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"Hey Phil, we're going out," Phil perked up at the sound of Wilbur's voice and turned to see Tommy, Wilbur, and Techno standing at the door. It was cracked open, swords in their hands and a foot halfway out the door. He glanced down at the stew he was making, which simmered with bellows of steam gracing his hand. It gave the house an aroma that could make any stomach growl.
Phil sighed and looked back to the stew. "Please be back before 6, dinner's going to be ready then."
Tommy huffed and scooted closer to the door. "Ok Phil, we will. Bye!" They ran off before he could utter a goodbye, voices muffled once the door slammed shut. He doesn't know what the three were up to without him, they don't explain much. Perhaps they were starting another war at the Dream Smp. He wasn't sure what was going on there, but Will wore a trench coat almost every day, he had never worn trench coats before.
Luckily, the three visited their house often, and Phil spent most of his time there. Since it was so close to his hardcore world, he would fly there, do some chores, fly back, and make dinner for the boys. They often came back hungry or exhausted, small wounds littering their skin, and rambling about their day at the Smp. Sometimes, they didn't come back at all. Those days Phil ate alone, imagining three voices chittering around his table like little chicks.
Phil gently stirred the stew, dipped the ladle inside, and pooled the broth into it. He brought the ladle to his lips and took a small sip. He hummed, it was creamy and smooth, a wonderful soup to fill one's heart.
"They'll love this!" Phil exclaimed. He put the ladle aside and turned the stove to low heat, letting the soup simmer under a lid.
Potato stew was one of their favorite stews. Phil remembered the days of his family gathered around the stove, hands scrambling to get a taste when his back was turned. They were always caught by him, as far as Phil knew. He heard the three were having a rough time, a nice warm meal would cheer them up. The stew would bring warmth to their hearts.
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"It's almost six," Phil muttered as he took out four bowls. He poured the stew into each one and set the steaming soup on the table. He laid spoons and napkins next to the bowls, ready to be used and dirtied.
Phil sat down and stared at the stew, with all its chunks of creamy goodness, before watching the door. He waited for it to slam open, for comforting chaos to envelop the quaint home. He wouldn't eat yet, not until they came back. Phil looked back at the stew, his stomach rumbling at the smell. Maybe one sip wouldn't hurt. He picked up the spoon, dipped it in, and took a sip, humming as the warm liquid pooled in his mouth and warmed his entire being. No wonder Techno loved this, it truly was a soup for the soul.
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It was 7 pm. The door lay unlocked and unopened, they hadn't come home. Phil's bowl was now empty, he already ate all of his soup. But the other three lay cold. Spoons untouched and soup no longer steaming. It felt lonely sitting at a huge table as if he had invited people to a party and no one came. Phil sighed and picked up his bowl, it looked like they didn't come for dinner today. He dropped it into the sink, carefully picking up the other bowls and pouring them back into the pot. He stirred it and laid the now empty bowls next to the pot. They could serve themselves once they came back.
Phil had hoped to eat with them and talk, to listen to Wilbur and Tommy banter, to Techno jumping in with a few quips. Or Tommy rambling about the events of the server, or complaining, as he did more often these days. Will would go silent when L'manburg was brought up now. Sometimes Wilbur would sing a song. Techno would brag about a fight he won and the amount of potatoes he farmed.
That's what Phil hoped for today. He stopped the train of thought and shook his head. Stop it, Phil, they're busy with war and running nations, there's no need to be sad and selfish. He can't force them to eat with him, it'd be rude. He shook the negative thoughts from his head, and Phil went to bed. He didn’t know what else to do.
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When Phil woke up, they still hadn't come back. He looked to see the bowls still there, not in the sink but clean and untouched. Their spoons still sitting by them, unused. He frowned, an odd pang striking his chest. Guess they didn't want his soup, even when he worked so hard- no. They were busy. Stop that Phil. He gave himself a small slap on the wrist for the negative thoughts.
Phil puffed his chest and plopped his hat on his head, he didn’t put the clean dishes away yet. He would do housework while he waited for the three, they could have the soup then! Phil smiled, determined to get his family to enjoy his soup like they did in the past. Faintly, he wondered why he felt so compelled to have them eat it in the first place. It was just stew.
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It had been a week since they left and his boys still hadn't come back. Phil sighed, he was running out of things to do. He didn't want to go to his hardcore world, for fear he might miss them coming home. Instead he improved the house, gave it a deep clean, and slept. Sometimes, he thought they had forgotten him. Maybe they don't like him and his nasty soup, Phil shook his head. No, they're busy, they didn’t have time for him and his stupid soup. He sighed, it seemed to be his only excuse for their absence.
But then, a knock rapped at the door. Phil sat up and watched Techno, Wilbur, and Tommy walk in. Bruised and with cuts littering their skin. He jumped out of his seat and walked over, hands hovering.
"What happened to you? Are you okay? Why-"
"Not now Phil. We're kind of in a hurry," Wilbur interrupted, he pushed past him and walked to his room. He could feel his heart sink at the tone he used. But he pushed past the feeling, intent on feeding them. They looked famished! Dusty too…
"Well, why don't you guys sit down and eat some potato soup? I made it a while ago but it should still be good," Phil said and beelined to the freezer where he last stored, a pep in his step. The stew took a while to gather ingredients for so he wouldn’t let it go to waste. He grinned, it was great to have them back, safe and sound. A sudden rush of energy gathered in his bones as he dug through the freezer.
"Sorry Phil, but we're in the middle of something. Will forgot a weapon back home," Tommy pointed out, Techno glancing behind him and looking for Wilbur. Phil stopped, finally grabbing a container of potato stew.
"Oh... Well, when will you be back?" He closed the freezer and held a container of soup in his hand. The frost burned his skin.
"I'm not sure..." Tommy said and glanced away from him. He hummed before handing the frozen stew to Tommy.
"How about you three take some potato stew for the road? Want me to grab more?" He said, already turning to dig through the freezer again.
Techno shook his head, "Nah it's fine. Thanks," Phil’s shoulders fell, he thought potato strew was Techno’s favorite..? Soon Wilbur burst out of his room, with a netherite sword held above his head.
"I knew I had it here! Okay, let's go!" The three rushed out, and Wilbur turned to Phil. "Bye! Sorry for the short visit!" he slammed the door and left him in an empty house once more. All the chatter had left, and the house almost seemed as cold as the stew he gave Tommy.
Well, at least they took some of the stew- he looked down to see his container of soup lying on the floor. Phil picked it up with a frown. Looks like Tommy dropped it.
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Three weeks passed since they last visited, and no calls or anything. So, he gave up. Phil instead worked on his hardcore world and their house, surrounding himself with work. They'll be back soon, he believed, they always were.
That was until he saw the newspaper. He had ordered it on a dull day when he felt more alone than usual. Phil opened the paper and skimmed through it with half-lidded eyes, paying all the titles and pictures little mind. Until he saw some familiar faces plastered on an entire page. His eyes widened and he saw Techno, Wilbur, Tommy, and Tubbo posing together. With wide grins and bright yellow crowns on their heads. The title read: "Sleepy Bois Inc. Wins Minecraft Championship!" Phil blinked, was he not invited this year? He always participated, it was the highlight of his year.
Wait, wasn't he part of the sleepy bois? Why wasn't he included? He huffed and threw the paper aside. It's fine. He's happy they won. An ugly feeling rearing its head, Phil stomped on the newspaper and pushed it further away. No, it's fine, calm down, it's fine. He didn’t mind one bit. He told himself and pushed his negative thoughts down. However, Phil couldn't help but feel an aching in his heart, the Newspaper now crackling within the fireplace.
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The next week there was a sharp knock on his door. Phil brightened and rushed to answer it. He swung it open to see not Wilbur, Tommy, or Techno. But Dream, standing alone. He held red flowers in his hand and wore black clothes, Phil frowned at his appearance.
"Um, hi? Is there something you need?" Phil watched as the masked man handed him the flowers. The red petals were bright and colorful, they would look beautiful next to his bed. It warmed his heart, but why had they been given to him?
"I'm sorry Phil, but... Techno, Tommy, and Wilbur didn't make it out alive from the explosion," the flowers fell from his hands as his heart fell with them. Petals painted the ground, the red color more violent than warm.
"W-what?" He stuttered.
"Don't you know? I thought they wrote to you all the time. Wilbur blew up Manburg, the explosion killed a lot of people, including…" he glanced away. "I thought I'd tell you. So, sorry about your loss," Dream walked away and closed the door. Leaving Phil in shock with flowers on the floor. They lay haphazardly, the neat, delicate form broken.
His knees gave out from under him, the bucket hat floating off his head. What had Phil done wrong? Loud sobs echoed throughout his house, his wings wrapping around him. His heart ached and his body shook with tears plopping onto the floor.
After all this time... They were dead. He never felt more alone.
The potato soup that sat in his bowl was cold, steam no longer rose from it. His spoon was clean and his napkin was unused.
The chairs around the table were empty with no sign of life within the house.
A small feather could be seen on the dusty table and dark feathers were scattered around the house. Blood painted the floor like red flower petals, violent and mean, devoid of warmth.
The stew was cold. Nobody was sleeping inside the home anymore.