✏ 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬.

𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐥 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞

tw // ment. of blood, violence, fighting, angst

Tommy spits on Techno's face.

It's a bold move that in retrospect was completely thoughtless and incredibly crass, but it served as a medium for Tommy's unfiltered spite however marginal the act was. Techno doesn't flinch - he wipes it off his face, and continues to look at him with that condescending pity that fucking tints the whole world red and makes Tommy's nails taste blood as it digs into his palm. Techno would've fooled him any other day but on the day he executes his best friend in front of him, he can keep this bluff and shove it right up his ass.

Sentiments ravage him like a wild, lame beast. It tears his vocal chords where only choked growls can leave, and leaves lacerations on his battered heart. Oh, how pleasant his days would be if he could put a shotgun in it's mouth and put it out like one. If he could, perhaps Tubbo wouldn't have gotten tangled in this mess of his.

"Are you sure you wanna do this?" Techno patronises him, faking hesitance.

Tommy wants to bite back but all words escape him and so, he stands quiet, seething. And then, he lunges.

His first throw is sloppy, but his second connects, tossing the shithead back and grasping for balance. It fills Tommy with some solace seeing him stumble back and extremely vulnerable, but what he doesn't enjoy is Techno punching back. If not for his inhuman agility, he would've had the daylight knocked out of him.

"Whatever stays in the pit-"

A fist flies close to fracturing Tommy's skull and just barely misses by a hair. "I mean this in the nicest way possible but I want you dead."

"Fair enough, I suppose."

In classic Techno fashion, he dances past every hit and jab, a seer for his ability to predict Tommy's every triggerhappy punch. Usually, this is the most infuriating part of fighting against Techno - he dodges everything and quickly makes work of you with a few punches here and there. This has lead to Phil's extensive knowledge of first aid. But now under the clear night sky, he's yet to actually take him seriously, which gets deep under Tommy's skin.

He's throwing a few punches here and there, but Techno knows how to quickly disable Tommy, but yet he's not. The battlefield's angel but now a tame mutt that only barks.

It's like he thinks it's some sort of fucking practice where he can tease Tommy at the end of it and they can both laugh it off, and not Tommy pouring his heart and soul into communicating to him the turmoil that wrings his mind of any joy, the stress of having to see his brother descend into insanity, the humiliation of having your ally execute your best friend, and the indescribable pain of losing said best friend - the maelstrom of every possible negative emotion that's grip strangles him.

Conversating in the language only Techno knows best - through fists and bloodshed. Like he'd said eons upon eons ago. And in classic Techno fashion, he doesn't care. Barely even bats an eye at his plight and frolicks off to make merry with his potato farm like the fucking shit he is and will always be.

And worst of all, Techno still has that repulsive trace of pity in his eyes, and Tommy wants to fucking pummel the ever living shit out of him till that fake pity is nothing more than blood on his fists.

Ducking low, Tommy pivots his legs across the floor, sweeping Techno off his feet and onto the floor below.

Even if Techno's not putting his hundred percent into it, Tommy will, because this is the only way he can get through to him. Get through that stupid fucking smart brain of his he so desperately prizes. Through that shit-eating face and that stupid skull of his that what he's done is irrevocable hurt that torments his waking days and dreams.

Tommy, blinded with rage, sits atop Techno , pulling his arm back and viciously punching downwards. What's the point of civility when you can discuss any matter more genuinely through your fists?

Tubbo's smile flashes through his mind, and Tommy punches down again.

Techno isn't doing anything. He hits him again.

"Just fucking fight back already! Fucking hit me or something! You're not even trying anymore you stupid, stupid, stupid shithead!"

Techno doesn't resolve his pacifism; static against the rock floor and still quiet. Indifferent.

"This isn't fucking funny! Fight back! You're the one who said that violence is a universal language! I know you can knock me out so fucking do it already! I hate you so much. Just fight back already, asshole!"

A seam raptures. Everything Tommy's tried so hard to suppress overflows through his shaking fists and tired eyes; quivering hands that are too weak to even properly hit him in the face anymore, tears collect at his chin and drop onto Techno's shirt, and he becomes a pathetic mess - an emotional mess who can't even control his own life, let alone his feelings. An over-emotional mess who will never become president.

Every hit grows weaker and weaker. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!"

"I'm really sorry, Tommy."

"I don't want to forgive you. Ever. Get out of my sight."

Techno furtively murmurs. "I'm sorry."

Tommy hits him one last time. "I don't want your stupid apology! I just want you gone! Go away forever and never come back! You're dead to me!"

"I'm so sorry."

"Shut up, shut up, shut up! Shut up! I hate you!"

Everything goes quiet - his thoughts, the room and himself. Guilt has clearly affected Techno, but it doesn't mollify any of Tommy's own raging emotions. His heart is trapped in a tempestuous state with the key out long lost in the dreadful storm. Tears stream down his face as choked sobs echo throughout the empty ravine, sounding absolutely pathetic and miserable.

How far the mighty have fallen; crying like a moronic baby over something as stupid as he is. Techno's probably having a field day over this, isn't he? Tommy's too tired to actually give a shit anymore.

A hand pats his back, before slowly pulling him in for a warm hug.

"You know, I'm not good with this whole emotion thing, but if you need to cry, I'm not stopping you."

And so, Tommy cried.

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