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“Are you w-”
“I swear to Christ, if you ask me one more time if I am warm enough I will punt you myself,” Phil says crossly, scrubbing at his nose. Technoblade gives him A Look.
“I’m just askin’, ” he defends, his voice going high as it does when he defends himself. “Can a man not ask ?”
“I recall giving you an answer three times already, mate,” Phil tells him as he settles back against the headboard a bit more, giving Techno a Look of his own over his shoulder. “Chill, for like…five seconds, maybe.”
Techno rolls his eyes and huffs as if exasperated, but the book he’s holding shakes as his foot taps against the boards of the cabin. Phil politely pretends not to see it and turns back to his whittling, which is slowly but surely depositing a pile of tiny spirals of wood shavings onto his lap.
Retirement has been, for lack of a more accurate descriptor, different . Phil’s putting the finishing touches on the bee farm, which is working surprisingly well for being located in the middle of Tundra, Bumfuck Nowhere. The dogs are happy. Technoblade’s arctic foxes are doing well, with one litter already here and another on the way. Chat’s been calm as they practically ever get, according to Techno. It’s…peaceful, as much as he hates to jinx it. A reprieve, at least, from the chaos that seems to follow them practically everywhere else.
Phil’s not sure it’s not an entirely welcome one, to be honest. A battlefield would be messy and cold and chaotic but Techno would, at least, be too occupied with the thrill of blood and the tedious planning of war strategy to be pulling his hair out over every single cough and sniffle Phil makes. Here, in the quiet expanse of the tundra, though-
He sniffs again frustratedly- clearly, he took breathing through his nose properly for granted while he still had it- and suppresses a groan when nothing comes of it.
“Do you want some tea?” Techno asks suddenly, slapping his book aside. “I’ll go get you some, actually, I think-” he says, rushing over to the ladder in one fluid, practiced motion.
“Tech- noooo… and there he goes.” Phil sighs, coughs from the sighing, and then sighs again. He can hear the creak of the ladder downstairs as Techno…goes off to commandeer the entire kitchen’s worth of tea, probably. He pulls one of the blankets closer towards him and tries to continue his carving. The wood is slowly forming into the shape of a little crow, to match the fleet of them he already has scattered around the house.
It’s impossible to make one for all of the murder- even with his lifespan, there are simply too many, and it would be a hell of a boring life, besides- but he likes to commemorate a few in particular. There’s one dedicated to the one he’d found with a broken wing, who still likes to ride atop the brim of Phil’s hat more than he flies, one for the crow who stayed up with him 36 hours straight to finish a build, for the ones who first led him to their roosting-place and let him peer inside to see the eggs. This one, he thinks, will be for the new fledglings this year- eight or nine of the little shits hatched, now that, in the rest of the server, winter is giving way to spring. They’re learning how to divebomb him quickly as shit, that’s for sure.
Phil’s breath catches in his throat as he’s making an indent for the wings in an all-too-familiar feeling, and he has enough time to set down the knife and figure gently before he begins to cough again, one arm thrown over his mouth. Faintly, he hears Techno’s feet moving back towards the ladder, but it’s hard to hear or concentrate as the fit ramps up intensity, demanding all of Phil’s attention as he tries to suck air in only to jaggedly hack it out.
A hand lands on his back as the coughing begins to die down, rubbing soothing circles between his wings as Phil catches his breath. He sighs, testing his limits carefully.
“You good there?” Techno asks, setting something- oh, the knife, right- down on the side table with a clink. His tone is languid, apathetic, but it’s laced with an undercurrent of concern that Phil’s learned very well by now.
“Eugh,” he says eloquently. Techno lets out a soothing rumble, still rubbing his back, and hands him a mug. His hand hovers over it after he passes it over, as if he thinks he might have to tilt it up to Phil’s mouth, but Phil snatches it away.
“‘M not a fuckin’ invalid, ‘m not even sick,” he mutters caustically. Technoblade lets out a hum that shows exactly how much he believes Phil and begins to carefully gather the wood shavings off of the bed.
The tea is warm in his hands- a little too much so, really, because Techno is perpetually disrespectful of what the Overworld considers “far too high a temperature for ingested food or drink”- and he lazily looks into the depths of the mug. Probably no caffeine in there. Dammit.
But it is steaming, and so Phil dips his face over it, breathing deeply in and trying to ease at least a little bit of the congestion in his…everywhere.
“I don’t think that’s how yer supposed to drink tea, Philza,” Techno snorts from the other side of the room, where he’s dusting his hands off.
“Shut.”
“Then again, you have this whole thing about preparin’ and dryin’ and addin’ completely different stuff to perfectly good food-” Technoblade goes on, completely ignoring him.
“It’s called coo-” Phil wrinkles his nose- for fuck’s sake- and sneezes into his sleeve. “It’s called cooking, not all of us eat everything raw without seasoning,” he finishes, significantly hoarser, and takes a sip of the tea.
“It’s so much more efficient, though,” Techno says, but his tone is softer, as if somehow Phil’s abruptly taken a turn straight to his deathbed. He stares at Phil from the corner of the room, hands twitching at his sides.
Phil ignores him. Living with Technoblade means getting used to an uncomfortable amount of staring and quite a lot more random talking or exclamations in the middle of conversations.
“Chat says bless you,” Techno offers after a moment.
“Mmmm,” Philza hums back. This is excellent tea. “Thank you. And also quiet down. Techno’s all-” he gestures vaguely- “twitchy.”
“You heard the man,” Technoblade says. “No- no, come on, he’s sick, you’re gonna be mocking him when he’s sick? Really Chat?” He winces. “I don’t care if you fight, whatever, just do it quietly , give me a rest-”
“Not sick, motherfucker,” Philza says, almost as an afterthought. Techno purses his lips and goes quiet again, his eyes darting around as if he’s listening to something else. Phil sips again and then sets the cup off to the side. It’s barely even evening yet, the sun still cresting the horizon and sending shining refractions of brilliant yellow and orange against the frozen-blue of the snow, but Christ, he’s tired already. Everything aches, and Phil can’t breathe comfortably through either his nose or mouth, and he thinks that’s enough to constitute an early bedtime.
He gives up on the whittling for now- at least until tomorrow, when, with any luck, Technoblade will stop insisting he stays in bed- or at least not threaten to tie him to it when he’s up and about. For now, this is…enough. Techno is here, and they are safe, unharmed and uninjured in this quiet corner of their universe.
It’s not until Phil feels the bed dip beside him that he realizes he’s been staring out the window, watching the sun speak its farewelling rays against the horizon for minutes on end. One of Techno’s hands smooths the side of his wing down gently, a greeting.
“Hiya mate,” he mumbles. Everything feels heavy, but he manages to turn and press his face inelegantly into Techno’s shirt. He feels the answering rumble more than he hears it, really, vibrating in and down to his bones.
“Yer gettin’ old, Phil.” Hands pet down his hair gently, scraping against his scalp, and Phil feels whatever last amount of muscle resistance he had dissolve in the face of Techno’s ministrations. He slumps. Techno can take his weight, he’s seen the man bench-press five times it as a morning routine.
“Yeeeep,” Technoblade drawls. “Called it. Old man can’t stay up past eight, cringe, criiiinge.” He shifts Phil’s head closer to his shoulder. “Get good,” he intones.
“Mmmfrg.” Techno throws his head back and laughs, loud and heavy, and Phil feels a moment of satisfaction, although he hasn’t really done anything in particular.
“Alright, yep, it’s bedtime,” Techno says, once he’s calmed and Phil is practically asleep against his shoulder. “C’mon, grandpa, down you go,” he says, carefully peeling Phil off and gently propping him against the pillows.
“G’n’ght,” he mumbles, and feels the gentle press of a forehead on his- comfort, safety. His best friend by his side, to the gates of hell and to the ends of the earth.
“Sleep well, Philza.”