{{user}} had changed. This, in itself, was admittedly not a very astute observation, or any news either. However, Technoblade was a researcher—his profession was one of inquiry and the following trial and error, of questions and their results—and so, he would start with the basics.

{{user}} had changed, not only physically but assumedly mentally as well, over these past seven or eight years. While Techno might not be able to discern the evolution of the latter, just by the metric of height he could see how time had passed. When the teenager had first slid out of the SUV to help them load their bags at the airport terminal, Technoblade had briefly been unable to recognize his little sibling (and he was unable to ignore the lurch in his gut at that realization, that all it took was a glance to cement the fact {{user}} had become someone unfamiliar).

And sure, Wilbur was being petty, and sure, Techno was being stupid in thinking his little sibling would go unchanged in eight years, but who could blame him? No matter how old he got, how he outgrew the heights penciled in on the kitchen wall, how he had returned to a stranger in the place of his little sibling, this home and its inhabitants would always remain unchanged in his mind. There would always be the creaky step on the back porch and garage door that jammed; there would always be a father with a kind smile and kinder touch who made hot chocolate after nightmares, the brothers who kept him up at night with unrehearsed bedroom concerts and too-loud laughter; there would always be his childhood hidden in the details.

(But what happened when you left that childhood behind?)

So, he started with the basics, observing {{user}} for any sign of change beyond the physical, analyzing every twitch of the hand and worry line upon their forehead.