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The first child Phil is blessed with is of his own flesh and blood.
A tiny little thing, with a puff of blonde hair and the bluest of eyes, Tommy is curled in Phil’s arms fast asleep. There are two little fluffy wings curled around him like a blanket, soft with down feathers the same color as Phil’s; dark grey with a hint of purple.
Phil holds the little one close to his chest and coos. He closes his eyes, curls his wings around his barely-a-month-old son, and pretends the beautiful mother of his child is standing with him and not buried in the woods near their house. The complications that came with giving life to a hybrid as powerful as Tommy was never something they took into consideration, but looking down at the sleeping babe in his arms, Phil knew she would be as proud as he is to call the child their son.
Fatherhood is not something Phil was ever fully prepared for. (Then again, what person is prepared?) He takes it all in stride, learns from his mistakes as he goes. He wakes the babe up every morning, cradles him close and tells him all sorts of stories; Stories about the adventures he’s been on, the story of how he met Tommy’s mother. Tommy listens to it all with wide blue eyes and toothless smiles and shrieking giggles. At night, Phil tucks him into the crib next to his bed. He waits every night for the little babbles to quiet, turning into tiny snores that lull Phil to sleep.
Tommy is waddling around on two wobbly legs by the time he is one years old, and not long after, learns how to run. Those years are the most stressful for Phil, but he wouldn’t trade them in for the world. He chases after him with fake roars and playful growls, ones that send Tommy shrieking and laughing throughout their house, little wings fluttering excitedly until inevitably he crashes to the floor and Phil picks him up and tickles him into oblivion.
(Phil remembers with crystal clarity the first time his little fledgeling exclaimed “Papa!” between delighted giggles and squirming limbs, trying to get free from his hold. He remembers picking him up and hugging him tightly, grin wide and heart filled with so, so much love.)
When he hits four, Tommy has enough words in his arsenal of vocabulary to never stop talking. He makes up the most outgoing stories, ones that make Phil laugh and smile for hours. (His favorite story is of a space girl named Clara, who watched over their world while nestled between the stars.) Tommy tells him a new story almost every night, until he’s finally tuckered himself out enough that all that escapes from his mouth is quiet chirps and sweet coos -- Ones that Phil can’t help but return with his own while he wraps the little boy up in his wings and carries him to bed.
It is with Tommy that the first threads of family are sewed with, a piece of them forever slotted together and never to be broken apart.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Wilbur doesn't remember much of his childhood.
He remembers sitting on stone pathways, watching strangers pass by without sparing him a glance. He remembers the smell of the bakery. He remembers the cold, unforgiving wind, and the patched yellow sweater that did nothing to keep him warm. All of his memories are fuzzy, but they're there.
His first real, clear memory, is of a guitar. Soft, melodic tunes drift gently down busy streets on a cool autumn day, waking Wilbur from his nap against a cold hay bale in a lonely horse stall. It’s not the first time he’s heard the guitar, not the first time he’s drifted from his nap spot into the town, tiny seven-year-old hands hidden in his sleeves.
It’s the same man every time. He sits on the edge of the fountain in the middle of town, the prettiest guitar sitting in his lap as he strums a gentle lullaby of a tune, practically lulling those around him to sleep. A little blonde child (most definitely his son) sits next to him, chirping along to the melody.
Wilbur remembers wanting to be as gentle as that tune one day.
The man would come at least once a week --some days with his son, other days alone-- to play tunes in every variety. Lots of the time, the tunes were happy and upbeat, and children and adults alike would dance around town square with smiles as bright as the sun. Other days, they were gentle and sleepy. Some days, they were sad. Every quiet plucked string and tiredly-strummed note spoke of a grief Wilbur understood like the back of his hand. (Wilbur quickly noticed those days the man never brought his son with him.)
On those days, Wilbur sat next to the man; Silent (Wilbur hadn’t spoken a word to anyone in the village, not even the nice baker who offered him day-old bread every evening.), but nevertheless a welcoming comfort to the man who couldn’t help but be swallowed by his grief. Those days were the warmest for both of them, even if the tunes played were sad and sombre.
Wilbur came to sit with the man more often when he started leaving fresh pastries for him. He’d listen to pretty music, and on days when the man brought his son (who he quickly learned was named Tommy), he’d listen to fast-paced stories and watch the fledgeling run around the square. When Wilbur finished his pastry and still felt hungry, more often than not the boy would split his own and insist he take half.
If Wilbur sat closer to the two after that, well, no one had to know. If he missed them when they left, and sang the tunes the man played to lull himself to sleep, well, no one had to know that either.
He remembers the first snow of the year as one of the warmest days, funnily enough. Despite the big crystals piling up on the streets, covering the world in shimmering white, Wilbur still awoke to the sound of the guitar, still trotted his way out to the square even as the cold settled deep into his bones and made him shiver. He ate the warm pastry left for him in delight, shook snow from his hair, kept his hands wrapped up in his sweater sleeves as the man bled lullaby tunes into the air.
Wilbur remembers how comforting the man’s wing felt when it wrapped around him, dark grey and purple feathers shielding him from cold winds. He remembers when the man eventually stopped playing, looked at Wilbur for the first time and properly introduced himself as Philza. He remembers the way Phil gently extended his hand, palm facing up, and asked with a kindness Wilbur had never been shown before if he wanted someplace warm to sleep.
Wilbur didn’t trust easily, didn’t accept any offerings from people no matter how kind their words were, how gentle their hands felt. Yet, as he looked at the man whose eyes shun with kindness, whose smile felt warmer than any fireplace, he felt safe. He felt at home.
Wilbur took his hand, and cried.
His memories after are plentiful and filled with a warmth he’s never had the pleasure of knowing up close until now. Here, in Phil’s tiny cottage home, in the land surrounding it. With every memory Wilbur makes, every learning strum of guitar, every giggle from Tommy, every warm cup of cocoa and even warmer hugs, he feels a part of himself healing. A part of himself connecting with Phil and Tommy like a puzzle piece; Forever linked, forever home.
Much like his heart, Phil's home (now his home, too) grows that much warmer.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Wilbur and Tommy are eleven and seven when Technoblade joins the family.
It’s a cold, wintry day when Phil flies them into town for last minute shopping. Wilbur is tucked against Phil’s chest, dressed in a yellow fleece sweater and a thick blue scarf wrapped several times around his neck for extra warmth. Tommy is shakily gliding beneath them, stubbornly training the muscles in his wings so that one day he can fly just as beautifully as his father.
Phil lands gracefully near town square and catches the seven year-old with one of his own wings as he stumbles his landing. After righting himself, Tommy immediately begins running towards the bakery, ready for the tasty snack their father promised them at the beginning of their journey. Unlike him, Wilbur and Phil take their time.
Many shopkeepers are bundled up in their stands, wrapped in blankets and coats and hats alike. They wait for customers with sweet smiles and shivering laughter, and their eyes light up at the sight of the village protector and his son. Phil greets many of them as he shakes his wings free of any snow on his way to the bakery.
"Let's get that snack before Tommy tries to raid the place," Phil says softly. He needs to buy bread anyway.
He sets Wilbur down on his feet, trying his best to fold his wings so as to not take up too much space. It was warm inside, and it smelled of fresh pastries. A woman stood patiently at the counter, talking to Tommy with amusement; next to her, a young girl no older than five. The baker and her daughter Niki, Phil told himself.
“Phil! I was wondering when you’d stop by,” the baker said, eyes bright with kindness. Phil gave her a smile, coming to stand next to the energetic seven year old who suddenly lost all interest in the conversation and was now scanning over the display case.
“You know me, I’m always busy with something,” he laughs. “I ran out of fresh bread yesterday. Figured it was a good excuse to run to town…”
Behind him, Wilbur stands idly by the window, watching as the snowflakes outside begin to clump together and form bigger ones; the telltale sign for the beginning of a snowstorm. He thinks excitedly about all the snow creatures they can make at home once the storm is over.
Wilbur briefly hears his name being mentioned in the conversation between the two grownups and sighs; Conversation, especially conversation with or between grownups, never really interested him. They always sounded too boring or too suspicious or too something, so Wilbur always opted to tune them out.
Another sigh; he drums his fingers against the edge of the window. He wants nothing more than to see the big snowflakes up close, maybe even try catching one on his tongue. He decides while Phil continues his boring grown-up talk that he’ll do just that. He beckons Tommy over, who grumbles in protest but otherwise follows him out the door.
Even though the sky is grey and dull, the snow that lands on Wil’s face makes him smile. The two boys run back and forth in front of the shop, tongues sticking out in hopes to catch the cold crystals. The brunet can’t help but giggle when a particularly large one falls directly on Tommy’s nose.
That’s when they hear it.
Both boys still when a sudden commotion closer to town square erupts. There’s a clatter, a shout, a squeal, and suddenly a figure no taller than Wilbur darts around the corner heading straight at them. They don't even look where they're running, and they run face-first into one of Tommy’s wings, sending them both falling into the snow. The figure lets out a scared squeal and scrambles up to their feet.
None of them even noticed the two guards sneaking up to them until it was too late. In a flash, the person was grabbed by the hair and hoisted into the air to keep them from running. A terrified squeal erupted into the air, and Wilbur managed to get a good look them
Hoisted into the air by baby pink curls, it's clear that the figure can't be any older than Wilbur. Ruby red eyes dart around fearfully, and when the child opens his mouth to let out another cry, he catches the sight of growing tusks. Pointed ears pinned back against his head and they watch as the child reaches up with dirty hands in attempts to claw at the armored hand fisted in his hair.
Wilbur doesn't know much about Nether hybrids, but he knows a Piglin when he sees one. This child, this pup, is scared, and the mean guards are hurting him. Something protective boils in his blood.
However, he is not the first one to act. Tommy, with wings raised in warning and lips curled enough to show off his jagged canines, steps in front of Wilbur and stomps his foot.
"Let him go! You’re hurting him!" Tommy growls. The guards laugh.
"This ain't none of your business, brat. Go find your parents, both of you." He says, before him and the other guard turn and start to leave.
And Wilbur watches Tommy go red in the face, eyes flashing a dangerous purple much like Phil does when something is threatening someone he cares about. Before Wilbur can even try to stop him, Tommy all but launches himself at the guard holding the pup and kicks the back of his knee so hard he falls to the ground, effectively letting the pup free from his grasp. The brothers watch as he scrambles to his feet, heavily breathing before running down the street and bolting around the corner down the nearest alleyway.
The guard rights himself quickly and glares down at the seven year old with venomous eyes. "You little brat, look at what you've done!"
He grabs Tommy’s arm roughly, causing him to panic and flap his wings. "Let me go let me go!!"
Wilbur runs up to help him, kicking armored legs and shaking arms and pulling Tommy away from the mean guard and finally, after all the commotion, Phil bursts out the bakery, eyes flared purple with rage at the sight of his son caught in violent hands.
"Get your hands off my son this instant!" Phil’s voice booms and demands obedience, which the guards give silently. Tommy stumbles out of the harsh grasp and into Wilbur, who immediately guides them both over to their father's side. Tommy immediately feels ten times safer under the protection of Phil's large wings.
"You better have a good reason for handling my son so roughly!" He snarls, showing off feral teeth and burning eyes.
The guards stand tall. "Sir, he helped a dirty thief escape! A little brat, stole things from the marketplace; two golden jewels."
"Liar!" Wilbur exclaimed, and one of the guards sent him a nasty glare. "He had nothing with him, I saw! Isn't that right Tommy?"
Tommy nodded stubbornly, eyes still glowing.
Suddenly, a fear-filled squeal echoed through the air, alerting everyone by the bakery including Wilbur and Tommy. The two brothers took one look at each other, one look at their father, before hastily shoving their way out of his grasp in favor of finding the piglin hybrid that had escaped earlier. As they turned the corner, Tommy could see his fathers wings extend outward, firmly blocking the two guards from following after them.
At the end of the hallway they turn into, there are several wooden crates –some filled with potatoes and apples, others empty. It is quiet for a split second, a second that Tommy and Wilbur take to survey the area for pink curls and ruby eyes. Then, another squeal sounds out, followed by a wooden crate shaking aggressively, little clacks and stomps making it clear that something was stuck inside.
Wilbur is the first to walk closer, motioning for Tommy to stay where he is (much to the seven year old’s displeasure). Sure enough, when Wilbur peaks over the edge of an empty crate, he finds two glowing red eyes staring back, wide and filled with fear. In an instant the piglin pup jumps away, squealing and kicking enough for the crate to topple over on its side, the entrance facing away from the two surprised brothers.
Wilbur kneels and places his face against the ground as much as he can, trying to get a peak at the shivering pup who's now backed himself into a corner. Little hands are tucked close to his chest, lips pulled back in a snarl to reveal two growing tusks.
"Is he hurt?" Tommy asks directly next to Wilbur, who practically jumps out of his skin. He turns to glare at his brother but it loses all its heat at the sight of Tommy’s worry.
Wilbur shakes his head, "Nuh-uh, but he's scared. Don’t be loud or make any sudden movements."
Tommy’s wings flutter in thought, trying to think of a way to calm the child down without scaring him further. A memory rises to the front of his brain; Of Phil sitting next to a bed that he'd barricaded himself underneath in the middle of a horrible thunderstorm. Phil leaning down until they can see each other properly, one hand extended out to him, eyes soft. He remembers the soft sound of his fathers coos and chirps, ones that soothed his fear and calmed his nerves, ones that spoke of safety.
Tommy’s chirps didn't sound as pretty as his father, but he let the low rumble in his chest grow until it reached his vocal chords, sounding more like a purr. He let out gentle coos and little chirps, anything to let the pup know it was safe to come out.
If it were any other time, Wilbur would have made fun of him. But with the way the little pup slowly poked his head out from his hiding spot, head tilted and eyes squinted with hesitant curiosity, he kept quiet and watched the fledgeling work his magic.
To their surprise, the Piglin tries to mimic the sound. It's clunky and sounds closer to a growl, but there's an innocence in his eyes that makes it clear he means no harm. Wilbur holds his hand out and grins toothily, and Tommy lets out another purr.
It takes several minutes for the Piglin to inch his way out of the crate, and even longer for him to even consider getting close to Wil. But the brothers are stubborn, and Tommy continues to coo and smile at him until eventually, a shivering pink hand slides into Wil's, gripping tightly.
Wilbur’s never felt so proud of Tommy, who can't help but flutter his wings in joy. Papa will be so glad to know he’s safe, he thinks. Nervously, the brunet gives a smile and softly asks, “What’s your name?”
There’s an unsure silence, a hesitation of sorts as the piglin tilts his head in confusion. A gentle coo escapes the piglin’s lips, turning into more of a whine as a large snowflake lands on the end of his snout.
"Wilby, he's cold!" Tommy exclaims softly. Wilbur frowns –that just won't do.
With a quick motion, Wilbur unwraps the scarf from around his neck. (With one hand. His other is still holding onto the piglin.) He holds the soft fabric out, which causes the pup to panic and flinch away from it. The brunet frowns.
"It's okay, soft means safe. See?" He pets the scarf, making slow, deliberate motions across the soft material until his new friend calms down enough to hesitantly reach out, mimicking the motions with light fingers. It's a long battle to even let Wilbur place the thing around his neck, but in the end the scarf is successfully tied loosely around him and his shivers lessen.
It’s around that time when Phil finally appears, head peeking around corners until he’s finally spotted his sons, and to his surprise, a pig hybrid. Wait, no –a piglin hybrid, and a pup at that. He frowns, feeling a newfound anger drip through his veins.
But he shoves down his anger for now and tucks his wings behind him so he can comfortably fit in the alleyway, and slowly approaches the three children. The pup spots him first, causing him to squeal in panic and retreat behind Wilbur. Wilbur and Tommy on the other hand turn their heads and smile, happy that their father is here to help.
“It’s okay, it’s just Papa,” Wil tells the piglin. He tugs gently on their intertwined hands until he’s looking at Phil with wide ruby eyes. “Papa’s safe.”
The pup tilts his head again, looking back at Wilbur. It’s clear to Phil the poor pup doesn’t know a lick of Common, but he tries his best to give him the warmest smile when those ruby eyes are directed back at him. He wants nothing more than to pick the pup up and keep him warm and safe for the rest of eternity (he blames that instinct on his hybrid side. Such a familial creature, ender dragons are). But, he waits patiently; waits for the piglin to slowly rise on his hooves, waits for Wilbur and Tommy to gently guide him closer. He keeps still as the pup sniffs the air around him. Though, he can’t help but giggle when Wilbur reaches his hand out and pats his green sweater, and laughs even more when the pup mimics the action with hesitant fingers. He doesn’t move until the piglin looks him in the eyes, big red ones still hesitant but no longer fearful. The pup reaches out his free hand, small and shivering in the cold, and grabs onto Phil’s.
Tommy grins widely, the seven-year-old's chest puffed out proudly, "You should be proud, Papa! We got him out of his hiding place all by ourselves!"
And Phil can't help but smile, hugging him and Wilbur close with one wing, the other protecting the pup from the nasty cold wind. "I am proud. More proud than I've ever been."
That day, the final piece of the puzzle is connected, another string forever tied. Techno doesn't let go of Phil's hand the whole way home.