Ours poetica

This is an ancient practice: predicting the future/in another's prone body

CWs: Mentioned/referenced death of parent, implied sexual activities (very very vague and not anything weird tho dw, it's about discovering your sexuality), coming out, internalized ace-phobia, going non-verbal, implied/referenced suicide attempt, implied/referenced drinking, hyperbolic threats, implied/referenced child neglect, and lots LOTS of cursing.

Something had gone wrong.

Techno prided himself on being observant, able to unwind the motivations behind even the most mundane of actions, but it didn't take a genius to see that Wilbur's plan had gone bad. Before their mysterious 'outing' (a late night drive to the coffee shop, nothing more, nothing else, Tommy had apparently told Wilbur, to which Wilbur immediately told his twin that Tommy is definitely hiding something important. Techno thought this obvious), Wilbur had prattled on for hours about his hopes to begin "Project Reconnect With Tommy" in full. In theory it was simple: Wilbur would drive Tommy to his secret get-together with a few friends, learn more about whatever Tommy was keeping from the family, and rekindle the old bond between the two brothers via friendly banter and a late-night drive. Easy as cake.

In practice, it was a shit-show waiting to happen.

Techno wasn't being melodramatic when he described Tommy as a 'tempest': the kid was moody at best, a hurricane waiting to devour at worst. He was quiet and snappish, proverbial-hackles raised and eyes darting to and fro as if waiting for someone to attack—for all intents and purposes, his brother was a wild thing waiting to bite.

Wild Thing, he couldn't help but muse now, willfully ignoring a bedroom door that remained shut tight more than it opened, that always had been Tommy's favorite. The boy would beg Wilbur to read it to him before bedtime, and though his twin bemoaned in private how much he hated the picture book (I've got it completely memorized Tech! Memorized!), Techno knew that Wilbur loved the way their younger brother's eyes gleamed as he stared at the looming figures of fur and sharp teeth, how the blonde toddler would clap and babble, pointing at the boy with a gold crown and fur pajamas and flash that toothless grin. Wild Thing: grubby fingers leaving prints all on Mom's fine silverware, the shriek of laughter when the bath bubbles flew and Dad sighed, bright smiles and baby-chatter overshadowing Wilbur's attempts at learning a new song, small hands tugging at Techno's braid—Wild Thing indeed.

(And when you caged up a Wild Thing, you better be prepared to hear it roar.)

So yes, Techno knew something had gone wrong when Wilbur stormed through their living room with a scowl on his face, glasses askew on his pointed nose as Tommy followed, blank and docile. Wilbur had spat something about needing a cigarette, Techno had made a sly comment about lung cancer, and Tommy had remained uncharacteristically quiet. Of course Techno had noticed his younger brother's silence (he was a researcher after all, it was his job to see the details that hid themselves in plain sight), but he didn't think too much of it. Obviously, Wilbur's plan had gone astray, and Techno would be left to deal with the fall out. This in itself wasn't too worrying—Techno had made a habit of cleaning up after his twin's messes, piecing back together the fragile walls of this glass house he was intent on destroying—and Techno had prepared himself for bed without so much as an exasperated sigh and weary trip up the stairs. He had put on his pjs, brushed his teeth, set aside his glasses, and knocked on his twin's door.

It took only a blink for Wilbur to throw open the door and drag Techno inside.

(They were magnets, it might be easiest to explain, magnets that were polar opposites and so forever drawn together. They were Wilbur Soot and Technoblade, the former born twenty-two minutes before the latter. Two boys with funny names who became men too quickly; two men who didn't grow out of the childhood grief they had been raised in)