Work Text:
Technoblade occupies the Head Archivist office with the devotion of the enlisted.
He is a stooping figure, the slope of his shoulders visible behind the thick white monitor, sifting through papers with calloused fingers. He began a career in the States, at the Institute’s sister branch when the previous Head Archivist went missing. Technoblade strode into the building and settled into the hallowed halls of the Institute, as if he had always been a part of it. London’s weather does not agree with him; Tubbo remembers the heavy fur coat that drapes over his swivel chair, embroidered vest over cream button-up. Thin, rectangular glasses that rest low on the crooked bridge of his nose, the face of an academic.
He puts a monumental amount of effort into his statement readings. He would stay until the wee hours of the morning, the one electric table light illuminating his desk as the rest of the Archive powered down. His voice would go up and up, and it would go down and smooth. He wields talent for theatre and narration, his consonants curled soft around his accent.
That’s why he’d gotten the job, Tubbo supposes.
He had always liked to watch Technoblade work.
Their first conversation went–
“I– I’m here to give you your lunch, sir Technoblade, sir–” and then, because he had been so horrified by his own mouth, “Jesus Christ,”
“Ah…” Technoblade had looked at him in the way one did when they had been so engrossed with their own work that they had heard absolutely nothing, slender fingers hitching his lopsided thin-rimmed glasses, “... thank you, thank you,”
Utterly embarrassing.
Now, watching Technoblade work is anticipation.
It is triangulating locations on his laptop, it is ordering Michael’s raisin boxes in bulk, it is knowing every dip of Technoblade’s voice is commandeered.
Being on the run is not as difficult as the movies make it seem. By virtue of its old-fashioned procedures, digital security is not one of the Institute’s strong points. Their access remains because Tubbo is a damn good engineer. He had been good before the Institute, thanks very much– hadn’t needed any help, nothing in there made him good, nothing in that place–
It was that place–
He had a husband. Tubbo had been the one to get him the job, to be Archival Assistants together. He had a family– they would go out to the park together, watch Michael play with the dirt. You’d think, being as good as he was, he’d be the one to figure out when his own husband became Marked.
In the end of it– Tubbo had done nothing when the Spiral devoured Ranboo. Could do nothing.
In the end of it– there was only Michael.
And Technoblade.
He let Tubbo stay when he had nowhere else to go.
Tubbo had been the one to kiss him.
In celebration, he got beer to greet Technoblade once Michael had been put to sleep. He’d finally quit the fucking Institute, and now they could work.
An Archivist is nothing to a Hunter, and Technoblade is a hunter.
The funny thing was– both Ranboo and Tubbo had chosen Technoblade as their exception. Whispered in the dark, giggling, half-joking and newly-married. They’d been at some hotel, it had been Valentines. There are some things that mean nothing when said in the dark, and back then, it’d felt as if he could say anything at all and Ranboo would meet him halfway. His fingers tracing the skin of Ranboo’s collarbone;
“So you’re saying you would cheat on me if Technoblade asked you to,”
“Oh 100%. 100%.”
“Well, you know what, husband , you know what, husband mine, I also choose Technoblade, and I’ve known him for longer so its– so mine is more valid,”
“Now that’s just ridiculous.”
Well, look who’s being ridiculous now?
Techno had been talking about something or the other, and Tubbo, cheek to his knee, watched the way his mouth moved when he enunciated his consonants. He really was very handsome. There was a streak of gray in his hair, his voice had that distinct drawl when he spoke, low from his throat. Ranboo had really looked up to Technoblade too; every time Techno came into earshot, he would straighten, he would have, he would have…
Technoblade tasted like orange juice, because he didn’t like to drink. It was Tubbo who had been drinking. Tubbo pulled back, and he didn’t feel very happy at all. There was a kind of stone in his chest that hurt.
Techno stared at him.
“I’m sorry,” he said, instinctively, “‘m sorry–”
His eyes stung.
“I’m sorry,” he put his hands up, like it could hide everything else, and almost fell over when he shifted off Techno’s lap. Don’t cry, he thought to himself, do not cry, “I’m sorry,”
“Oh, kid…” a hand flattened his hair down, it smoothed to the back of his head, cupped him there. It held him like his mother used to do. Technoblade’s voice was a great gust of breath, low and soft, “It was my fault, for talkin’ about… about Ranboo. It’s fine, we’re okay.”
“It’s not because of that,” he said, “Isn’t.”
Ranboo would have wanted it, he wanted to argue, and it was their fault that Tubbo was here, so– it was fine! That wouldn’t have come out right, Tubbo was afraid his voice would break saying it, so he didn’t.
“Go back to bed,” Techno said, and he didn’t sound angry, “We can talk about it in the morning.”
They did not talk about it in the morning.
They just got in the car and drove.
Tubbo’s body was all scar tissue. On dry days, the skin would start to peel. He would call himself the Onion man, flaking to pieces wherever he went. It made Technoblade laugh, that soft little bark, where you could hear his mouth spread in a grin even when Tubbo wasn’t looking.
Technoblade would put lotion on him.
His hands were firm and clinical on Tubbo’s back, the way a doctor would do it. His hands applied pressure where there was a bump, and knead at it, but not enough to hurt. There were intermittent lulls in between where Techno would pause to apply more, and spread it down, providing the occasional hum to Tubbo’s endless stream of commentary. What was he supposed to do? It was all Tubbo could do not to get hard.
“All done,” Techno would say, and pat him on the side to get him off his weather app.
“Right,” he’d say, “Just give me a– give me a second,”
And then wait twenty-thirty minutes for his body to stop buzzing.
“Spaghetti or pizza,” Techno said absently.
Tubbo turned to Michael, his hand held up as if he was holding a mic, “What does my client want tonight?”
Michael threw his juicebox in favour of touching his fist.
“Oh, now he’s just bein’ unreasonable,” Techno said, “He’s just bein’ unruly. What’s with this guy,”
“He’s sick to his stomach of your options, Technoblade,”
Techno laughed; great and offended, his attention returning to the faded menu items he had snagged off the motel reception desk. “Well I don’t wanna brag, but I can make a mean subway sandwich.”
“That’s bullshit,” he shouted, all blustering outrage, “You can’t feed him a subway sandwich, you trying to poison me and my baby?”
“Just you,” Techno said drily. His eyes wandered to Michael, softened, “I… I suppose I can make an exception for the baby,”
He was so good with Michael.
“You reckon you’d want to kiss me tonight?”
Techno went still. He had been looking over his glasses at the phone numbers, but he lifted his head, and looked at him; his face reflexively twitched, as if he wanted to laugh but wasn’t sure about it. His hands were bandaged from the last Hunt, and his hair had grown to the small of his back, “Why would I do that.” he said, with his trousers low and belt unbuckled. It hung off his hips, like he had no idea what it was doing. Time on the road had darkened him, made him broader, scruffier.
His hips cocked against the table.
“Because I’m cute,” Tubbo said, leaning his head on his arms in the very picture of a Christmas cherub.
Techno’s brow arched.
“Because if you don’t I'll… I’ll kill myself about it.”
“Oh no,” Techno said, deadpan.
Tubbo lifted his head up, expectant.
Techno hesitated.
He came around the table, and then there was a dry, chaste pressure on his forehead. Barely a kiss. Techno drew back, but only just, close enough that Tubbo could count the little sun spots on his face. Techno searched his face, the mangled strips of it.
Then, he leaned down again and kissed Tubbo properly.
Techno was really good at giving head.
You ever had an older man get down on his knees in front of you? He pulled his hair back, a band tucked between his teeth, and tied it up in a bun. Wisps of it escaped, but it was enough to keep it out of his face. That was important to Techno, to be efficient. He used to make sure his hair was always braided right in the Institute. Silver streaks framed his face, the refined, sombre lines, and Tubbo was in his duck shorts because he didn’t think he’d get this far and did not plan for anyone to see him in them.
Technoblade took his time.
He licked the side of Tubbo’s cock, followed the ridges of it. His other hand held onto it to keep it up, lapping at the underside, humming low in his throat. Tubbo’s breathing stuttered in his chest, not knowing where to put his hands, wanting to pull Techno closer, but Techno looked focused.
He looked like he did when he was contemplating a new recording. Dark eyes and intent, leaning down to take the head of his cock into his mouth, warm and wet, just a light suck of the spongy head. Tongue pressing into the slit–
Tubbo jerked, breathy, “Can you even stay on your knees that long, old man?”
Techno’s eyes flickered up.
He scraped his teeth lightly against the tip of Tubbo’s cock, just a little bit. The sharpness made his hips jerk, pushing deeper. Techno’s eyes went dark. “Ey, ey!” he panted, reaching out to thread his fingers in Techno’s hair, “No teeth! That’s really rude,” shook him a little, his heart pounding out of his throat.
Techno hummed in pleasure, like he was gurgling Tubbo’s cock in his mouth. His tongue flattened where he had pinched, soothing. His teeth, sharp and unyielding, scraped a little higher, and Tubbo squealed, fucking his throat deeper in one, jerky thrust. It hit the back of Techno’s throat again, before withdrawing, his hands jittery, clenching down on Techno’s hair.
Tubbo grabbed him by his head with both hands and slammed up into his throat.
“Gods– your mouth,” he muttered, and felt like he was speaking nonsense; Techno’s eyes slid nearly close, his jaw going open and soft and yielding, “Your mouth, you’re so good, you’re– you’re so fucking hot,”
Hair slipped out of Techno’s bun, gathered in between Tubbo’s fingers, “Ungh– you’re so hot,” he babbles, “You’re so…ngh– ungh–”
Techno’s other hand, palming himself, in time to Tubbo’s thrusts. He liked it so much, Tubbo wondered if he could come like this, sucking his cock. He wrenched his head up to press him firmly against his pelvis, until Techno’s nose pressed up to his skin. His throat constricted around him, tight and wet, like a pussy.
Tubbo moaned, curling into Technoblade, jerking.
He came into his mouth, fucking through it, unable to stop, “Fuck–!” he swore, grinding up against the roof of Techno’s mouth like he was possessed, “Fuck–!”
Techno just let him.
And he swallowed every drop.
“Why did you join the Magnus Institute?" Tubbo asks.
Techno’s fingers, from where they were tracing his next words on the page, paused. His fingers would ache in the chill, an old injury from youth. It was fast approaching winter, so he had started wearing knitted gloves; Tubbo knew he used to make them himself. There wasn’t any time left to do things like that, so these were cheap, store bought.
“Talkin’ about the Magnus Institute draws its attention,” Techno says; he had used its name deliberately too.
“Sorry, I mean, uh, ‘the Institute’,”
Techno looks at him, unimpressed. Tubbo had just put Michael to bed, which usually meant they could do… adult stuff. But the cold is difficult today, Techno’s hands couldn’t stop shaking.
“Phil,” he says at last.
“ Philza Watson? Head of the Magnus Institute?”
“Sayin’ his name draws his attention,” Techno drones, “And they’re full names? Oh, you must be achin’ to get the rest of yourself blown to bits,”
“Didn’t he literally use your body as a walking–”
“He wasn’t always like this,” Techno says. Firm. In a tone that meant finality. “I’m going to fix him.”
That was the end of it.
Techno’s hand is a furnace. He curls around Tubbo’s cock, sliding it slow and sure. The callouses on his palms scrape against his sensitive, twitching flesh. “Do not move,” he says, soft. His voice was the way it got when he became intensely focused on one thing, and speaking was a formality. Like he didn’t really want to speak, but he required Tubbo’s effort to continue and so speak he did.
Tubbo whines.
Techno is balanced, his knees bracketing Tubbo’s thighs. He was careful when he guided Tubbo into him, slicked and prepared. He’d done that because he knew Tubbo liked it. Like this, Tubbo feels consumed. Techno’s hair falls over his shoulders, sliding waterfall, his hands come up to cup Tubbo’s face. His nail scrapes at the stubble Tubbo had decided to let grow out.
His eyes are fucking everything.
Techno tightens around him, “Talk,” he says, and starts to move.
He slides off and on Tubbo’s cock like he belongs there.
Tubbo’s hips strain to stay still, his arms properly settled behind his back. The wrists touching; just like Techno had told him to. Talk, Tubbo thinks. Easy and so– so hypocritical of Techno to say. Technoblade would sooner die than talk about his feelings, but Tubbo is supposed to? Just because Tubbo’s “just a kid”, well– Techno–! He’s the one with the son. But the mulishness bleeds out of him the more Techno tightens around him, the slow slide of his body until Tubbo was fully seated inside him. The grind of Techno’s hips when he pulls off, until just the tip, until it popped out fully.
Techno guides it back inside, and back again, singularly focused.
“For me,” he rumbles, breath hot against Tubbo’s cheek.
Tubbo’s breathing hitches. His words scatter, and he gathers them up again. “I’m afraid,” he says, outloud, too loud, it bursts between them in the silence of Techno’s slick sounds. Techno made a sound, warm and approving.
Tubbo breathes out, the sound soft and whiney. He wants to put his hands on Techno’s hips, “I’m afraid of… that this is for nothing,” Techno leaned down, guided his cock back inside, his forehead resting gentle on Tubbo’s, “I’m afraid we’ll run out of things to Hunt, I’m afraid you’ll become… I’m afraid something will come and take Michael away and you–”
Techno squeezes, sighing when he slides back down. Takes Tubbo all the way. It feels throbbing, like a heartbeat.
His voice breaks.
“Don’t leave,” he whispers.
“I’m not going to leave,” Techno says, his voice is like the tide, sure and steady. That you could always know would come back to shore, “I could never leave you,” his voice turned soft and satisfied, “Look at you, what a good boy,”
Maddening.
He’s maddening, he drives Tubbo insane. The words make him twitch, a forest fire sparkling in his lower gut. “You’re doing good work,” Techno says quietly. His hand flattens on Tubbo’s hair, presses it down until Tubbo feels the warmth of his hand, “You’re always doing good work, Tubbo,”
“T– Techno–”
“I can’t–!”
“You can put your hands on me,” Techno says, and Tubbo’s hands fly to his waist, clutches at it, He wants to fuck up, he wants to thrust upward and keep going. He wants Techno to use him, to hold him down and bounce on his cock.
His heartbeat feels impossibly fast, “Sorry–”
“Don’t be sorry,” Techno says, voice low and rumbling. It sets him on fire everywhere, “Don’t ever be sorry, kid,”
He sobs, presses his face to Techno’s chest, “I’m–!”
“You wanna come inside me now?”
“Yesyes please– sir– ”
“So polite,” Techno says quietly, “Thank you for telling me, you can come inside,”
Tubbo comes.
Techno lifts his head, and absolves him.
The Hunt is never more clearly marked on Techno than when they are near an Artifact.
The unyielding set of his shoulders turned languid and lazy, entire body settling into stillness. Like sloughing off animal skin. Every angling, every movement of a limb, made with the precision of a surgeon. Strides past onlookers, onto patched roads, acts with inevitability. When Tubbo knows the map gets on the fritz the closer they become. I’m listenin’, he murmurs, as if he had stumbled into conversation and had decided to pick up the stray end. No spoilers, chat, no spoilers. Consciousness plied from his mouth, repetitive, alive. Inaudible when Tubbo draws near but never ceasing, his lips mouth along what he wants to say.
But really, it’s his eyes.
The dark pupil fattening, depleting the whites of his eyes. Techno slides a pair of gift shop sunglasses from the well of his coat, to hide the carnivore the Hunt made of him.
The winds of the Southern Uplands batter up against Tubbo’s coat collar against his cheek, it’s all he can do to stand sturdy against the bellowing in his ears. Brittle, grazing grass sweep in its direction, across the deep, rolling hills until the moors disappear over the horizon. Tubbo is sure that if he were a little younger, he would have been bowled over. He had grown into himself, athletic, with proper arm strength for rope and capture, a solid figure stood at the valley. Day-old stubble dusting his jaw.
The Meikle farmstead is a solitary structure, so far out into rural Scotland that it sits several hundred miles away from the nearest human settlement. Its cheerful blue walls had been handpainted, sunbleached wooden boards bely the generations that had passed. The sounds of cattle press in on every side, crashing into the air, calls and wails, bodies crowding in a ceaseless machine.
“Techno,” he calls.
If Tubbo isn’t careful, Techno would walk right inside like he belonged there. As if sedated, Techno turns his head towards him, the line of his mouth as impassive as the reflective light of his sunglasses. His hand are shaking again. “It’s here somewhere,” he says, voice roughened, thready from the well of his throat, “Stay in sight, unless you wanna make Michael an orphan,”
“He’d have you,” Tubbo says.
Eleven bodies gutted like pigs, the Artifact sits cleanly in dirt. An old army knife, innocuous. Perfectly ordinary, if not for the fact of its smug gleam, like someone had whetted it right after and wiped it down. The handle is carved into the grooves of a hand, Tubbo would bet that it would slot perfectly into any palm. It sits there, begging to be used. It knows, and it wanted Techno to find it.
Techno put his gloves on, went to grab it.
And then something goes sideways.
There had been a gap in his gloves. A piece of stitching gone loose, the thread of it pulled out by one of the tools it had been kept with. Tubbo hadn’t known this; he had been the one to put all their things in the back of the car. Techno goes utterly still.
Tubbo’s mouth opens to ask, and Techno drives the knife into his hand.
Panic erupts like a gunshot, it throws him blindly forward.
“Fuck–!” he shrieks, “Techno–”
Technoblade's head whips towards him.
His eyes drops down, to where Techno's arm drags downward in a jerky, disjointed movement. How it tugs Techno's entire body forward. His eyes are made wider, the bright, feverish light, magnified by his rectangular glasses, the line of his throat taut. “Don’t touch me,” he says, calm, in a voice that would not be argued with, his body shields the arm. Tubbo jerks back.
Techno exhales.
He looks down at the knife in his hands and the blood seeping into the starving, ravenous steel.
“You may think you own me,” Techno says, soft. “You think I listen to you, you think I haven’t seen you… seen your face. A Slaughter knife?” his laughter is airy, turned to dust.
“Don’t insult me. I’ve been listenin’ to you all my life, I’ve been listenin’ to you in my sleep, I’ve been listenin’ since you brought me to the Institute, you want to finish what you started, I get it, I’m a bit of a… perfectionist myself, but a knife… is not where you’ll take me. You come down here and do it yourself… a knife– you’ve never taken me, not with your face, not with a knife. I would sooner blow my own brains out than ever…”
There was the crack of bone.
“... touch a hair on Michael’s head.”
Then, like it meant nothing, Techno took the knife out of his hand and boxed it up. Where he had put his palm left darkened smears across the wooden grain of the crate, there was the barest flash of pink and bone.
And he just sat there, bleeding.
“We need to… we need to bandage you up,” Tubbo says, voice small.
“Take Michael and go,” he says, empty. “I’ll catch up,”
“You are the fucking stupidest person alive if you think I’m doing that,”
Technoblade made the face he made when Tubbo was being too much. His voice dragged past a dry, hoarse throat, like he had been eating glass and the fractures crunched in his mouth. The knife had taken enough from him that there was a distinct blueish tinge to his mouth, a pallor to his sun-tanned skin. “Tubbo–” he croaked.
“No!” he shouts, “I’m not letting the fucking– I’m not letting them take anyone. You– you’re going to what, go to the nearest village, kill a bunch of random people?”
Techno is quiet. Quieter than he’s ever been.
“I’ve seen your file, you know, I know you were committed, 11 people. Couldn’t convict you cause you were only seven. You made that statement when you first joined the Institute,”
Marked young, I survived, Technoblade’s voice was soft in that recording too. Far away. Gone back to America. I survived the Slaughter. Now, he slaked the hunger with the Hunt.
“Killing is easy,” Techno says; he sounds hollowed out. “Killing is nothing, I would kill a hundred people before I–” and he looks at Tubbo, “Tubbo, go.”
“It’s Michael’s birthday,” Tubbo says, “You said we were gonna bring him to the sea,”
Techno covers his face in his hands, the bloody, mangled one until it smears across his cheek.
“Look,” Tubbo reaches out.
“Do not–”
“Look, you’re trapped,” his fingers encircle Techno’s wrists, the wetness of it where it had gotten everywhere, “You can’t hurt anyone,”
“Those are just hands,” Technoblade says, monotone, “I could break it easily, so easily,”
“Yeah, but they’re my hands,” Tubbo says.
Techno looks at it.
“Let's bandage you up.”
The first thing he did was reach out to take Technoblade’s glasses from his face, to make sure that they wouldn’t get wrecked. It clicked softly when he placed it down on the bedside table, “My eyesight is so bad,” Techno murmurs, “I can’t see anything,” His eyes were really wide in the dim, like he was trying to make out the shape of Tubbo in the shadows.
“Don’t worry, Techno,” he said, “I’ll be very close by.”
This was his favourite.
Prepping him. It was easier when Techno was put on his back, and his legs could splay out around Tubbo. His hole was always tight when they started, Tubbo lathered his fingers in lube and pressed up against the tight furl of muscle. It needed to be worked out. Techno didn’t often have the time or patience to do any of that; when he wanted Tubbo, he kinda just distracted him with a blowjob and then sunk down like he thought Tubbo wouldn’t notice. Tubbo did notice, Tubbo noticed everything. He spread his fingers inside, a thrum of pleasure gone through him when he heard the quiet sigh above him. It was a sigh of exasperation.
“Michael’s gonna wake up any second now,” Techno said, and his head was turned towards where he knew the window was, “ Annnyyy second now,”
“Shut your mouth, Techno,”
He added another finger, testing the walls. Techno’s cock was starting to curve upwards, eager, honest. “I remembered… a very long, touching soliloquy about my mouth,” he murmured, “Nngh…”
Tubbo crooked his fingers, and Techno clenched round him. “You’re always complaining about it, you’re just a big complainer,” he said. He made sure Techno was loose and happy before he fucked him, that made Techno way sweeter in the end. Made him desperate, that when Tubbo climbed over him to slide in, Techno would curl his arms loosely around Tubbo too.
He pressed his face between Techno’s nice firm tits, moved to Techno’s breathy panting in his ear.
He held Techno there for hours.
Techno couldn’t come as many times as Tubbo could. He had a longer refractory period, that meant that once he’d come he was out. Tubbo adored that about him.
Techno moaned low in his throat, arching his back when he came, splattering over the sheets. Tubbo lifted his legs up onto his shoulders and drove into him, he twisted him around to press him flat into the sheets and fucked his wet hole. Techno’s body spasmed through it, through coming nothing over and over again.
Until Techno no longer spoke, only wailed, only made grunts and noises.
Sometimes Tubbo felt like the Hunt had marked him too. When he saw Techno underneath him, and that infernal hunger sparked in his chest, tightening, tightening around his heart. Isn’t the basest animal instinct to fuck? Techno doesn’t need to hunt, to worry about becoming animal– underneath Tubbo, he only was. He only lived to take Tubbo’s cock. He rutted up into him, and Techno just took it. The Hunt marked Tubbo only for Technoblade.
That was good too, that meant Techno would never leave.
Techno wakes with a name caught in his throat.
Its shadow in the shape of his mouth. The dreams dissipate out in the open, a sentimentality that clings to the curve of his body, the hammering of his heartbeat against his chest. The inn sits along the A66, right before the turn into Stainburn. The closer they go to coastal towns, the more expensive the accommodation. Still a couple stops away from the cliffs, the inn is a roadstop for truckers to hunker down for the night. Costs a handful of bills in comparison to the towns. Where the trucks turned in, the headlights would flare directly through the shutters, casting lines over the entire room, until it went away. The smell of mothballs and undusted sheets permeate the double bed.
The southern winds rap sharply against the windows, blusters underneath the awning. The inn is a cottage of dark wood and English ivy, its foundation dated to the years the motorway had first been constructed. It whistles between the gap of the door, and the worn wood floorboards. White noise, that he can barely make out, “... me in,”
Techno turns his ear to the window, tongue darting outward to sweep across his bottom lip. There is a body there, just out of focus. A tall, dark shape; he pats against the surface of the bedside table. Fingers curl over the cool wire of his glasses, pushes them onto his nose. And unwittingly, unconsciously, wrap around his tape recorder.
The wind recedes, to allow the voice to slip through, “I want to see them.”
He drags himself out of bed. Slips his feet into his boots and trudges towards the door.
At the Institute, Ranboo had a distinct way of knocking. He knocked like he didn’t want to be heard, his knuckles would barely touch the wood. He went knock, once, and then stayed there for a while. Immersed in his cases, Techno had left him standing at the door more than once. There had been a hastily scribbled sign underneath his name plaque in green marker – Ranboo, just come in.
The shape at the window moves. Except, it does not move like someone taking a step closer. It moves like a cutboard cutout, illuminated by the light behind it. It is an elongated shape, the taper of his waist, the width of his shoulder all the way up to where the window could not accommodate the head. Too tall. The body bends at the waist. How very Plato’s cave of him. Techno waits for the knock, and after a few seconds, there it goes again.
Knock, stop.
The shape at the window did not move an arm to knock. It is as if the sound of the knock did not come from the rap of his knuckles, but the shape itself. Knock, is the sound it makes from its mouth. “Please, Techno,” it speaks with the sound of nothing, a voice without inflection, that goes in a straight line. Affable, that’s Ranboo. Ever polite. “He’s my husband.”
The shambling thing that wore Ranboo like a skinbag, he had never bothered to look at. Tubbo had never talked about what happened.
Techno thumbs at the familiar weight of the recorder.
It clicks.
“... Michael,” it says, “My son.”
“Statement of…” he brings the recorder to the door knob, like he is watching at a distance. The compulsion, he thinks distractedly, that takes hold of his interviews, that makes them speak and speak and speak until their insides are filtered through crisp monologue. Guts winding around magnetic tape. Will it only take people, will it take what used to be a person? “The late Ranboo,” he says quietly, a finality, “Beloved.”
The shape is a silhouette.
It goes quiet.
“Taken posthumously,” Techno murmurs, his eyes wander to the clock. “On 12th August.”
Knock, stop.
“It’s dark here.” a hoarse, thin sound, it weasels underneath the gap of the door. Perfectly enunciated, it is speaking to the Archivist . “As dark as an oil spill. As dark as the cold, leaden depths of the deep ocean. But, I am me… I… cannot be anyone other than me. And I know this… because I wrote it down,” its voice creaks underneath the pressure of teeth, turns small and broken. Too much breath in at once, and not enough air out.
“April, 29,” it speaks, in the language of someone reading. As if it holds a book in its hands. “Went to the gallery with Tubbo, Niki took Michael for babysitting. I remembered that day. It was a downpour… the Thames was up to the bank, any more and it would have flooded the riverside. I left a note on the visitor’s galley… I must have fallen… asleep waiting. I wake up and fall asleep, I wake up and fall asleep, I wake up and fall asleep…
“I wrote it all down,” its breath slips between the howling winds, “July 5th, someone left a bomb in the Archives… the police had to be called, but it wasn’t me, I know this because I wrote it down. I just have to find it… that book. It is wrapped in brown leather,” whisper, hushed, that Techno has to strain to listen, “ My book, I thought i must have left it in the archives when I was cataloguing cases. I shouldn’t have brought it to the Institute, someone could see…”
“Tubbo seems to be more anxious lately, he says I haven’t been helping with Michael. I tell him Michael is with his mother, because of the bombs… He tells me that was Thursday, yes… how could I have forgotten? We decided it was safer to keep Michael here, especially after Phil.”
“I wrote it down.” the tape recorder runs, its breathing becomes laboured, captured by the memory of a dead man. “The archives is the safest place for an Artifact, but I need a place that won’t be found. I don’t want them to see it, I already wrote so much. That’s why I started to dig. The process is actually quite simple. The ground underneath is brick, easy to pry out. The carpet, pulled in the right way, can cover up the dip of the missing wood. There are the other archival assistants, but only I come down the crooked aisle, and I always make sure… to work late. The only ones that are ever in the office is Techno… Techno can’t hear me… I make sure to dig quietly, for my own room, for my book. “
The door handle turns.
“Did you hear me?” it asks quietly. “When I walled myself off… to make sure I fall asleep in the right place,”
Techno watches the tape spin.
“I am still there, underneath the archives.” satisfied, quite pleased, voice lofty, softened, “I will never lose my book again.”
“Here… It is dark, as dark as the cold, leaden depths of the deep ocean. The pipes groan with the weight of the institute, and every so often, Tubbo walks over me. I recognise that, you know. I can always remember the way he walks, he puts particular weight on his right leg. Although… Tubbo has not walked over me for… a long… long while,”
A white headlights of a truck passes.
The shadow in the window stays.
Techno clicks the recorder shut. The silence engulfed by the shrieking evening winds, magnified by the tick- tick-tick of the clock on the wall. Drowns Techno’s breathing in the breathing of the four walls, extending the stained yellow wallpaper. It slips underneath the crack of the door, that voice. Beckoning, begging for Techno to come outside. Techno looks upward to the popcorn ceiling; the faces in the shadowed corners of the room. Their mouths are opened, wider and wider until Techno sees the teeth.
Blood for the blood god.
“Please,” Ranboo says, “Can I see them?”
Blood for the blood god
Blood for the blood god
Techno waits until the sun comes out again, his body a barricade against the door.
Tubbo had curled round Michael in the night. He always liked to have Michael sleeping in their bed, even if they allowed him to nap in the other room when they needed time alone. Michael has somehow gotten himself upside down, pressed to Techno’s side. His hair curled around his soft cheeks, stuck out because he had squirmed around again. He’d gotten pretty heavy, and Techno knows that his arm is going to be dead when he extracts it from underneath.
The sun peers into the room.
He breathes out.
Back to work.