Work Text:
Phil was tired.
He was tired a lot of the time, if he was honest with himself. It was the kind of aching, claustrophobic tired, that made it hard to blink as he stared at the ripple ceiling.
He’d grown to hate the nights, they promised too much and delivered too little. They told of a new day, a chance to dream, a chance to rest, but they gave him nothing but aching eyes.
Phil was tired.
He debated turning his head to the side in an attempt to alleviate the pinch in his neck that slowly threatened to envelop his head, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to move - couldn’t quite get the energy.
Every breath was so hard to take, exhaustion pushed on his lungs; he closed his eyes against it but it sunk into his chest, bleeding out across his shoulders burning acid in his throat. He felt himself choke.
His wings shredded as he inhaled ash, lights flashing against his eyes. It was an instinct to move rather than a decision, muscles twitching before the thought to protect even crossed his mind. The initial pain hit like a wall, too intense to process, blood seeped from his head and he distantly wondered if it would stain his hat.
Blood seeped from Wilbur's chest onto his hands and he watched the light fade out of his son's eyes. He’d never get it out, another slash across the chest. He’d never get it out, the blood would stain, he’d never be clean, Wilbur’s eyes burned, l’Manburg burned, everything bu-
He wrenched his eyes open.
Phil was so tired.
He rolled over onto his side, adrenaline having made his joints looser in their sockets. He stared at his desk. Everything was prettier in the moonlight.
He missed Wilbur.
A bottle of ink sat on the table, the depth of it blurring the edges between blue and black, it contrasted nicely against the lighter wood, easy to focus on, easy to think about. His vision swirled too intensely to distinguish it in the darkness, but Phil knew a needle sat next to it, along with his sketch pad and pen, taunting him.
His skin ached. He closed eyes and sighed. His skin ached, it itched, it didn't feel like his own, it didn’t feel attached to him .
He thought about will.
He was tired of this. He was over feeling like this.
He was tired of this.
He pulled himself up from his bed into the cold, shivering violently. He couldn’t bring himself to care. He felt both too big and too small for his room, he wanted to run out screaming into the woods, into the snow, away from here, away from everything. But he didn’t. He sat at his desk and looked at the needle. It shone at him, steady and strong. He breathed.
As he picked up his pen, he thought about Wilbur.
He missed his hair, the way it curled, the way it was impossible to de-tangle no matter how hard he tried. Phil used to dread the mornings, knowing he’d have to wrestle Wilbur to sit still and perform the Sisyphean task of attempting to brush through knots. No matter how gentle he was, Wilbur used to wriggle in place, wincing as Phil methodically worked from end to scalp. He missed how soft it was, even when it was a birds nest.
He thought about Wilbur, and his music, how terrible it had been in the beginning. He thought about the smell of dandelion tea that would smother his nose as he hid smiling grimace into his mug, listening to Wilbur pluck on detuned strings in what he assumed was meant to be a chord. He remembered the absolute joy that burst in his chest the first time Wilbur played a song we’d written himself. It had been so bad, he’d been so proud.
He was still so proud.
His hand moved without him controlling it, sketching ideas. He had the approximate location in mind, somewhere around his ankle, probably just next to the joint, so it would have to be small and probably a rounder shape.
He thought about how they’d laughed as Wilbur hands shook with effort from bending wire into shape. He thought about the warmth of fire on his face as the matches burned too close to his finger for comfort, trying to light the lantern’s without burning anything else. He thought about the secrets they’d whispered into the flames, before, hand in hand, they’d launched them into the sky. He thought about the silence that had cloaked them, interrupted only by wondered gasps from Wilbur, as they watched the 2 lights dance around each other, fading and flickering till it was impossible to know if they’d just been a trick of the mind.
He’d told Will stories of lanterns that had flown so high they’d become stars, burning on forever. Wilbur asked if Phil had ever flown so high he’d touched a star, he’d laughed and said if he did, he’d bring one back for him. Wilbur stared at him like he’d been the one to put them there in the first place.
Wilbur had always thought too much of him.
He missed Wilbur.
It felt good to think about him directly for the first time. Good in the way that lying down made you realise just how much you’d been powering through the days, the kind of good that was more of a relief than it was a positive experience. But it was good.
Phil dipped the needle into the ink and took a breath. This was familiar, it was good. It hurt, but he knew this pain, it was his pain, he knew this.
Phil didn’t know if he’d been a good dad. He didn’t know if there was such a thing, he knew he’d tried. Was that enough? Was there such thing as enough? He tapped the needle against the ink vial, the sound was dulled but still resonant, it glinted off the walls as Phil pressed the needle just deep enough to deposit the ink evenly. He missed Wilbur.
Guilt still grated at his hands, but he pressed on with the same methodical patience that had brought worlds to their knees. Time passed, leaving Phil accompanied only with the gentle clink on metal on glass, and the steady breath of controlled pain. He waited for the swelling to settle, cleaning round the wound carefully, before starting again, precise and sharp. Phil was tired, but he carried on. His eyes stung, he blinked and refocused. His hands shook, he flexed and steadied them.
He wasn’t sure how much time passed, all he knew is his hip hurt from holding the odd position for so long. He wiped the area with the disinfectant he’d prepared, carefully applying a film to the top of the tattoo making a note to prepare aftercare in the morning. His ankle stung, his hands shook, he could barely see through his eyes. But he was breathing, and his mind felt calm.
He missed will. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be okay. But he was ready to think about it directly, look himself in the eye.
The lantern on his ankle burned.
He took a breath.