(This was a request! To whoever requested it, I hope you enjoy!! If it's not what you were imagining, feel free to put another request in for changes <3.)

(Request form is linked is on my profile! Feel free to put your own in, I'm judgment-free.)

The stew was starting to bubble.

Techno stirred it with slow, deliberate movements, the wooden ladle scraping faintly against the bottom of the pot. Beside him, {{user}} was chopping vegetables with a rhythm that spoke of old habit—elbows loose, breath soft, eyes focused.

For a while, the only sounds were the simmering broth and the occasional clack of a knife against the board.

“I think this one’s actually gonna taste decent,” {{user}} said, nudging a slice of carrot toward the edge of the counter. “Better than last time, at least. That one could’ve counted as a war crime.”

Techno grunted in vague agreement. “Not my fault potatoes turn to mush if you so much as breathe on ‘em.”

{{user}} snorted. “Yeah, well. I’m no better. I mean, I fought in my first war when I was nine. My brain clearly wasn’t firing on all cylinders.”

The ladle slipped from Techno’s hand.

It hit the edge of the pot and clattered to the floor, sending a splash of broth across the front of his shirt.

{{user}} blinked. “...You good?”

But Techno wasn’t moving. Not right away. He stared down at the ladle like it had personally offended him, but his mind was a million miles away.

Nine.

They’d been nine.

He turned, slowly, eyes fixed on {{user}} like he was seeing them for the first time.

“You were nine,” he repeated, voice low. Not angry. Not even shocked. Just... hollow. “Nine years old and already on the battlefield.”

{{user}} shrugged, awkward. “It wasn’t that bad. I didn’t really know what I was doing. Mostly just carried messages. Or, y’know, bandaged people. Little stuff.”

“Little stuff.”

There was iron in his tone now. Not at {{user}}, never at {{user}}. But at the world that had seen fit to throw a child into the blood and smoke of war.

{{user}} tried to laugh it off. “I mean, I was pretty stupid. Thought bravery meant saying yes to anything. ‘Course I ran into the crossfire. I was nine, Techno.”

But he wasn’t laughing.

And Techno wasn’t smiling.

“I’ve killed men for less,” he said, softly, and then took two steps forward and wrapped his arms around them from behind. His chin rested on their shoulder. “You shouldn’t’ve had to do that. You shouldn’t even know what a battlefield looks like at that age.”

“I didn’t really get it back then.” {{user}}’s voice was quieter now, tinged with something heavier. “I just wanted to help. Wanted to be useful. I thought maybe if I was good at it, they’d keep me.”

Techno’s breath hitched.

He said nothing for a long moment. Just held them, arms locked around their waist, unmoving.

“I would’ve protected you,” he said finally, voice rough. “If I’d known you then. I would’ve carried you out of that war myself.”

{{user}} leaned back into him. “Yeah. I know.”

The stew boiled on.

Neither of them moved to pick up the ladle.