Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The night after everything went down, Phil sits down on the floor of Techno’s bases and tries to preen his wings.

It’s been hours since the “final battle” per say, but everything is hazy on Phil’s mind. He barely knows exactly where he is, the cold stone under him barely grounding him in reality. He thinks Techno had taken him here, showing around what he had done before saying he had to go grab something before leaving, telling him to make himself at home in the tiny base.

His clothes are dirty with dust, rubble and dried blood, the sleeves almost rigid from when the dark liquid had dried out. 

Phil can’t exactly remember when he sat down, but he can’t find it in himself to move. He flexes his feet, the claws opening and closing slowly, but Phil cannot feel it as his own movement. He touches his leg, feeling every bump and ridge of the skin that slowly connect his raptor-like feet to human skin. The texture is nice, and Phil spends a good time just tracing the skin up and down absently, mind almost blank.

He feels… disconnected. 

It’s hard to concentrate, thoughts slipping through his conscience as if sand between his hands. He feels as if he’s gripping at air, not managing to focus on what he needs. After a long while, Phil blinks and shudders, feeling cold from how long he spent on the floor. He thinks about getting up, but quickly discards the thought, not feeling like doing anything.

His communicator pings, the tiny sound reverberating through the underground base. Shifting to the side, Phil takes it out and stares at the screen for a long time, trying to focus on the words in front of him. It’s a message from the Admin of the server, a clipped sentence reminding him to trim his wings since flying is disable in here.

Phil stares for a long time at the screen, and leaves the communicator on the floor gently. He stares at the chests lining the walls and wonders if a shear could be there, but he doesn’t want to move, so he drops his gaze and looks at his wings, grey and black feathers, dirty from all that had happened today.

He stares at the splatters of blood at the end of his flight feathers, the dark maroon (almost brown) practically blending in with the feathers. 

His head is filled with static as he stares at the… 

His head feels filled with static and Phil closes his eyes, bringing a shaky hand to his face.

When did his hands start shaking?

He blinks confused, breath hitching when he stares at his hands 

Stained with his blood, it’s all his fault, what did he do?!

When he blinks again, his hands are clean, the dark nails shining in the light of the torches.

His throat feels dry, something heavy stuck in there, making it difficult to breathe. He lets his hand fall, and tries to remember what he was doing.

Wings... wings right?

He lifts his hands again, and, almost like in automatic, he starts preening through his feathers, aligning the ones that had gotten out of place in the fight against his- against the Wither. He tugs one of his alula out, the pain piercing through the blank haze that had befallen him, making him feel the most alive he has felt in a while.

He stares at the grey feather, small, burned and dirty. It is a different contrast from his normal feathers, and it stands out brightly against them. He stares, and stares, and stares, for a long time. His head hurts from looking at it, and he turns around, staring back at the wing. The place where he had tug out the feather has a small bead of blood forming there, having tugged it out so harshly. It probably wasn’t ready to come out, he wonders distantly.

The haze is slowly filling him up again, and Phil narrows his eyes. He doesn’t like the haze, not really. Everything feels so de- so blank, so distant, it feels wrong.

His hand moves automatically, and tugs another feather out, chasing the blankness off.

Motivated, Phil shifts and focuses on the task, continuing to preen through his feathers with renewed effort, moving them into place and tugging out the ones too far ruined. It is better that way, he thinks, taking the feathers out of his misery, as they are so far damaged they cannot continue on.

Soon the floor is littered with the burned feathers, and he stares at them for a long time. It feels too soon, he cannot have finished preening, he thinks, frowning. 

He makes another round through his feathers, taking extra time to shift slowly through the primaries and secondaries. He takes the damaged feathers out, but before he can process it he has finished already.

He thinks about leaving it be, but he wants something to occupy his mind and something shifts unease inside him at the thought of leaving anything out of place.

He starts again, this time going through the covers, sharp nails delicately moving each tiny feather, tugging everything that is wrong out. More and more feathers continue to accumulate at the floor, as he goes through both of his wings, one, two, three, four times in a row, from the outer edges towards the inside.

After the fifth time he stops, and blinks, watching the small trickles of blood staining the feathers he has left. He brings a wing closer to his face, ignoring the twinge of pain from the uncomfortable position, as he stares at the limb.

He took the feathers out too strongly, as now the skin underneath is bleeding sluggishly from the pores he tug out, staining the grey feathers of his covers, making his hands itch with the urge to take them out, not wanting them to dirty all the wing all over again.

His hands catch his attention and he flinches, as he stares at them, the fingerprints tacky with blood, staining up to his palm, deep in the sharp nails and thoroughly staining the ridges of the skin. His breath hitches, as he continues to stare, to stare, to stare, to stare.

You’re my-!

He blinks harshly, tears dripping down his face, as he curls around his hands.

Why is he this emotional? 

It’s been a long time since he had over-preened, having left the habit ages ago and having found better coping methods for the anxiety that had always overcame his teenager self.

He scrubs at his eyes with his wrists, tears never stopping. Why can’t he stop crying?

A rush of anger overcomes him, so strongly it leaves him out of beath. His hands curl into fists, the nails digging into his palms as he tenses all over, wings flaring out and toes curling against the stone floor, a horrible scratching sound resulting from the claws against the stone.

He wants to yell, to scream against the uncaring walls that surround him. 

How’s that verse coming up so-?

“STOP!” He screams, raw and angry, tears dripping  pit pit pit against the floor. 

His head feels overwhelmed, static growing louder and louder, drowning out his own thoughts and heartbeat. Everything feels out of place, his body too small for him, limbs feeling like a strange addition, not supposed to be there.

He scoots back, and flinches away at the horrible scriiiich , body turning away as he looks at what made the sound.

It’s a diamond sword, the blade shiny with enchantments, that is strapped at his waist. He stares in horror at it, a rush of adrenaline overtaking him as he stares at the sword that…

“MY GREAT UNFINISHED SYMPHONY!”

At the sword

“If I can’t have it, then no one will!”

At the

“Kill me, do it. KILL ME PHIL!”

At

“DO IT, LOOK AT THEM, THEY WANT YOU TO!”

“What have I done?” He whispers in the suddenly too big, too silent room. “What have I done?! ”

He stares at the sword he used to kill his son.

“No matter what you’ve done, I can’t… Please, don’t ask this of me”

He killed Wilbur. He killed Wilbur…

He killed Wilbur, he killed Wilbur, he killed Wilbur, he killed Wilbur, he killed Wilbur, he killed Wilbur, he killed Wilbur, he killed Wilbur, he killed Wilbur, he killed Wilbur, he killed Wilbur, he killed Wilbur, he killed Wilbur, he killed Wilbur.

Philza keens, doubling over, as sobs erupt from him, shaking and feeling lightheaded. He keens, a mournful, anguished sound, as he curls and looks at the stained blade he used to kill his own son with.

His wings shake, flapping around and hitting against the stone in strong bursts, in what is sure to hurt later, but Phil cannot think about that right now, as he stares at the blood in the sword, tears dripping out of his eyes as he cries and cries.

He picks the offending weapon, the blade practically shaking out of his hands, as he curls around it, sobbing his heart out. His head fills too empty and too full, his thoughts silenced as he only thinks of his son, of Wilbur, who he had stabbed, who he watched bled to death, in a cold uncaring room, surrounded by the evidence of his instability.

His gaze slips to his wings, the feathers all fluffed up, blood shining at the light of the torch. He remembers, suddenly, how Wilbur would make him sit down, take a breath from all of his projects, and help him preen the big wings, soft hands moving with care each feather into place.

“I really like them” Wilbur had said, as they stood in the low light of the kitchen, Phil practically collapsed against the chair as he enjoyed the preening “I’m really glad you let me help you with these”

“Of course” Phil had whispered, eyes closed as he enjoyed the peace “I trust you a lot Wils”

Wilbur had laughed, caringly brushing back Phil’s hair “Thank you Dadza”

He rolls his eyes and gently smacks Wilbur's head with one of his wings, smiling at the squak the other let out. If a part of him got warmer at the nickname, he didn't say anything at all.

In a fit, Phil brandishes the sword and cuts through at of his primary feathers, the blade effectively severing them, searing away the ends with the Fire Aspect. He lets the sword tumble to the ground as he grabs at a handful of feathers and tears them out, unflinching against the pain.

He grabs and grabs and grabs, the bloodied pitiful things falling in clumps around him. If anyone were to see him now, they would think twice before approaching, as a manic energy seemingly filled Phil as he tore into his wings, before grabbing a handful of his tail feathers and ripping them out.

Once satisfied, Phil just curls around and continues to mourn the son he had willingly murdered.

Chapter Text

Techno comes back to a silent base, hands full of fireworks and potions, eager to show Phil how much stuff he has, how rich he is, stories and anecdotes ready on his tongue to be shared.

When he drops into the water, he gets off and looks around, frowning when he can’t see the aviar hybrid anywhere. Did he leave? Techno had told him he would come back soon, but when he checked his private chat, the messages were unseen. He doubted Phil would have left, at least, without any notice. Dumping the materials in a random chest, he turns around, confused.

Taking his sword out, Techno steps into the base, the click of his heels against the stone the only sound in it. Did someone get in? Phil had armour, he tried to remember, last time he had seen him, and he also had a sword on him, but what if someone had come and killed him?!

He paces around, anxious, tail swaying briskly from side to side, as he stalked through every corner, worried that someone had managed to get into the base while he went back to Manberg (L’manburg?) to grab whatever was left in the battlefield. 

He checked once again his communicator, and relaxed a little at the lack of death message. Where was Philza? He checked the main room, not finding any trace of anyone. He stopped in the enchantment room, staring at the feathers littering the floor. He crouched and took one into his hands, the hooves delicately holding the fragil feather, stained with dust, soot and what he thought was blood.

He raised his head and inhaled deeply, frown deepening when he caught the heavy stench of blood in the air, alongside something vaguely saline, all surrounding the usually calm scent of his pseudo-brother. Did someone attack Phil? He doubted it, but nonetheless he maintained his hand over his sword handle, as he descended into the “secret” storage he had. Blackstone surrounded him, as he went down the ladder, staring at the big storage room.

He looked over, tensing as he saw all the feathers covering the floor, blood splatters alongside them. He scoured over the room, puzzled over how he couldn’t find Phil. The scent was stronger than ever here, so Phil had to be in the room, but he couldn’t find him. Silently, Techno once again cursed his piglin nature, the mob eyesight was super bad, and it was definitely not helping right now.

He turned around, determined to go grab some torches when a flash of something grey caught his eyes. 

Ah, there he was.

Curled in the corner of the room, between the armour stands and the chests, Phil was. The avian was tightly curled into a ball, wings surrounding him. The feet were curled up, claws flexing and unflexing as if in a trance, scratching against the stone. 

Hesitantly, Techno approached him, boots going click click click against the blackstone floor. More feathers were there, clumps of soft covers stained with, what he thought, was Phil’s blood. The hybrid was spaced out, eyes almost glazed over as tears fell down his cheeks, hands tightly holding a stained diamond sword against his chest. Techno was almost surprised he hadn’t cut himself with how tight he was gripping it, the only sign of injuries the poor abused wings. 

He crouched slowly in front of Phil, making sure to make noise as he moved, until he was eye to eye with him. He tapped one of his hooves against the floor, holding himself steady at the flinch the other let at the noise. Startled eyes looked at him, skin so pale Techno doubted for a moment he was actually looking at someone alive.

“Phil” He called, grunting softly at the tremors the other let at his voice. “Phil, what happened?”

The hybrid just shook his head, curling more against the sword he cradled, the other silent as he hyperventilated. Techno clicked his tongue, mentally chastising himself for leaving the other alone.

He should have seen this coming.

Slowly, telegraphing all of his movements, he took one of Phil’s hands into his own, not flinching at how the hand closed tightly against his, claws digging into the coarse fur covering him. Slowly, he brought the hand up to his chest, breathing slowly in and out, waiting for the other to copy him. Once satisfied at how Phil had stopped hyperventilating, he took the sword out of his grip, letting it on the floor, the other hand too and slowly tugged the other upwards, shifting his stance so he could grip gently his arms, helping him stand up.

The aviar let his wings drop, the limbs dragging against the stone as Techno slowly moved him towards the other corridor, flicking a hidden lever and blinking to adjust at the sudden light of his hidden bedroom. He dragged the other in, closing behind him, as he moved the other towards the messy nest of furs and leathers in one of the corners.

He put his hands on Phil’s shoulders, making him sit down in the bed, as he scurried around, bringing a rag, bandages and a water bucket. Slowly, he nudged Phil into extending his wings, taking gently the limb and carefully passing the wet rag through the remaining feathers, cleaning them and making sure to take all the dirt off. He saw Phil move and quietly stopped his hands, stopping him from preening the other wing. Frowning, he climbed into the bed, kneeling as he accommodated to clean the wings. 

After a few seconds, he deposited his tail into Phil’s hands, letting him play with it to stop him from plucking the remaining feathers. Grunting satisfied, he continued on, cleaning both wings and bandaging loosely around the worst parts. Once clean, he very very carefully put the feathers into place, hooves clicking as he quietly guided them, practically petting the wings. Satisfied, he stood up, slowly tugging his tail out of Phil’s hands and going towards a single small chest he had in the corner, bringing back with him some shears.

“Gonna have to cut through them” He warned low, eyes focused as he extended the wing and carefully trimmed the edges of the feathers, fixing what the hybrid had done to his limbs before. He did the same with the tail feathers, making sure to only cut the necessary and no more, not wanting to get too close to the skin, taking care to not graze any pin feathers he could possibly have.

Now, he grabbed Phil’s hand gently, a low whine building up on his throat as he stared at the slashes he had gotten from gripping the sword tightly. With so much care, he cleaned them gently, hissing when he saw the burns from the Fire Aspect enchantment at the edges of the injuries. If someone were to look at them now, he doubted they would recognize him, the normally bloodthirsty piglin kneeling on the floor, as he treated with so much care the other, as if it were something fragile, something to love.

They would not be wrong, he thought distantly, bandaging the hands, as Phil rested his head against his shoulder. Phil was someone so dear to him, Techno wouldn’t hesitate to bring the whole server to its knees if Phil demanded it so. The avian was the first player the piglin had been close to in years , the hybrid proudly helping him whenever his more piglin and feral side started getting out of control.

He remembers the first time they met, Techno, a young teenager, eager to compete in the Monday Competitions (his first time going out of the Hypixel servers), to meet people and hopefully make friends. It had been the tenth week, the piglin already having grown jaded from the interactions, all hopes of making friends crushed and long left in the dust. He had gotten to the waiting hub, frown fixed on his face, shoulders hunched, as he waited for his teammate to arrive.

The hybrid had practically appeared out of nowhere, dropping beside him laughing, wings stretched in the air, as he smiled and extended a hand, animal features proudly on display. He remembers feeling blindsided at how optimistic and funny his teammate was, the blond always listening to him intently and laughing at his jokes every time; making him feel so comfortable that in less than an hour they were laughing as if they were old friends. After the competition had finished, Techno had held the other out, voice full of nerves as he hesitantly asked the other if, maybe, they could hang out sometime? 

The blonde had agreed instantly, black and grey wing covering him and bringing him into a side hug, and Techno had never regretted it since. The aviar was easily, one of his most trusted people, a proud member of his internal sounder. They had spent so much time together, Wilbur soon joining them, the hybrid practically raising Techno into the man he was today, helping him train and giving him tips on how to attack. Tommy soon joined them, the loud teenager a fixture in their weird family at the time of SMP Earth, the kid running around all the time, annoying the piglin into sparring with him, or singing at the top of his lungs with Wilbur.

He remembers Phil one day confiding in him, a smile present as he stared out into the garden, where Wilbur and Tommy were joking around. 

“It makes me really happy, the fact that you stayed and let me in '' Phil had laughed at his embarrassed fase, hugging the piglin even though he whined. “You’re family kid, don’t forget it”

Shaking his head, Techno focused back onto what he was doing, storing the memories back.

Satisfied, the piglin grunted and nudged the other up, guiding him towards the corner and helping him change his dirty clothes, the avian just following blankly. Techno was pretty sure he was disassociated. Once happy at the change, he guided him back into the nest, quickly changing himself, taking practically all of his jewelry out, leaving only the three rings around his tusks and the ring, and curling around the other, holding the hybrid as he started crying again, curled around his chest.

He didn’t fault Phil for mourning, he never could. Wilbur was family, and he doubted Phil had let himself actually process what had happened, the day so hectic and chaotic, Techno himself had got a headache if he thought too much about today. The only thing the piglin could do now was hold his brother, support him through the worst, at his side, as the blonde had always been before for him. 

Don’t take Techno wrong, he would miss Wilbur dearly. But Techno had already mourned.

When he had joined the server, following Tommy through the dense forest, having come to the call for help from his brothers, Techno had been there with determination, ready to help them in any way he could. But then, he had gotten to Pogtopia and had stared at Wilbur, dead brown eyes staring unflinching into his, and only had one thought.

This is no brother of mine.

And the longer the hours were together, the more and more Techno realized that his brother was dead, replaced by this cold uncaring broken piece that would try to smile and joke like Wilbur, a ghost of what he once was.

Techno didn’t say anything, didn’t confront him, didn’t comfort him, didn’t ask Tommy what had happened. The piglin just had nodded, started the work on the potato farm, and collapsed in a corner, hand grasped tightly against his tusk as he swallowed back the whines, knowing deeply inside of him, that his brother was dead, that his brother was gone, and that soon, this false copy of him would follow.

And Techno didn’t do anything.

He distantly wondered if that made him worse than Phil.

The other had fallen asleep, wings thrown over his shoulder, curled against him. The piglin let him, burrowing under the comforting weight of the wing, one hand absently tugging at his tusk, hoove tracing the gold ring in it. He took it out and admired it, something rough stuck in his throat as he stared at the gift.

It had been Wilbur's, the small guitar crudely carved into one of the sides a clear sign of it. The ring was almost too small, uneven in it’s edges, a clear sign of a beginner’s work, but Techno couldn’t care about it. He remembers how the brunette had asked him once about his jewelry, curious at all the earrings and golden cuffs he carried around. It had been almost half a year since they were living together in Phil’s house, having decided to spend some quality time with the older.

Phil had gone out, leaving them with some food, having stated he would probably stay out late searching for Nethers-knows-what. Techno had been loungin in the couch, head tipped back as WIlbur strummed his guitar, the soft melody filling in the quiet silence of the home.

“Why so much gold anyway?” Wilbur had asked, in between the melodies, as he tried figuring out which note was next “I thought Mob players weren’t affected by, like, their mob behaviour so much?”

Techno had rolled his eyes, sinking further into the couch “First, that’s stupid. Second, it’s like, uh, a cultural thing”

“Cultural?”

“Uh-huh”

“Don’t uh-huh me! Tell me, that sounds super cool! I didn’t know piglins had a culture!”Techno huffed, but he sat up on the coach, tail lazily swaying behind him.

“I spent the first years of my life on a Sounder” (“Sounder?”) “A pack of piglins, Will-I-Am. Gold jewelry is gifted after the piglin does something worth of being known, like, uh, i don’t know, conquesting a bastion or managing to kill a Ghast. They’re like, trophies i guess? But they are also gifted, they are normally hand crafted or are like the most precious thing of the hoard okay?, if a piglin leaves the sounder by their most trusted packmates. It denotes a big devotion between them”

“Like, partners?”

“Ugh, no” Techno shudders “More like, uh… Not family, but something similar. It’s people you trust with your life, no matter what”

“A family!”

“No! We, uh, Piglins don’t have a concept of nuclear family or whatever you humans have. All the shoats, (“shoats?!?”) Babies! All the babies are raised by the community, they don’t have a single parent or anything like that. We are a community oriented species, we don’t have any of those “governments” or like “hierarchies” alright?”

“That explains why you are so opposed to the government,” Wilbur laughed.

“Wh- Will It’s stupid!! Why should a bunch of elite people who do not know about the struggles of the common rule and decide how they should live!?!? It doesn’t make any sense! Why should they have so much power, huh!? Why!?!??! It doesn’t make sense! It only leads to corruption!”

“Don’t be so exaggerate”

“EXAGGERATE?! WILBUR I’LL-”

And Techno had gone into a long rant, Wilbur only laughing and spurring him on…Those had been good times. Some days after, Wilbur had approached him, as he napped in the afternoon sun, hands cupped as he fidgeted in place, before presenting him the ring.

Techno can almost see himself, flustered and honoured, holding the ring in trembling hands as he quietly thanked his brother. 

He gulped, rubbing his eyes, and breathing deeply, trying to not think too much about it. He couldn’t let himself fall into the memories, couldn’t let himself grief right now.

He had his time, weeks before when he had just joined the server, standing besides Tommy and mourning his brother, as he stood there just beside him. He had cried enough, he had mourned enough, he couldn’t let it cloud his mind, not right now especially. He sighed and closed his eyes, breathing in the calming scent of his brother of his sounder , relaxing as he extended a leg out and put out the light, the hoove instantly making contact with the torch and snuffing it out.

Tomorrow would be another day, making preparations to tear down the government his other half of the sounder had installed in his presence, checking where the corpse was and to take care of the grave and preparations, not trusting anyone else to honour the body of his brother, not after how quickly his so called friends had chased him out of his home. Tomorrow, he would stand proud in netherite, sword ready to kill, ready to save what was left of his broken packmates of the corruption it laid ahead.

Tomorrow would be another day.

For now, he huddled closer and whined, burrowing under the comforting weight of his brother, safe in his nest from the outside world. For now, he enjoyed the little peace he had, ignoring the cold that seeped through the room, as if something was inside.

For now, he closed his eyes and slept, dreaming of long summer afternoons in the garden, his sounder safe and happy besides him, of his brother’s smiles, of Wilbur’s laughs, of Tommy’s innocence and Tubbo’s peace. 

For now, he enjoys what’s left of the broken peace this server tore out of his sounder.

Chapter Text

Tommy wakes up with a scream suffocated in his throat, heartbeat hammering out of his chest.

He looks around, taking in the room he had fallen asleep in, and slowly relaxes, the only sound besides himself the soft snoring of Tubbo on the couch. When he looks out of the window, it is early morning, sun barely peeking in between the leaves of the trees. The brushes of the nightmare that had gripped his head slowly leave, washed away by the beginning of the day.

Tommy breaths in, breaths out. Heartbeats calms and then he gets out of the chair he had fallen asleep in, throwing the blanket out of on top of his legs. It is cold here, in the bakery, but it isn’t like Tommy can go and put on more clothes, when all of his stuff is back at Pogtopia (He doubts he will ever dare to go back, not again). 

Biting back a groan, he rubs at his temples, the last tendrils of his nightmare slowly fading out, the sound of the ocean outside a calming lullaby for his startled mind; he feels so tired, a bone ache deep in his body, as if he has been awake for a millenia, just now barely brushing the sweet elusive hold of sleep. 

He hears Tubbo shuffle around, and he stares at them, watching the brunette just curl tighter into a ball, around the small blanket he had. Slowly getting up, Tommy gets close enough and drapes over his own blanket, knowing the coldness of the room was probably making Tubbo’s burns hurt more than necessary.

With a soft patter of footsteps, Tommy slowly slinks outside, taking care to not wake up anyone in the bakery, the floor practically covered in sleeping people.

Once outside he breathes in the sharp calming scent of sea water, the ocean breeze chasing away the last of his sleep away. Enjoying the chills, Tommy sits down by the docks, socks off and besides them, rolling up the pants to above the ankles, dipping his feet in the cold water.

Closing his eyes, Tommy sighs and enjoys this small piece of peace that momentarily exists, letting the ocean lull him back into calmness, bringing him back to old memories of running around, laughing with Tubbo as the now-president tried to build, hopelessly getting distracted all the time.

If he opens his eyes he can almost, almost, trick himself into believing he’s back into those old days, and soon Niki will wake up and open her door, inviting him in and he will stay there, in the kitchen, helping the woman bake bread to feed L’manburg as Fundy wakes up and comes around, bringing more materials for the cakes they would undoubtedly end up baking and sharing.

And then his brother would come down and laugh, bringing drinks and helping carry the food back into the houses in the heart of the city, morning sun bathing him in an angelic halo, and later they would be at the camarvan, Tommy sitting on the stairs of the vehicle while the other would climb up and fiddle with his guitar, singing out into the air, L’Manburg all the more lovely because of it.

But it’s all in the past now, isn’t it?

Because he opens his eyes, and the world is silent, silent in the way a catastrophe makes it, birds gone, the whole universe still, with the only sound of the ocean to distract him from this now dead place. 

Because he could turn back, and the bakery would stay there, windows boarded up, the glass still hanging around the floor, door ajar, cobwebs littering the ceiling. The kitchen would be filled with dust, chests with only rotting ingredients in them, and it would stay dead and silent, as it has been for the past months, a shadow of what it once was. And no Niki would come up, since she’s sleeping heavily, after getting injured in the explosions, and no Fundy would come around, because he practically passed out, fur burned and slashed, with messy bandages covering the injuries.

And no Wilbur would come up, because he was still in that room, his corpse rotting away since yesterday, when Phil killed him.

But for a moment, it’s nice to pretend, so Tommy closes his eyes again and lets the sound of the ocean wash away his worries for now. He loses himself in the blank noise of the water, and stays there, until footsteps nearing where he gets closer and closer. 

He opens his eyes, but nobody is around.

Nobody has been at his side for a long time.

When Tommy becomes conscious once again of the time, the sun has peaked over the trees, the soft sunrays bathing his face in its gentle embrace, as if it were the hands of a caretaker, brushing away the cold eating him inside out, soft hands brushing away the dark mix of emotions that live hiding in his chest.

He can hear people moving around behind him, the bakery slowly coming to life as people wake up and start the day. He’s so tired, only wanting to sleep and stay here, in the docks, in this small frozen pocket of time forever; but he hears the pans moving, the slow crackle of the fire on the stove, and he sighs, getting up and making his way inside, socks loosely held in his hands as he enters the threshold and bathes in the warm that now fills the bakery.

Fundy is awake, his bushy tail barely moving as he goes from place to place, the smell of pancakes slowly permeating the air. The fox player holds himself gingerly, stopping every few seconds to put a hand against his side, where one of Schlatt’s bottles managed to and a lucky hit.

Tommy silently goes over, and starts putting water on the kettle, as Fundy scoots a little and gives him space, the black fluffy ears practically moving everywhere as the fox obviously tries to catch everything that is happening, every small movement, every minuscule sound. It confuses Tommy all for a single second, until he remembers that up until two days ago, Fundy had spent every moment in the enemy's company, constantly watching out for the smallest sign of his safety being compromised. He lowers his eyes and lets the other be, willing to give him at least this.

They work silently together, Tommy bringing the plates to collect the pancakes, as Fundy properly takes over the kitchen, shooing the teenager to the stools at the counter, making him sit down. Soon, a cup of tea is presented in front of him, cinnamon and honey swirling around the water, tea leaves trapped inside a small wired cage in the form of a tiny salmon. It makes something in Tommy warm, and he cracks a grateful smile, sipping the hot drink and letting the scents wash over him, chasing away the last of the cold.

“Good, huh?” The fox smiles, patting Tommy’s head and going back to cooking, reanimated, if he were to guide himself for the now gentle sway of the ginger tail. It is hard to imagine that just a few years ago, Fundy was just a small kit, following him around everywhere he went. 

It makes something in Tommy feel old, and he furiously stamps that down, remembering that Mob Players normally age twice as fast than humans, it is normal that Fundy is now taller, older (at least physically, as far as he understands). He instead stares at his mug, focusing on savouring the familiar tea. He almost can’t remember where he once tasted this before, and he wrecks his mind, trying to search for the memory.

“It’s Wils” Fundy piped up, after sitting down and passing him a plate of steaming pancakes “He used to make it for me all the time whenever I got sad”

“How did yo—?”

“You were staring at that tea as if it held the answers to the universe” The fox laughs, a sad and quiet thing, so packed of emotions, Tommy gets dizzy from only trying to identify them “It always cheered me up”

“...He did have a habit of making people feel better” He muttered, stabbing at the pancakes.

“He did” Fundy nodded, sipping from his own mug, fur so haggard, he looked as if he hadn’t slept in forever “He always did”

Tommy stays silent after that, not knowing what he could now say.

Sorry your dad died? He was also my brother, I know he acted like a piece of shit at the end but I’m sure in a somewhat fucked up way he cared?

No, that would be stupid.

They stayed in silence after that, each focused on their own food, only the distant mutter of the ocean to break the monotony. 

Slowly, the other temporary inhabitants start to wake up, trickling in, everyone grabbing a plate of food and just sitting down, small and hushed conversations arising between the small breaks of silence.

Tommy closed his eyes and tipped his head back, focusing on the soft mutter of Tubbo’s voice, deep in conversation with Karl, while a few feet away he heard Nikki whispering to Fundy, Quackity intervening from time to time to pipe in.

It made something in Tommy’s heart shatter, that this is the closest he has felt to home in his stay this few past months in the server.

It is past midday when Tommy finally leaves the bakery, accompanied in each side, with Tubbo leaned against his left, and Quackity’s voice at his right.

It hasn’t escaped his notice how everyone either avoids him and Fundy, or stuck very close to them, practically not letting them go anywhere without supervision. He understands it, on an intellectual level, but it makes the ache in his heart grow louder and louder, angry flames flicking at the edges of his mind whenever he catches their worried eyes.

They walk around the edges, no one that is willing to get close to the epicenter of yesterday, until, annoyed, Tommy just turns around and curses loudly, practically jogging as he walks very fast towards the other side, ignoring the panicked voices of Tubbo and Quackity. 

“Come on, it can’t be that ba—” Tommy stops in his tracks and stares, stares, stares, at the crater where his country once stood.

It isn’t as deep as it felt yesterday, everything is still uprooted, dirt and stone covering everything, the edges crumbling a little, the rocks just going crack crack crack as it bashes against the walls until it reaches the bottom of the place.

It looks nothing like his L’manburg. It looks every bit like L’Manburg.

 He stands there and stares, eyes registering each rock, each wood beam, each debris that litters the place, mentally identifying where once every building stood once upon a time. Tubbo stands silent at his side, mouth pulled into a tight line, as Quackity trembles beside them, the only sound a gasp as he registers what's in front of him.

They stand there, in silence, until Tubbo just, sort of squares up his shoulders, and begins to descend the hill they are on, Tommy soon following behind, inseparable as they always have been.

They walk silently into the epicenter of it all, Quackity bringing up the rear, as they walk through the ghost of their country. Everything is silent, as if in fear of disturbing whatever leftover peace there is, and so they only whisper, even though they are the only ones there as far as they know. Tubbo stops sometimes, voice almost tight as he points at a particular rock or hole, sounding fragile as he talks about what once stood there.

Soon they reach what once was the podium, only half of a hill parted open, spilling it’s dirty secrets open to the world from the explosions, only a small room in the middle of it. Tommy stands there, in front of their small group, and remembers what happened yesterday, as he traces with his eyes the signs that surround from wall to wall the place, a small, scorched chair in the middle, as the only survivor of this massacre.

Quackity tries to move him, voice gentle as he tries coaxing the teenager to look away, but Tommy stares stubbornly ahead, until the mexican sighs and just puts a hand on his shoulder, Tubbo grasping his hand tightly.

In the light of the sun, the blood coating the floor of that cursed room looks almost brown.

It is silent.

It is late at night, when everyone is once again at the bakery, getting ready to sleep, that Tommy startles, as he hears in the distance the sound of a crackling fire. No one is outside, and he, Tubbo and Quackity had been the only ones out there so there shouldn’t be a fire. He looks around, but nobody seems to have noticed, everyone acts as normal, with the exception of Fundy. The fox hybrid pauses a second, ears standing straight, before he shrugs and continues on with helping spread around the blankets and pillows for everyone.

Tommy stands there, at the door, ears straining as he tries hearing once again the crackling of a fire, but silence is the only thing that answers, like an old friend. He frowns, but leaves it be, as they help Tubbo slowly sit down, helping the other teenager in re-bandaging his injuries. Tommy had been one of the lucky ones, having died and respawned almost intact. Everyone else had stayed alive, and at this point it was too late for respawn, so they were stuck with gauzes, bandages and potions, dealing with injuries of something that should have never happened.

Everything Tommy has to show that something happened yesterday is a faint scar, looping around his arm up to his mid-chest, a ragged line that would soon fade in the coming weeks. There is nothing physically wrong with him, so he ignores the phantom pain and sucks it up, helping everyone around get ready for sleep.

Soon, everything is done, and Tommy stares at the ceiling, wrapped in a thin blanket as he hears the muffled sound of the ocean try to lull him to sleep, the marine breeze sneaking through the broken windows and caressing his hair in the silent room. He stays there, for minutes or hours, until, knowing he won’t be able to fall asleep, slowly gets up and pads out of the bakery, closing gently the door behind him, breathing in the sharp smell of the salt and the water of the ocean.

As if guided by something else, Tommy walks out of the docks, socks getting wet as he steps into the grass and goes, as if in a trance, until he stops at the beginning of what once was L’Manburg. 

There is a light in the distance, half hidden by the obsidian they had put around that stupid tree as a joke a few weeks back, and Tommy steps closer, brows furrowed and mouth pulled into a tight line.

He steps over the debris everywhere, and slowly slinks closer. There is a figure just outside of the obsidian box, and Tommy stares at it, before it leaves, a red cape circling behind the figure as it slowly leaves the crater behind, climbing effortlessly over the rocks until it disappears in the horizon. Tommy’s brain is now practically screaming, his heart demanding to call the figure back, but he softly beats it back, too tired to care for it anyways.

He continues until he stands just outside the obsidian, and peeps in, a kneeling blonde in front of a small grey lapid.

Oh , he thinks, distantly and dizzy, as the weight of it all hits him, That's why I didn’t see him on the hill of the podium.

Philza is kneeling there, one hand softly tracing the W carved into the stone, wings relaxed at his back, covered in loose bandages, a few spots bald of feathers. It makes something in him ache, seeing someone he thought as invencible, kneeled in  the dirt, so haggard, so tired, he looks as if a strong breeze would topple him over.

After a few minutes, Philza sighs and stands up, and leaves, as silently as he was there, wings almost dragging behind him, as he jumps between the debris, sharp claws helping him maintain his inhuman grace. Tommy just presses against the obsidian, not wanting to be seen, at least, right now. Once upon a time, he would have jumped at the occasion, practically pouncing on the aviar, but right now, fear and heartache fills his chest, so he lets the other pass by, trying to not feel hurt by how the older leaves instantly, never sneaking a look back, before he enters the box.

The tree is tall, standing still in the middle of the night, branches reaching up as if trying to touch the sky. The grave at its feet is small, tidy, a distant scream of the owner it now contains. Tommy sits besides it, trembling fingers touching the cold stone, eyes tracing the carved letters in it.

Wilbur Soot-Watson

Forever Missed, May You Rest Now 

It hurts to see this irrefutable proof in front of his eyes, confirming what happened yesterday. It hurts, it burns, it fuels the everlasting inside of him, in a way nothing has ever managed to do before. Tears burn at his eyes, and he scrubs furiously at them, not wanting to spill tears over someone who damaged him so much.

In a fit of emotion, Tommy punches the grave, a wordless scream ripping out of his throat as he closes his eyes, cradling his hand, trembling from head to toe, standing up as best as he can.

“Why!?” He sobs out, tears refusing to fall “Why the hell did you have to do this?!”

“We had everything, we won! We won, we had our home back and you just had to ruin it!” He grinds out, resisting the urge to stomp the ground like the child he actually is, “You ruined it Wilbur, you just had to fucking ruin it!”

It is silent, the ocean cannot be heard from here, and it makes this all the more devastating.

“We had it all… Why, why did you have to press the button” He asks, inconsolable, eyes hurting “You… You just had to do it your way only”

Tommy breathes in, breathes out, shakily, but does it all the same. Counts to five up, five down, and relaxes his body, bringing a hand up and brushing away the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. 

“I’ll never forgive you” He whispers, into the dark of the night, the terrible secret spilling out of his mouth “I’ll never forgive you for this” 

Tommy turns around, looks behind only one more time, eyes tracing the tree that curls upwards, the dark moonless sky, the silent world that surrounds him, and leaves the obsidian box, not surprised to find Fundy outside waiting for him.

The hybrid just smiles sadly, a broken pity thing, and just curls an arm around him, the fur brushing against his face, tingling the skin. Tommy breathes in, the scent of berries, of spruce, of sea, the scent of recently dug dirt, of this silent broken world, and finally, finally cries, curling around the son of his brother, shoulders shaking with the weight of the world on top of them.

The fox just sighs and hugs him all the same, and slowly leaves, leaving behind the clean, recent grave. 

The world is silent, but maybe, this time, Tommy will be okay with it.