gray-blue eyes are fixed only on Techno, still narrowed. Techno can only pray that it’s purely from concern. No irritation. No hate.

And he’s so terrified that Phil’s words barely register until Tommy gapes, eyes sun-bright.

“You will?”

Finally, Phil turns away. Techno practically collapses, falling without the weight of the man’s eyes to pin him up. “If that’s okay,” Phil says, smiling at Tommy. “I haven’t preened anyone’s wings in a bit, but I promise I’ll be very gentle—”

Tommy’s darting forward before Phil even finishes the sentence, snatching the man’s wrist in tiny fingers and yanking him full-force into the nest. Phil lets out a quiet oomph as he catches himself, knees sinking into the blankets.

Techno doesn’t even have time to cry out. In one too-fast heartbeat, Tommy’s throwing himself onto the pillow in front of Phil, wings extending fast enough to slap the man’s shoulder with one tiny wingtip.

Only then does Techno find the fear to lurch forward, to choke out, “Tommy, don’t—”

Phil’s eyes flick back to him, and Techno recoils. Why, he doesn’t know. Phil’s gaze is still impossibly soft, fingers uncurling like he only wants to reach out, to extend a comforting hand in Techno’s direction.

Maybe that’s why Techno flinches back.

You’re not supposed to comfort me. I’m not the one who needs it.

I’m not the one who ever gets it.

“Come on,” Tommy whines, the sound slicing through Techno’s aching head. He cranes his neck back to glare at Phil, still practically trembling with excitement. “You said you’d do it. Right?”

There’s a flicker of hesitance in his young, bright voice. Techno’s heart twists despite his panic. You should never be scared. I should’ve protected you from more. I should’ve healed you.

Please tell me this isn’t something I’ll have to heal you from.

But Phil just keeps that soft, warm smile up. Slowly, almost cautiously, he lifts a hand. “Of course, mate. Let me know if anything hurts, okay? If I pull too hard, if I prod anything, or if you’re just ready to be done—”

With a grunt, Tommy shoves his tiny wing into Phil’s hand. He overbalances, tipping to the side, falling. Techno lurches forward, heart jolting, hands outstretched—

But Phil catches Tommy around the waist, letting out a quiet laugh as he pulls him upright, Tommy’s back to Phil’s crossed legs. “I assume that’s a, ‘get started, old man.’”

Tommy lets out a grumpy chirp. In the nightlight’s dim glow, Techno can see his full-moon pupils, the blue pushed so far back it’s barely a vivid sliver. His delicate driftwood-brown feathers fluff as he pushes his wing further into Phil’s palm, guard down and utterly vulnerable.

Techno almost wishes it was him sitting there. His wings bared, his soul bared.

Only to protect his brothers, of course. To take things for them.

Even if there’s nothing to take but Phil’s gentle touch.

Slowly, Phil sets his hand on the root of Tommy’s wing. With a brush of his thumb, he pushes a tiny down feather into place.

And Tommy melts.

The only thing that keeps him upright is Phil’s arm, gently threading around his chest. Techno lets out a shaky breath as Phil laughs, so warm with affection it’s almost hard to breathe.

“Long day?” he asks, voice quiet like he doesn’t want to yell in Tommy’s ear.

Tommy huffs, eyes flicking back open. Techno’s heart jerks as he mutters, “The fuckin’ worst.”

But Phil doesn’t lash out, hands loose and unpunishing as they weave through Tommy’s feathers. He smiles. “Tell me about it.”

“Teachers keep talking t’ me,” Tommy mumbles, voice slurring as he relaxes. “They want a volunteer. T’ help in class.”

“Oh?” Phil says, tilting his head as his hand drifts to Tommy’s primaries. Techno can never get them to lay straight — and yet, with one brush of his hand, Phil nudges them into place.

Techno’s heart doesn’t ache at that.

It doesn’t.

“But they said they needed a parent,” Tommy mumbles. “Like… a dad.”

Silence.

Techno can’t even flinch. But that doesn’t mean he’s not paralyzed.

Phil’s hand stills, frozen over Tommy’s feathers. His face is… it’s warring with itself. Pinched, yet loose, eyes flicking back and forth, chest utterly still like he too has forgotten how to breathe.

For once, Tommy seems to realize what he’s said. He tenses, face crumpling as he pulls away from Phil’s hands. “I’m sorry. I— I told them no. I mean, Techno’s always said we don’t need a dad, and I… didn’t want to call you that, since Techno said not to…?”

Techno’s heart somehow finds a way to wither more. Every fragment of air flees his lungs as Phil glances up at him yet again.

He…

He looks like he’s about to cry.

“Don’t worry about it, mate,” he says quietly, so impossibly soft. Surely it’s directed at quiet, small Tommy, even if Phil’s eyes are only fixed on Techno. “It’s alright. I don’t mind either way.”

Tommy lets out a quiet noise as Phil’s hands return to his wings. The man’s gaze turns away from Techno, slowly, almost like he doesn’t want to turn away.

But he does, and Techno’s heart falls — not with fear, or even panic.

No. There’s something else festering in his chest, rearing up as he watches Phil sift through Tommy’s feathers. Something unnameable, something he can’t even begin to understand.

“There.”

Phil pulls away, smiling again. Techno’s heart squeezes as the man pulls away, arm slowly withdrawing so Tommy doesn’t topple forward — even though he looks ready to.

“Is… ‘s that it?” Tommy mumbles, tipping to the side. “W’s really quick.”

“You’ve got little wings, mate.” Phil laughs, cupping Tommy’s cheek to guide his head down to the pillow. Techno’s heart practically explodes, his entire body tensing as he jerks forward, just a bit.

He doesn’t understand. It’s not fear, but god, it feels close. His skin is practically humming, heart snagging every few beats on the shallow breathes he manages to take. His fists twist in the blankets, shaking, eyes locked on every movement Phil makes.

It could be fear. Should be fear. But Techno doesn’t want to run, like he always has.

No. Almost… the opposite.

“Phil?”

Techno flinches. Wilbur gives him a quick glance before edging forward, shoulders hunched and eyes locked on Phil.

Maybe it’s their brotherly bond, strengthened through fear and a thousand painful lessons. Or maybe it’s the desperate hope softening Wilbur’s features as he lifts his eyes to Phil.

Either way, Techno knows exactly what he’s going to ask. Even if he can do nothing to stop it.

“Could I have a turn?”

Phil smiles. Still soft, still with that warm, watery grief in his eyes. And yet he’s looking at Wilbur like he’s the light of the world, like nothing would make him happier than to hold him.

No one’s ever looked at Techno’s brothers like that before.

And a stupid part of him mumbles, No one will look at you like that. Not ever, not now. You’re too old for that.

You don’t need it like they do.

“Of course,” Phil murmurs, patting the blanket in front of him. “Here.”

Wilbur inches forward, a bit more hesitant than Tommy had been. Still, Techno can see the edge to his movements, bright and excited. He’s only trembling a little as he extends a wing in Phil’s direction, and Techno can’t tell if it’s even from fear.

And if it is, it stops the moment Phil nudges his first feather back into place.

It’s quieter this time, if no less soft. Phil shifts a knee up, letting Wilbur lean into it and lay one tawny, speckled wing across his leg. Wilbur doesn’t even hesitate, putting his whole weight into Phil’s hold as his eyes flutter shut.

He doesn’t just look content, like when Techno preens his wings.

He looks… happy.

I’m sorry I couldn’t give you that.

Wilbur’s eyes drift open. Techno tenses as they flick to him, half-lidded from relaxation but still managing to narrow in something like confusion. His hand curls, and Techno’s eyes snap to it. A loose fist, thumb laying over his knuckles before quietly slipping to the side.

We’re safe. It’s okay.

A little hand signal, once that Techno’d used to bring Wilbur down from the edge of a hundred panic attacks. Something that broke through the haze of fear when words couldn’t.

But I don’t feel afraid, Techno wants to say. Truly. I don’t.

I… don’t know what I’m feeling.

It’s just getting stranger with every softly passing moment. The nightlight’s glow is practically blinding, like his eyes are soaking up every bit of light they can. It’s hard to take anything but shallow breaths, even if his lips keep parting, like his jaw can’t bear to stay tight.

And something deep in his heart twists with each of Phil’s gentle touches, with the way he looks so terribly soft at Wilbur, at a dozing Tommy.

It’s not fear.

Techno almost wishes it was.

“There you go.”

Techno blinks. The lights spin as he watches Wilbur sink forward, Phil’s arm supporting him as he slides into the curl of blankets next to Tommy. His eyes are shut again, not opening even when Phil’s hand ghosts over his forehead, brushing the hair from his face.

Once again, Techno’s heart leaps. Not into his throat, just… forward. Like it’s straining against his ribcage, beating so hard it’s making his skin hum, trying to tug him towards that warmth.

And it works. He lurches forward, just an inch, jerking back when Phil glances up at him.

“Techno?”

His voice is soft. It always is. So Techno’s heart shouldn’t stutter, his lips shouldn’t part in wondrous awe at being seen.

“Thank you, sir,” he somehow manages to choke out. His heart wails in relief as he inches closer, eyes flicking to his sleeping brothers. Thank you for taking care of them. Thank you for loving them.

Thank you for doing it, because I’ve never done it well enough.

He can feel Phil hovering beside him as he pushes himself closer to his brothers, shakily tugging the blankets further over their shoulders. A quiet part of him croons at the action, the only instinct he’s ever indulged. Safe. Keep them safe, warm, keep them happy. Protect them.

“You’ve taken good care of them.”

Techno blinks, dazed. Phil smiles, the little crow’s feet at the edges of his eyes crinkling.

I have? Techno almost breathes, the tiny glow in his chest expanding. Oh. I did good.

Phil nods, almost like he hears the words, his smile never faltering. Not fake, not pinned in place. Just genuine, if a bit tinged with… sadness? Like he’s looking at something beautiful and yet utterly ruined.

Strange. Because he’s still looking at Techno.

“Thank you,” Techno repeats, swallowing and ducking his head. His eyes fall back to his brothers. Wilbur’s curled up with Tommy tucked in his arms, their breaths coming slow and soft.

It’s perfect. It’s smothering, almost, how crushingly grateful he feels. His brothers are happy, safe and comforted, and Techno didn’t have to do a single thing. Maybe the guilt will come later. The, I didn’t do enough, I didn’t help, and the, I can never be enough for them.

But for now, it’s perfect. There’s nothing more that Techno wants.

Nothing.

Phil shifts. Techno’s eyes snap back to him, tensing. The man just tilts his head, ducking it ever-so-slightly, eyes soft and inviting. Like he’s… waiting? For Techno to say something, maybe?

Oh.

“Good night,” Techno mumbles, choking down a questioning waver. Right? That’s what you say? I hope your night goes well, that we weren’t too annoying. That we didn’t ruin your day.

Wilbur shifts and lets out a sleepy noise. Techno’s gaze snaps back to him, worry blooming in his chest.

He quickly lowers himself into the blankets, one wing trembling as he extends it over his brother’s sleeping forms. Vulnerable, utterly exposed. But it comforts them, and that’s more than enough reason to make himself weak.

Too weak. A shaky, stuttering noise crawls up his throat as he curls around them, escaping before Techno can bite it down. A croon, wavering so much it’s barely recognizable. A caretaker’s croon, meant to be long, low, fluid. Comforting.

But Techno’s comes out strangled, no matter how many times he sucks in a shaky breath and tries again. He squeezes his eyes shut, eyes burning, shaking under the weight of Phil’s gaze.

I’m sorry.

I can take care of them, I promise.

Heart skipping, he tries to hum instead. Some song that Tommy loved, that Wilbur’d hummed so many times it became a lullaby of sorts. But it’s not comforting now, and Tommy shifts in his sleep, tiny face screwed up. Techno’s wings are full-on shaking now, feathers rustling in the painful silence. Please. I’m trying to keep them comfortable. I know it’s not enough, I’m trying, I’m trying—

“Techno?”

Techno forces his eyes open, chest heaving. The light’s still strangely bright, burning into his pupils even as a veil of tears brims in his eyes.

But… it’s fine.

Because Phil’s eyes are glistening, too.

“What about you, mate?”

“I’m…. I’m sorry?”

The question’s shaky and weak, barely a whisper. He doesn’t have the air for anything more. Maybe the apology wrapped in that question will make Phil less irritated. Maybe he’ll leave for the night — a good thing, even if for some reason, Techno’s mind sobs at the idea.

But Phil doesn’t move, except to quietly shift forward, smile soft and sad.

And so, so horribly soft, he murmurs, “What about your wings?”

Techno’s heart stops.

No.

It’s terrifying to watch Phil’s eyes shift to his exposed wing. Not because Techno expects a hit. God, no. He expects disgust, revulsion at the sight of his battered feathers and stiff posture, muscles brittle from a lifetime of forcing his wings around. He expects Phil’s face to shift from that agonizingly soft smile to something sharper — lip curled, nose crinkled, eyes narrowed.

That’s a thousand times worse than any blow could be — and surely Phil’s thinking it. What about your wings? You can’t go to sleep like that, they’ll look worse in the morning. And then I’ll have to look at you.

So fix them.

There’s nothing else it could mean.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Techno squeezes out, pushing himself up on shaking arms. “I can— I’ll take care of them. I’m sorry.”

He can’t even look at Phil, not when he knows what the man’s expression must look like. He can’t bear to watch that disgust form, especially with his body already crying out in pain. I’m trying. It hurts, but I swear I can take care of myself.

You’ve already done so much for me. I’d never ask you to do more.

So he doesn’t let himself hesitate. Trembling, he sucks in a breath and wrenches his wing forward. His shoulders scream with the movement, tight knots of muscles set ablaze from overuse.

It’s agonizing.

But he doesn’t stop.

He blinks, trying to clear his vision, flinching when a tear rushes down his cheek. Lifting one shaking hand toward the underside of his wing, he shoves a primary into place. It stings, like it always does. But at least it’s in place. At least it’s not hard to look at him—

“Techno.”

Techno flinches as Phil jerks forward, hands outstretched. And just for a second, his heart cries out, I’m sorry. Please don’t hit me.

But in a heartbeat, that worry’s gone. There’s no world where Phil would hit him, not after looking at Techno like he is now. Kind, as always, yet so, so pained. The tears in his gray-blue eyes aren’t just a sheen now, they’re moments from spilling over, even after he blinks them back.

And still, his voice is steady as he slowly murmurs, like he’s praying Techno will understand.

“Do you want me to preen your wings?”

Silence.

And then Techno’s mind explodes.

It’s pure, unfiltered desperation, every one of Techno’s thoughts wordlessly screaming for something. He’s flattened. Utterly paralyzed, every conscious thought washed away under a sudden flood of instincts.

Yes, he wants to answer, though he doesn’t remember what the question was. But another part of him’s screaming, No. No, no, no, you can’t say that.

In the end, no words come out.

Just a broken, confused warble, slipping out as a shiver wracks his body.

“Oh, mate,” Phil breathes. He shifts, and Techno’s heart snags on the air trapped in his throat, even before Phil reaches out.

And oh-so-gently takes Techno’s hand in his own.

It’s… warm.

The storm of instincts dims to a dull fog, hovering at the edges of his mind. There’s just this. Phil’s hand, thumb rubbing gentle circles into the back of Techno’s trembling palm. It’s… protective. Comforting.

It makes him feel small.

“Techno?” Phil murmurs. His hand shifts, tightening slightly around Techno’s. Voice soft, he says, “Hey, kid. Squeeze if you can hear me.”

Techno’s head lolls, and he catches it, blinking blearily. Right. Okay. He forces his fingers to tighten, just a bit.

“Good,” Phil breathes, and Techno’s heart practically explodes with warmth as Phil gently squeezes back. Good. I did good. “Okay, I’ve got you. I’m here. Are you hurt?”

A confused noise escapes Techno’s lips, and he shakes his head dazedly. No? I— I feel good. This is nice. He tips forward, melting as Phil shifts closer, the glow of the nightlight dimming as his eyes slide shut. Phil’s hand keeps him tethered in the sudden darkness, steady and anchoring.

“Just overwhelmed?” Phil asks quietly.

Yes, that’s the right word. Techno squeezes Phil’s hand again, letting out a shaky breath. Yes. But you’re here, I— I’m okay. Thank you. He tries to force the words out, only managing another weak, confused warble.

“It’s alright, mate. Words are hard,” Phil murmurs. “Take all the time you need.”

Techno goes dead still, heartbeat faltering.

Take?

No.

No, I’m— I’m not supposed to do that.

It’s a shock to his system, snapping him back to lucidity.

To reality.

He jerks upright, swaying dangerously. His heart wails as Phil’s hand rips away from his own, only to gasp in relief as it flies to his shoulder, keeping him from toppling over.

Then, in a brush of warmth, Phil’s other hand rises to cradle his cheek.

And for the second time that night, Techno crumbles.

“I’m sorry, I— I’m sorry,” he chokes out, trembling as tears escape his eyes. But they don’t just trail down his cheeks, getting quietly lost.

No. Phil’s thumb brushes them away, his hand gently coasting over Techno’s cheek and nudging little strands of hair away from his face. “Shh, it’s okay. You’re all good, mate. It’s okay.”

It’s not, Techno wants to sob. Look at me— No. No, no, wait, don’t look at me. I’m sorry. He can feel the grief pouring off of Phil, wings and arms shifting forward like… like he wants to wrap them around Techno.

But Techno just pulls his own wings tight, Phil’s offer ringing in his head.

Do you want me to preen your wings?

No, he desperately wants to say. You don’t have to. I promise. I can do it myself, I always have. I’m so sorry that— that you felt like you had to offer.

But he can’t. Can’t force the words out, can’t meet Phil’s eyes, can’t take anything but shaking, shallow breaths. His instincts cry out as he turns on them, squeezing his eyes shut as he forces them back with clenched fists. Shut up. Stay quiet. We don’t get to have this.

And he wins. The press of his instincts recedes, finally beaten down. Sure, that ugly thing in his chest is still festering, whispering stupid things like, That sounds nice, and, Please hold me, and—

“I want you to.”

Techno’s whisper hardly makes a dent in the silence.

But it steals every bit of air from his lungs.

And his mind dissolves right back into the mess of instincts he’d tried so hard to fight.

I want you to. Please, please take care of me. I don’t know what I’m doing, I need help, I— I just don’t want it to hurt anymore.

I don’t want to take care of myself.

Maybe that’s why Techno’s face burns, tears pricking at his eyes as he bites down on his lip and stifles a sob. That particular confession, it’s— it’s nothing but selfish. I don’t want to take care of myself. He can’t imagine what Phil’d say if Techno dared speak it.

“Of course. Thank you for telling me,” Phil says softly. And no. Techno can imagine what he’d say. Are you serious? You should be able to do this yourself.

You’re too old for this.

Phil’s hand pulls away from his cheek. Techno’s head lolls forward in a desperate, shameful attempt to follow it, a frantic noise crawling up his throat.

But Phil just shifts behind him, one hand anchored on Techno’s shoulder. “It’s alright, mate. I’m not leaving. I’m here.”

“What?” Techno whispers, voice cracking, trying to turn around. He nearly tips over, but Phil’s hand gently nudges him back upright.

“Careful, mate,” he laughs quietly. “Let me know if I need to hold you, alright? I’ll—”

“No.” Techno sucks in a breath, curling his wings tight in a sudden rush of anxiety. “I— I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that, I— I can preen myself. It’s okay.”

I don’t care if it hurts.

It’s better than annoying you.

“Oh, Techno,” Phil breathes. And god, it sounds like he’s going to cry again. Why? “I know you can, but… if you’re comfortable with me helping, I’d love to. You deserve some rest.”

I do? Techno thinks weakly. I… what’d I do to deserve it?

He blinks, swallowing. This doesn’t make sense. None of it. Phil’s gentleness, his kindness, his patience as Techno trembles and sobs and wastes his time.

Or how his expression gets more grief-torn the longer Techno hesitates.

Like… it would hurt him more if Techno refused.

“I— Maybe… just this once?” he whispers, choking on every word. “You don’t have to do it again, I can— I’ll be okay.”

He can’t quite see Phil’s face, but he can hear the man’s tiny exhale, like a smothered sigh. He tenses, but Phil only says, “Of course. Whenever you want, mate.”

There’s a rustle of feathers, and Techno tenses. Phil goes still, hand frozen halfway towards Techno’s wings, so unbearably close. Phil’s brow furrows. Like he’s hesitant, unsure, like he’s going to pull away.

Maybe Techno hadn’t cut Tommy enough slack.

Because, with a shuddering jerk, he does the exact thing his tiny, immature brother had done.

And shoves his wing into Phil’s hand.

There’s only one moment of silence to panic. For good reason, maybe. It’s not just Techno’s wing that’s horribly, utterly exposed. It’s all of him. Phil might not hurt him, but if he pushes Techno away— no. No, I can’t survive that, please don’t make me—

There’s a slight rustle of fabric. Phil, shifting forward.

And then, ever-so-gently, he brushes one of Techno’s feathers into place.

Silence.

If there’s a good version of passing out, this is it.

Techno’s vision blacks out, breath snagging in his chest. It’s loud. It’s quiet. There’s voices crying out in his head — instincts, his own thoughts, finally united in a mess of warm, golden… relief? Joy? Bliss?

Whatever it is, it’s perfect.

Oh.

I’m okay? I’m being taken care of, I— I wanted this.

I… I get to have it.

I’m safe.

An arm slides around his chest, catching him. Techno lets out a confused warble, head lolling as he’s slowly lowered into the nest, a pillow tucked against his cheek. Someone laughs quietly. Phil. “Careful, mate. Here. Laying down should be easier.”

The arm disappears. Techno’s heart spasms, head jerking up, but Phil’s hand reappears, brushing through his hair.

“I’m right here. It’s okay.”

Techno melts. His eyes drift shut as he slumps into the blankets, going utterly limp as a hand ghosts over his feathers.

It’s just… nice. To lay still in painless silence, while someone else puts him back together. To go limp without fear, soaking in the nest’s warmth. To relax, for once—

Someone stirs. Not Phil. Techno blinks blearily, eyes struggling to take in the two shapes next to him.

Oh.

Oh no.

Tommy’s twitching in his sleep, tiny face screwed up. That’s all it takes to snap Techno back to cold, hard reality. His instincts shift from that golden haze to something sharper, bubbling up alongside a curl of worry. Take care of them. You need to.

He lets out a fearful noise, trying to push himself up. Wilbur’s flinching too, breathing fast and shallow as he curls tighter around Tommy. A nightmare. Techno props himself up, desperately dragging himself closer, reaching out to comfort them—

“I’ve got it.”

Phil’s murmur is barely audible. Techno goes still as the man inches closer, a hand brushing over Tommy’s head, then Wilbur’s. Comforting. Not hitting, not shutting them up.

And it works. Tommy lets out an awed breath, nuzzling into Phil’s palm like the nightmare had dissolved at his mere touch. The man smiles, cooing something so soft Techno can’t even hear it. Wilbur lets out his own sleepy noise, newly-preened wings rustling as Phil tugs the blanket tighter around him.

“There you go.”

Techno stays still as Phil pulls back, chin trembling.

That’s… that’s it. Techno’s done. One glance at his wings makes his heart stumble over itself, twisting so hard it steals his breath.

They’re perfect. Every feather’s in place, gleaming in the nightlight’s dim glow. Primaries, secondaries, coverts, every broken bit put back together. They don’t ache. They don’t even itch, though every nerve’s still humming from Phil’s touch.

He hadn’t savored it as much as he should’ve. Hadn’t soaked it in, hadn’t appreciated every gentle touch, and now he’s surely never going to get it again—

Phil turns to him. Techno twitches forward, battling the urge to throw himself right back into the man’s arms.

No. You’ve had enough. Don’t ask for more. That instinctual voice just keeps screaming in his mind, battering around his skull like a caged bird. Keep your mouth shut. He’s not going to offer again if you beg.

But every other part of him is aching to beg. Fuck acting indifferent, neutral, and unafraid, Techno’s never felt less apathetic. He’s tipping forward, skin crackling, heart burning, ready to run miles if it means Phil will just hold him again.

But Phil shifts away, his voice barely audible through the frantic ringing that erupts in Techno’s ears. “One moment, mate. I’m going to go grab—”

Go?

No. No, no, don’t leave.

That’s the last straw.

Before Techno can swallow it, a desperate, pleading warble bursts out of his chest.

Along with two sickly, twisted words, both cracked with the fresh sobs tearing through his throat.

“Please stay.”

He’s lost count of the times he’s broken.

But this is the ugliest.

His heart splits right down the middle, and a life’s worth of grief pours out. Fourteen years of biting back tears, of swallowing hunger, of losing day after day of sleep just to give his brothers a fragile semblance of safety.

And the agony of it never being enough. They were still starved, bruised, and afraid, wrenched awake by nightmares or the slightest noises. They were still kids, deserving of comfort and care.

But at least they’re resting now, even as Techno splits apart.

At least Techno is the only one ruining Phil’s opinion of him beyond repair.

And he just keeps making it worse.

There’s no logical thought behind his movements. And that’s why he lurches forward, half-crawling and half-collapsing in a desperate attempt to get closer to Phil. He hardly cares that his too-small talons are tearing into the blankets, or that he’s sobbing more than breathing.

But it’s impossible not to notice when he really, truly collapses.

Right into Phil’s arms.

Silence.

It’s different, being held like this. Really held, not just being briefly touched or lowered to the ground. Even if it’s surely temporary. Techno clings tighter at the fabric, chest heaving as he buries his face in Phil’s coffee-scented shirt, the pajama’s felt soft against his tear-soaked cheeks.

He’ll savor it this time, though he’ll never truly be ready to be forced away.

But Phil—

Holds him.

He… holds him.

It’s a simple thing, really. A feather-soft, “Oh, mate,” then warmth as Phil returns the embrace, arms gently tugging Techno closer.

But it feels like the fucking world.

Even before Phil murmurs, “I’m not leaving. I’m staying right here.”

Techno sobs, flinching as the man’s hand brushes over his hair. Precious seconds are passing, and he can’t focus, too dazed and desperate to truly memorize what’ll surely be a one-time moment.

But it doesn’t end. Phil doesn’t shove him away, or even gently pry him off.

The opposite. He’s leaning back, allowing Techno to cling even tighter. One hand cradles his shoulder, thumb running little lines back and forth over Techno’s sleeve. The other’s lifting, like it’s going to rest against his back—

—and collides with Techno’s aching wing.

Techno sucks in a pained breath, jerking it away. It’s not pain — he’s not sure if he could even feel physical pain now, with how utterly melted his mind’s become. But his wings are still burning, muscles rigid from ages of misuse.

And Phil must know that.

“They’re sore,” Phil murmurs, like something’s been confirmed in his mind. Then, even softer, “Oh, Techno. I’m sorry.”

Techno shivers, blinking away tears. “Doesn’— doesn’ hurt tha’ much,” he whispers, surprised the words even make it out. Maybe the pain shocked something out of him. Or maybe he’s just desperate to please, after being given so, so much. “I’m okay. ‘m okay.”

But it must not work.

Because Phil shifts, nudging Techno to the side.

Like he’s going to leave.

The noise that rips up Techno’s throat is nothing short of pathetic. He’s grabbing onto Phil before his conscious mind catches up, and even then, his thoughts are barely coherent. Please. No. You— you can leave if you want, but please, please understand how much it’d hurt me.

Please don’t do that to me.

“I’m not leaving,” Phil murmurs, like it’s true and not the most impossible thing Techno’s ever heard. “I’ll come right back. I’m just going to grab some hot packs for your wings, alright?”

Techno shakes his head, clinging tighter, once again wordless. No. It’d hurt more if you left. Even— even if you’re coming right back.

Phils sighs, too softly for Techno’s heart to truly stutter. There’s a beat of silence, then he hums a low note. Like he’s decided something.

“Here. This’ll work,” he says, shifting and weaving his arms under Techno’s trembling shoulders. Techno cries out as he gently pries them away, heart hitching like it’s preparing to shatter.

But Phil just… nudges his arms up, tucking them around his neck and guiding Techno’s cheek to rest against his shoulder.

And then he stands, picking Techno up.

Like he weighs nothing.

Like it’s not hard, or annoying, or anything but achingly gentle.

Like…

Like he’s a little kid.

It’s strange, in the warmest way possible. Through Techno’s still clinging, he doesn’t really need to. Phil’s grip is steady, even when he loosens it to nudge the door open, descending the staircase and shifting to ensure Techno’s wings don’t clip the walls.

It’s… nice.

“You’re too light, mate,” Phil murmurs, voice heavy with… grief? Techno blinks blearily, mind still weak from the flood of instincts and desperation.

It sounds like you want me to be heavier. Wouldn’t that be annoying?

Would you still carry me, then?

Phil stops, pulling something from the kitchen cupboard. Techno squeezes his eyes shut as the microwave’s light flicks on, a low hum starting after Phil slips the hot pack in.

It’s quiet. Techno melts further into Phil’s embrace as the seconds drift by, light gently soaking through his eyelids.

Maybe he’ll regret this later, when the low-burning fear in his gut isn’t smothered by this blissful relief. Maybe this warmth will turn scalding, once Phil realizes how annoying it is to give.

But for now, Techno’s basking in it, though it’s a quiet fight to stay awake. It’d be so easy to drift off like this, flying off in the anchor of Phil’s embrace—

“I’m sorry.”

Techno lets out a sleepy noise, eyes drifting open. Phil holds him closer, letting out a weighted sigh.

“I… I didn’t know how much you’d been taking care of yourself,” he says, oh-so-quietly. “I knew you didn’t want to ask me for help. Even for what you needed.”

No, Techno thinks dimly. I wanted to. But I couldn’t… I couldn’t make myself do it.

I didn’t want to disappoint you.

His heart twists. And then melts, as Phil murmurs, “And I need you to know that I’m so, so proud of you, for taking care of your brothers.”

And for the first time, Techno almost wishes Phil wasn’t cradling him. He’s aching to see the man’s expression. It must be… soft? Right? Or— or maybe there’s a lie there, hidden in the furrow of his brow or his soft blue eyes.

But there’s no hint of a lie in his voice. Even when he adds, “But I want you to feel safe, too, though. You’re… you’re still a kid, Techno. And I’m sorry you felt like you couldn’t be.”

The microwave beeps, its electric hum dying out. Techno’s eyes stay open as Phil tugs the hot pack out, his words ringing in the sudden silence.

For a moment, Phil doesn’t move. Then, with a quiet sigh, his hand settles on the back of Techno’s head.

“But you can rest now. I promise, Techno.”

Rest. The word is foreign, the idea even more so. Am I supposed to just… live? I— I don’t understand.

I don’t know what that means.

They’re moving again. Phil slips up the stairs, nudging the bedroom door open with his hip. Techno can’t help but cling tighter as the man lowers himself into the nest right next to Tommy and Wilbur, still fast asleep. Please don’t put me down. I want to stay awake.

“Here,” Phil murmurs. Something warm drapes over the base of Techno’s wings, and he melts despite himself. The hot pack. It soothes the worst of the soreness, even if Techno could barely feel it through this golden haze. It’s painless, perfect, and Phil’s still here, he’s— he’s—

He’s pushing Techno away.

“No,” Techno almost sobs, though it’s more of a breathy rasp than anything else. “Wait, please—”

He crumples into the blankets as Phil shifts, claws clutching uselessly at the man’s shirt.

But Phil scoots closer. He reaches out, nudging Techno to the side with a quiet, “I’m not leaving. I’m right here.”

It doesn’t matter that he’s said it so many times now. Techno still slumps in relief, nearly crying. Thank you. Thank you.

There’s a quiet rustle. Techno blinks as Phil tugs a blanket over him, careful not to disturb the hot pack still draped over his wings. Techno can’t help it — he smiles, even though it must look shaky and stupid. He could… he could rest like this. Right? Maybe when Phil leaves, he’ll be asleep, and it won’t hurt as much—

Someone shifts behind him. Techno fumbles, managing to twist his head to the side.

It’s Tommy again. He’s fast asleep still. No nightmares, no insomnia. But there’s still something missing.

Something Techno needs to do. Something— he’s always done.

Oh.

Letting out a worried noise, he tries to sit up, the hot packs sliding away. He needs— he needs to put a wing over them, to comfort them, to help them sleep. That caretaker’s croon rises in his chest, but it’s weak, it’s always weak, he can’t—

A hand catches his shoulder. Techno’s arms give out, and he slumps back to the nest with a weak, questioning noise.

But every bit of fear evaporates as Phil’s wing drapes over him.

Over all of them. Tommy, Wilbur, him, all curled up beneath the shelter of the man’s soft, protective feathers.

And then Phil croons.

It’s what a caretaker’s croon is supposed to sound like. Deep, warm, smooth, the sound settling deep into Techno’s chest. It’s comforting.

And it just keeps going, wrapping around Techno’s heart like the blankets and feathers he’s been gently buried in. It doesn’t stutter, or waver, or break like Techno’s would.

Like Phil is truly a caretaker.

Like Techno never was.

And… maybe that’s okay.

“You can rest. You’re safe,” Phil murmurs, the croon pausing for a moment as he speaks. The words float around Techno’s head, softly lost in the melted puddle his mind’s become. Rest. Safe.

Don’t worry.

As Techno drifts off, Phil’s croon dies out. But the comfort doesn’t disappear. Instead, Phil… hums. A familiar song, the one Techno’d tried to comfort his brothers with.

But it’s not a panicked melody now. In Phil’s voice, it’s slow. Warm. A lullaby.

Like the one a father would sing.

Though Techno’s ready to fight to stay awake, to soak up this affection before it disappears, a tiny part of him knows it’s not going to. And it certainly helps that Phil says it aloud.

“I’ll always be here, Techno. For them, and for you.”

A beat of silence.

Then, the words Techno had desperately wanted to hear — and in the shelter of Phil’s wings, arms, and voice, he can believe them.

“I love you.”

So for once, Techno lets himself sleep.