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The rubble was thick and heavy in the air, still falling in chunks around them. Wilbur's mouth moved, presumably forming words, but Philza couldn't hear anything beyond the pumping of thick blood in his ears. After an indescribable amount of time that could've been seconds or could've been years, the rush faded away and he was left with Wilbur's voice and the sound of scraping, shifting concrete.
"Kill me," Wilbur begged, and pressed a sword into Philza's hand. His hand flexed around the hilt and he tried to drop it but it felt welded to his hand, like once it had stuck there it would never let go, tied forever to him, left to become a part of him. "Kill me," he repeated, he spat, and Philza tried to shake his head, to utter a word of denial, but he wouldn't move, his limbs like marble stuck in their places. He was a puppet on a stand that wouldn't allow him to move until he played his part and the scene was complete. He felt like a god somewhere out there was scrutinizing his every move, holding the strings that piloted around his body still and taut to prevent any movement that would give him an illusion of freedom. Wilbur stepped closer.
Without his input and against his will, the strings on Philza's arm pulled and stretched until the tip of the sword, heavy and cold in his hands, laid in the center of Wilbur's chest, framed by his worn jacket on either side. He couldn't tell if the long coat was well-loved or simply worn until it could be used no longer without a care as to its future. His eyes were transfixed on the blade, and on the blood that started leaking from the hole forming in Wilbur's skin.
"Please," Philza tried to cry, "I don't want this." And his eyes welled with fat tears, but his mouth was welded shut and only thinned into a straight line. Wilbur's gaze bore into his with the madness in his dark eyes as clear as the tears making tracks on his dusty face.
Wilbur stepped closer, and closer, and the blade stuck through his chest jaggedly, crunching past muscle and skin and bone until his shirt brushed Philza's hand and his crimson blood stained the cracks of his fingernails.
"My unfinished symphony," he whispered into Philza's blood-and-dust stained hair. "Thank you, dad. Thank you."
The strings making Philza's limbs lock up snapped and Phil collapsed in on himself, holding his son's limp body in his arms. It seemed smaller than he remembered but oddly familiar and as he pulled away to cradle his son's face in his hands, ragged breaths shook him to his core. Little limbs and a little face and little hands and a fate much too horrible for his little boy. He was wearing his favorite outfit, a crisp button up much too dressy for a little boy but that Wilbur insisted was necessary, and his shorts and knee-length socks with the holes in the soles. And it was stained with blood and tears and rubble. Wilbur's soft, childish face stared back at him with empty eyes and he was dead. His son was dead and it was Philza's fault how did he how could he Wilbur was his son and he and he and h
His own sobs shook him awake and into reality, although he could hardly tell the difference between consciousness and the lack thereof. Static crackled between his ears, drowning out any sounds that may have existed in the world around him. The room was black and cold around him and his breaths were coming fast and harsh through his chest, short bursts making him feel lightheaded.
Philza tried to clutch at his chest but his hands wouldn't listen, clenching at his hair and pulling until it hurt. Dark, tattered wings fluttered violently behind his back, knocking books off of his nightstand and shattering the glass he had drank earlier, spilling shards and water over the floor. He could barely register it over the roar in his ears and the ache in his chest.
He couldn't breathe and the pain was so insistent on being present that he couldn't hear the creak of his door opening and a soft light behind emitted from downstairs, nor did his ears register the sound of soft footsteps climbing up his ladder.
He was too focused on trying to stay alive, the breath coming and going faster than he could think. Philza curled into the tightest ball he could muster, wings closing protectively around him, and his lungs felt crushed, like he could never properly draw a breath again.
The far side of the bed dipped slightly, and the weight moved towards him. The screams coming both from himself and his son echoed through his mind and he couldn't think, couldn't feel, couldn't see until a soft object brushed through the hole in his wings and poked at the front of him, right between his clenched arms. The thing burrowed into the crevice of his elbows and he managed to unclench the muscles slightly, making out through the dim light a small furry form crawling onto his lap.
A soft oink came out of the figure and he instinctively unclenched his fingers from his hair, pulling little blond tufts out as he did so, and settled them into the fur of the pig in front of him. The fur was coarse against his fingertips but it was solid, it was something, and he clutched onto it like a lifeline, because it was.
The pig's breaths were as large and deliberate as his little fragile body could allow, and Philza tried to shift his shuttering breathing to match. He stuttered and his lungs grinded through the first few minutes but he eventually stumbled into a regular rhythm, roughly in line with the warm breaths hitting his chest.
Philza raised a shaky hand to the pig's snout, patting it briefly before moving to gently scratch his snout. A series of tiny contented oinks left the pig's equally tiny form and Philza laughed, catching in his chest a bit but managing to vaguely resemble a sound a person would make.
He brushed the tears from his eyes to make room for new ones made from relief and joy instead of laughter, and the pig used the opportunity to burrow his snout into Philza's neck. Philza curled his arms and wings around the little pig and let out a small sigh.
"Thank you, Techno," he muttered into the fur of the pig's head, to which Techno grunted back and burrowed a little deeper. His body was so fragile and Philza's limbs so clumsy but he trusted Philza with this, his smallest form, even when he was at his roughest, with his most jagged edges, just so that he could calm down a bit faster. Philza has never been more grateful to a person than before he met Techno.
They stayed there in their kind embrace for a bit before Techno scooted back and Philza, on cue, widened the loop of his arms but didn't let go completely. The form of Techno in his arms grew larger and morphed into solid limbs, little hooves on Philza's shoulders changing into something vaguely resembling a hand and the rest of him into something vaguely resembling a human. Techno was now kneeling on the bed beside Philza, arms still wrapped in their hug as they had been for longer than they could guess.
If there was anything that Philza had learned after years of playing on hardcore world after hardcore world, it was that touch especially that from someone whom you love, is to be cherished. The universe loved him, and so did Techno, and he felt safe in the arms of both of them, Techno’s embrace and the circle of his dark feathered wings bringing comfort to his weary heart.
“Was it Wilbur again?” Techno asked, breaking the silence, and Philza hummed an affirmative, the quiet returning after a moment. Techno knew how Philza felt about nightmares and how little he wanted to discuss them. After a while, if he felt like he needed to, he would come to Techno with two cups of tea and some soup, and they’d talk and cry and laugh for hours, but for now they simply sat in each other’s presence and basked in the inaction of existence.
"Thanks again mate," Philza uttered after a while, and he felt Techno smile into his shoulder.
"It's no trouble at all, really," he started, and was immediately interrupted.
"I know how much you hate that form," Philza argued in a hushed voice. "It's too small and too vulnerable and there aren't any opposable thumbs that you could use to hold a sword."
Techno laughed quietly at that. "True," he conceded. "But you're forgetting something there." He leaned back a bit, and pressed his and Philza's foreheads together, bumping them firmly but gently. Philza had seen families of Piglins do it countless times on his trips to the nether, reserved only for the most treasured people in their lives. He closed his eyes and savored the moment so it would last for a thousand years to come. "For you? For you, the world, Phil."