Work Text:
Tommy’s father was known for his magic. Tommy’s father could find the loopholes in reality, manipulating the code of the universe. He used it for survival, and for pranks and self-benefit. Tommy’s father was the best conman the world had ever seen, if more for his magic than his actual swindling abilities.
Tommy’s father was a fox hybrid. Tommy was human.
Tommy always knew he’d been adopted.
He never had a problem with it. Tommy’s father - Fundy, was his name - never treated him as less for not being his biological son. Tommy wasn’t sure where he came from, nor the circumstances that caused Fundy to adopt him, but he figured he didn’t need to know.
Fundy loved Tommy. That was what mattered.
Fundy would leave sometimes, without explanation, for a few days at a time. But he always left plenty of food and instructions for Tommy to do his chores, and potions for in case Tommy got hurt while Fundy was gone. And then Fundy would come home and tell Tommy about playing dangerous games with famous warriors, of coming out on top with all their riches before escaping back home. The stories were wildly fantastical and probably not entirely true, but Tommy loved hearing them, and would respond with some of his own crazy tales of what supposedly transpired while his father was gone.
It was normal. It was routine.
This was not.
Tommy frowned down at the squirming bundle in his father’s hands.
“Do we have to keep it?” He finally said.
Fundy barked out laughter, the sound exactly like what one would hear from an actual fox instead of just a fox hybrid.
“It’s a ‘he’, Tommy. And his name is Wilbur!” Fundy looked proud, beaming as if this was some project he’d been working on for months, but Tommy really couldn’t see what the big fuss was about.
“Well, why’d you gotta adopt him too? He’s not even big enough to play games with.” Tommy’s face soured like he’d bit into a particularly ripe lemon. “I could just bring Tubbo over instead, and we could’a played with him. You didn’t need to adopt a whole ‘nother kid.”
“Tommy, Tommy…” Fundy shook his head, still smiling. “Wilbur isn’t adopted!”
Tommy blinked. “Eh? Where’d he come from then?”
“He’s all mine Tommy, flesh and blood!”
Tommy looked down at the baby, whose eyes were still closed. Tommy reckoned he was about as big as a potato, and as ugly as one too.
“He’s all wrinkled like a raisin! You’re not wrinkly.”
Fundy started cracking up, although Tommy couldn’t see what was so funny. Fundy set Wilbur down on the couch, safely nestled so that he wouldn’t roll off onto the floor. (Not that he had the mobility to do so, being a whopping total of not even two days old.)
“Where’s his other parent, if he’s not adopted? Does he have a mum?” Tommy stared down over the couch armrest, which he was barely taller than him in his grand eight years of age, and Fundy’s laughter stopped. Tommy turned to glance back at him.
Fundy looked a bit solemn. Tommy had never seen his father look that way.
“Don’t… don’t worry about it, Tommy.” Fundy smiled again, a little forced, and ruffled Tommy’s hair. “Why don’t you play with your little brother while I go get something for dinner?”
Tommy frowned but nodded. Fundy left the room and Tommy turned to the couch, where the baby had fallen asleep, his tiny snores barely audible.
“Well, great,” Tommy huffed to no one but himself.
---
Tommy would find out, later that night, that Wilbur and him now shared a room. This was the worst news Tommy had ever heard, even worse than the time Fundy told him meat came from dead animals and Tommy had proceeded to cry for hours and then swear to become vegetarian - an oath that lasted all of three days.
The good news of Wilbur’s arrival was that Fundy stayed home for an entire year, leaving only for hours at a time instead of days. Tommy appreciated it, because babysitting was difficult. Tommy still remembered the tongue-lashing he got when Fundy came home to find Wilbur rolling around in the yard, unattended, his mouth full of sand while Tommy had run off to take a piss.
Fundy thought it was cute to dress them up in matching outfits. Tommy wholeheartedly disagreed. His protests did not save him, in the end, from the embarrassment of being dressed as a sheep to Wilbur’s wolf costume on Halloween.
Wilbur’s first word was ‘Dummy’, which Fundy insisted was actually ‘Tommy’, although Tommy remained in denial.
Wilbur got drool and slobber all over Tommy’s things. He especially liked the taste of Tommy’s hair, chewing on it when he got the opportunity, like whenever Tommy dared to lie down on the couch Wilbur happened to be napping on.
Wilbur would often startle in the middle of the night, wailing and whining for no reason. The first year, Fundy would come stumbling in, taking Wilbur and trying to soothe him, letting Tommy cover his ears with his pillow and try to fall back asleep. After Wilbur’s first birthday came and went, though, that became Tommy’s job as Fundy began going out on trips again.
Tommy grew bitter towards his baby brother who would cry and scream in his cradle, pulling himself up by the railings so he could wobble his unsteady legs to a standing position, providing maximum waking-Tommy-opportunity. Tommy would try to ignore him for a while, maybe scream back at him, but eventually Tommy would get up and pick up his brother. Sometimes Wilbur needed a diaper change. Sometimes he was hungry. Sometimes the mere act of holding him to Tommy’s chest was all that was needed for Wilbur’s sobs to stutter to a halt, his tiny form falling limply back to sleep.
Tommy was never so grateful for his father to come home than after those times. It stung a bit that Fundy spent so much time with the baby when he was home, but Tommy supposed it was his father or him, and Tommy relished in his brief respites away from Wilbur.
Tommy told Tubbo all this and more, as their feet dangled over the edge of a cliff, watching the waves crash below them.
“I dunno,” Tubbo shrugged. “Babies just need a lot of attention, you know? I’m sure it’ll be easier when he’s older.”
“How much older?” Tommy whined. “I can’t take another year of this! I wish I could just leave when he got annoying, like Dad, but he says I’m too young.”
Tubbo nodded. “Yeah, and then who would take care of Wilbur?”
Tommy huffed. “I wish he could just take care of himself.”
Tubbo patted Tommy on the back comfortingly. “It’ll get better, I’m sure of it.”
Both turned back to gazing out at the ocean. After a moment of silence, Tommy got an idea.
“Hey, you know, Dad told me when I turn ten he’s gonna start teaching me some magic,” he grinned.
Tubbo lit up. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Tommy nodded. “I was thinking maybe we could do some stuff kinda similar to what my Dad does, but also a little different - you know, with the challenges and stuff.”
“Huh,” Tubbo looked thoughtful. “What kinds of challenges are you imagining?”
Tommy looked at the rising tide again. “Well, Tubbo, how good are you at swimming?”
---
“I wanna play! I wanna play!” Tommy had found that Tubbo was wrong. Wilbur did not get less annoying as he got older - he got worse, because now he could talk .
“You can’t do this challenge with us, Wilbur,” Tommy rolled his eyes. “You can’t do magic yet. The respawn won’t work on you and you’ll just die.”
Wilbur whined, tugging on Tommy’s shirt. Tommy sent an exasperated look at Tubbo, who tried to hide his giggles. Tommy was twelve years old now, and Wilbur was four.
“Wilbur, if you don’t let me go this instant, Tubbo and I are gonna lose!”
“Oh, you started the lava already?” Tubbo looked surprised.
Tommy leaned over to whisper to Tubbo. “No, it’s not rising yet. I’m just trying to get him to leave us alone.”
“I HEARD THAT!” Wilbur shouted, stomping his foot on the ground. “I wanna play, please please please! Just do the magic on me too, please please please!”
Tommy groaned. “No! Leave us alone!”
Wilbur wrapped his arms around Tommy’s leg, latching on like some kind of parasite. “No! Dad will be mad you left me alone!”
“It’s fine, Wilbur, he knows I hang out with Tubbo sometimes.” Tommy tried to pry Wilbur off him, before concluding he may need a crowbar. “He won’t be mad.”
“He’ll be - he’ll be disappointed ,” Wilbur concluded, using his new favorite word, which had learned just last week.
“Hey, Wilbur,” Tubbo got down on one knee, now at eye-level with the boy. “How about this? You let Tommy and I go play, and tomorrow I’ll let you come over and play with my bees, okay? Does that sound good?”
Wilbur’s face saddened, but he nodded.
“Okay,” he mumbled, releasing his hold on Tommy’s leg.
“Finally,” Tommy grumbled. “Go inside and play with your guitar or something.”
Wilbur trudged his feet to the front door, moving comically slowly. When he reached the door he glanced mournfully over his shoulder, his pouty face pleading with Tommy silently, but Tommy didn’t budge. He’d known Wilbur his whole life; his puppy-dog eyes did nothing to him anymore.
Wilbur sighed loudly, slamming the door behind him. Tommy rolled his eyes.
“He’s so dramatic,” Tommy huffed. Tubbo chuckled.
“What?” Tommy asked.
“Where do you think he gets it from?” Tubbo raised an eyebrow at his friend. Tommy shoved Tubbo playfully, which only made Tubbo giggle harder.
“You’re a prick,” Tommy grinned.
“And you’re a bitch,” Tubbo laughed.
---
Tommy was glad his magic worked, because that lava had hurt like a bitch, but he and Tubbo came back to reality unharmed. Their pride was perhaps a bit wounded, but they were alright otherwise.
“Any ideas on what we should do next?” Tubbo asked as they walked back towards their homes.
“Dunno. Depends on if Wilbur will let me leave the house within the next month,” Tommy grouched.
Tubbo ‘hmm’ed a bit. “He sure does like you.”
Tommy balked at that. “What? No, Wilbur hates me.”
“What do you mean? He likes you.”
“No, nuh-uh. Wilbur’s so annoying.”
“Well, yeah, but it’s because he likes you.”
“No, he hates me,” Tommy insisted. “That’s why he never lets me hang out with you and stuff.”
Tubbo shook his head. “No, he just wants to hang out, too.”
“That’s a lie.”
“It’s not, you’re just stupid.”
“Am not!”
“Are too! Why else would he always bring his guitar everywhere?”
Tommy stopped walking. “What are you on? What’s his guitar got to do with anything, other than him playing it when he’s supposed to be asleep and keeping me up until fuck-knows-when in the morning?”
“Well, you gave it to him, didn’t you?” Tubbo looked at his best friend knowingly.
“So?”
“What else have you given him?”
Tommy scoffed. “My time and effort. Lots of my food .”
“Like gifts, Tommy, I meant gifts. What else have you given him? That isn’t food.”
Tommy thought for a moment. “Just the guitar, I guess, for his birthday.”
Tubbo nodded. “Yeah, exactly.”
There was a second of silence.
“You really think he likes me?” Tommy was still a bit befuddled.
Tubbo resumed walking, and Tommy followed. “I’m certain.”
---
Wilbur followed Tommy like he would die if he didn’t. Wilbur would believe anything Tommy said. If Tommy said he hung the moon, Wilbur would believe him. Sometimes Tommy lied, but that was alright, because then Tommy would laugh, and Wilbur would laugh too, and it was funny and nice, because Wilbur made Tommy smile, and that was hard to do.
Wilbur asked his dad once how to make Tommy like him. Fundy had laughed and waved him off, telling him to ask Tubbo, so he did. Tubbo had told him to just be nice to Tommy, and to try not to make him angry, and Wilbur did try, he really really did, but Tommy got angry a lot anyways. Wilbur tried to be nice and do the laundry for Tommy, but he did it wrong, and Tommy got angry at him for messing up the colors. Wilbur tried to make breakfast for Tommy, but he burnt the toast and Tommy got angry at him for wasting food. Wilbur tried to make a song for Tommy, but he said it was annoying to hear him practice the same notes over and over and kicked him outside.
Wilbur sat in the front yard, tuning his guitar and trying not to cry. He really didn’t know what he was doing wrong. He just wanted him and Tommy to be friends, because then he could go play games with him and Tubbo and they wouldn’t leave him behind, all alone in a big empty house.
Wilbur heard footsteps and looked up, hoping Dad had come home. Dad always made him feel better, showing him tricks and telling him cool stories about the adventures he had while he was gone. Tommy was always happier when Dad was home, too.
(He heard Tommy say once that he was happier because Wilbur was too busy with Dad to bother him. Wilbur had locked himself in the bathroom and thrown Tommy’s favorite t-shirt in the toilet. Tommy had been angry, but Wilbur refused to tell why he did it, even if he felt guilty after.)
Tubbo came into view, and Wilbur’s shoulders fell, sulking against a tree. Of course it was just Tubbo, here so he and Tommy could go have fun without him again.
“Wilbur?” Tubbo asked, frowning. “Are you alright?”
Wilbur sniffled.
Tubbo knelt on the ground beside him. “Were you crying?”
“No,” Wilbur rubbed his face to make sure. “Crying’s for pussies.”
“Did Tommy tell you that?”
Wilbur nodded. If Tommy said it, Wilbur believed him.
“Does your dad let you say that word?” Tubbo raised an eyebrow.
Wilbur shifted uncomfortably. Fundy hadn’t explicitly said he couldn’t, but…
“I won’t tell,” Tubbo promised, standing up. “Me and Tommy are gonna go to the market today, do you want to come?”
Wilbur glanced up, hopeful. “Did Tommy say I was invited?”
Tubbo hesitated. “Uh…”
Wilbur shook his head, swallowing thickly. “I don’t wanna go.”
Tubbo stood there for a moment, thinking. “...Alright, if you’re sure.”
Wilbur nodded and Tubbo moved on, heading inside the house.
Tommy and Tubbo left a few minutes later, Tommy barely sparing a glance at the little boy strumming his guitar beneath the shade of the large oak.
---
That night, the two boys sat down for dinner. Wilbur could tell something was off the moment he sat down at the table. Tommy was always talking, whether he was angry or happy, unless he was asleep. But he was awake, just sitting across the table, not making eye-contact with Wilbur as he wolfed down their meal. Wilbur chewed as quietly as possible, not sure what he was supposed to do in this situation. Dinner was over in record time, and Wilbur made sure to remember to wash his own dishes instead of forgetting them on the table this time. Tommy followed suit, both of them putting the plates and silverware away in eerie silence.
Wilbur turned to head upstairs, wanting to grab his guitar again and work on Tommy’s song some more, when Tommy finally spoke.
“Hey, Will, come here.”
Wilbur listened, turning around and letting Tommy lead him to the living room. He wasn’t sure if he should be scared or excited. This was something he’d never experienced before, in his short four years of life.
“I, uh,” Tommy cleared his throat. “I got something for you, at the market today.”
Tommy reached into one of the baskets he’d come home with, pulling out a piece of cloth and holding it out.
“I figured, I dunno,” Tommy looked awkward, and Wilbur reached forward to take the object. “I figured it’d go with your hair, or something. Tubbo’s idea, you know.”
Wilbur held the beanie and felt his face split into a wide smile.
“Thank you,” Wilbur remembered his manners, taking it in two hands and putting it on.
Tommy laughed. “You’ve got it on wrong, you don’t wear it like that, idiot. Here, like this-”
Tommy adjusted the hat on his little brother’s head, and Wilbur beamed up at him.
Wilbur got an idea, and bubbled a little preemptively with laughter.
“Like this?” He said, reaching up and purposefully making it crooked.
Tommy laughed some more, and Wilbur laughed, and they both began play-fighting over the hat, making Wilbur’s hair more and more mussed as the bit wore on.
By the time they’d both calmed down, it was well into the evening, and Tommy pushed Wilbur up the stairs to take a bath. Tommy sat in the living room reading a book, waiting for Wilbur to get out so he could wash himself.
Tommy heard footsteps on the front porch and put his book down, wondering who on earth would be coming to visit so late. He heard the footsteps pause, and the jingling of keys. Tommy leapt up and bounded to the door, throwing it open.
“Dad!” He cried happily.
Arms swooped down around him, picking him up and swinging him around once.
“That’s me!” Fundy whooped, equally as happy to be home as his son. “Where’s Wilbur?”
“He’s in the shower,” Tommy answered as his feet returned to the ground. He saw something move behind Fundy, crossing the threshold into the house.
Fundy saw Tommy notice it, and stepped to the side, smile unwavering. “Oh, this is my eldest son, Tommy!”
“Hello,” the boy in front of Tommy greeted him, voice devoid of cheer. Tommy gawked a bit, he’d admit. The boy wasn’t human. Tommy was pretty sure he was a piglin, only he’d never seen a piglin in person before, so he couldn’t be certain. Also, he’d been told piglins couldn’t talk. He was a little bit shorter than Wilbur, but he had scars like he’d been through multiple battles, and a slightly oversized bejeweled, golden crown that seemed to imply he’d won those battles. His clothes were tattered, a contrast to the crown, and he wore no shoes. Although he had some semblance of hands, his feet were straight-up hooves. At his hip was a sword in its sheath - a REAL sword, not the wooden ones Fundy let him and Wilbur have.
“Tommy,” Fundy lightly flicked his son’s ear, waking him from his trance. “Don’t be rude.”
“Uh,” Tommy said eloquently. “Hi.”
“This is Technoblade,” Fundy explained.
“You’re a pig,” Tommy pointed out.
“Tommy!” Fundy bopped the back of Tommy’s head.
“How observant,” Technoblade drawled.
Tommy opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by a voice from the top of the stairs.
“Dad! You’re home!” Wilbur’s wet hair dripped down his face, his body self-cocooned in a towel. “Who’s that?”
“This is Technoblade,” Fundy smiled. “He’s your new brother.”
Wilbur’s eyes went wide, and Tommy felt his mind come screeching to a halt.
“He’s WHAT?”