Chapter Text
“Our neighbors are children.”
It was the first thing Technoblade said as he entered the apartment that night, dirty and exhausted off a long shift.
It made Phil look up from where he was stir-frying their dinner. “Sorry?”
“Our neighbors are children,” Technoblade repeated flatly, as if it made any more sense the second time.
“You mean, they have children?” Phil laughed a little. Technoblade must have really been tired; it was a Friday night after all, and he’d just finished up a twelve hour ambulance shift. His paramedic bag was slung over his slumped shoulder.
“Nope. I’m gonna go shower.”
“...Okay?” Phil just watched as his friend disappeared into the bathroom. He barely had the wherewithal to call after him, “Dinner will be ready when you’re done!”
Technoblade sent him a wave over his shoulder and let the door fall shut.
***
Phil didn’t get any more context for Technoblade’s strange declaration until two days later. It was a Sunday morning, and Phil was under the impression that the civilized world had generally agreed on Sunday mornings being a time for quiet. However, it seemed their new neighbors hadn’t gotten the memo because Phil could hear one of them shouting shrilly through the walls.
Phil was already up, but he didn’t want to risk them waking Technoblade, so he sighed and stood from where he was enjoying his coffee.
He opened the door and was surprised to find that his neighbors were already in the hallway. Or, at least, they were halfway in the hallway. A teenage boy was doing his best to escape the apartment next door, complete with yells and curses more befitting of a sailor than a boy no older than fourteen.
“I don’t need your permission to hang out with my friends!” the boy snapped shrilly.
Another boy— this one maybe in his early twenties— was leaning out the door, gripping the younger one by the hood of his red sweatshirt.
“Yes, you do,” the older one said, sounding exasperated. “And you don’t have it.”
They made an odd pair. The older boy was tall and skinny, with wiry glasses perched on his nose. His hair was a dark halo around his head and his eyes were a deep brown. It was in complete contrast to the younger boy, whose golden hair and blue eyes seemed to glow like the sun. The only thing that matched between them was the smattering of freckles across the bridges of both their high noses.
“Wilbur!” The younger boy’s face was flushed with frustration.
“You’re not going anywhere, not while you still have homework.” It seemed this was a sentiment the older boy had had to repeat, to apparently no avail.
Phil didn’t know what to do. “Uh… hello?”
The brunette’s eyes snapped up, wide with horror. “Oh God.” In his shock, the younger boy managed to slip free of his grasp. He promptly bolted down the hallway.
“Um, hold on, sorry—” The older boy— Wilbur, apparently— took off after him. “Tommy! Get back here!” With his long legs, he overtook the blond easily and dragged him back towards their apartment.
The kid was positively raging. “Fuck you!” he snapped indignantly. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you! You think you’re so fucking smart— oh, I’m Wilbur and I get to be in charge of fucking up Tommy’s life—”
“Shut up,” Wilbur hissed, moving to put himself between Tommy and the exit. (For as irritated as he sounded, Phil noticed that the way he maneuvered Tommy was never rough. Even his grip was gentle, his fingers loose around the teenager’s upper arm.)
“I am so sorry,” Wilbur told Phil, a blush high on his cheeks.
“Who the fuck are you?” Young, bright eyes bore into Phil. Phil was too caught off guard to answer.
Fortunately, Wilbur did it for him.
“Tommy!” he hissed furiously. The blonde boy paid him no mind, continuing to rant and rave about Wilbur’s apparent injustice.
“Tommy, apologize.”
“Why should I?” Tommy scowled and crossed his arms. “I don’t even know him.”
Phil didn’t think it was possible, but Wilbur looked even more embarrassed. “He’s our neighbor, genius,” the older boy said with a roll of his eyes.
Brothers, Phil decided. They had to be brothers.
“Fine,” Tommy snapped. “Whatever. Sorry.”
“We’ll be quieter,” Wilbur assured Phil. “We’re so sorry to have disturbed you. We’re not exactly used to sharing walls with people.”
“It’s all right,” Phil said, and he meant it. Technoblade slept like a rock anyway. “Are you new here?”
“Yeah,” Wilbur said, gesturing to their door. “Moved in last week. I’m Wilbur and this is Tommy.”
“Phil,” he said, offering a hand for Wilbur to shake. The kid’s fingers were spindly in his grip. “I didn’t see a moving truck or anything.”
“Yeah, uh—” Wilbur’s blush was back and Phil got the sudden feeling he’d said something wrong. “It’s just us, so we don’t really have a lot. Not enough for a moving truck anyway.”
“Oh.” It was just them? There was no way Tommy was old enough to be living without a guardian— unless Wilbur was his guardian. That would explain his oddly parental behavior towards the kid.
“Well, uh, if you need anything, you can always knock,” Phil said, shrugging awkwardly. “You know— a cup of sugar and all that.”
Wilbur gave him a real smile then, though it was undercut by the bags beneath his eyes. “Thanks.”
“Hold on, wait—” Tommy was still glaring at Phil, but somehow, it felt less hostile. “Do you have a roommate? Big guy? Pink hair?”
“Oh yeah,” Wilbur said, his brow crinkling as he seemed to remember. “He scared the shit out of you on the stairs, didn’t he, Toms?”
“He didn’t scare me!” Tommy snapped indignantly. “I don’t get scared— I’m massive!”
“Right,” Wilbur said flatly, though he looked amused.
Phil laughed. “Yeah, that’s Technoblade. He can be a bit scary, especially if you catch him right after a shift. You don’t want to get between Technoblade and his bed after twelve hours of saving lives and dealing with idiots. He’s a paramedic,” he added, at Wilbur and Tommy’s twin looks of confusion.
“Cool,” Tommy said, looking the most interested Phil had seen him yet. “Does he get covered in blood a lot?”
“Gross,” Wilbur said, wrinkling his nose.
“Ask him,” Phil said, with another laugh. “Trust me, he’s not as scary as he looks. But that shouldn’t matter to you anyway, since you’re massive and all that.”
Tommy grinned. “You’re not so bad, old man.”
Phil spluttered at the name— “I’m thirty-two!”— and Wilbur took that opportunity to make their escape.
“Well, we’d best be going,” the older boy said quickly, shoving Tommy towards their apartment. “It was nice meeting you, Phil! Sorry again! For… everything.”
Before Phil could respond, their door slammed shut. It was then that Phil noticed the new little placard on the wall next to their door:
Soot
Someone had tape a notecard beneath it and, with some of the worst handwriting Phil had ever seen, scrawled:
+ Innit
Two hours later, when Technoblade finally found it in himself to rise from the dead, Phil was waiting for him with one sentence:
“Our neighbors are children.”
Technoblade only grunted in agreement and made a beeline for the coffeemaker.