Chapter Text
Wilbur is aware of many facts.
One: every person has a daemon, a reflection of their soul in animal form. Wilbur’s is named Eurydice, and she is currently in the shape of a pretty white fox like the snow that surrounds his home, which leads to the next fact. Two: the Antarctic Empire is very cold, and very big, and Wilbur adores it, despite all of the rules. Three: children are not allowed in the meeting room unless Phil says so.
And four: Wilbur does not much care for rules.
“We’re going to get in trouble,” Eurydice says, and Wilbur rolls his eyes as he peeks through the crack in the doorway, nineteen years old.
“Only if we get caught.” There’s no-one inside, so he quietly pushes the door open further, ushering Eurydice through.
“We’re going to get caught,” she mutters, tossing her head, ears pricking. Wilbur allows himself to listen as well, but there are no footsteps or voices close enough to be a danger.
“You worry too much,” Wilbur insists, beginning to climb the windowsill, making his way up towards the rafters.
“Are you just leaving me down here?” Eurydice calls, tail lashing behind her.
Wilbur puts a finger to his lips, before muttering: “You’re the one who can fly!”
She rolls her eyes, but then there’s a small little mockingbird fluttering up to the rafters, the two of them tucking themselves into a particularly dark corner. Wilbur adjusts his position, keeping his feet up. There is a ledge above the window, hidden by the curtains, and he slowly begins to scoot over to it.
“Why do you even want to listen in, anyways? I’m sure if you just asked to sit in on the meeting...” Eurydice murmurs, perched on his shoulder. Wilbur grins.
“It’s empire business, why don’t you want to listen?”
His daemon huffs, flicks his ear with a wing. “I don’t care about empire business.”
“Well, you--” Wilbur cuts himself off at the sound of approaching footsteps, and hurriedly ducks behind the curtain, pulling his knees to his chest. It’s harder to see, from here, but there’s more cover, at least.
Through the slit in the curtains, he sees Phil enter first, followed closely by Technoblade. Their daemons follow behind, the snowy owl Mairead landing on Phil’s shoulder, Max trotting along on Techno’s heels, their head held high. Wilbur stares at Technoblade, eyes wide, startled.
“Is he supposed to be here?” Wilbur whispers. Eurydice shifts nervously.
“Well, we aren’t,” she murmurs back.
He wants to snap back, but Phil is speaking and everything else goes forgotten as Wilbur leans in, ears pricking with interest.
“You’ll be fine, mate. I promise. You’re going to do fine.”
“What if they decide I can’t go, Phil?” The last time Techno sounded this nervous, he’d failed a test, and Wilbur had comforted him before helping him tell Phil. He remembers it rather clearly--the shake in Technoblade’s voice, the way his hands kept working their way through Max’s fur as though the wolf were the only thing keeping him grounded.
Wilbur peers past the curtains a little further, and the look on Techno’s face confirms his suspicions. He’s nervous. What is he nervous for?
“Techno, you are one of the most capable fighters in this entire empire,” Phil says, voice low and firm. “If they don’t pick you for this expedition, they’re fuckin’ stupid, alright?”
He hears Techno’s slow, unsteady sigh, rather than see it. Wilbur glances at Eurydice, eyebrows raised. She stares back, seemingly unimpressed. He returns his attention to his father and his brother--Techno is rocking back onto his heels, then forward onto the balls of his feet, more agitated than Wilbur thinks he’s ever seen him. Phil is adjusting his cloak, brushing back Max’s fur, making sure both Techno and his daemon look presentable. There are footsteps sounding in the hall outside, and Wilbur draws back further into the corner. Now is the time to listen, instead of watch.
He hears the door open, Phil welcoming a variety of voices into the room. Wilbur recognizes a few as leaders who have been in this room before.
He recognizes one of them as Dream.
Dream, Techno’s… friend, he thinks. He’s never been sure of their relationship--Techno’s always been neutral on the matter, but Dream treats it like they’re friends, and Wilbur has never been able to get a good read.
He peeks past the curtain to try and spot the other adventurer. He’s dressed in something akin to hunting gear, if not a little nicer for the occasion, mask clipped to his belt, rather than on his face. Wilbur doesn’t see his face often--he always shows up to the palace masked, to draw Techno away for one of their adventures. He’s young and handsome and a little too captivating in a way reminiscent of Wilbur’s own magical nature.
He doesn’t like it. He’s never really been a fan of Dream, which says a lot about Dream, considering the company Wilbur tends to keep--Schlatt and Sally and whatnot.
“We just aren’t comfortable sending another minor on this expedition,” a voice says, and Wilbur’s heart sinks.
“He’s barely younger than Dream,” Phil argues, “and just as capable.”
“Doesn’t change the fact that it’s dangerous,” Dream says, voice smooth, “and I doubt you want one of your kids dying out in the field. I can take this one, Phil. I promise.”
“I was younger than you are when I founded this empire,” Phil snaps right back, voice cold. The unspoken Techno was too hangs over both of them. Wilbur can’t help the grin that spreads across his face.
“The decision’s final,” he hears Grian say, softly. “We don’t want to risk his life, Phil. I understand it’s a brilliant opportunity for him, but it’s too dangerous.”
“I can handle it,” Techno finally speaks, quiet yet overpowering the room in seconds. “It wouldn’t be my first time exploring dangerous ruins.”
Wilbur hears Grian sigh, and he knows it’s final. “These are more dangerous than any other ones we’ve sent you and Dream to explore. We need a more specialized team, this time. I’m sorry, both of you. But Techno, you need to sit this one out.”
“That’s so unfair,” Wilbur whispers to Eurydice, who hums her agreement.
He freezes when he sees Max’s ears twitch, and the wolf lifts their gaze--meeting Wilbur’s eyes directly.
Shit.
The wolf stares for barely a second before lowering their gaze again, and Wilbur lets out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding as they return their attention to the rest of the room, not drawing other eyes towards his little hiding spot. The rest of the meeting goes by in a blur, and as soon as the last noble leaves and Techno and Phil have presumably returned to their own rooms, Wilbur is dropping down from the rafters and racing down the hall to find--
A hand catches his arm and wrenches him back before he can turn down the hallway to Technoblade’s room, and Wilbur yelps. A familiar clawed hand claps itself over his mouth.
Techno picks him up and tosses him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“What the fuck,” Wilbur splutters, and Techno snorts.
“Stop spying on important meetings,” he says, flatly, ever the more responsible one, despite Wilbur being three years his senior. “Also, Dream’s taking me to the ruins anyways, and if Phil asks, I’m with Skeppy tonight. Got it?”
“Sure,” Wilbur says, “can you put me down?”
“Where am I tonight?”
“With Skeppy.”
Techno dumps Wilbur back onto his feet unceremoniously, and Wilbur stifles his laughter with one hand. “Don’t get killed, yeah?”
That earns a bark of laughter. “I never die.”
Wilbur hums, dragging Techno by the wrist into his room before collapsing backwards onto his bed. “You always say that.”
There’s a few moments of quiet, and Wilbur savors them, hand still resting on top of Technoblade’s wrist. Eurydice, now in fox form, sits prim and proper at the edge of the bed. Max leaps up beside her with a huff, and Techno sits next to Wilbur, raising his eyebrows. Wilbur has a dozen different things he’d like to say about Dream, and Techno’s habit of sneaking out, but he supposes it’d be hypocritical of him, considering… well, just considering. Techno seems to know he wants to talk, though.
“Something on your mind?” He asks, quiet.
Wilbur hums. Then, decisively: “I don’t like how much time you spend with Dream.”
He feels the way Techno stiffens, beside him. “I don’t like how much time you spend with Schlatt,” Techno shoots back, tone ice-cold, and Wilbur can’t help the way he freezes.
It’s one of those moments where snide remarks can turn into a screaming match. Wilbur is unsure of which route he wants to take--a dozen different crude and spiteful snapbacks are rising in his throat, waiting on the tip of his tongue to come spilling out. He wants to call Techno a dozen different names, a multitude of hypocrisies, wants to snap and snarl that maybe he should deal with his own fucked up friendships before he starts telling other people how to deal with theirs. He wants to shout, to break something, to scare someone. To actually be fucking heard, for once, instead of talked over and rudely interrupted and...
Wilbur takes a deep breath, and chooses to disengage instead. It isn’t fucking worth it.
He sits up, slowly, drawing his hand away from Techno’s and gathering Eurydice into his arms as he stands. The air is charged, now, and he does not look Technoblade in the eye as he moves towards the door. He can feel his eyes boring holes into his back.
“Have fun on your adventure,” Wilbur says, voice clipped. “Don’t let him slit your throat this time.”
“Don’t come home drunk tonight,” Techno says, just as tightly, “and I’ll think about it. What would Tommy think?”
Wilbur slams the door behind him.
(He will forever regret this argument, their parting words before everything changed for the worse.)
And if he goes to his room and fumes and shatters a mirror, well, that’s just between him, the gods, and Eurydice, isn’t it? He slams through his drawers, searching for something, anything to take the edge off--he’s run out of any alcohol he’s smuggled out of the kitchens. He grabs a pack of cigarettes and soul sand and his lighter and wrenches the window open, taking hold of his guitar with far more care. Eurydice follows him out onto the castle rooftops. He settles on a particularly flat spot, and struggles to light the cigarette.
He inhales, slow and shaky, the blue glow of soulfire illuminating his face in the dim light of the sunset. The soulfire and smoke is a poor replacement for Schlatt’s warmth, but it’s enough to keep his chest warm and aching in the same way.
(“Schlatt wants me to run with him,” he admits, breathlessly, setting a bit of his soul sand supply aflame. The blue glow flickers and dances in front of his face, and casts Techno in a bright cyan light. “He wants me to just go with him. See the world.”
The fact that he wants to, desperately wants to, goes unspoken.
Technoblade leans against his shoulder, hands curling into fists as he grips the hem of Wilbur’s sweater. “Dream wants me to start an SMP with him,” he whispers, burying his face in Wil’s shoulder. It’s responsibility and running away tenfold, planting roots in a garden their father would disapprove of.
“I think you’d like that,” Wilbur says.
“Yeah.” Techno sounds scared. “That’s what I hate about it the most.”
Wilbur swallows. “No leaving Tommy,” he reminds him, bitter and soft all in one breath.
“No leaving Tommy,” Techno murmurs in response.)
Eurydice, taking on the image of a familiar snake, coils around Wilbur’s shoulders like a ghost of Morgana, Schlatt’s daemon. Wilbur chokes back a frustrated sob, one hand coming up to rest against her pitch black scales.
“Don’t do that,” he mumbles, but he’s clinging right back and if he closes his eyes, he can pretend he’s with Schlatt right now, or even with Sally, since she accompanies them so often.
The three of them, their daemons share forms so often it’s almost like they’re one person, so tightly entwined in each other’s lives. Wilbur decides to blame the fact that he’s shaking on the cold. He misses them, so strongly it hurts. Eurydice hums, doing her best to be soothing. She nudges his guitar into his lap. Carefully, like it might shatter at any moment, Wilbur picks it up, and begins to play.
Ice-cold fingers struggle to pick at the strings of his guitar, the wind chilling him down to the bone and making his fingers go numb. But he plucks away regardless, taking it slow as he draws out a soft tune. He thinks it could be an anthem, if he found something to apply it to. He thinks it just sounds sad, almost mournful, without a purpose.
It’s a low, lilting, almost haunting sound, drifting across the rooftop. It reminds him of Phil, of Techno, even of Tommy, at his lowest points. It’s something akin to a tragedy.
It’s something akin to the beginnings of the saddest sort of melody.
Wilbur pushes the notes to the back of his mind. It’s a symphony that will have to go unfinished, for now. He’ll work on it when he isn’t so fucking miserable.
For now, he strums old, familiar tunes under the stars, he and Eurydice both wishing for something more.
(Just a few more years, and they’ll get it.)