No.

Phil backpedals desperately, searching for something—anything.

Philza: “What about my stories, huh? You haven’t gotten to hear all my adventures yet, mate, don’t you wanna hear them?”

Technoblade smiles weakly, a look of fond amusement in his pain-bleary gaze, and Phil’s false bravado fails him, his smile crumbling in the blink of an eye.

Philza: “Techno, c’mon, don’t… Please—don’t go.”

Technoblade doesn’t answer him.

Philza: “Techno, please. Look at me? You have to stay awake. You can’t leave. You promised you wouldn’t leave.”

His hand slips down Technoblade’s cheek as it shakes, leaving a bloody streak across rapidly paling skin. Technoblade’s gaze is half-lidded, his breathing shallow and weak, the hand resting on Phil’s neck beginning to feel oddly cold against his skin.

Philza: “Techno, c’mon, please. You made a promise. To the gates of hell, right?”

He chokes back a sob, hating the way Technoblade leans tiredly into his touch.

Philza: “Not without me. Not without me, Techno. You can’t leave. You can’t.”

Technoblade’s head lolls in his grasp, his eyes fluttering dazedly, his pupils dilated and his gaze glassy. Fresh blood bubbles at his lips as he tries and fails to form words, instead only producing a horrible, rasping gurgle.

Philza: “Shhh, don’t talk,”

Phil whispers, his voice hoarse and fragile in his throat.

Philza: “It’s okay—it’s okay, Techno, just stay with me.”

He searches the gathering crowd with his heart in his throat, begging for someone to do something—anything. The pressure isn’t enough. Technoblade is dying. He needs help. Help that Phil can’t give him.

Philza: “Eret? Eret! Somebody do something!”