Chapter Text
The mask smiles.
Still full-faced, and now held onto the back of his head by a thick leather belt. Dream’s hair seems darker, and it takes Techno a moment to realize that it’s probably with sweat.
“You’re not allowed here.” Techno deadpans. Not accusatory. Just as fact. They’re in the woods of a private realm. Techno, here for a parkour course challenge and Dream’s here… Probably uninvited. “Really couldn’t keep away from parkour?”
Dream grins, and Techno knows he’s grinning before it’s even audible in Dream’s response. “They don’t invite me anymore cause they know I’ll win.”
“That’s just not true.” Techno finds himself startled into laughter, fully coming to a standstill among the trees. Dream’s crouching on a thick oak branch, looking like he’d been ready to jump. And now they’re just paused here, smiling at each other, and Techno’s been losing it for two centuries. “You’re so rarely in competitions I’m in cause you’re clearly scared of a second place.”
Dream wheezes, “Straight up not- no.” He shifts on the branch to sit down now, as if getting ready for a longer encounter. Techno stabs his sword into the ground instead of holding it. They might as well just break out a camp at this point. Dream continues with that same smile, “I still haven’t canceled that duel. If I was scared of losing to you, I’d never agree.”
“You haven’t really set a date for it either,” Techno raises an eyebrow, “You’ve been postponing for… Hm, five years now? A bit of a coward move, no?”
“You’re calling me a coward, Technoblade?” Dream tilts his head sideways. There’s something in his voice Techno can’t really discern but it momentarily leaves his chest prickling in adrenaline.
“Nope. Just saying you’re really behaving like one… Very different things.”
“Duel me now.”
“No,” Techno immediately parries, and before Dream can turn the ‘coward’ sword on him, he rattles off: “First, chat’s not here. And I need my revenue, Dream, I simply need it. The fact I’m even talking to you right now is making me mourn all the audience retention I’m missing out on, all the Dream stans.” He takes a breath, “Second, not without proper preparation, you think I’m fighting you while we’re in unfair sets of armor and with my tools at-” he glances at his sword, “Like eighty percent durability? That’s pathetic.”
“Eighty’s fine, oh my god.” Dream laughs again. He seems to be in a good mood, Techno notes and it echoes into his own chest. It’s nice to see Dream happy. It’s just nice. “I mean dude, look at this. I’m ready to fight you with this.” And he drops nightmare down at Techno.
It’d be easy to step aside, but it makes more sense in Techno’s head to show off. So while it might take his entire arm off, catching the axe mid-air just becomes what he’s gotta do.
It’s one of those moments you have to rely on instincts for. Techno’s instincts are honed for battle, survival, and very little else, but they don’t betray.
Nightmare is caught as easy as a plummeting axe can be- and immediately in it Techno can see the chips, the flaws, the worn and tired blade.
“Dude…” He has time to mumble before Dream’s spidering his way down the tree.
“I had a busy week.”
“This is almost broken, it’d shatter before you could come anywhere close to defeating me.” Techno carefully examines the axe more, interested in the craftsmanship over its decrepit state now. “What the hell have you been choppin, man.”
Dream dusts himself off, leather gloves on thin lightweight armor, and shrugs, “Just haven’t had the chance to repair it.”
“I mean you could fight me with… a sword or something.” Techno says, handing the axe back. “Not that I’m saying we should-”
Dream accepts the axe, and then in a show-offy swing sends it up at a low yet hefty branch.
It cleaves the things straight off- a good block and a half of a stick- Dream ditches his axe, wraps both hands around the stick and with a manic smile, Techno swears he can know even if he can’t see, turns to face Techno.
“I could also fight you with this.”
It’s addicting. The lighthearted ability to just joke around with Dream. Being on the same level with someone enough to have an easy back and forth- addicting and infections and Techno’s already grinning back, “Oh well I guess I have to make it even.”
He looks up and around, locating something fittingly sturdy almost right above his head: a good handhold of a naked pine branch.
Skipping the dramatics, Techno takes a rocking step back, and immediately gives himself a small running start to jump, both hands up, and catches onto the branch, jerking it down with his weight- it snaps at the base, pealing a good chunk of bark with it.
Dream whistles.
It’s not that impressive. Techno chooses to ignore it, gives the newly acquired branch a good shake to check it won’t snap first chance, and looks up at Dream, “Ready to lose?”
“To you, maybe yeah. Not this time though.”
And before Techno can spend a good moment analyzing that at all, Dream charges.
Dream’s a hard hitter, Techno knows this, knows his techniques from watching, from being on the receiving end, from sparring. Knows how Dream ticks and knows that Dream’s got him all outlined and memorized too.
Fighting with Dream is often luck-based. Sometimes the fervor of chasing a win helps though, and Techno raises his stick and blocks Dream’s attack.
It’s a strange weapon, it forces them apart, forces them to charge better, swing wider, accommodating for the mileage. And Techno’s grinning, laughing, shouting at him, and Dream’s grinning too, and getting hit with the other’s branch hurts like a heavy whip, stings in the promise of a bruise, and Techno just barks another threat, dodges, sliding on the dead leaves of a quiet forest.
Dream uses the trees to his advantage, weaving in and out, and Techno hates this terrain, wishes he could lure Dream into a clearing, Hates having to make his sprinting attacks amidst trash zig-zagging paths. Breathing with his full chest, reveling in the unjudged silence of being chatless. Dream tanks the hits, some making him skid on the forest floor. For a moment Techno worries he’ll break Dream’s ribs, and then has to remind himself: don’t worry. It’s not his job to care for Dream-
Dream knocks him down, pins him branch-to-throat, hands on either side pushing it down, Techno’s hands snapping to it too, attempting to shove it back up off his neck, and he’s still grinning, sweat in his fur, adam’s apple stinging in pain from the first press of treebark.
They’re matched in strength, but Dream’s got gravity on his side, sitting on Techno’s chest, and it’s almost familiar, almost sends Techno back a good few years- how long had it been? He starts bending the branch in an arch up away from himself- grits his teeth and puts his all into it-
It snaps.
It snaps clean in half above his face and into Dream’s mask.
Dream yelps and rolls off him, and Techno’s glad that porcelain’s in place, cause otherwise he could’ve easily just now cost Dream an eye and an unscarred jaw.
“Do I win?” Techno manages, raspy and out of breath, arms ringing with exertion.
Dream, on the forest floor, looks up at him with a smudged and scratched-up smiley, “Can’t agree.”
Techno sits up with a wince, feeling the fight drain out of him and out of them and out of the air, “Told you your weapons would break.”
Dream laughs. “Didn’t tell me you’d directly break them.”
Techno laughs too.
The actual duel happens later. Later. And this time they have brand new weapons. Brand new armor. Sponsored and fitted but otherwise plain: to prevent any cosmetic adjustments serving as unfair advantage.
Things go so fast- the duel whips past him in the cheer of crowds, the taste of sweat, adrenaline, the clash of blades and Dream’s wicked smile he can’t see- his own, sand grinding on his teeth. Pain- lashes of it, blunt and sharp and bloody and he can’t think, can’t form a single coherent thought, all it is is Dream, Dream, Dream.
Dream’s good. It’s different from war, war is heartless and cruel once the cogs start turning and no amount of inspiration or leadership can survive the blood of slaughter- fighting Dream is more difficult, more personal, and matters infinitely more. Everything’s just more. Brighter, louder, faster, the exhilaration hitting harder. Under the careful scrutiny of crowds, Techno and Dream meet in careful, tactful combat.
And after, they meet in the changing room.
Before the duel, Dream had arrived earlier – that try-hard – and they’d missed each other. Now, dusty and bloody, the unnecessarily long room of benches, lockers, and showers is intimidating with its gutted emptiness. Just the two of them. Literally just. Because-
“No, Chat’s not here,” Techno answers, still somehow out of breath.
And Dream through a voice shaky with lost victory nods, “That’s good.”
It takes a second for Techno to figure out why that’s good – he thinks, recklessly, it’s something about being alone that’s good, something about being hidden backstage from his eternal audience, where it’s dark and secrets are safe.
In a way he’s right.
Just… not under the right sentiment.
Dream starts crying. Not really- not… at least not visibly. Techno isn’t even sure Dream could shed actual tears, as he’s pretty certain Dream doesn’t have eyes. Instead, much like with Dream’s grins, Techno simply knows.
He hates knowing. Hates it and hopes everyone else can tell just as easily too, so at least Techno isn’t special in that regard, cause being special for someone is scary and worth avoiding at every cost.
But Dream's shuffling with his belongings and crying.
Techno winces baring his teeth and grits out, “Man, look.” And he doesn’t really have anything else to add, “You were a good opponent.” One of my only.
Dream’s mask turns to Techno with genuine confusion. This, Techno isn’t sure how he knows either.
“Sorry?” Dream asks. His voice is… ignorably normal. A bit quiet.
All Techno says is, “You’re crying.”
There’s a beat, and then another, and another and another of silence. Dream watching him, unblinking, and Techno's grimacing back, knowing he’s not wrong and yet wishing he’d gone about it any other way.
Dream never picks the conversation back up. Just hunches his shoulders and slowly looks past Techno into the great nothingness of their shared room. Techno tries not to choke on cringe and slowly approaches. Dream’s grimy. Missing his armor, Techno can see the first blossoms of a fight staining his skin purple.
“It’s uh. It’s alright,” Techno says through clenched teeth and gives Dream’s shoulder a hesitant pat.
“I’m- it’s not about the fight,” Dream tells him without a single inflection to his voice. Neither hesitant nor relieved to share the information. “You’re the only person worth losing to.” That isn’t said like praise or condemnation either. Just fact. Techno almost recoils.
Before he can ask anything or maybe switch the topic- or, hell, leave, Dream asks: “How’d you know?”
“Know what.”
A vague gesture to Dream’s face. Or mask. It’s awfully quiet as they stand there, both facing the lockers and side-eyeing the other.
“I don’t know,” Techno answers truthfully, “I can just sort of tell.” It’s rude to be obscure when it comes to things like this, but he genuinely can’t offer more. “Like when you smile, I guess. Man, I dunno, really,” he feels his face seize up with a wince, “Do you like need a moment or something if it’s not about the duel, I can leave, I know it’s difficult.”
It gets Dream’s attention back on him, “What is?”
Caution. Sharp and threatening.
Techno is unyielding in the face of Dream’s scrutiny. “Deals with higher gods.”
This time, the silence is taut, like the wire of a fishing line hooked in flesh and waiting for just another second until its game-ending yank.
(Who’s hooked, Techno doesn’t know.)
Dream straightens out then, curved, almost wolflike hunch righting itself as he turns to face Techno head-on, and yet before Techno can worry about conflict, he reads off Dream a simple realization:
“You too…?” Dream’s voice is quiet and sincere.
Techno bristles, feels it raise fur up his arms, neck, face, his ears flatten, and god had he never heard Dream sound this fucking open and he hates it. Hates having to stomach it and be the bigger person here, not tell Dream to just solve his issues on his own and not ruin the sweet taste of a hard-earned stressful win on Techno’s tongue.
“That’s personal.”
He thinks about it for the next seven months.
They part on good terms after the duel, they have to. It’d be a stupid thing to let ruin whatever it is they have going on.
“And what’s that?” asks Phil, looking away from the kitchen window’s sunset, gaze calmly landing on Techno.
“Rivals, we’re rivals.” Techno answers easily, because that’s been a sturdy crutch to lean on, when trying to compartmentalize Dream in his life.
“Squid’s your rival. Until I see you slaving away for years on a farm, I think it’s disrespectful to Squid calling Dream your 'rival'.” Phil laughs, and he’s right to do so. Techno kicks Phil lightly under the table for it.
“Opponent, then.”
“Techno…”
“What?” Techno lowers his plate and uncurls from his careful lean over the steaming broth, “You’re my friend, Phil, you’re my benchmark for ‘friend’, and I wouldn’t get in the same boat with Dream. He’s just not a friend. Opponent’s best I got man.”
“Alright, alright,” Phil chuckles, lifting a hand to wave Techno off. “Take him fishing or something, two separate boats to start you off.”
“Whatcha playin’ at, old man?” Techno grins at him, “First off, that’d be boring.”
“Chat would love it,” Phil shrugs, “Easy content, no?”
“Philza Minecraft, I’m so tired,” Techno sighs into his soup, “And you’re gonna make me, Technoblade, read between the lines? On this lovely afternoon?”
“I’m just saying you two should hang out more!” Phil shouts at him through a smile, “What’s stopping you?”
“It’s awkward, you know it’s awkward,” Techno chastises, opting for another spoonful of Phil’s cooking than to elaborate- and yet all that follows is silence and Phil’s questioning gaze. So Techno has to swallow and try to find better words: “It’s fun to fight with him, against or on the same side, doesn’t matter, but that’s it. He’s only good for combat.”
“Didn’t you two hang out when I was late-“
“How do you remember that.” Techno bites out. Yeah. The time Phil cut it too close arriving for that dumb tournament and Dream’d been crashing on Techno’s floor for three nights. “I barely do.” That’s a lie. “It was awkward and I still haven’t forgiven you for taking so long.”
“You could’ve kicked him out earlier, is all I’m saying,” Phil shrugs and pops a crouton into his mouth. Fucking bird.
“Mans was on death’s doorstep, Phil.” Techno mutters, “I’m not a monster.”
“Hasn’t stopped you before.”
And he has nothing left to do but sigh, “It was Dream.”
Maybe Phil gets it. Gets it, whatever there is to get, and redirects the topic. “Show him you’re not just a brick wall, mate. Share something touchy so he sees you’re worth… Hm, uh.” Phil taps his chin. Techno watches and tries to pretend he’s not pouring his entire brain into listening and retaining the advice, “Show him he can trust you with stuff by trusting him with something first.”
“Seems risky.”
“Has he trusted you with big stuff before?” Phil asks, and there’s no way he can know about the whole mask thing- any of that- or the armor-less sleeping- Techno screws up his face, and maybe that’s what’s telling enough. “There, trust him with something back.” Phil shrugs again.
“I’ll weigh how much that’s worth my investment.” Techno answers coldly.
It makes Phil laugh, “Your new business venture, friendship!” Yet his next contribution is quieter. “Plus, I’ve heard things haven’t been going too well on his end.”
Techno wants to ask – and almost does – for Phil to elaborate. Catches himself genuinely worried. And that won’t do. “When is anything going well on that man’s end? He’s like a walking catastrophe.”
“The guys he started that whole realm with,” Phil’s watching the window again, “I hear it’s been rocky.”
Techno remembers how deals go, and remembers how they whittle at friendships. And he’d been spared true loneliness, Chat’d taken care of that, both blessing and curse. Remembers Dream in the locker room, who’d never let the tears bleed into his voice, Dream in the half-built skeletal mansion, where Dream didn’t have a face, remembers Dream before that, dropping asleep walking in the streets of a foreign kingdom, enough to succumb to Techno’s floor without a single plate of armor.
But if Dream is a walking catastrophe, at least he wears it well.
Things are plummeting.
He meets Dream on the outskirts of Hypixel. Dream doesn’t look unrested these days, and maybe after those years of dreadful muck, this Dream will always look and feel leagues ahead. Chat, along for the ride like a starved animal, eats up the sight of Dream worse than Techno does: because Dream looks good.
“Techno!” Dream spots him and grins. It’s sunny, blinking off his mask in reflective motes of summer.
Techno tries to remember Dream before all that'd happened to him, and finds it unfair. This is Dream now. That’s who he’s about to tear apart this garbage regional competition with. Not whoever he’d been before the deal. That’s buried now.
“Hey Dream,” Techno huffs out, coming down from his jog. Dream’s sat on a felled tree, one leg dangling while the other keeps him propped up, knee tucked as close to his chest as foreign armor lets him. “Chat says hi too.”
“Hi, Chat,” Dream beams at him and slips off his perch- “Do you think I’ll grow a ‘chat’ too?”
Techno cringes at the far too probing question but points them in the right direction, “Well. Man, who knows, Phil sure did. Another few people I know did too.”
The forest unfolds as they walk, trees, the occasional shuffle of distant animals.
“I wonder what it’ll be like,” Dream smiles to himself.
The underground fighting rink isn’t ready for them, and they’d signed up for it under aliases. Approaching it through the forest and talking about enchant systems, Dream eventually brings up the elephant in the room: “I get they won’t recognize me, but you?” and he looks at Techno with a frown, “I mean they gotta know what you look like.”
Techno’s heart in his throat, in his ears, beating out of his chest. Philza said: offer a secret. Show him you trust him back.
“I got a few tricks up my sleeve,” He answers easily as Chat simmers to a quiet standstill. In that quiet, echoes their unanimous ‘wait, we’re telling him?’
We are.
“Oh? Invisibility potions?” Dream asks, and honestly that would’ve been incredibly easier to do than-
Techno sighs all the air out of his lungs, closes his eyes, and feels his next step like missing one on a staircase, different joints, different height, different anatomy of the leg accepting his weight, a shiver of morphing and shifting bones.
“NO way.” Dream’s voice is up in his octaves of baffled astonishment, he’d stopped walking, hands clasped over the front of his mask where a mouth would be, “NO way.”
Techno turns to awkwardly smile at him with his human mouth and human teeth and human face. “Surprise.”
“You’ve had a human form all this time?” Dream screams but it’s lost to a wheezing airless quality of shock and comes out quiet, “All this time?”
“Well-“ Techno winces and feels it stretch at his less familiar facial structure as Chat breaks out in ugly laughter, “Like- I mean I started out human but the other form really just had so many perks, this one didn’t compare-” He shifts his weight, having stopped too along with Dream, “I guess.”
Dream’s just staring at him. And Techno can tell he’s combing over Techno in hurried, analyzing strokes. Like learning a new opponent: you have to adjust to right about every new feature. Have to account for every new weak spot, the new center of gravity, the new height, the new shape of who you’re going up against.
Techno has the strongest urge to cross his arms. But you can’t show weakness, Chat. Even if this entire display is just that-
Maybe not weakness, maybe v- okay he can’t even say it. So Chat says it for him, vulnerability, vulnerability, vulnerability. L.
“Anyway, if this gets out, I’m-”
“It won’t.” Dream staples an end to that sentence. “It won’t.”
It feels hot in Techno’s chest, the finality of it. In his human, skin-clad chest. They say pig hearts and human hearts carry a striking resemblance, so who knows what hammers away behind his ribs.
They get checked in at the front, aliases making the other snort.
“Nightmare? Really?”
“I don’t want to hear it, Cyberknife.”
Chat roils with the smell of a fighting rink’s burned rubber and aggressive sweat, blending in with the cheer of crowds. No armor, no weapons, no potions, just skill and power and speed. The locker room is busy and full and alive.
Somewhere in the shuffle, they’re separated, and Techno’s never taken someone else with him to a rink tournament- someone who wasn’t Chat. Never had to consider they might get split up in the line-up of fighters, but it’s nice, it gives him a breather.
Dream’s overwhelming.
Annoying. Chat, he’d meant ‘overwhelming slash neg’, alright? Most ignore his plight, the rest hit him with a quick ‘simp’ and move on in anticipation for the brawl. Techno lets it override him too, finds it easier to get lost in the pump of adrenaline than the downfall of his self-control that’s been slipping for centuries.
He wraps the human knuckles that he doesn’t fancy much in layer after layer of beat-up leather. Ties his long, stringy hair up in the mirror, spiraling it until the ponytail can be made into a bun, to prevent any dirty plays like grabbing or pulling. The mirror is like a trap, and he’s stuck looking at himself a moment too long. Like at a stranger. Young on first glance, yet carved enough by worry lines and scars that usually hide under fur. If anything, this is more telling. His ears tip into triangles and he knows his eyes weren’t always red.
Chat asks what color they were, and he doesn’t remember. “Probably something really main-character,” Techno whispers to them, “Purple.”
He’s first in line on the fight, courtesy of a C name. The five-minute warning bell is rung, and Techno rolls his shoulders. He’s well-muscled. The other form gives him advantages in a wider build and lets him tank more hits, but his strength is his own. In both forms, well-earned and arduously upkept.
“Blood for the Blood God,” he whispers, even if the prayer had long turned obsolete, and steps out into the rink.
It’s nice and it’s fast and it doesn’t matter, nothing like the duel had been. Techno dodges three punches, gets caught by one in the stomach, and knocks his opponent out cold with a right hook. The bell echoes, Techno’s fist is lifted into the air by a peppy referee. He grins. The next two fight it out, Techno drinks water, and spectates the fight quietly to chat. There goes a mistake, there goes a missed opportunity, there goes slow reaction time.
Two fights later, onto the rink walks Dream.
He doesn’t have tattoos, is the first thing Techno notices. Everyone’s varying degrees of bare-torso here, and Dream’s is bare bare. Bare of the lines Techno remembers, careful, straight, and mathematical and so unlike that done by human hand. All Dream is, is an expanse of freckled skin and not a single scar. Wild.
Techno spectates this fight too. Dream’s got a good wrap on his knuckles, tight enough to protect and agile enough to hold a good punch. He’s not too good on the dodges- or just doesn’t lean into them, opting to block and tank hits- and he’s got the basis for that. Strong and corded with the efficient sort of muscle, not the bodybuilder nonsense of new age fighters. “His abs might not be visible, Chat,” Techno mutters, “But look how well he can take a punch to the stomach.” And as an afterthought, he’s relieved Dream’s shirtless form doesn’t reveal bad news like malnourishment or a god’s deal’s array of ailments.
He looks like a healthy farm boy. It makes Techno nostalgic. This far into being alive, he can’t quite remember for what.
Dream wins. It’s not even surprising- but Techno jumps up from his bench, fists in the air, and hollers, louder than the crowd, because rivalry or whatever aside, Dream’s really goddamn cool. Dream’s panting, reflecting the harsh arena lights off his mask and sweat-lit body, and he’s looking at Techno and grinning.
Two more fights, and it’s Techno turn again. He hops from place to place on the arena matt, pumps his arms back and forth, gets the blood flowing, gets Chat cheering, and attacks first. The first hit misses, the second he manages to land. Once the other guy catches up and starts hitting back, Techno dodges away, three steps back, circles him, and goes back in. It’s not a long fight. He’s grinning again. He finds Dream in the crowd of waiting fighters easily, towel over his neck. He stands, clapping and hooting. Techno’s smile hurts his human face.
Dream gets in the rink and knocks his opponent out with one punch flat.
“He’s just showing off now,” Techno tells Chat through a grin, “He’s gonna wear himself out by the time he has to go up against me.”
This goes on and on, fighters slowly weeding out along the tournament tree. Some fights don’t manage to be knockouts. Techno gets clipped in the nose pretty bad- these legs with their different joints leave him at a disadvantage, like riding an unfamiliar horse- or maybe he should stop blaming his anatomy and just simply get better. Blood gushes, he grins through it, blinks tears out of his vision, and hits his opponent so hard the poor guy’s neck whips all the way to the side.
“At least,” Techno mouths, wiping blood off his lips and chin with the back of his wrist- just smearing it, really, “It hurts less than the snout.”
The guy, understandably, doesn’t get back up. He hears Dream start a chant to the rhythmic clap of his hands in the air, above his head: “Cy-ber, Cy-ber.”
The crowd picks up. When his fist is raised in the air again, Techno angles to look at Dream, spits blood at the already stained arena matt, and shouts, “You’re next.”
And Dream is. Techno’s been keeping count.
There’s another fight for Dream to win before theirs can be scheduled, and Techno spends it tasting blood and letting Chat hype him up. It courses through his veins.
When he meets Dream in the rink, Dream’s already got his fists up, ready to block and deflect. Techno hops side to side on the balls of his feet and lifts his hands too.
The referee counts back, a simple three two one.
Techno moves first, doing a preemptive fake-out dodge to the right. His best strategy against Dream is to simply not get hit, because Dream doesn’t pull his punches, and while Techno can take a good beating, he also kinda needs to be in a well enough state to deliver a beating back. Okay. Dream’s form isn’t trained though, no school of fighting, simply something he’d picked up along the way. So he keeps his feet too straight. Bad balance, bad defense on the right, especially if Techno can dodge his first hook.
Techno grins, and closes the few blocks of distance.
Dream does a fast, forward-snap punch at him, really with his only comfortable available angle at this stance, and Techno quickly jerks his entire frame sideways and out of range- hearing the whip of Dream’s hit sing past his ear- and delivers his own attack.
An underhook at Dream’s ribs, while Dream’s defense is down, all in a matter of seconds- it connects, unfeeling knuckles to ribs-
And Techno sees his skin there break out in a near-invisible spiderweb of geometric lines, light, like previously invisible scar tissue-
Doesn’t let it shock him enough and tries to make distance-
Dream recovers- or rather simply ignores the hit as best as he can, and kicks Techno in the side with a roundhouse-
Techno exhales hard, feeling it echo into his hip, skips away- but he’s smiling, he just now realizes. And Dream’s smiling back.
“What do I have to fix about my form?” Dream asks as they circle each other. The crowd almost overwhelms his question and the words barely carry over.
“I’m not telling you that,” Techno laughs, fists raised to his face, ready to defend, “At least not while my victory depends on it.”
And before Dream can answer, Techno dives back in, goes for a right hook- Dream blocks with a forearm and gets his punch in like a ruthless piston at Techno’s lower ribs. It hurts, but no one else so far has made it hurt in that satisfying battle-singed way. The ‘you could’ve prevented that if you were better’ way. The kind that drives you to get stronger, faster, smarter. Techno powers through and attacks again.
This one lands, gets Dream in the jaw right behind his mask, and then they’re staggering away again, circling each other. The air tastes good with oxygen and Techno’s getting high off the fight.
He attacks again, anticipating a block and hoping to get out before Dream lands a punch: new strategy, wear him out. Techno’s got good stamina, and while Dream can tank, he has to have a limit, until his forearms get sore or his patience runs thin. The latter is likelier to go first.
His hands hurt, rug-burned by the wraps, sweaty, beat up, his face hurts from being hit, from smiling, Chat is loud and incomprehensible and familiar, and Dream is all of that too, and there’s no blood dripping down from under his mask, but Techno knows for a fact his grin is bloody. Another hit, another deflection, another attempt at getting Techno and another successful dodge. Techno’s fast, and Dream’s strong, and now the fight’s been going on for long enough the audience have had time to pick favorites. Cy-ber and Night-mare boom at them from the crowd in chants of encouragement. The lights blare.
Techno goes in for another attack, and maybe he should’ve accounted for that Dream learns quickly and repetition is no way to go.
Dream catches his fist.
Open-palm baseball catches it. Techno feels a cold spike of fear, and then Dream’s landing a solid hook to his brow.
Techno goes down with black spots in his vision- Dream hits hard, but complaining can happen later. Techno kicks Dream’s legs out from under him, and rolls off his back, cutting the referee’s count short. They’re on the floor now, and Techno’s not wasting time. He slams into Dream, swinging to get a right-hook in. Dream’s on his back, the referee counting from ten, down to a 0 which will mark defeat, and Techno’s punch is infuriatingly, once again, blocked.
Dream knees him in the stomach and rolls away. Braces on his arms and the toes of his feet like a goddamn animal, and lunges, knocking Techno over- the back of Techno’s head hits the mats, almost makes him bite his tongue off- he gets Dream in a headlock, twists to get his back off the floor, and all he can do is wait for Dream to tap-out now- Dream, struggling against Techno’s bicep, does not.
And just as Techno’s seriously considering letting go because oh man would it be awkward to accidentally kill the guy, Dream elbows him in the stomach. It’s not the friendly elbow of a scuffle, it’s sharp and pumped with Dream’s entire shoulder, and now Techno’s the one that can’t breathe. He rolls away, but he’s slow and he can’t get his breath back, and Dream’s already caught him.
He snaps a real unnecessary punch to Techno’s ribs – downright malicious – and the crowd ripples with gasps- the voices scream variations of encouragement and condemnation, and Techno’s looped into a headlock. He hadn’t gotten an inhale in- and now it’s cutting blood supply from his brain as he tucks his jaw and tries to wiggle away- scramble- Dream catches his arm with his free hand, and Techno’s kind of running out of good options.
So bad options it is.
He bites.
It’s hard to bite while getting chocked out, so it’s more like opening your mouth and moving your entire head forward, to sink your upper jaw into the bitter skin of a forearm, but it is what it is, and most importantly it gets Dream to let go.
He yells something- Techno rolls away and hacks up blood from his nose, spits it, and unsteadily rises. Fists back in defense. Ready once more.
Dream scowls down at his forearm, and rises too. They circle each other again.
“Is that even legal?”
“We’re at an underground fight rink. People have died here.” Techno tells him. He’s not really grinning anymore, too focused. Neither is Dream.
“Let’s hope you know your safe words then,” Dream answers, and this time attacks first. What Techno thinks, as he gets clocked square in the jaw and staggers, is that Dream meant know how to tap out. The only words in his head right now, otherwise, are about blood and the big fat letter L.
Dream kicks him, roundhouse again, which is annoying, and Techno goes down, hands and knees, spots in his vision, watching blood dribble before he realizes it’s his own, and his lip fucking hurts, and that’s Dream rapidly approaching.
He grits his teeth and repositions to spring up. He’s faster in this form. It pays off.
He manages to stand and run his head into Dream’s mask, knocks them both over- mask thankfully intact- he aims for a hit at Dream’s ribs but it skids a bit and doesn’t deliver the punch he’d expected- Dream knees up at him, into his stomach again, and Techno barely manages to shift away- they grapple, rolling to keep their backs off the floor just long enough- and then Dream’s hand is in his hair, slamming his head against the floor. What saves Techno is probably his bun. It hurts but it softens the hit, pro gamer move. He punches up almost blindly and gets Dream in the ear.
He’s no longer hearing the crowd, no longer really hearing chat, just rolling on slippery mats and swallowing blood.
Dream straight-up kicks him- it’s not even a roundhouse, it’s a tactless heel-kick from where he’s also on the floor- it gets Techno in the soft meat of his side, no ribs, nothing, and he barks out a bloody gasp. Dream’s grabbed him again by then, and the next thing Techno knows, is that Dream’s got him in a leg headlock. Now he can’t hear anything for real, anything but Chat, because Chat’s in his head- and the rush of blood- and it’s failing, failing to get to his brain, and he’s really going to have to find something quick.
Except unlike a normal headlock, getting held in place by Dream’s leg leaves him with near-zero access to anywhere he can hit, elbow, or really bite- and- he can’t see- somewhere between dropping unconscious and not yet fully succumbing to the dark, he feels the rhythmic slapping of their referee’s hand against mats: the ten-second count had run its way to zero. Techno, while in the chokehold, had been on his back.
Dream immediately lets go and Techno rolls away, coughing and heaving breaths, and through bleary eyes, he can tell that Dream’s stood up, swaying and unsteady and messed up, but he’s got his arm high in the air, blood running down from under the knuckle wraps.
And Techno doesn’t expect to find the sight reassuring. That Dream goes for the victory before he inevitably breaks free of the referee’s hold and drops down next to Techno, all beat up hands and shaky voice asking if he’s okay. But it’s the victory first. And that’s reassuring.
Because Techno would’ve done the exact same.