Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It had started a relatively normal night for the small family.
Wilbur had been making dinner, a potato-based stew that couldn’t help but fill him with a bitter, longing, nostalgia.

He listened content, despite his feelings, as Tommy and Tubbo tease Fundy, something about how they’re still older than him, that “you should listen to your favorite uncles Fundy.”

While in human years it would be true that his son would be younger, three, but due to his hybrid type, is instead now sixteen. Much to the thirteen-year old Tommy’s chagrin. It is an odd thought, that his son will be older than him soon, him being twenty, A scary one if he were to be honest, but he elects to try his best to put that aside for now.

Instead, listening Tommy and Tubbo, mostly Tommy, go on about how he remembers when “you were so small, I could crush you like a bug beneath my shoe, fur boy.”

It makes him laugh as he can hear Fundy groan and push Tommy over.

It’s nice, seeing them like this.

While Fundy never had to experience it, the air in Phil’s home was always filled with a tension. A tension that really, came mostly from him.

The home often felt empty with the owner so often gone and Techno so sparsely seen, having moved out. Though Wilbur knows he met with Phil often, just not them.

He’s happy to have made the home he did, to have run off with Tommy and Tubbo and started a life.

He feels like he’s less listing through the days now, though it isn’t unusual to struggle getting up in the morning. It seems just slightly easier, sometimes, at least.

Though there’s always a hole in their lives, and Wilbur knows it’s more than just Sally who’s missing.

These thought spirals were not new to him, it all was relatively normal.

But then he shuddered, body jolting with an invisible shock, feeling as if he was just drenched in cold water.

He staggers, grabbing the counter with rapidly numbing fingers.
He can hear the banter stop as the three turn to face him, having heard the stumble and watching with concerned eyes.

The numb overtakes his senses at a rapid rate, crawling up his arms and legs, bowling over his chest and gripping his brain.
He wants to turn, to say he’s fine, he doesn’t feel bad, or anything at all.

Though in hindsight that would only panic them, he’s sure.

Not the most reassuring thing one could say really.

Before he can make an idiot of himself however, he falls.
World titling on its axis, taking him with it in a muddled haze.

He can hear Tommy yell at him as he falls, shrill and concerned. Can hear the sounds of hurried hoofed toes and padded, clawed feet hit the ground as Tubbo and Fundy run towards the sound.

He tries to speak, to reassure the kids that, he’s fine, he must have just moved too quickly, regardless if that were true or not. He tries, but nothing happens.

He distantly hears his head hit the tiled floor. He can tell there are hands gripping at his arms, shaking him in a panic and clawed one’s lifting his head off the ground.
He knows that Tubbo is running down the hall to get what, unfortunately little, due to cost, medical supplies they have.

He can only distantly hope that they don’t need to use any of the potions, they certainly aren’t the easiest or cheapest thing to come by. Weather you’re making them yourself or not.

The matter around him feels as if its shifting, his body phasing and changing with it.

He’s far to numb to call it painful, though, something in him tells him it should be.

Then it’s gone.

The black sea matter of the void flows gently around him, waves rising and falling in a calm wave.

It’s freezing, he can tell, despite the numb of it all.

The voids waters grab hold, and drag him down by his ankles.

A shout chokes in his throat.

He hits the void’s sea floor.

His head slams against wooden floors, body jolting at the impact.

His head is spinning, ears filled with a static and his cheek stings.

The numb has begun to fade, leaving him confused and heaving, but before he can mull over that, a watery gasp draws him out of his stupor.

He peers up with heavy lidded eyes, tears burning the corners of his eyes and blurring his vision.
As he lays prone, taking in a figure of muddles hues in front of him, he can’t stop the broken inhale of breath he takes as it comes together.

Phil stares back at him, trembling much the same as him, with cold blue eyes brimming with tears.

The man seems to curl in on himself in shock and shame. Bringing his outstretched hand to his chest and gripping the wrist, holding close the thing he just hit his son with.

The sight makes Wilbur heave, breath picking up and chest tightening as each second of fading numb is replaced by a panic.
Just not for the reasons one may think.

One, Phil is standing in front of him, eyes ashamed but figure big and imposing to his fallen, prone form.

Two, he can now hear frantic angry banging against the locked wood door behind him. Tommy’s voice clear, as he yells angrily for an answer as to what just happened, squeaky and shrill.

And three. He’s been here before. Not the home they are currently in, nor the area, but this exact moment.

This has already happened, down to each little detail. The sound of tentative, worried steps coming from behind the door shrouded by Tommy’s yelling.

The way Phil curls further in shame at each one of those yells. The way Phil’s eyes glance down at him every so often in shame. In a shame Wilbur now recognizes as shame for his own actions.

He’s seen and been here all before, for this was his last night in this house.

This was the night before he took Tommy and Tubbo, and ran away.

The night before him leaving led to him meeting Sally, a love he fell into far too fast, though he would loath to regret it, and the night that would one day lead to a bright eyed, fox son, in his life.

So why is he here?

Why did he go from cooking dinner for Tommy, Tubbo and Fundy in their own house, to being here?

He can feel himself spiraling, prone body curling inward and hands desperately grasping at his tangled hair.

Is any of this real?

Is he unconscious, and this is all just a dream, just him reliving a memory?

The red mark on his cheek stings as tears slip past his eyes.

He can hear someone trying to get him to breathe, hands ghosting just over touching him.

Each bang of the door makes him curl in tighter.
He can hear someone, Phil, his brain reminds him, yell at the door, assumingly telling Tommy to stop.

He can just hear frantic, panicked and regret filled apologies being thrown his way.

It does little to sooth him, even as the other sounds on the verge of sobbing,
For the second time in the span of minuets? Hours?

How long had it been? What was happening?

He feels himself getting drawn down by the waves, he swims down with them.

The door behind him slams open as the hands give up simply ghosting over him, and grab him, pulling up the upper half of his limp form, his head listing to the side.

The world disappears around him once more, numb relief accompanying it.

Maybe when he wakes up, it will have been a nightmare.

It wasn’t.

Chapter Text

To say Tommy was nervous was an understatement, he wasn’t worried though, really, he wasn’t!

He can hear Tubbo whisper shouting at him, teeth grit, telling him to “Come back, don’t go out there!” but he keeps walking.

The growing sound of the yelling does little to sooth the anxious churning in his gut.

Phil and Wilbur have fought before, have had screaming matches that seemed to last hours, both being horribly headstrong and stubborn.
Some were over little, stupid things that even when heated could still almost be called banter, were it not the slight tension.

Tommy would often take Wilbur’s side on these, teaming up to mock Phil and helping to create a teasing atmosphere instead.

Sometimes they would team up on Wilbur, sometimes even Techno, who was rarely seen home, even more than Phil, would join.
Tommy liked those fights, they were fun, this wasn’t one of those though.

This was one of those serious fights, about serious “adult” shit he still didn’t fully get, though he did have a better understanding of it compared to few years ago.
He’s a big man like that.

It annoys him how Wilbur will laugh when he says that, he’s ten now, he’s a big man!
Even if he’s the youngest, he’s still a big man.

He shakes his head.

He isn’t fully sure how it even started. All he can recall is Wilbur cleaning up from their dinner, when Phil came home.

Later, thinking back, he would recall the off-way Wil had been acting that day.
He would remember the way Wil had been mumbling to himself, something he had seen before, but it was more than usual, he thinks.

For whatever reason or another though, his brother’s patience had been thin, and the sudden reappearance of their father after more than a month, made it snap.

Wilbur’s head had whipped up, pointed ears tilted back, fangs barred and spitting words at the Angelic man with a bitter, spiteful venom.

The wild, burning fire in his brother’s eyes had been enough to make him step back, Tubbo following suite.

Phil had responded in turn, feathers ruffling and wings raising high, with a loud shout of “What the fuck are you on about mate!?!”

It had only escalated from there. Phil stalking through the door, wings spread in a defensive aggression as Wilbur yelled a tyrant of words, only broken when the brunette seemed to snap to enough sense to usher him and Tubbo out with a hand towards the door.

Tommy had almost wanted to object but listened anyways, not wanting to go against the feral animal that seemed to roar in the older teen, and rushing out the door with Tubbo.

The sound of that wood door locking behind them rung in his ears, making his step falter, his instincts screaming at the feeling of wrong

but still, he resolved himself to go to his and Tubbo’s room with the other instead.

All the while ignoring the coiling ball of nervous energy is his chest.

The two had been up there for some time, simply trying to ignore the sounds down the hall and make conversation instead. The pair tensely trying to make plans of chaos they could do.
Something about pranking Phil and Wilbur in retribution for their own discomfort from their arguing. Maybe not the best time for it but, it’d be funny.

All plans and conversation were broken howerver, when a loud thud rang across the house, and Wilbur’s shouting stopped in it’s tracks, as if cut off.

It made him bristle, hands gripping at his shirt. He waited for the shouting of his brother to return, or to simply hear him at all. The inner walls were decently thin so he should able to hear something, but Wilbur remained silent.

Everything, was silent.

It made him shoot to his feet, Tubbo following. It was one of those sounds, something you hear, that instinct screams is wrong. That something, is horribly wrong.

Which is what led him here, banging at the door, which he will angrily curse Wilbur out for, for locking it later, and yelling obscenities.

Despite Tubbo’s protests he can tell the other is worried too, hovering nervously behind him and only worsening as they get no reply.

He continues his little game of screaming as loud as possible “OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR, THE FUCKS GOING ON?!” till Phil finally replies with a “TOMMY, STOP!” in an angry panic.

The tone makes him want to shout louder and he jiggles the handle of the door harshly, hard enough where it looks like he’s more trying to rip it out the socket, for what must be the hundredth time in the minutes he’s been yelling.

Behind him Tubbo seems to resolve himself, running off quickly and returning with a big chunk of heavy coal they had set aside for, “purely innocent reasons”, he would most likely have to assure Wilbur with later.

The ram hybrid grips it tight in his hands before screeching “WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” and dashing at the door.

Tommy just barely side steps in time as the other comes up, running full speed at the door and raising his arms, bringing the coal down on the doorknob at full force, causing to break and clatter against the ground.

The door, now creaking a sliver open.

Tubbo pants as Tommy lets out a shrieking laugh at the sight.

“Holy shit Tubbo.”

The other looks up at him, coal in hand and laughs, smile wide, still catching his breath.

He loves the ram hybrid, really, not that he’d ever say that.
He ain’t no pussy.

The moment however, is broken as they hear a familiar voice whimper, soft, scratchy and sounding in pain.

The tension comes back at full force.

That was Wilbur.

He kicks open the door for emphasis, running head first into the room, not sure what he’s going to find.

Maybe Wilbur stormed off, maybe one of them had broken some shit in their fight. What he wasn’t expecting though was a limp, deadweight Wilbur being held up in their father’s arms.

As Phil whips his head up to look at the new arrivals, Tommy can’t help but take notice of Wilbur’s appearance

His older brother’s head is listed to the side, face a flushed red with tears streaming down his cheeks. His hair is knotted and bunched, as if he or someone else had gripped onto the hair and pulled. The bottom half of his brother’s body, not being held up, was limp on the floor, and he’s sure he can almost see blood underneath his brother’s nails.

Besides all these details however, one detail stands immensely clear, burning into is vision.

A red mark stands bright against his brother’s unconscious, flushed face. Wide and big, vaguely hand shaped, with a small surface scratch where one of the fingers of this hand could be.

His gaze drops to the hands holding his brother up.

There’s blood on Phil’s ring.

He can hear a small gasp behind him as Tubbo takes in the scene too, and has the same realization.
“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO!?”

Phil meets his gaze, with his own, tear filled, shameful one.

The fight only ends when Phil says Wilbur needs medical attention, something he nor Tubbo know how to do, even for something simple.

It honestly doesn’t look much worse than the scraped knees he and Tubbo get, but he doesn’t risk it.

No matter how much he wants to.

It ends with him and Tubbo sitting in Wil’s room, stationed by his bed and glaring at Phil at any given opportunity. They make snide, accusing comments the whole way through.

Phil doesn’t disagree with them.

Chapter Text

Tubbo shifts uncomfortably in his seat, hoofed feet scratching lightly against the floor and ears flicking in irritation.

Tommy isn’t much better. He can see the other shifting, and mumbling to himself in his periphery, body wound like a spring that’s ready to launch at any given chance.

The air is thick with a tension, a tension that had been anger but has melded to worry as time passed.

He thought Wilbur would have woken up by now, it had been an entire night after all. Phil couldn’t have hurt him that badly, could he?
The thought of the man has him titling his ears back in displeasure.

If it weren’t for the winged man, Wilbur would be up and moving. Would be up and making breakfast for them, jokingly pushing Tommy away as the other clawed at the food he was cooking while whining dramatically. Would look down attentively when Tubbo pawed at the man and looking at whatever Tubbo had decided he wanted or needed the brunette teen for.
Wilbur would be watching their antics with a tired patience, shifting between bickering with them, joining in or reigning them in.

Wilbur would be doing so many things, would be awake, if it weren’t for Phil.

Tubbo doesn’t hate Phil, and he knows Tommy doesn’t either.

He can see the way Tommy grabs what little attention he gets from the man when he’s here. Can see how the blond will light with praise and listen intently to the stories Phil would tell.

Tubbo sometimes joined in these endeavors, but despite the want for attention from the man as well, he was far less connected with him. Tommy had more time to connect to the man than he did, and despite Phil being there when Tommy, Wilbur and Techno found him.

Despite Phil wrapping him in a warm towel, patting down his damp hair soothingly, and bringing him clothes when they had gotten home. And despite the family nights, the laughter at his chaos, the bonding time he had with the man.
After the first month, the first week, the first day.

He was little more than acknowledged.

Phil was not outright cruel, not by any near means, but he rarely spoke to him.

Tubbo knows he doesn’t know a lot of things. A lot of things confuse him and trying to read to learn was a struggle ‘cause the words and letters kept switching around and stuff, but he knows Wilbur was upset about it.

He remembers Wilbur looking so disappointed when the winged man would pass him with little or no words, when the man simply forgot he was in the room or talks between them were brief. For a time Tubbo had thought the issue was him, but it’s become easier to tell as he’s grown.

He knows Tommy can see it too, but his friend stays resolute on the effort for the man’s attention. The blond beside him shifts audibly again, leg bouncing loudly on the floor and hands fidgeting.

He wishes Wilbur was awake.

The longer it takes the more it makes him wonder what fully happened. Did Phil do something worse than they saw?

Is it something else?

Tommy seems to share his thoughts, and voices them in a burst for him.

“What’s taking so fucking long? It’s been an entire damn night, he- he should be up by now, right?!”

The blond gesture wildly, voice raising in pitch enough for his ears to tilt back at the volume.

“Wilbur never sleeps this long! Even though he says he does, we know that! Why is he still asleep?! Why isn’t he waking up!? What the fuck even happened there! Did-”

Tubbo cuts the other off as he paws at the blonde’s arm, gently grasping the warm skin and moving to lace their fingers. The other complies with a huff, looking away but squeezing his hand all the same.

“He’ll wake up………he has too.”

The silence returns after that, only broken by Wilbur’s breathing or their own twitching.

He doesn’t know how long they sat there - it was honestly boring as hell for them, but that feeling was mostly overwhelmed by their worry - before the brunette groans, making them shoot up quickly.

All he knows is that the whine of pain that had set them so on edge before was now a rush of relief.

Wilbur wakes with a groan, eyelids shuttering harshly in protest before he forces them open, vision unfocussed and trained onto the sheets below him.

When did he go to bed?

He pushes himself up slowly with a groan, feeling like he got trampled by a horse. The thought sends a pulse down his body, making him groan again. He really doesn’t want to make the kids breakfast right now, he doesn’t even know if he could. Surely, they could do it for once right? Fundy is sixteen, he can cook….

His brow furrows. He taught Fundy how to cook, right?

Images of what happened last time hit him full force and he groans, rubbing his nose bridge with a sigh. Yeah, no.

He really should try to teach at least Fundy again, but, maybe not in the house where everything could burn, this time.

How the fuck did they even do that?

Focus.

He tries to move to get up, eyes still trained onto the sheets but as he does the world seems to tilt, making the now prominent pounding in his head he just became aware of, flare in objection.
He can feel his stomach flip and does everything in his power not to lose his food right then and there.

Fuck, is he sick? Why did he just think of that now? He really doesn’t think he can get up right now, the kids can handle making a sandwich or something right? Do they have enough to order food right now?

He jolts as he feels small hands push against his arm, shaking him.
He hadn’t realized he was being talked to. He peers up through blurry vision.

He’s greeted by Tommy, though he does look odd, different. His brows furrow, staring at the, off, look of the boy.

Then it hits him like a sword to the gut.

He hunches over, coughing harshly, his mind reeling as memories flash behind his eyes.

This couldn’t be real, could it?

He looks up, heaving while Tommy seemingly tries to reassure him.

His vision starts to clear, things coming further into focus.

Tommy’s eyes stare back at him, brow furrowed and face just a little too close for comfort. Tommy’s face, which had recently begun to sharpen into a more mature, cut figure, his baby fat having been prominently lost long ago. Was rounded and the faintest spotting of freckles that he knows would be completely gone within the year, stood stark.

His eyes trail the room and hone in on Tubbo, who’s hovering worriedly just behind Tommy. The others face, much like Tommy’s, having more baby fat than he had before, begun to lose despite his natural round features. His hair ruffled, with fluffy ears seeming just a bit too big on him, and where there were once the nubs of what would be horns, were gone.

The sight really is an extra slap in the face.

” Wilbur! Wilbur!! WILBUR!” Tommy’s hands push against his face.

He pushes them off “Stop screaming in my ear, child”

“I AM NOT A CHILD YOU-“

It was expected, and the familiarity despite, whatever the fuck this all is, is comforting. But, it still makes him flinch, pounding head protesting the volume.

Tommy’s tirade is cut off as Tubbo steps up, placing a small hand on his knee with a concerned expression.

“You good big man?” The boy says softly.
Tommy stops, shooting a look at Tubbo then him, silently asking the same question.

He wishes he could say he was.
One, painful question comes to mind to confirm the situation. He really doesn’t want to ask it, to cement the fact that somehow, he isn’t dreaming, that he isn’t just crazy, maybe. That he didn’t just pass out from sleep or food deprivation and is unconscious, that this is all real.

He asks anyway.

His voice breaks as he speaks, hesitant though in his chest he knows the answer.
“Where’s Fundy?”

The pair share a look, seeming to ask each other a question before settling back on him, wide child eyes confused.

Tommy speaks first.

“Who the fuck is Fundy?”

Its such a genuine question, the boy’s voice only filled with confusion unlike when they’re doing one of their pranks. He isn’t joking, he has no idea who Fundy is.

It takes everything in him not to break down then and there.

Somehow, he’s in the past, back in this fucking house and Fundy. Fundy doesn’t exist yet.

He hasn’t met Sally, he hasn’t fallen in love, hard and fast for a girl who couldn’t stay for long. Hadn’t cried in joy as she said she was pregnant, more than ready to be a father despite only being seventeen. He didn’t regret it, he still doesn’t.

She hadn’t moved in with their little family, the boys taking a liking to her and then later joined by little “Floris” later, Fundy, as he confessed to being his son instead. It couldn’t make him prouder. The learning process of getting binders, and shots, and the proper clothes, was all confusing, and an overall learning process for both parties, but one he was more than happy to take. The pure elation on his son’s face was worth way more than any costs of the process.

Sally hadn’t yet left, never to be seen again and fate unknown by all who loved her, leaving their little home missing a piece amongst the other holes and leaving him heartbroken. They hadn’t started healing, filling the spaces she once was in their home with laughter, even if something would always be out of place. They didn’t even have this little home yet, because he hasn’t run away with Tommy and Tubbo. He hasn’t met Sally, he hasn’t had Fundy.

He’s back to being seventeen, back to being in a house with tense silences and a broken family. Back to the place he was forced to raise the two youngest when they entered the family, Phil coming and going as pleased and Techno more seldom seen than ever.

The mid-morning sun shines through one of the windows, light painful to the eyes and casting a shadow behind Tommy and Tubbo who are still standing in front of him, concerned and confused.

He remembers it being late, broaching night when he had fought with Phil. It’s now the next day. And before, when he and the kids would have been held up in a small inn, were now still here. In his old room and in this old house.

The wood creaks as the door to the room is gently pushed open, making him and the kids whip their heads up, only to find Phil.

He stands in the doorway, meeting his eyes while shifting, shame and guilt brimming over them.

“Hey…Wil, are you, okay?” Phil hesitantly asks.

The kids glare at the man. Tubbo, looking ready to charge, and Tommy, shifting closer to him.

Acid burns in his throat.

This really is real, isn’t it?

“Phil….”

He wishes he was home instead.

Chapter Text

The fact he’s managed to not have another panic attack honestly surprises him. If the situation weren’t what it is, he’d say he’s almost proud of himself for keeping it together this long.

Though, it certainly is a challenge and each new event is making it harder, and harder.
And despite him not breaking down, it doesn’t stop the twitching of his fingers and the craving for the soothing burn of nicotine in his throat.

It had been such a long time since his last smoke too, and despite him holding up against the headaches, hunger, fatigue and everything else he’s long gotten use too.

He wants to indulge more than ever.

The sight in front of him only amplifies that.

The sight in front of him is almost more surprising, and unnatural as him being in the past.

Phil stands in the doorway, eyes on him with unconcealed worry and shame. The look is so reminiscent of a kicked puppy that Wilbur almost wants to feel bad.
Wilbur had never talked with the man about what happened, having left with the kids, who were still glaring at Phil, that night.

He remembers the long nights after, nursing a bruise and mulling over the way Phil had looked down at him.

He had for a long time thought the anger filled, saddened shame, had been directed at him. That Wilbur was the thing Phil was so ashamed of.

It made sense after all.

In later years though, he would think that perhaps, Phil’s shame was directed at himself for what he had just done.

On particularly bitter nights with greet teeth and whispers in his ears, he would hope the man felt sorry. That Phil felt sorry for it all, but unable to do anything about it except wallow in himself.

He was never sure, but now the answer is staring him in the face.

The answer, is hesitantly meeting his gaze with bloodshot pupils and tired, warry expression.

The answer’s, body is stiff and wings held tight against the back, looking all to ready to fly off, like always.

It’s right there, yet he still has so many questions.

Which is probably why he jumps the gun. The whole thing still feeling all to unreal and potential consequence so numbing,

“Tommy, Tubbo, leave. I need to speak with Phil, we’ll talk more later.”

The kids turn to look at him, expressions aghast.

“What the hell! Were not leaving!” Tommy yells, Tubbo quickly nodding before shouting himself.

“Are you crazy big man?!”

“Are you still fucked in the ‘ead or something?!”

If this is real

If he really is somehow stuck here, maybe he can finally have some things answered. If the look on Phil’s face is any indicator.

He might have a chance

Maybe he’ll wake up to this all being a dream and nothing will have changed.

Both options feel numbing to him.

Phil’s eyes bore into him.

It feels cold.

Even after everything he can’t hate the man, never did. No matter the amount of long nights he spent cursing the man for never seeming to care, for never being there.

For making him raise his son.

Rarely, and selfishly, he would curse the man for making him grow up so quickly, yet leaving him fumbling with things he was never taught.

Leaving him not knowing who even was, when not taking care of the kids.

No wonder Sally left.

There wasn’t an actual person she could have loved in the first place.

And there certainly, wasn’t a person Phil could be proud of.

He wanted, wants to, hate the man so badly, but….

It just hurt.

Hurt more than anything.

Hurt in a way that would infest his thoughts with doubts and insecurity.

Thoughts that would spill over the top when he’s taking care of a sick Tommy, or reading to an excited Tubbo.

Or raising his son, Fundy.

His little champion.

What if he isn’t doing enough?

What if he isn’t around enough?

What if Fundy doesn’t think he’s there for him enough?

What’s enough?

He blinks harshly and casts the thoughts aside.

Phil stands, surprised at the doorway, not expecting Wilbur to want to talk with him, but making no moves in protest or encouragement. It’s so odd to see “The Angel of Death” so out of place.

Tommy and Tubbo shift closer, electing to ignore the winged man’s presence and look at him with wide, innocent eyes.

The sight almost makes him falter, hating the obvious worry in their looks, but he knows Phil won’t hurt him again.
If he weren’t from the future he would be more unsure, but time to think does bring some clarity.

It’s not like he plans to forgive the man for it either, and the thought of the man bringing a hand up to brush through his hair like he use to, so, so long ago makes him almost want to flinch. Despite that, he knows Phil wouldn’t dare.

Not now, at least.

He knows that it isn’t okay, it never will be.

The passing thoughts of “what if that happened to Tommy? Or Tubbo?” plagued him often after the night, and to this day.
But, despite all that, he wants to talk.

Maybe, he’s just tired of writing a singular dialogue in his head on repeat, on the nights he mourns.

Maybe, he’s just tired in general, and his inhibitions feel loose right now.

If he were to focus on the feeling he’d say he feels almost drunk, but by something unnatural.

Wilbur sighs, placing a hand each on the younger pair’s shoulders.

“I’ll be fine, Phil won’t try anything, and I can handle myself”

“But- “He cuts Tommy off sternly.

“Go.”

Tommy and Tubbo share an unsure look, seeming to have a mental conversation before coming to a conclusion. Obvious in not wanting to leave but still moving away from him.

Yeah, they’re definitely going to get into something, but his pounding head is grateful for the lack of loud fuss he usually gets when they don’t want to do something, especially Tommy.

Phil seems to come to his sense as the kids walk toward the door. Phil moves out of the way, not missing the persistent glare he’s still getting from the two.
Tommy and Tubbo shoot him one last look, scared and unsure, hands holding the other’s tightly before rushing out, bumping Phil as they do.

The winged man stumbles, surprised and annoyed.

It makes him let out a breathy laugh, knowing they definitely did that on purpose. He hopes they never change, despite the messes he has to clean up. He belatedly wonders where they learned to be so petty, before scoffing lightly to himself, coughing harshly after.

Definitely him, all three of his kids were petty. He almost laughs again, honestly bordering on hysteric in the mess he’s in.

Where did he go wrong? They took after him way too much.

“Wil?”

He snaps back to the “present”, he’s been awfully spacey, but who could blame him really.

The air seems to physically shift, becoming denser and colder with the pair gone.

Just him, and Phil.

Wilbur shifts, gripping his blanket and -finding that makes him feel all too like a little kid- elects to stand. Forcing himself up groaning as everything in him protests against that.
He might feel like shit but he isn’t going to hide under the covers with Phil here.

If you want to talk to the man and be heard you have to be strong.

It’s why it comes so natural to Techno.

Always so strong, his twin was.

He misses when his twin would use that strength to help him when he couldn’t force himself out of a slump, when he lost his loose mental footing and fell into the waters, and not for just spilling other’s blood.

Phil’s eyes widen at the action, stepping forward, arms out.

“Wilbur, don’t do that, you- “

Wilbur brings a hand up, silencing the man as he stands anyway.
The world tilts again, he almost feels like he’s about to pass out then and there, before it seems to even out.

Standing certainly hasn’t made him feel any better. His head is still pounding and stomach churning, but he’d rather stand for this instead of sitting bundled up on the bed, like a sick, weak, kid.

He might be a teenager in body, but he isn’t a kid, hasn’t been even before reaching legal adult age.

The two stand in silence, Phil nervous in a way that only comes when facing your mistakes, and Wilbur unwilling to break it.

It was a game he played often with Techno, usually when his twin wanted to talk about something but was struggling to start.

He usually “lost” first which almost always caused a smug smirk to grace his twin’s face.

Phil’s wings twitch behind him as he shifts restlessly.

Wilbur stays quiet.

Phil breaks first.

Wilbur’s lips twitch in a hidden smirk.

“…...It doesn’t still hurt, does it?”

Wilbur blinks, surprised that they’re diving into that first but not opposed.

He’s far to tired to dance around the topic.

He brings a hand up, fingers brushing against a band-Aid he hadn’t realized was there till now.
The injury itself isn’t really bad, the band-Aid really, despite the cut he knew he had, is honestly excessive.

Though, he supposes the other man felt guilty and elected to overdo it. That isn’t a very common thing for "The Angel of Death" to feel, that, he knows.

He pulls the hand down with a sigh, meeting the man’s eyes.

“It’s fine, Phil…”

And back to silence.
He can only watch as the other shifts, feather’s raised in distress and looking ready to bolt at the nearest chance.

He can see the thought process run through his father’s eyes as he decided to take that chance.

He starts to walk towards the door.

“Phil.”

The man turns, facing him.

“Yes?”

He’s tired, wishes nothing more than to be home, back with Fundy and Tommy and Tubbo, and wants answers.

The whole thing honestly feels distant, as if he’s merely watching it play out while actively making the narrative decisions.
He’ll take it over panicking he supposes.

That feeling is what makes it so much easier to say what he does.

It’s time to start the next plot point after all, if he’s stuck here, it all needs to go somewhere.

“Why did you pick Techno over us?”

Might as well begin with the issue that started it all.

Chapter Text

“Why did you pick Techno over us?”

The winged man recoils, stumbling back half a step and wings flaring.

“Wha-what?

Wilbur levels his gaze with the man, dark brown gleaming with a fire both he and his fate bound twin possess.

If Phil were to squint he can almost image pink hair on his son instead of brown with how identical the look is.

“Why did you pick Techno over me, Tommy and Tubbo.”

Phil opens his mouth, flabbergasted by the bluntness and scraping his brain for a reply, for how he could answer something like that, before Wilbur cuts him off.

“Don’t lie, Phil. We all know you’ve always liked Techno more, even if you do still care about us." The boy pauses.

"To an extent.”

The words are spoken bluntly, a simple stating of fact, and laced with a cold strong enough to freeze Phil where he stands.

Wilbur has always had a way with words, saying things in certain tones and using specific language to get what he wanted.
Utilizing them in a way to make you feel what he wanted you to feel and make you do what he wanted you to do. A siren who could draw you in just to grab, and pull you beneath the dark waters he resides in.

Phi is unsure if his son has any idea just how much power he has, and could wield.
What the brunette could do, while less obvious than his eldest's ability, is no less terrifying, even for one who’s been around as long as he has.

It makes him shiver.

The waves brushing along his heels feel beyond freezing.

“Why?”

Phil liked to think himself a good, or at least, decent father. He knew he’s made his mistakes, no parent is perfect after all, but he’s kept his children fed, dressed and homed.

He’s always made sure to leave money for when he was gone, he’s taught them to fight, he’s talked with them, he exchanges letters with Wilbur, and leaves messages for Tommy and Tubbo.

He isn’t a bad father, right? He may have never been ready, nor fully wanted kids, especially this many, but he doesn’t regret it.

He doesn’t regret flying down when seeing two small shapes running from an armoured man and finding Wilbur and Techno, huddled defensively in an alley.

He doesn’t regret taking Wilbur and Techno out for a stroll, only for the brunette child to find a baby Tommy wailing, abandoned amongst the rubbish.

He doesn’t regret taking the three to the park only for Tommy, Wilbur in tow, to stumble upon a small hybrid child in a box, covered in a light layer of dirt and damp from rain im an oversized green shirt.

He doesn’t regret any of it, he loves them, surely, he must be a good father, even if he makes mistakes.

Except a small “mistake” is staring him in the face.

The off-white bandage covering his son’s cheek stands stark against the still flushed skin, and the stains of forming bruises peeks out from under it in an ugly purple.
Phil’s hands clench at his sides, the image still so clear in his mind.

Wilbur, curling in on himself on the floor, face a stark red, tears staining his cheeks, and letting out choked off sobs and words passed his lips, a small trail of blood flowing from the boy’s cheek.
A jagged cut, with slight indentation, marring the skin’s surface.

The ring was something he found after raiding a woodland mansion, per Death’s request, the inhabitants getting a little too lucrative with their totems.
The find, a pure gold ring and emerald encrusted, elegant swirled designs indented onto the surface. A rare find.

He remembers Death’s presence being strong that day.

He remembers hearing her laugh as he put it on, gently complimenting him and laughing harder as he flushed.

He remembers his next visit to Death’s chamber, and seeing a matching emerald standing stark against her dark cloak.

The night had been a quiet, intimate one.

He had left after they vowed to never depart, with the rings, a new magic flowing through the shining stone with a goddess’s blessing.

It provided a way to feel her presence more closely, as visits could not be, lest the void swallow him.

He could feel her disappointment as its surface met skin.

The small splashing of red was a stark contrast the green and gold.

He put it away last night.

Kept safely in his enderchest, with the hope she may forgive him.

Praying to her. Begging just as pitifully as he was, on how to fix things.

If Death had said anything, he hadn’t heard.

He knows Wilbur is right, the sight in front of him is simply a truth of that
.

He swallows down the shame in his throat and breaches the freezing waters Wilbur resides in.

He was Death’s angel, an un-aging being who Death had held in her arms, blessed and shared her name with. A being Death loved and a being who had seen and done more things than a simple mortal could comprehend, only comparable to the other Gods

Yet this was scarier than all of that, for this wasn’t a call for Death.

Death wasn’t the answer here.

This was a call for life, and a call to care for his children.

To be open, and honest to one he knows he’s wronged.

His son.

“Why?” Wilbur repeats, meeting is cold blue unflinchingly.

“Because I was scared.”

Wilbur blinks, staring up at the man, the air still.

He blinks again, then again, brain catching up with what was just said.

He had expected Phil to at least try to lie, to make some excuse or deny it all together though some part of him hoped that would not be the case, he knew such hope was often a foolish prospect.

It would appear this time is different.

Phil steps closer, wings lowering and turns to face him from the side.

He continues.

“I was scared, I would hurt you three.” His eyes shoot to his bandaged cheek before falling to the floor.

The honest, resigned tone leaves him struggling for what to say. He’s used to having to pull the best thing he can during the heat of an argument, trying to get what little point he could conjure between the spiteful words that would fall past his lips.

He was use to going over what he would say mentally, paranoidly spiraling with a checklist of things to try and get the man to notice. To hear, doing whatever he had to, to get the man’s attention, even if it meant starting a fight.

He remembers it being a daily thing toward the end, especially when the man was actually home, and it was something that he seemed to carry into his early adulthood.

Having the time to think over what he really wants to ask, and getting a seemingly honest answer is something he would never expect.

“Why just us? Why not Techno too? Aren’t you scared you’d hurt him too?”

Phil sighs, moving to sit of the bed and clasping his hands together, staring down.

“He’s,,, different, than you three, Wilbur.”

Wilbur shifts, ignoring his still aching body, why does he feel so shit? Is he sick, or something? And stares at the winged man.

“He’s far too much like me and that’s dangerous, but something I can.... oversee.”

Wilbur knew well of his fate-bound twin’s voices, despite the divide they were close, once. He likes to think they still could have been, had the man, teen now Wilbur supposes, ever come to see him.

He knew how they liked to scream in the swine hybrid’s ears, it was worrying to see and he had more than once ended up at the end of his twin’s blade. He understood, however, he could hear them too sometimes, not that he’s told anyone or plans to.

He’s surprised at how quiet they’ve been at the situation, though they usually only show when he’s angry, or hurt. They had been the reason for many of his fights with Phil after all, including the last one.

If he focuses he can hear whispers, all unintelligible, but he’ll treasure the silence he’s been given.

He shakes his head lightly, ignoring the renewed pounding and dizzying feeling it causes.

“What do you mean?”

Phil sighs for the umpteenth time in the past day and resolves himself, taking the final plunge.

The water of Wilbur’s world engulfs his waste, and it takes everything he has not to hurriedly try to fly out as the rush of cold travels up and his feathers dampen.

“It’s harder to hurt him, Wilbur.”

He gestures aimlessly, trying to visualize what to say and how.

“I’m an Angel of Death, Wilbur, you know this.”
“The power that comes from that, is…. hard, to control, and Techno is similar.”

Wilbur stays quiet, trying to let his spinning mind take in what’s being said, paying close attention.

“It’s…likely, he’ll become an official Angel when he gets older. Or perhaps, something even stronger.”

Wilbur shakily stumbles to the bed, resolving himself to sit next to the man and watching with wide eyes.

He knows how he must just look, so enraptured right now, but finds he doesn’t care, despite how young and naïve the situation at hand makes him feel.

“I don’t know how he has the power he does, but I know what it is, I recognize it."

But, right now, he’s unstable and unfortunately far more likely to hurt himself or others, and I know he knows that.”

Phil sighs.

“In the end, I had to make a choice, you three, or Techno………...”

“I had thought you all would be fine, that more progress would have been made, and that things would have been far better than they actually are.”

Phil reaches a hand out, ghosting over his shoulder with an almost, pathetic, looking hesitation.

“You have always been so strong, so I assumed you would be fine with me being gone, and I neglected three of my children’s needs in favor of one’s, who’s I had deemed more important.”

Wilbur wants to pull away, deny the man this chance despite him starting the whole conversation.

He left, he raised Tommy and Tubbo, when Phil wouldn’t

He’s raised a son, three sons.

He doesn’t want him, doesn’t, need him.

“That was the biggest mistake of my life, but I can't take it back.”

Except, he does.

He does so badly

He’s needed Phil for long, needed the days of making lanterns and singing songs together, back again.

He needed to be able to be a kid again, to have someone to take care of him, instead of the other way around.

He wants, Phil.

He wants, Techno.

He loves the family he made, he was content to stay with them.

He was getting better!

Right?

Sure, sometimes his mind was loud and he'd find himself spiraling over everything, the kids, money, doing what he needed, himself.

But he was happy, he was.

He just had to make sure he stayed, he couldnt leave the one's he's raised all this time, no matter how peaceful the void seemed to be.

He had his little family, so it was okay, except.

It’s gone now, Fundy doesn’t even exist.

Maybe, it’s because of the body he’s in, maybe its affecting his mental state.

Maybe, he just wants to act like the scared kid he still is, even at twenty.

He leans into the hand, shivering as the warm hand presses down gently on his shoulder, fingers moving in slow, soothing motions.

His eyes burn with tears.

“He misses you, Techno…he misses all three of you, but-“

I can tell you’re the one he does the most.”

He lets out a sob, hands moving to cover his mouth.

The hand pulls him gently into Phil’s side, wing moving to cover him in a protective, secure cover.

It’s been so long.

He can’t stop the wail that pushes past his throat.

“I’m so, so sorry Wilbur. I failed you and Tommy and Tubbo.
I’m so sorry, I hurt you, left you.”

A hand threads to his brunette locks.

“But- never again, I know its far too late, and you don’t have to forgive me, you really shouldn’t, but please-”

He buries his face into the man’s chest.

He can feel Phil’s tears land in his hair.

“Let me help you, for once.”

Chapter Text

The sound of Wilbur’s slow, labored fills in the hollow quiet of the room.

Phil runs his fingers gently through his son’s hair, not wanting to wake the passed-out teen.

The sight was both nostalgic, yet saddening.

Thinking back to the last time he was home- far, far too long ago, he could have at least checked in more.

He had the time, and even if he didn’t, he could have made it. What the hell is wrong with him-, the teen had looked exhausted, and that hadn’t changed. It was good to see him sleeping, even if it did increase the worry churning in his gut.

When he had- had- his hand tightens in Wilbur’s hair, and the teen whines. He quickly lets go, quickly pulling away and listening with baited breath as his son calms.
Phil breathes a sigh through gritted teeth, shifting the smaller out his arms.

The teen, despite letting out few whines and whimpers that have him hesitating, doesn’t wake, as he lays him on the bed.
He looks down at the boy, worriedly gnawing his lip.

When he had hit, Wilbur. He had watched in shock of himself as his son’s head had been flung back by the force and hit the floor with an ear-deafening thud.

He had watched, shaking, as small droplets of blood fell from his ring, seeped into the wood floor. And watched, as Wilbur looked at him through lidded eyes, shifting from a pained shock to pure, confused, panic.

Seeing the boys prone form curling in on himself had been enough to snap Phil out of his stupor, making him rush over despite him being the cause.

The most worrying thing though, something that still worried him now, was Wilbur’s muttering.

He doesn’t think the teen realized he was doing it, doesn’t remember, but the muttered cries of “Is this real? Why? Where? Real?” had stunned him.

Had made his hesitant reach all the more feeble.

Wilbur sounded like Techno.

And that scared him, because now.

Now he can feel a power surrounding Wilbur that had not been there last he was home.

Now he can see a look in Wilbur’s eyes, like something has phenomenally changed, that he’s irreversibly different.

And now Wilbur is still flushed, body weak and breath more labored than it should, but doesn’t seem to have a cold, or flue.

As if something was leeching energy off his very soul, weakening his physical form. Yet It doesn’t feel akin to a parasite, despite its seeming nature.

It feels as if, by the end of- whatever this was- his son will be all that stronger.

Most of all, he can feel the familiarity.

It’s the feel of Death.

Death may be kind to those she holds in her arms, warm, yet chilling all the same, in a soothing manor.

But the power itself, is not.

He wishes he could ask her why.

Why him and his family. Will Tommy and Tubbo be claimed by her power one day too?

He isn’t one to question her care, her love, but.
He wants to, wants to understand, yet despite it all.

He could never go against her.

He is Death’s Angel, after all.

And how would one dare to question a God?

Is this even her at all?

His son’s face twists, brows furrowing and a low whine filling the room.

He wishes he could do more.

Voices mutter out the door.

-----------------------------------

“What are they saying?”

“I’d know if you’d stop fucking talking!”

“Bu- “

“SHHHHHHHHH”

“No! you SHHHHHHHHH!”

Hands push his side.
He whips toward the other, placing a finger to his mouth in a dramatic fashion.

“SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

The other boy has the gall to look offended, placing a finger to his mouth just as dramatically in turn.

“SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

“Oh, you fuckin! – “

“Boys?”

Tommy and Tubbo’s head whip up, to the now, open, door and the man standing in the entrance.

Phil stands, staring down at the two, looking tired and disheveled.

Tear stains mark his cheeks.

Tommy backs up, Tubbo in tow. Tensing and putting on their now, usual, glare.

Tommy was still angry, really angry, and he knows Tubbo is too. But honestly the effort of glaring each time they saw Phil is a bit tiring, that doesn’t stop him though.

“What are you two doing?”

They answer at the same time.

“None of your business, bitch!”

“Nothing!”

Phil looks at the two, then sighs, rubbing between his eyes.

“What all did you hear?”

“Jack shit really” Tommy says, giving Tubbo a look.

“Oi! Don’t blame me!”

“I wasn’t the one talking the whole time!”

“Yes, you were!” Tubbo pushes Tommy in the side.

“You-“

‘Tommy, Tubbo.”

He and Tubbo look up again.

Fuck, he had forgotten Phil was there.

Damn it Tubbo.

Tommy goes to speak, yell, really, before the winged man cuts him off with a hand.

“Wil’s sleeping, lets talk somewhere else, okay, mate.”

He and Tubbo share a look, debating if they should listen, but the decision doesn’t take long. They both know Wilbur’s shit sleeping schedule, no matter how much the teen tries to hide it.

Phil walks into the living room, they follow.

Time to talk.

Fuck.

The clock on the wall’s ticking is loud in his ears.

A constant tick, tick, tick, that grates his nerves and makes him squirm.

Tick

He doesn’t get why Wilbur wanted to keep that thing.

Tick

It’s a dumb clock.

Tick

Fuck, its annoying.

Tick

Why are they just sitting here in silence? Can’t Phil get on with it already? He’s the one who called them here, for primes sake-

Tick

“The fuck do you want!? You’re the one who wanted to “talk”! He half yells half whines, air quoting at “talk”

“So, talk!”

Tick

Tommy watches as Phil sighs, rubbing his tired looking eyes, leveling him with a stare, and muttering.

“I was just gathering my thoughts, Tommy…”

Another bout of silence.

Tubbo speaks up this time before he can yell again.

“You gonna say something, or just sit there?”

Another sigh, before the man starts to speak.

“Tommy, Tubbo, I’m going to be here for……. for a long time, okay?”

It makes the pair blink, surprised, but before anything can be said, Phil continues.

“I don’t know what either of you may have heard… but, Wilbur isn’t doing too well- but- the man says hurriedly, waving his hands in the air in a nervous fashion- he’ll be okay.”

Tommy’s hands twitch at their sides, leg bouncing, and he can see Tubbo’s ear flicking in his periphery.

“I’ll be taking care of everything, that includes you both, so if you need something, come to me okay?”

Phil seems to debate with himself, going over what he could possibly say after that to work with the boy’s lack of reaction.

Before saying one of the dumbest options available.

“What do you boys want for dinner?”

As if this was a casual, normal conversation.

It makes Tommy want to scream.

Tubbo beats him to it.

“Really? Phil” The hybrid stands quickly from his place on the couch.

“You say that after you – you come back after so long and hit Wilbur!”

Tubbo stomps a hoofed foot angrily

“Are you really that up your own ass!”

Phil reaches a hand out, face tired and crestfallen.

“Tubbo…”

Tommy doesn’t know what to say, stunned at his best friend’s outburst.

Tubbo’s sat through plenty of his angry, pain filled outbursts, letting him vent and yell, and scream till his throat went raw and all he could do was collapse with tears burning his eyes. Content despite it, having his best friend and brother by his side.

Yet its only now he realizes, he’s never sat through Tubbo’s.

“No! You don’t get to act like that after you hurt Wilbur!”

The loud angry clops of hoofed feet as Tubbo paces and the ticking of the clock fill his ears.

“After- after you left Wilbur! Left Tommy!”

Tommy can only watch as tears brim at Tubbo’s eyes, tensing almost painfully, frozen in place.

“Left me!”

The tears fall, slipping down his friend’s face.

One, then another, then another.

Tubbo’s legs shake as he starts to sob.

“Why did you leave me like he did…?”

It snaps Tommy out of the ice that seemed to incase him.

He jumps up, rushing to his friend’s side quickly, muttering panicked assurances.

The ram hybrid mutters into his shirt, dampening it, words muffled but sill heard by the shell-shocked Angel.

“You promised…”

Phil sits shell shocked.

Tommy can only do his best to calm the other down. Soothing his friend’s hiccupping sobs and uncaringly of the other in the room, wrap his arms securely around the smaller boy.

Its something Tommy is accustom to doing, memories of nights to waking up to the smaller’s sobs after a nightmare, especially in the early days, were common.

He doesn’t know how to handle Tubbo’s anger, it being new, and honestly scary. But he can do this much.

When this happened, Tommy would do the best he could to calm the other down. Usually doing things that had helped him after nightmares. Like going to Wilbur.

Tommy found other ways besides that as he’s gotten a bit older, and the nightmares have lessened.

Tommy would still do his best when they did happen though, even if Tubbo wasn’t as upset by them now either.

It scared him waking up to the other’s cries.

But unlike with Wilbur, who would never let him in or help when he woke to the older screaming or sobbing things he never understood.

Seeming to talk to people he couldn’t see, but denying it when asked.

He could help.

Tommy’s methods always made Tubbo laugh.

It makes him feel like he’s actually done something right, for once.

The hugs he gets in return were a bonus too.

Not that he’s clingy though.

Tubbo’s the clingy one.

Tommy pats the other’s back soothingly as Tubbo’s sobs die down, the ram hybrid’s face now pressed hard into the crook of his neck.

He can see the winged man still sitting in some form of shock, try to stand up- in what Tommy can only guess is going to be some half assed attempt to calm Tubbo down- but Tommy stills him with a glare. Eyes blazing yet, way too tired in this moment for being ten.

Wilbur tried, really, he did, but his brother couldn’t keep him naïve about the nature of their family and how, abnormal, it was for long.

Wilbur will compliment him teasingly about how mature he is for his age at times, but he can see the strain of Wilbur’s smile at the words. As if they tasted bad in his mouth.

The ram boy sniffles, before pulling away from him with a sigh and rubbing at his eyes with his sweater paws, sleeves clamped under his fingers.

It’s something Tommy has noticed the other do often when stressed or anxious, or on occasion, really happy, so did Wilbur he thinks. Since the older always seemed to buy the bee loving boy shirts with sleeves that were just, a little bit, too long.

Tommy shifts, looking down at Tubbo and coughing awkwardly before speaking.

“’Ey, big man?”

Tubbo meets his gaze, face flushed from tears and embarrassment, before humming quietly in reply, tilting his head quizzically.

Tommy can see his father’s mouth move to open again before snapping shut as Tommy shoots him another look.

“Why don’t you go check on Wilbah’, I got this one.”

Tubbo’s eyes widen before shifting on his feet, looking unsure.

“You sure?”

Tommy grins, his hands fidget at his sides

“Yeah! I’m a big man after all, I got this!”

Tubbo still doesn’t look too convinced but shoots him a hesitant smile.

“Thanks.” The other quietly mummers before turning around and running off down the hall towards Wilbur’s room. Hooves making a click clack, that gets quieter the further away he gets.

Tick, Tick, Tick.

Tommy can hear the older groan, tired and guilty.

Tick

Tommy doesn’t move, stationed in the middle of the living space, back turned to Phil.

Tick

His hands shake.

He resists the need to simply move, instead staying still.

Tick

“Phil.”

Tick

He can tell the other is looking at him now, shifting to face him properly.

“Tommy?”

Tick

“Phil, was it my fault?”

Tick

His throat burns

Tick

“……. What?”

Tick

Tommy turns to face him.

Tick

Tears unapologetically run down his cheeks.

His face reddens in embarrassment, but that doesn’t stop them.

Tick

“Am I why you left?”

Tick

Chapter Text

By the time he walked in most of his tears had dried, and he felt, just a bit more stable.

Though, He was far from what might call “composed”, he had just had a breakdown after all.

Dispite that, his face was still flushed and his breathing still labored. Both from the sobbing and the run he made down the, sizable, hall, while already out of breath.

He swallows thickly and sniffles, cringing at the mix of tears, saliva and mucus that collected in his mouth.

Gross.

He huffs out a heavy sigh, idly scraping a hoofed foot along the wood, focusing on the sound and light line he leaves behind.

It vaguely reminds him of a time when the pink haired-piglin hybrid that once resided here, would complain about all the scrapes, chippings, and marks he and tommy left on the wood floors from play.

The teen would usually complain about “property value” or something, whatever that meant.

He just remembers finding it funny when Wilbur would tease the other about it, pointing out the hypocrisy of it since the teen’s own hoofed feet -like tubbo’s- left marks all the time.

The teasing would then quickly be joined by Tommy, and then would escalate into something else entirely.

It was chaotic, lively.

Fun.

Tubbo enjoyed “that” kind of loud, he found.

He enjoyed the kind of loud where it was laughter and all play, instead of slurred words and aggressive tones tinged with a desperation that he can barely remember, but still leaves him shaking.

He found he enjoyed the quiets after, too.

Where the only sound might be the gentle strum of a guitar or the turning of pages from some old looking book with weird language and words he didn’t know or understand.

Where he could sit next to his best friend listening to his- surprising for how loud he usually was- snores.

Could hear the ruffles of feathers and soft steps as the eldest there moved around, doing whatever he was doing, at the time.

Could shake his head as the strumming or page turning would pause for a moment, and he’d be asked if he was bored, because surely, he must be.

Yet he always shook his head, “no”, and watched as the pair went back to what they were doing after a time.

It was a stark contrast to his almost constant need to move, to be doing something.

Getting bored easy, feeling as if his brain was a buzz with the bees he loved so much, and being unable to focus at times to the point of tears.

He honestly didn’t know what caused that, but Tommy was like that too, so maybe it was normal.

This was one of those rare moments he could simply, enjoy, the simple.

Could enjoy the sound of the rain without being drenched in it.

Shivering and cold. His only form of “safety” being a decaying cardboard box and thin, frayed blanket that only made him colder.

Hastily deposited in some random park with the moon high, and by a face he can no longer remember.

Only remembering vague sounds and smells, with a singular image of chipped and scared angular horns, curling down a sickly-looking face with a scratchy beard.

The relief of being found and wrapped in the warm arms by a loving family was the best thing to happen to him.

The promise of always being there, felt far more secure than anything he could remember ever having.

Lies look a lot more pretty through glistening tears, don’t they?

He inhales, then exhales, in a long shaky breath, idly fidgeting again before pushing Wilbur’s room door open.

The room is still, quiet, except for Wilbur’s slightly labored breathing.

The sight of the other is both worrying and reassuring.

The teen had been sleeping for most of the day and then some.

While usually- even when he and tommy could tell he was dead on his feet- Wilbur would be up and shambling about.

Ranging from looking like the common zombie who just crawled out of his early grave. To a sleep manic fox who hadn’t been able to catch a fish or find berries for days, and was becoming more delirious and more feral by the second.

So, seeing the teen sleep wasn’t bad, exactly, but it showed how hurt the other truly was. Sleeping more than six hours at the max for an extended period, all without a fight or complaint.

He hesitantly steps closer, quickly debating if he should try to wake the other up before taking in the tear tracks down his caretaker’s cheeks, bandage still standing stark, and quickly shaking it off.

It can wait, but they definitely need to get him some food and water, and surely the teen must need to wee at this point.

He walks over to a shelf stationed by the wall, and grabs the coloring book and crayons he and tommy had brought in prior to help with boredom.

Though, they hadn’t used them much, far too stressed and jumpy to even get close to keeping a steady hand, not that staying in the lines mattered much to them.

Right now, though, he needs something else too focus on. All this being far too much for the eleven-year-old.

As he’s pulling away and walking by the bed to sit down however, he feels something odd.

Call it instinct due to his hybrid nature.

He’s not the most instinctual, compared to someone like Technoblade, but he can still sense a shift in air.

An almost low hum, that didn’t strike as an exact threat, yet made his hair bristle all the same.

It reminds him of being around Techno, but less, buzzing and inherently dangerous.

And more, lulling cold.

Almost alluring, like lighting in a bottle.

Wilbur.

When he turns to it, as if he could meet a gaze of the sleeping soul, it’s gone.

Immediately replaced by the less intense yet similar feeling Wilbur always gives off.

It feels as if he should be scared, but with his instincts, limited as they are.

He feels no fear.

So, he sits, opens the coloring book and messily begins to color in a cutesy caricature of an endermen with an obscene green, humming all the way.

If he focusses he can feel it humming with him.

---------------------------

“Am I why you left?”

Phil stands, then stumbles back. Legs hitting the couch hard enough to be audible, making him bite down a light hiss.

“Tommy, what the fuck are you- “ Phil starts, sounding almost appalled.

But Tommy knows better.

“NO!” He yells, stamping a foot against the carpeted floor.

In the back of his mind he idly wishes it was wood flooring in here like it was in the kitchen.

Just so his stomping could make a loud enough sound not softened by the carpet.

Just to he could somehow distract against the obvious tears streaming down his face and his voice cracks from that, and puberty.

Maybe the sound of the weight, of the skin, hitting wood floors would be enough to freeze Phil in his place and make him shut the fuck up, like it did for him and Tubbo when it was Wilbur's body instead.

Regardless of effectiveness, the emphases of him stamping his foot like a young child- which he is, shut up- seems to make the man sputter for half a second before trying again.

Through Tommy’s tears he can see the man try to take a gentler form, arms open for a hug where he would hold you close and wrap his wings around your back. Warm, comforting and all too tempting, despite his anger.

If he hadn’t had at least some self-control, he surely would have dove in by now.

Maybe in another world it would feel, safer, to do so.

In some fantasy where what this family was, was ever happy, he could run into those inviting arms and let himself wail.

He would just, let himself go. Scream and cry till he was out of tears and his throat was sore, all while being soothed and held by the person he always wished was there.

No more waiting by the door.

No more asking Wilbur why his father and brother weren’t there, or always late on birthdays.

No more waking up at late in night to the sounds of his older brother shambling around half dead and muttering. Only to follow and find him sat carelessly on their roof with a cigarette- Tommy knows he stole- clenched between burned fingers. Only to uncertainly go back to bed and ignore it by morning.

Most of all, no more fighting.

No more tension when Phil or Techno did come home. No more words thrown like acid and actual thrown chairs or fighting- usually as Wilbur tried to retreat- when Techno was involved.

In a perfect world they could be like the families he vaguely remembers Phil reading to him and Tubbo stories about on the rare nights he decided to care.

But this isn’t those stories, and if he had a writer, he would curse and yell at them till he no longer could for writing him into such a shitty story.

“Tommy please, it’s not your- “

“NO, NO, NO” he yells, at this point he doesn’t know what he’s even saying or what he will. But he’s just too angry and too sad, to care.

“YOU DON’T GET TO SAY THAT- YOU, you- you” he can feel his hand reach up to grab tightly at his hair and pull, but most of everything was just becoming an overwhelming blur at this point.

“Since the day I came here! SINCE THE DAY YOU THOUGHT IT WAS A GOOD IDEA TO BRING ME INTA THIS SHITHOLE, YOU’VE BEEN LEAVING!”

he can’t help the loud sniff he lets out and he brings a balled fist to helplessly scrub at his eyes. Cursing himself as every second he can feel his anger die out from exhaustion and the sadness growing.

It makes him feel helpless, like some useless little kid.

He thinks he can vaguely hear Phil say something again, maybe move too, but it doesn’t really register. He might also be starting to “shaky breath” so that’s not great.

“I- I know you started leaving more when I came, I know you weren’t like that before” he inhales sharply.

“I’ve seen how- how Wilbur looks at me when he thinks I don’ see. He blames me too- but-”

He finally looks up, though he doesn’t see much through his blurred vision. he's a little surprised at the fact he was still even talking , despite how fuckin’ hard its getting to breathe.

He may not properly see, but he knows Phil is looking at him, meeting his gaze with- what?

Disappointment, anger, nothing at all.

Or worse of all, pity?

“Wha- “he hiccups another sob, rubbing at one of his eyes hard enough to hurt.

“Wha di- di’ i- I do?”

He tries to stop it, but its useless as his knees hit the carpeted floor and he curls in on himself. His words sounding more like the sounds of some sniveling animal, muffled and hysteric.

“WHAT DID I DO WRONG!?” And with that, he breaks.

He’s done things like this, more than he’d like to- or ever would- admit. But he its never been this bad, at least from what he could remember.

The world around him seems to blur completely out of focus as he full body collapses. Curling into a ball, sobbing, dampening the carpet bellow him, and hyperventilating to the point he can see the world darkening at its edges.

It’s scary.

He doesn’t know what to do.

He can't breathe.

He wants help.

He wants-

A weight settles on his back, making his head jolt up and vision swirl, and go dark, for a brief second.

“ate- mate, Tommy shhh, shhh breathe, just breathe with me.”

He can feel arms gently wrap around him, pulling him against someone’s chest and he keens, letting out another breathless sob.

“You’re alright, you’re alright. Come on, in four, hold three.”

He feels the chest against his back rise with a deep breath. After a few seconds of desperate scrambling to decode what was said, he shakily tries to copy.

He coughs halfway through, but with the soothing reassurances, manages it.

“Good, good, out six, you can do it.” He feels the chest behind him let out a long breath, he copies.

As he follows the instructions in repetition he finds the blackness fading away and his breathing easier, even as tears still run down his cheeks.

By the time he isn’t about to black out, he’s an exhausted sobbing mess.

The arms around him tighten and he can’t help himself from turning and face planting into the person’s-Phil’s- chest, hiccupping lightly as he’s cradled closer.

“I’m so sorry, none of this was ever your fault, it was only mine. Only ever mine, not yours.” A voice whispers soothingly in his ear

Hearing Phil admit he was wrong is unfamiliar, this all is-.

Its scary.

He's scared.

He doesn’t like it.

He just wants things to be normal again.

He needs-

“Wilbyyy” he sobs, pushing his face up and onto the man’s shoulder with his hands clawing desperately onto the man’s clothing.

The sob isn’t a proper call, barely a whimper, and sounding just as pathetic as he’d imagine he looks. But he can’t stop himself.

“Wilby- wil- dad- wilb- da” he cries as his face is gently pushed into his father’s shoulder.

The man letting him sob into him like he’s always wanted, and holding him tight, whispering his own sobbing assurances.

“I know- I know- I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, its not your fault, you can be mad, or sad. Its not your fault, it’s not your fault, it never was.”

“I’m sorry, son.”

---------------------------

By the time it took for Tommy to fall asleep from exhaustion, was enough for Phil to feel like he was about to do the same.

And for the second time that day, he tucked in a son who had sobbed themselves asleep in his arms due to his actions.

After, he went and checked on Wilbur again. Dismissing Tubbo from his “post”, who of which, luckily didn’t comment on his tear stained face and lack of Tommy- though he surely noticed- and went to make dinner.

After all, it was early evening and literally none of them, had eaten. Hell, Wilbur was still passed out- which really wasn’t helping his worries- so he definitely needed to at least
Make sure the teen got some water, and the kids were fed.

Hopefully, Wilbur would be able to hold down some potato stew.

He hadn’t planned on exactly making anything fancy and he still wanted to try and ask what the kids wanted- great move on his part to drop that instead of actually comforting them- but the lack of ingredients shocked him.

He thought he had been sending more than enough money, but clearly, that wasn’t the case.

The pantries, while livable if stretched, were damn near barren. And a pile of pamphlets for various jobs his son had most likely gotten from the local town- though some were, worrying, to say the least- sat on the corner of the kitchen isle, tucked under an old cooking book.

From what he had seen the teen- luckily - hadn’t taken any jobs as of yet, but the fact he had to look for one- clearly verging on desperate considering what some of the listings were for- was telling enough.

Just another “mistake” of his.

With each new instance he feels all the more sick with himself.

No wonder even his Goddess is ignoring his pleas.

He signs, cutting a potato.

He can’t do this all by himself.

It may be his fault, but he needs help.

Before it had seemed easier, him having only hurt Wilbur.

Yet now he sees that, that was a false naïve hope on his part.

And now he can’t help but wonder the true scope of what all he’s done, who he’s hurt.

If he did this all to his three children by not being here, what had he done to his fourth by being there?

There’s a piece missing.

A thread that flows through all the hurt, and an unknown.

Despite his fear, he had thought he was right.

He wasn’t.

He needs help with all this, but most of all Wilbur.

He needs help from someone who knew the boy longer than he ever did, had a connection deeper than him, and one who despite a divide.

He knew cared more than he ever did.

So, he puts the now cut up potatoes into the pot, sets the knife down, and pulls out his communicator.

“You need to come home.”

“Heh?”

“I need your help, please, come home.”

“What do you mean? What’s going on Phil?”

“It’s Wilbur, I fucked up bad, please, I know you miss him”

Phil stands with baited breath, feathers twitching as he waits a minute, then five, then ten.

His hand clenches his communicator with a white-knuckled grip as he starts to feel all the more helpless. Before a call rings through, and he rushes to answer.

“T-“

“I’m on my way.” Phil lets out a sigh, even as the cold voice rings through.

“Thank you.” He whispers.

“You better explain when I get there.” Is all he gets back, and he swallows, nodding despite it being a call.

“I will, I promise…. stay safe.”

“I always do” and with that the call was ended.

---------------------------

Techno sighs, stuffing the communicator back in his bag and adjusting the saddle on Carl before hopping on.

Sounds guilty

GET HIS ASSS

Phil bad dad

E

Carl :D

Order in THE CHAT

SBI MEETUP????

Mokey Eeeeeeeeeeeee

Where?

E

What?

Blood

Wow

WILBRO

Whats wrong with wil??

Phil did bad? :(

Nooooo

DADZA

WILBUR

Tnt?

No, wrong chat

Blood?

E

Not rn

WILBRO

4/4????

Techno sighs, rubbing between his eyes.

Besides chat being the usual, the whole tone of that conversation was more than enough to leave him on edge.

All he knows is that something happened to Wilbur, and that alone is enough to make his vision go red.

Chat certainly agrees.

So, with chat and Carl in tow, he leaves his cottage and farm land, and heads for home.

Something he hasn’t known, since he first left.

Chapter Text

The rain hits loudly against the old wood roof. He can hear as each drop lands on the thin shingles of the roof and seep into the already rotted wood, when that isn’t enough to stop the rain.

In the light of his torch he can see drops occasionally make their way in, and land on the messy excuse for tile.

He shivers at the feeling of the cold rain dropping on his head and the draft that comes as he can hear the wind blow particularly strongly.

He pushes the bodies snuggled into his side closer, feeling them shiver in turn and burry themselves as best they can into him. As if they could melt into his side, and get warmer.

It makes his heart ache in turn with his cheek.

He hadn’t meant to bring them into this, it was supposed to be a clean get away.

He was supposed to sneak away during the night, to leave and never come back.

He was supposed to leave silently, and selfishly.

But he guesses this is what he gets.

He was caught with his hastily packed bag, loose change, and a hand primed on his window.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to sneak out the door.

Phil might have been neglectful, but he was called “The Angel of Death” for a bloody reason.

So, he had thought if he were to be caught by anyone, it would be his father.

Not his brothers.

Not his kids.

But he had, and they had insisted on staying with him, on running away with him.

He tried to send them back to bed, knowing he wouldn’t be able to properly care for them for long with the money he had.

He wanted them to stay in a nice home.

He had selfishly hoped that seeing Wilbur gone, run away, would spur Phil into action.

That he would care for and raise them better than some idiotic, addicted teenager could.

He had hoped he could be free, but he should have known better.

In the end the kids came with him, having broken him down with threats and pleas.

The first week and a half went relatively well.

He had enough money to get a room in a little inn on the edge of the town he had gone to with Phil as a child a few times.

The inn wasn’t exactly the best, but livable.

Money didn’t last though.

The little money he got from jobs he was able to score while on the run just wasn’t enough to feed and house all three of them, so he had to get creative.
Which is how he found himself here.

It had come just in time honestly, as it was getting late and he had yet to find shelter in the travel.

He could tell how exhausted Tommy and Tubbo were too, practically dragging themselves along with their little legs shaking.

Neither of them were used to this lifestyle, and honestly, neither was he.

Despite never being there, Phil did send some money to help, even if it wasn’t nearly enough.

And at least they had a house to stay in, even if Wilbur had been unhappy, he knew this was a dumb idea, but-

He was scared.

He was scared of that house, of the chance of his two estranged family members coming back for good.

Scared of what would change.

Scared of what would happen.

Scared of Phil.

So, he ran.

He ran, like a fool.

Tommy in all the years he had raised him, was hard to impress.

Now that isn’t to say Tommy was picky, no. That child got excited over some of the simplest things that would bore other children.

Yet, complained loudly at things that would excite the standard child.

So, impressing him wasn’t the easiest thing.

Tubbo was similar in that.

The two children were so similar yet, so different, so often, that he wasn’t fully convinced they hadn’t known each other in a past life or something.

He had often thought that of him in Techno in their early years.

How poetic in some, twisted sense.

With how tired Tommy and Tubbo were, coming across the abandoned, decrepit house on chance, he had thought Tommy would at least complain. But no.

No, instead Tommy’s tired eye’s lit up with a shine Wilbur’s only seen him get when getting a new “pet” moth, or being given his cow plush- of which he held in a death grip- as he ran toward the house.

Tubbo followed in suite, though slower than his counterpart, and Wilbur sighed, trudging behind and knowing.

If he had not ran, if he had not dragged them into this.

Something as simple as a place to stay, especially one as run down as this.
Would not be cause for joy.

He had ran ahead them and checked around for any loiters- other themselves- before settling down.
Thankfully there was none, and they had set up camp.

It was going relatively well at first, even if the cold nights weren’t exactly favorable, they had fallen into a domestic routine.
Till it was ruined by the rain, of course.

The storm was particularly a bad one, the rain starting in the early morning and going till now, late into the night.

As the water kept coming, they had to move what things they had around, and themselves, into the driest places they could.
Which led them to here.

Sat on top of dusty newspaper, huddled in a corner with a single lit torch, freezing, and only hoping no mobs somehow got in and killed them before the cold did.
Least that’s what Wilbur was thinking, he’d hope the kids were having nicer dreams than his thoughts.

He coughs and shifts a little, pulling his brothers closer and resting a hand on his chilled face, uncaring as his hand grazes the cut across his cheek.

What is he going to do?

You did this

Cold

BROTHEERRRS

Tnt would warm things up

Brothers pog

Cold

Badza

Dadza

Villbur

Look what you’ve done

It’d be easier if you didn’t have them with you

Brothers

Kill?

Tnt

Can’t breathe

Kill them

Cold

I’m so cold

Can you hear the train?

Asthma

Death

Siren

Cold

Kill

Tears prick at his eye’s as he leans over, covering his mouth, his chest seizing with his coughing.

It’s a miracle that Tommy and Tubbo remain asleep.

He’s glad they are.

His throat tightens further as his choked coughing turns into sobs.

He can’t breathe.

“Wilbur.”

Why did he do this?

“It’s time to wake up.”

Why was he so fucking dumb?

“You aren’t there anymore little siren.”

It’s so cold.

“It’s time to wake up.”

Everything feels numb.

“It’s time to wake up.”

Is he dying?

“Wake up”

Would that really be so bad?

“Wake up.”

He sits up with a gasp, chest heaving, his hands grabbing the sheet beneath him in a death grip.

He feels as if he’s suffocating, vision blurry and head foggy as he squints his eyes in concentration.
What just?

A hand lands on his shoulder.

He jolts, swinging an arm upright on instinct in a wide swing, feeling his fist meet skin.

He blinks, looking over and landing on- ah- Phil.

He’s in the past.

Phil is here, Tommy and Tubbo are here.

Fundy is gone.

It’s real.

Phil coughs, rubbing his cheek. “Guess that was deserved...” he looks up.

“You with me Wil?”

All he can do is nod as his brain catches up with him.

Everything feels different.

He feels different.

What was that voice?

“That’s, good…. I-”
Wilbur shakes the thought away for now as he focusses back in, and turns to face Phil.

“Sorry…for startling you and, you know…everything.” Phil rubs between his eyes tiredly.

“I’m no good at this but, I made dinner. I noticed there wasn’t much in there but I was able to make some soup so…”
Wilbur sighs, flexing his fingers before abruptly swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

Phil jolts, running towards him.

“Mate, wait! Your still sick! Just-.”

He cuts Phil off, raising a hand and meeting his eyes.

“I’m fine, Phil.”

He can see Phil about to protest again but shoots him a look.

It’s almost funny seeing Phil mother-henning this way, wings all puffed and mouth drawn in such a tight line you’d think someone just spat in his food.

But right now, it’s just annoying, almost insulting honestly.

He’s a grown man, he can handle himself.

Mostly.

Even if he was seventeen mentally instead of twenty, he still would be able to care for himself.
Has for a long time.

He’s electing to ignore the fact- he just remembers now- that he fell asleep sobbing in Phil’s arms like a child prior.

So, instead of mulling on that, he pulls himself up with a loud groan.

The first thing he notices besides the headache he still has, because fuck him, is the soreness.

It feels like he was stomped on by a ravager.

The comparison makes him think of a certain twin of his in all but blood’s, obsession with them. He shakes it off.

In all his years of staying hunched at his desk, writing music, looking at job listings and filling out forms of many kinds, his back has never been so sore.

Sore isn’t fully accurate either, but it’s the only way he could think to describe it.

He just, ached.

His back.

His neck.

His legs, arms.

Everything.

It makes him collapse almost immediately, but hands quickly grab him from under his arms and pull him upright, and he finds himself almost actually appreciating Phil mother-henning right now.

“For Death’s sake Wil, just- “He’s leaned back on the bed, and he can’t help himself from groaning like a teen who was just sent to their room.

He hates being dependent like this, especially on Phil.

It’s so, odd.

New.

It makes him think of a time long past and burned at the edges. Memories of lanterns, and fluffy feathers, and looking at the world from up high in his father’s arms. Soaring between the clouds with all the grace of a dancer, the stars seeming to shine with praise at its splendor.

Part of him really just wants to let himself marvel at the attention.

Another part feels sick at the pure bitterness he’s swallowing down.

He hunches as Phil hovers over him worriedly.

His back feels weighted.

“Will? You alright?”

He’s snapped out of it as Phil speaks and he looks up, sighing.

He rubs a hand across his brow frustratedly.

“I’m fine, Phil. Just stood too quick, I can walk believe it or not.”

The man sighs, leaning away from him.

“If your sure mate, I could just bring food to you, you know?”

He looks almost hopeful, as if bringing soup to your sick child was something he’s wanted to do for years.

He tries to remember when the last time Phil cared for him when he was sick, was.

But all that comes to mind is a young Tommy and Tubbo- a toddler Fundy bouncing at their heels- playing “doctor”

Yeah, that hadn’t gone well, but Fundy wrapped in an oversized white blouse he knows the kids stole from him was worth it.

His little champion.

“No- “he rushes out, placing his hands firmly on the bed again, fully intending to stand again.
“I know how to care for myself Phil.”

The other man looks stricken for a moment, before nodding and backing up.

“I know you do mate” a bitter, self-deprecating smile etches across Phil’s face as he speaks.

Wilbur has little to no sympathy for the man in that regard.

His head spins as soon as he’s upright, yet he manages to steady himself as the feeling washes over him.
He’s still sore, incredibly so.

His head still pounds to some constant beat from an insistent, unwanted song.

He still feels oddly, weighted, unbalanced by something. Almost like wearing a cumbersome pack of sorts.

Despite this though, he feels, better.

It feels almost as if waves of something are passing over him, cold tide lapping at his feet and water dripping from his hair.
His eyes meet with Phil’s, who seems to be examining him, before turning to the door.

“If you’re sure, I’m going to put the food out and get Tubbo...” he pauses, and Wilbur has the distinct feeling he isn’t going to like what he hears next.

Phil’s wings tuck themselves tighter against his back with an insecure-regret.

“I hate to ask this, especially now. But… can you wake Tommy?” Phil brings a hand to scratch at the back of his neck, looking as ashamed as a kid with their hand caught in the cookie jar.

“He isn’t particularly happy with me right now, neither of them are, but……”

Phil swallows thickly, facing him head on again.

“I fucked up Will, more than I ever thought I possibly could so quickly.”

If the rest before hadn’t caught his attention yet, that certainly did.

He finds himself standing straighter and eyes thinning into a glare.

He feels cold.

The whispers agree.

“What happened Phil?”

He knows his words are controlled in a way he’s only developed as he’s gotten older, and laced with a freezing venom he’s more than willing to use if he doesn’t like what he hears next.

Phil knows that too.

On some level, at least.

The man’s wings puff nervously, distressed and looking worn in a way Wilbur hasn’t seen…. well ever.

Had Phil been crying?

“Neither of them were happy with me as I said, for obvious- “He sees the man shoot a look at where Wilbur knows the bandage to be, guilty.

“Reasons…and I had thought it would be best to try and act casual, not address it while the wound was fresh…and me sticking around was new.”

Phil grips his arms with his hands, looking strained.

“I was wrong.”

The way it’s said almost makes Wilbur want to take a step back, to dig his nails into his skin, and question why he ever trusted this man with something so important.

Realistically he knew he was too much of a mess to care for them, even now he knows that.

But, he dealt with worse, hasn’t he?

Why is this all throwing him so hard, breaking down all these walls he had to keep his problems at bay.

He could do it all again, couldn’t he?

All he has to do, is what he did before, but better.

All he has to do, is make it better.

Why can’t he pull himself together?

“Tubbo had an outburst, and Tommy-Tommy had a panic attack”

His mind snaps back to attention, and out of the daze it has been prone to dip into since he got here, at the words.

A weight settles heavy in his chest as he watches his father stumble his words through shame.

“He called for you, and me? I- I don’t know.”

Phil’s nails dig into his skin as he speaks.

“You could definitely help him better than I could right now, I’m sorry”

Phil meets his gaze, irises swirling with guilt, with shame. It makes the man look more pathetic than Wilbur has ever seen.

The man is clearly out of his depth. Wilbur knows- as a being such as himself- Phil never expected kids, nor knew how to handle them.
Phil was a man of adventure. A man of projects and worlds, and blood, and gore.

Not a man of routine. Not a man staying put, not a man of enough patience for kids.

Not a man of family.

Phil may have a fatherly side to him, this Wilbur knows. However, Wilbur also knows, not every fatherly individual can well, be a father.

A father should be someone who stays, someone who is there. Someone who would care.

But Phil is an avian, a bird of the wild.

He could only tend to his fledglings in the nest for so long.

Phil could not stay bound to one thing for so long.

So, Phil broke the binding, and took off with the only one as wild an untamed as him, and flew.

A wild boar and a crow.

Forever graced, or doomed depending on the view, to walk the earth.

To leave only corpses and broken bonds in their wake.

When Phil had left his fledglings, he had thought they were old enough to fly, old enough to venture on their own.

Old enough to be fine without him.

He was wrong.

He instead left flightless birds, doomed to fall.

Yet, now he was back

The birds had grown feathers on their wings.

Yet still could not fly.

The attempts after so long to parent made Wilbur bitter, yet relived in a mixture of emotions, pared with the fact of time travel.

Yet, he’s unsurprised this happened.

So, all he can do is sigh and walk towards Phil, face down trodden.

“I’ll wake him, just- “Wilbur can’t help but pinch the bridge of his nose in annoyance.

In his periphery he can see Phil cringe with the same guilt worn expression Wilbur has seen the man wear since he got here.

“Just get Tubbo for dinner if you can get things ready, ill wake Tommy and calm him down. We can talk about this later, it’s just a lot for them to get used to, yeah?”

He can see Phil viscerally double take at his words. And Wilbur knows its because at this age, he would never have been so mature about that.

At this age he would have given into his brain and voices whims, and would have been screaming his voice raw at the man.

Cursing him out and trying his best to get him to just, leave.

Sure, he had tried to be civil. But with all that has happened in recent, his younger self would not be as calm as he is now.

Or at least, seem as calm.

He is in no ways fucking calm.

Before Phil can question him about that, he turns and walks towards the rest room, not bothering to look at the man as he waves him away with a hand and speaks.

“Don’t be all too shocked if Tubbo gives you trouble. Bee boy can hold more of a grudge than it seems.” And with that, he closes the bathroom door.

Pressing an ear to the wood, he sighs as he hears the man resolutely walk away

He lets out a sigh and stumbles his way to the bathroom sink, trembling hands gripping the basin hard enough to make his knuckles go white.

He shakily turns on the water, putting his hands under the stream, letting the water collect in the bowl of his palms.

Watching it is almost mesmerizing.

He splashes his face quickly when there’s enough, huffing, and uncaring of the water he feels himself inhales.

The running water fills the space between the sounds of his breaths.

Its so quiet, yet not.

Hunched over the sink all he can do is stare at his hands.

Hands that are smaller.

Hands missing scars he knows he has.

Hands that were his years ago.

Hands that now moves as he does.

He looks up, the sound of running water filling his ears as he stares at himself in the mirror.

He knew he was younger, he knew he was in a different body.

Yet the sight of himself still takes him back.

He hasn’t had the chance to see himself yet, and has long forgotten what he exactly looked like at this age.

Yet now he’s staring himself down.

The bandage stands stark on a rounder, more full face.

His hair, shorter and dripping water onto the counter.

His eyes seeming lighter in color, with seemingly longer lashes.

Nose a bit redder, teeth a bit whiter.

Younger.

He trails his hand down his unbandaged cheek, caressing a place a scar used to be, but is now barren.

It all feels wrong.

Yet he knows this is him.

What all is going to change now that things are different?

Is he still going to wind up in the same places?

Meet the same people?

Meet Sally?

He looks down, panic filling his body.

He knew his son was gone, a fact that still makes him want to breakdown on the spot.

But what about Sally?

Sally would be alive, be there.

But, what would happen if he doesn’t meet her.

His son would be gone, forever.

He met Sally due to running away.

He knew Sally moved around a lot, a traveler at heart.

He knew there was a chance of missing her.

He knows there’s a chance of his son being gone forever.

His son could be dead.

He’s tired of crying.

He feels weaker than he has in years.

But he can’t help it.

He crumples to the floor, and sobs.

The running water drowns out the sound.

He’s glad.

He drowns with it.

Chapter Text

Phil sighs, puffing then relaxing his feathers, and running a hand through his hair as he closes Wil’s door, making his way down the hall.

That had gone, better? Than he thought it would.

He’s certainly surprised his son isn’t screaming at him right now.

Phil had mentally prepared for a fight when he opened that door, and his mouth.

Yet, there was none.

Which honestly made it all the more concerning, almost unnerving.

Phil may not know much of his children, a fact he comes to regret more with each passing second. What he does know, however, is that Wilbur is one for cold anger as much as he is for explosive aggression.

Phil was the same in this, especially when younger himself.

He would kick and scream in bursts till his legs were sore and his throat gone raw. It was certainly a regrettable time.
However, through the years, his explosive aggression turned to a cold anger.

Shaping into icicles he would skewer the cause for it later.

Death is as much soothing as it is angry.

Death can be calm, lulling people to its call peacefully.

Death can come willingly, people embracing it with open arms. Even craving it.

Death can come unexpectedly, knocking people off their feet just as they had reached stable ground.

And Death can come angrily. Yelling, and pleas, and begging.

Death can come in a mass of blood, and gore, and shouts.

Death can come to those in the worst ways possible

War, famine, torture.

Every and any atrocity imaginable.

So, at any whim Death was cold as she wanted to be.

Thus, so were her angel’s.

Any anger Phil had held in his life, for so long now, has turned to violence.

It is his job after all. Yet it made him a risk to situations where violence, unquestionably, was not the answer.
It made him fearful for when he made connections.

It made him a threat.

After all, how could he hold one close with blood stained hands, without it staining them too.

When he saw Techno, an old soul, both cursed and blessed like himself, he took the opportunity.

He ran.

Like a coward.

He ran like he always has, moving from town to town.

World to world, war to war.

He ran from the places he knew, the bodies he’s piled, and the people’s he’s hurt.
Why should this be any different?

Except this time, he took a piece of what he left with him.

He took Techno.

While the- now near adult- was like him with such a similar fate. He was still a piece of what he left behind.
So perhaps, that’s why he couldn’t quite let go. Not fully.

Despite running he sent letters, messages, money, and even visited.

Despite running, he still cared.

Yet as the years went along he found himself indulging more in more in the familiar whimsey of adventure, and the scent of blood. Made only better by having a companion alike himself along that he could share the ugly maw of his own bloodlust and nature with.

It made it easier to run.

Easier to pretend it didn’t matter.

Easier to forget.

Yet, the guilt made him look back.

And now he regrets having ever looked away.

He may be a God’s Angel.

He may have been around longer than any mortal man, fought in more wars than any other could say, and have faced the worst of the world.
Has stared down all things vile and wrong in this world he was privy too and struck them down with weathered blades.
He may have given title after title due to what he’s done and accomplished.

The Angel of Death, The creator, The builder, The conquer.

He was truly none and all of those.

No one title would tell the true tale of a man.

Titles will always hold an idealization of what was a human like any other.

However now, finally stopped his running, and now thinking. He can’t help but think of a title.

One true and all-encompassing in every word.

The fool.

He, was a fool.

He was a fool in every sense of the word.
For the greatest fool of them all, is the man who think he’s wise.

He made the greatest mistake of any vessel of the world in believing he knew more.

He thought he was intelligent, thought he knew better after all these years.
He had thought he was right, had nothing left to learn.

For what could he possibly have left to understand in this stagnant stage of the world?

Yet, when proven wrong he stumbled like a child. Immature and unknowing of how to learn better, despite wanting too.
He’s only made things worse since he got here.

He’s scared.

But…

He places a hand on the doorknob to Tubbo’s room, taking a deep breath.

He’s done running.

-------------------------------------------

Wilbur doesn’t know how long he’s been crying now.

It feels both simultaneously like hours and minutes with the only constant being his tears and the sound of running water.
He can blearily think it must have not been too long, otherwise Phil would have bust in here with how much he’s been mother-henning after years of neglect.

His thoughts run through his head, much like that of the running water, as his panic eases from exhaustion alone.

At least, that’s what he thinks at first. Yet as he calms he becomes more and more aware of the physical feeling of calm draping over him. A false cushioned calm that comes only from drugs or other substance, yet manifested into the feeling one may have from bundling in a blanket during a winter storm, a cup of warm coco in hand.

He swears he can almost feel the brush of soft caring hands running lines down his shoulder blades in an all-encompassing tenderness leaving trails of static on bare skin.

It confuses him, but he embraces it all the same, as his jumbled thoughts slowly start to untangle.
He has time.

He can meet Sally, he knows where she was before this, and was planning to go.

She had told him her plans and all the things she had wanted to see before meeting him, and how he was “so much better than any of those places and anything I could have been doing now, had we not met” in a line that melted his heart and made him flutter in a deep blush which she quickly teased him for.
He can do it again.

He can make things better.

He stands, almost losing balance from the weight on his back.
He feels almost uneven.

But, when he looks back at himself and his tear stained, flushed face in the mirror, he sees nothing.
Just himself.

Younger, sure.

But still him.

Just him.

He takes a deep breath, chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm, tapping his fingers on the basin he’s now leaning on and brushes the odd uneven feeling off, letting it blend into a background ache.

He may be bitter towards Phil, maybe even loathe the man on some level. But realistically, he knows having Phil here is a good thing, deep down.
He knows Phil can learn to be a better father, he remembers a time where he was. A time with the soft glow of paper lanterns floating over a lake and gentle wind in his hair, two small figures blanketed by large feathery wings, he just needs help and time.

He doesn’t think he can ever forgive the man though, he honestly doesn’t think he should. He’s sure Phil would agree.
Phil at the very least instilled him with some sense of self-respect and pride when young.

He knows now he didn’t deserve the treatment of his father and will not be forgiving it any time soon.

However, this is an opportunity. He knows how much Phil’s absence hurt Tommy and Tubbo. Tommy in particular, he knows, suffered a great deal from it.

The boy may act like he doesn’t want or need him, but Wilbur knows better. Memories of hugging a crying boy on his birthday with his father a no show, breakdowns after seeing other village kids with their parents. Outbursts at Wilbur -the man knows- was directed at Phil, but the avian man not being there to yell at.

Even after all the years, Wilbur knows well Tommy craves nothing more than the man’s love and attention. And it kills him.

It killed him when fifteen, an eight-year-old Tommy asked him why Phil wasn’t here if he really was his dad, instead of Wilbur.

It killed him when twelve, a five-year-old Tommy called him dad

It killed him when seven, not even a month old, Tommy looked up at him and grabbed his hand first.

He doesn’t think it will ever stop killing him. But, if Wilbur can bare it.

If Wilbur can let Tommy and Tubbo have this, let himself have this, he knows they would all be better off.
They need more than just him, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t do all he can to give them that now that he can.

So, Phil can stay, and Wilbur will make sure that’s a good thing,

For now, though, he has work to do.

He glances at himself in the mirror one last time, trying to ignore the odd feeling of disconnect it provides, and splashes himself with some water one last time, for good measure, hoping the red under his eyes isn’t too noticeable.

Ready as he’ll ever be for what will, likely, be a sad and screaming child, he sighs, and walks towards Tommy’s room.

-----------------------------

When Tommy wakes it isn’t either loud or gentle or panicked.

The way Tommy wakes is just, Tommy.

And in Tommy being Tommy, his first instinct when he feels a hand insistently prodding at his shoulder, daring to bother him-
Is to immediately back hand the persons arm and throw his blanket in their face.

The person lands with an audible “oof” and Tommy can’t help but laugh as he crawls on the sheets to see who he’s about to yell at.

When he sees familiar lanky limbs and a shock of brown hair though, he freezes, eyes blowing wide comically.

“Wilby!” he yells hoping off the bed to his brother’s side and pulling at his sleeve, feet bouncing, desperate for the familiarity as more of his sleep addled brain catches up with him.

The memories of his heavy breathing thing -or whatever that was- make him flush with embarrassment. He doesn’t even know why he did that, he’s a big man! It was so stupid, he feels stupid.

His brother huffs, pulling the blanket off his head and turning to look down at the child latched onto his sleeve.

“Hey Toms.” He says, a soft smile stretching across his flushed, bandaged face.

It makes Tommy both sad and happy, in a confusing little pot of emotions in his stomach.
So instead of dwelling on that, he settles for the more fun, easier option.

Anger.

“You bitch! Why’d you sleep so loooooooooooooong!?” he whines, pulling on Wilbur’s sleeve so he’s even closer to the ground.

Wilbur wasn’t supposed to leave like that, it scared him! Wilbur, while obviously being a little bitch boy, was supposed to be strong! He knows Phil hurt him but…was it that bad? The red in his brothers face and tired demeanor still scare him, he hates it, so he tugs harder, trying to rile the other up like he always does.
Maybe if he can get him to argue with him, Wilbur will start acting like he usually does and things will go back to normal.
“You that much of a lil’ puss? Lil’ bitch boy!? HUH HUH?!” Wilbur sighs, Tommy grins.

“Tommy-“

“MEMMEMEMMMEEE, you were so scared you had to sleep, hide under the covers like a baby! HUH?! OH, IM WILBA, IM SO STUPID AND DUMB AND-“

“Tommy.”

Wilbur stiffens, brows setting in an expression Tommy knows well by now, means he’s probably going to be in trouble. Wilbur can tell the difference between his usual yelling and this, he knows he can, and he hates it. He hates it so fucking much. He continues anyways, even as his words falter.
He doesn’t think he could stop anyways.

He doesn’t even notice as his eyes burn.

“Im- Im Wilbah and IM SOO FUCKIN STUPIIIIID AND- AND I SMELL AND AM DUMB AND- AND-“

“Tommy stop-“

“AND WEAK! AND- AN-“

“Tom-“

“I LEAVE EVEN WHEN TOMMY NEEDS ME!”

The next insult dies in his throat as he pants, sniffling as a few tears roll down his cheeks. His hands ball and rub quickly at his eyes in embarrassment as he bites his lip, sniffling. And suddenly, despite Wilbur being dragged onto the floor by him, he feels so much smaller.
He doesn’t dare to look up as he mumbles between sniffs, shame coiling in his gut.

“you scared me dad- Wilby…I thought…”

He hiccups, shaking as he feels even worse at his slip up. He didn’t mean to do that, he knows Wilbur doesn’t like it when he does that, why else would he get that sad look on his face?

He doesn’t want to make his brother sad, doesn’t want to make him give him that look he always does when he fucks up like that.
He opens his mouth in another hiccup, trying to figure out what to say.

But, before he can, he’s embraced in long, stringy arms.

The familiar warmth makes him cry even harder as he buries his face in the soft material of that damn sweater Wilbur wears all the time.

“It’s alright bubs, I’m okay, I swear. It takes more than that to take me down, yeah?”
He sniffles, nodding into Wilbur’s sweater.

Wilbur’s chest rumbles with a sigh as he feels arms snake under his bottom and pick him up, moving to sit on his bed before he’s placed in the older’s lap.
He grips the yellow fabric tight, a tightness building in his throat as a callused hand begins to brush through his yellow curls.
His brother’s heartbeat beats loud in his ears, it’s a nice sound, he thinks. Much better than his embarrassing cries.

“I’m sorry I left for a little, and I’m sorry Phil was an ass.”

A wet giggle escapes him at that, and he shifts his head to peek up at his brothers face with one eye, the other with that side of his face still buried in the man’s arm and chest.

Brown meets blue and that alone is enough to almost make him smile, not that Tommy would ever admit that.

“I promise I won’t do that again, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Pr’mise? He mumbles into the yellow fabric, tears starting to slow and sniffling.

Wilbur smiles, wide and genuine, even if hindered by the bandage overlapping the corner of his mouth. It holds all the warmth and comfort he desperately needed, and he melts into his brother’s hold even more.

“Promise.”

A smile makes its way onto his face, and in the embarrassment of it all, he buries his face fully into Wilbur’s elbow again with a groan.
A chuckle is heard above him as Wilbur looks at him inquisitively, a knowing, playful gleam in his eyes.

“Oh? Is the baby embarrassed?” he can feel his ears turning red at the tone as he pushes his face further into the fabric, mumbling.

“ ‘m n’t a baby”

“Awwwwww Tommyyyyyy, let me see that little smileee~” A hand pokes at his cheek and he huffs, trying hard not to smile wider at the tone.
He smacks the hand away, grumbling.

“ ‘m n’t smil’ng, bitch.”

“Oh? Really? Well I just have to fix that, don’t I?”

The tone makes him reluctantly look up, brow furrowed.

“What do ya’ mean by that? You-“

The mischievous grin on his brother’s face widens as he feels fingers ghost across his sides. He stiffens, already squirming.

“NO! DON’T YOU DARE YOU SONNAVA-!” The fingers worm themselves under his shirt and dig into his sides in fast moments, each making him squirm harder as laughs force themselves out of his throat.

“NO-HAHAH -NOOOOOAAAAAAHHAHAH” He loses himself to the laughter as Wilbur tickles him, and despite his best efforts he’s now laughing so hard he can’t fucking breathe. He’s going to so kill Wilbur for this if it’s the last thing he does.

The smug look does nothing but to fuel his need for vengeance.

“Look at that happy little smile now, such a happy little booooy!~”

“NOOOAHAH- STOOOOPHA-“

Wilbur hums, stilling for a second as he pants. Tommy glares, chest heaving and Wilbur laughs.

“No, I don’t think I will.”

And back to the torture. He kicks and squirms, laughing. Prime, Wilbur is so dead.
He snacks the other in the face with a stray hand.

“I WILL-AHAH- PISS ON YOUAHAH- STOPAHA-“

Wilbur, finally, stops for good, laughing as Tommy catches his breath. Asshole.
Once he feels like he isn’t about to spit out a lung, he glares at the other, cheeks a bright red.

“I hate you.”

“I know.” Wilbur says, looking all too happy with himself. It’s a better look than before though, all sickly and sad.

The whole thing still makes him nervous. Its new and scary, and exciting? He doesn’t know, but it makes his hands all shaky when he thinks about it too much.
He wanted Phil to come home for so long, but now that he has, he hurt Wilbur and now he’s staying for good? He just doesn’t know how to feel and is just all so much-

He’s broken out of his thoughts by a poke at his back, and he turns to face Wilbur, who now has his stuffed cow, Henry, in hand.

“Oh, don’t look so grumpy, it makes your ol’ pal Henry sad.” Wilbur says, adding some kind of silly voice, acting as if Henry was the one talking.
He scoffs, puffing his still red cheeks.

“I’m not grumpy, and I’m too old for stuff like that…….Henry doesn’t even sound like that either.”

He mumbles, growing quieter at the last bit.
Wilbur raises an eyebrow, setting the plush on the bed.

“Really? Even too old for tickle fights?” He says, goading.

“Ye-“Tommy stops, feeling himself sweat at Wilbur’s look and stops, pouting.

“No…”

Wilbur stands, looking satisfied and moves towards the door.

“That’s the spirt, now come on, bird man made food.”

“It’s probably shit, but nothing could be worse than yours I guess.” He snarks, standing to follow.

“Hey!- I cook perfectly fine- Mr. “Covers their pasta with mud instead of sauce”- thank you. Now come on, child.”

He rolls his eyes, arms crossed.

“Memememememe.”

Wilbur settles him with a look.

“Tommy.”

He sweats, laughing nervously as he follows after his brother.

“Coming!”

----------------------------------------

Phil readies himself, running a hand nervously through a wing, watching silently as a small crooked feather falls to the floor.
He really needs to preen.

He’s been too stressed and busy these last few days to do it, and it shows.
It makes his shoulders shudder lightly in disgust but he shakes the thought off for now.

He grips the doorknob harshly and raises his other hand to lightly knock on the door.

“Tubbo? Its Phil.”

He waits a moment, listening for a response, but all that greets him is silence.

“Okay, I’m coming in.”

He slowly pushes the door open, peaking his head in first, then stepping in.

His brows furrow as he scans the area, looking for hide or hair of the small ram hybrid he knows should be in here, but sees none.
Maybe he’s in the bathroom?

If he managed to lose Tubbo Wilbur might actually find a way to kill him. His Goddess would side with Wilbur too.
His eyes flit around again as he steps further in, seeing Tubbo’s bathroom door open and empty with no child in sight.

“Tubbo? You in here ki-“

He’s cut off as something soft impacts, and bounces off his face, falling to the floor. He blinks in confusion, looking down to see a bee plush lying prone on the ground.

He bends down, picking it up, then looks to the direction it came from. It takes him a moment of staring till he sees it.

In a mass of blankets and toys packed against the far wall Tubbo’s face pokes out from under a thin yellow sheet, a hand raised and just peeking out from under it from his throw. His eyebrows are drawn and his eyes are locked on him, surprisingly sharp for someone his age.

His baby face makes the anger look more like a pout than anything, but Phil can tell he needs to step lightly here by the look in the kid’s eyes or else there may be another outburst.

“Hey mate…”

Tubbo’s face twists and he mutters, lowering his head angrily, in what Phil is sure would be a more affective intimidator in his later years when a pair of deadly horns will sit atop the crown of his head.

Phil sighs and sits, trying his best to look non-threatening. Beating around the bush and sugar-coating things with the mood the kid’s in right now probably wouldn’t be the best idea, so he clears his throat and speaks quietly.

He just needs to get Tubbo out of the bundle he’s made and get him to eat.

No running, he reminds himself.

It can’t be that hard, can it?

Wilbur and Techno got like this all the time when they were younger, Techno still did often. Briefly he wonders if Wilbur still does too.
Surely, he can do at least this.

“I know you’re not very happy with me right now, and that’s perfectly okay, I don’t blame you. I just wanted to come and tell you dinner is done and Wilbur is awake, if you’re hungry and want to see him.”

That seems to do the trick as Phil watches Tubbo’s head raise, and the words process in those wide blue eyes.
Tubbo quickly scrambles out, falling ungracefully out of the blankets in a heap, legs tangling as he tries to get up, only to fall to the floor again with a thud.
He reaches out to help but gets an angry huff in return as Tubbo struggles harder, making it worse.

He sighs and despite the child’s protests, slowly leans down and grabs onto Tubbo’s back legs and slowly untangles them from the blankets.

Upon being freed he receives a quick buck in the arm for his efforts accompanied by the sound of muffled giggling.
Despite the definite bruise that will form later= though it is nothing Phil isn’t accustom to- the sound makes his lips perk in a grin.

Just as much of a little shit as Wilber he sees.

He pushes himself up with a groan, feeling his knees creaking as Tubbo does the same with much less difficulty.
No, he is not a grandpa, hush, Techno.

He lets out a soft laugh at the thought then sighs, looking down at Tubbo who’s staring at him in silence with deceivingly wide, innocent looking eyes.

“Come on then mate, Wilbur and Tommy should be out there any minute now if they aren’t already. You really should eat anyways.”
He says, voice trailing off as he turns to leave.

This was surprisingly easy considering Wilbur’s warning.

The mention of Wilbur being awake definitely helped he supposes.

Just as he goes to move though, he stopped by a tugging on his feathers as he looks down to once again face Tubbo who is, oh so not delicately gripping his feathers.

It reminds him of Wilbur when he was young he thinks, a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Do you regret it?”

Okay, not so easy then, should have known not to jinx it. You would have thought he’d have learned that by now with so many years under his belt.

“Regret what?” he presses, watching the child’s head tilt, face blank but eyes swirling with emotion.

Tubbo’s voice comes in low and whispered, so much so that he strains to hear it, but still does all the same.

“You said you’d never be like him, that’d you’d protect us and always be there. Bu’ you left an’ hit Wilbur an’ made Tommy sad……”

Trembling fingers grip his feathers harder and his heart beats loudly in his ears.

“Do you regret it?”

He swallows thickly, bowing his head in shame before the wide eyes staring up at him.

‘” Yes, yes I do, very much.”

Tubbo seems to still, and think for a moment eyes darting to the floor before they meet his once more.

“Do you think he regretted it too?”

He can’t help but inhale sharply in surprise as he stares stupefied at the child before him. He swallows again, his mouth dry and throat burning.

“I don’t know, I really don’t but- “He shifts, leaning down on a knee, relieved as small fingers let go of his feathers easily, and places a hand on Tubbo’s shoulder, even more relived when the child doesn’t flinch away or bat him off.

“I’m going to do everything I can to be better, even if I can’t undo it.”

He smiles in a strained comfort.

“I promise.”

After a moment of quiet Tubbo shifts, fingers pulling gently at the ends of his sleeves, then speaks.

“Okay, keep it this time, dick’ead.”

He stifles a startled laugh at the insult.

He and Tommy have always been close, and it certainly shows.

He nods and lets go, watching as Tubbo steps back, then perks up, ears lifting as the sounds of voices make themselves clear from down the hall.

“Tommy slow down!”

“MAKE ME BITCH!”

Tubbo’s face lights up in a smile as he quickly rushes past Phil, making him stumble, and runs out the door.

“Big man!”

Phil sighs content as he walks out, keeping his distance, simply watching as Tubbo glomps Wilbur, burying his small face into the teens chest before running off giggling with Tommy to the kitchen after Wilbur waves him off to dinner.

He smiles more genuinely at the sight, even as he hears the sound of a chair being knocked over from the other room.

It feels like a new start.

Hopefully family dinner isn’t too bad.

Chapter Text

Techno in all his years of being fostered under Phil, had seldom heard him so blatantly regretful.

Oh, he had heard the man’s voiced laced with regret plenty a time do not mistake him, but it was a rare occasion to hear it so obviously.
Phil was a man that held his heart on his sleeve, while simultaneously tucking any and all “abnormal” or “unseemly” emotions close to his chest, left unseen to the casual passerby and viewed at its worse by soldiers and those unfortunate enough to cross the angel’s path, just as the life left their eyes.

It was all a balancing act, and while certainly not rare to fault, seeing such a man fumble so foolishly and admit so, so readily, was more than enough to create unease.

Made only worse by the actual spoken word itself.

“It’s Wilbur, I fucked up bad, please, I know you miss him”

Reassuring.

It certainly did grab his attention he guesses.

It had been so long since he had seen his twin, let alone Tommy or Tubbo, it left his gut curling with anxiety.

He had never made much connection to his youngest “family” members, never had any intention to in all honesty, though that did not mean he would not burn villages in their name if it was asked of him.

No, it was more so out of fear that he had never played part with them and their childish whimsy.
Bodies far too small and minds far too young for someone like him to be around, especially at his worse.

The travels to feed his bloodlust and the eventual settling upon a farm of sorts to live a “quiet existence for a time” while Phil departed from him- did – honestly do him some good.

The voices matured as he did in a way, and as much as he loathes to admit Phil’s teasing somewhat correct, puberty of all things certainly had helped them run rampant.

But now, at seventeen, he feels he can say with a tentative, but still present certainty he has them more relatively under control.

“Its progress mate!” Phil would and has said.

So, if there was any particular time for *this*, to happen – whatever this, is- it may as well be now.
Sure.

It does little to quell his anxiety, though.

Life on the farm, while peaceful, was lonesome.

No, the voices don’t count as company. He huffs, guiding his horse to jump over a stray log on the woodland path as the voices raise in volume in offense.

The way in which he departed from Wilbur, though, was and still is one of his biggest regrets.

It seemed as if Wilbur had known he was leaving, and leaving for good – or supposed good till now, but anyways- and had glared at him with all the pain and frustration of someone scorned.

He gets the sense now that Wilbur had sensed his own incoming departure before he had even actualized it within his mind. He supposes its simply one of those odd things to a connection such as theirs.

In the dead of night, the night before his departure, Wilbur had knocked on his door, brush and comb in hand with a steely look upon his face. He had spent the entirety of the day within his room, too fearful to face Wilbur knowing that for the first time since they were young, he would not be returning to him. It was rather selfish, really, but his own cowardice got the best of him.

He had made to brush him away, to shut the door harshly, but Wilbur had held steady and found his way in regardless.

No words were spoken between them.

He had simply sat still and took in the comfort of Wilbur braiding his hair for the supposed last time, something they had done together for near as long as his memory of this life reaches back, and something he would imitate on his own in longing.
Brushing his fingers through long pink locks, long after the braid had come undone. So much less soothing and comforting as his fingers would get stuck in knots with no joking comment or soothing brush through them from his twin.

With the pained glare, Wilbur had gifted him one last thing, just as he and Phil had turned to walk out the door.

A flower, five petals of blue with a yellow center. He didn’t know the name, didn’t know where it had even came from. It wasn’t one he knew to grow around their house, yet Wilbur had it all the same.

Something tells him if he did, he would be far more pained.

He ducks his head beneath an overhanging of leaves and branches, guiding Carl to take a right.

The flower had wilted completely after a week despite his efforts. Leaving him grasping at shriveled, faded blue petals and a sense of loss.

The memory of that pained glare remained.

He sighs as he leads Carl to a slow, getting off the horse swiftly and scrounging around in his bags to fish out some water and an apple for himself and Carl respectively.

The journey in itself quite honestly, is not a long one. He was far closer to home than any but Phil would likely realize.

For some the travel would perhaps take a few days, three, maybe four.

For him? A day.

Carl was a very fast, very resilient horse.

Just a day away from his “family”

One he hasn’t seen in so long.

It was hardly an accident he made his new home so close, Phil knew as well as he did that despite his efforts, he still found himself lingering.

He made the excuse of good land and high property value, which while true, wasn’t the whole truth.

It was a fact that would pull at his thoughts often, but he now found some relief in it considering the situation.
Phil didn’t say Wilbur was dying or anything, but again, the phrase.

“It’s Wilbur, I fucked up bad, please, I know you miss him”

Was just not a great one to hear. You really couldn’t have explained at all, Phil? Gods is this how Wilbur feels all the time with you never telling him anything? If so perhaps his twin’s aggression is more warranted than he realizes, though he’s never been in a position to judge him for that without being a hypocrite.

Despite his worry, he also can’t help the passing thought of what both Wilbur and his younger “siblings” look like now.
While his fear is what kept him from connecting with his younger “siblings” – come on chat we’ve been over this already- the nature of his relationship with Phil also affected this to an extent.

Despite being “adopted” by Phil, he honestly had more of a friend relationship with the man, even if he had still been raised by him. It was viewed as odd by many on lookers, especially in his younger years when a stranger would ask about his “dad” and Techno would simply deny the man being his father at all, even if Phil has introduced Techno as his son to whomever had asked.

It never seemed to bother Phil much though, if anything Techno swears the man seemed almost relived.
Still, the man asked once. The way it was phrased sounded more out of obligation than anything. Some almost mandatory question as to why his “son” wouldn’t call him dad, rather than actually wanting to know. Techno had responded in turn, none too concerned about the topic either.
“You said I had an old soul, Phil. And you are right, the voices talk about lives I don’t know, yet, I know they aren’t lyin’ to me” He had paused in his sharpening, simply staring at the blade, stained with a dark shade, but as sharp as ever, held in hand.

Phil had turned toward him, hands clasped tight with a mouth upturned in a strained intrigue.

It was an odd expression, one he still doesn’t understand.

“I could never be your child, or you my father, for I have been alive for as long as blood has been spilled.”

He grips the blade swinging it up and towards the sky, looking up at the moon, letting the light reflecting off the cold metal blind him to anything but it.

“I was never a child to begin with.”

The wind blows gently through the night, chilly and brushing through his pink locks gently. The voices whisper in turn. Some laugh at his dramatics, some speak of a life, a person he had once been.

Some demand blood still.

They all say he’ll never die.

Blood for the blood god.

Blood for the blood god.

Blood for the blood god.
Blood for the blood god.
Blood for the blood god.
Blood for the blood-

A hand encases his own, joining him in holding the blade to the skies, and raises his arm up, then down.
He snaps his head over, staring at Phil, who’s eyes are crinkled in a soft, yet pained smile, as he limply lets him guide his hand into dropping the blade.

Feathers gently brush against his neck as a wing is hooked around his back and he stares at the man as he begins to speak.
“You may think you have never been a child, Techno, but a guiding hand I am willing to be. A friend, a father, an accomplice. All these and more, I am willing to be for you, if you may have me.”

Phil pauses, turning his gaze to the moon and techno shifts, unconsciously leaning back into the wing behind him as if he were once again a child despite his claims, as a cold breeze blows against his face.

“You are not the only one to have taken their first breath in blood, knowing you have and will continue to exist, whether you like it or not. The lives we live are as inconsequential as they are important. To us we will never view life the same as our fellow people, for we have seen it all before, and will continue to do so when they are long gone, even if in different forms. But-”

Phil turns to face him, placing hands on his shoulders and meeting his eyes. Techno can’t help but feel he can watch the universe’s clock tick in those eyes, each shift of light across the blue another turn of the clock’s hand.

“Do not forget your compassion, and do not forget your guilt. We are timeless creatures, but if you allow yourself to forget the importance of life at all, our purpose here is for naught. Each splatter across your blade is the ink of a story that never reached its natural conclusion because of you. Do not forget the stories long ended, but do not let that consume you."

"Remember, even the simplest of things that had importance to you. For there may never be anything that will make us truly face death physically, forgetting all connections to the world we are in, will. Confide in me if you feel weak, and do not let yourself fall to the true death of an individual. Understand?”
He stares, eyes churning over the figure before him, wings stretched and illuminated in all the moons glory, almost like a halo, fitting for an angel, he thinks. He nods.

“Okay.”

Techno is brought out his thoughts as a muzzle bumps into his side, Carl letting out a whinny, making him face the horse with a sigh.
“Yeah, yeah, hold- yourself, I guess.”

He takes a moment to stroke the muzzle planted into his side, eyes softening as the horse nuzzles into his hand. Carl is a good horse.
He saddles back on quickly and resumes travel, spitting out a strand of hair that blew into his face with irritation.

He’s calmed a bit since he was first called, but still even now feels anxiety churning in his gut. Along with his general anxiety- fear- of seeing his “family” again, he also was scared for Wilbur.

He’s thought about it, thinking that maybe Phil and Wilbur got into another fight, a bad one, and Phil called him out of guilt. He knew the fights did bother the man, could see the hurt on his face after, but even so that didn’t fully fit. If it really was just that, Phil would have told him by now, called back to say he was just overreacting.

So, it likely wasn’t that.

“What did you get yourself into” He mutters, ducking under another branch.
He’s not fully sure who he’s even speaking about, both Phil and Wilbur have penitents for getting into things. Phil may be wise, and very, very old- “Grandpa” Techno calls him just to watch his feathers fluff as he sputters- but he’s just as much as chaotic as the rest of them. Its his fault for raising them, really.
Wilbur was the same, though much younger than Phil, obviously. Unless he was secretly some kind of god or something, that would be an L on his part.

TWINDUO GODS

He has secret powers

Shhhhhhhhhhhh

L

“Right.” He will decide not to ponder upon that reaction for now.

Chat, was very often wrong about things, and caused him a lot of grief, but sometimes they were right, which concerned him more sometimes. It was something he’s asked Phil about, because even if his thing with crows was similar, they could scout, could see and learn things Phil wouldn’t know. His chat couldn’t do that as far as he knew, they saw everything through him, and remained fully in his head.
So, it confused him when they would cry about things, Tommy or Wilbur, or when they started randomly spamming things. A moment that stood out to him strongly was them chanting “Tubbox” and variations of it, long before the kid they found in a box told them their name. It wasn’t something they should have known, but did all the same.

It was hard to know when they were messing with him, or giving him tips.
When he had asked Phil how they seemed to know these things, the man had no answer, simply stating that “these things can work in mysterious ways”. It was really unhelpful.

He had tried asking chat for things, wanting to know how Wilbur was doing despite being too scarred to check himself, but all and any answers were unhelpful and often over pretty soon when they got distracted by something else.

Now he thinks of it though, remembers back to perhaps two days ago? Chat had spammed Wilbur’s name at random, screaming it in all different tones. That wasn’t too uncommon, but they didn’t stop.
They got louder, and louder, and louder. Some sounded excited, many sounded upset.

He knew Phil was going for a visit around that same time, and all that had left him itching to grab his communicator and send Phil a message.

He hadn’t though, he had shook it off and went to tend to his crops.

Now he wonders if he should have.

Hopefully it won’t be too bad when he gets there. So, instead of focusing on what will happen, he focuses on what has, as gets ever closer to the place he once called home, and in his heart still does.

It had started all so simple, really.
His memory of his younger years can be fuzzy, all disconnected in shapes and sounds and colors. But he does remember fire.

The smell of sulfur and the feel of netherack, until there was amass of sound, shouting and the clashing of metal, and the smell of blood. Then the sun shone on his face and wind bristled his fur. Then he began to change, feeling his bones shifting in place and fur retracting into his body, yet, it didn’t hurt.
He can hazily remember looking at now furless hands in a mix of horror and awe. He had only seen himself a while later, peering at his reflection off the “cold lava”. Watching the wind ripple its surface, his red eyes set on that of his reflection’s.

He was covered in dirt, and leaves, and blood. He had tried to go back home, stumbling around the odd purple thing that had served for his travel, but it was no use. The portal was broken and dead.

Adjusting to the overworld had been a hassle. He had not known what anything was or how to survive. He even now can remember the feeling of starving, stumbling through thick trees, mouth watering at the sight of berries, berries he had learned quickly that, while smelled like something he could eat, he could not. They had gotten them very sick, vomit burning his throat like fire and leaving him shaking, worsening his already poor overall condition.
He had a hand outreached, just about to grasp and tear into the poisonous fruit out of desperation, till a sound drew his attention.

It was a rabbit. Small, juvenile, likely just breaching its adult life, and alone, all too unaware of the starving piglin hybrid just behind it.

He remembers his pupils dilating to small pinpricks, locked on the small, twitching, writhing mass of meat.

He doesn’t think he could have hesitated even if he tried. The sight of that small heart, beating within the rabbit’s chest, the sound of its breathing, its wide eyes blinking blankly in the sun, his own expression staring back at him in them, it was all too much.

He had not hesitated in rushing forward, pinning it to the ground and tearing it to shreds.
It was the most full he could remember being at the time, looking down at his bloodied hands, mind abuzz with a satisfied smile even as his hands shook and red dripped from his tucks to the green grass below, staining the patch of wood in its gore.

It took an agonizingly short time for him to begin starving again.

That, is when he found a village. Some small, out of the way thing. Old wood houses with a mix of straw and wooden roofs, an old, creaking dock and a large lake. People happily milling around. A man fishing with his dog, a pair of women carrying baskets full of apples, giggling as they leaned into each other, a group of children kicking a ball around, laughing even as they fell on their face.

It was all so serene, and all so new. Techno had never got a good look at these, *creatures*. He seldom remember his parents, if he had any, but they struck as familiar. The gold bringers, the ones who came to trade with his kind.

He had stalked around quietly, not wanting to get caught, even as he shook from pangs of hunger. He had reached the near edge of the village while looking for food he could sneak away. That is when he saw the villages farmer. An old man with grey hairs encroaching on his brown, who walked with a slight limp and a scowl.

He was tending to the sheep, corralling them all within their fences, but seemed to be having some trouble as his dog barked. The man had seemed to miss it, but Techno didn’t.

A lamb, left all alone, by itself, having slipped away from the man and its herd and contently eating grass, wholly oblivious and tantalizingly close.

It was all too much like the prior rabbit, yet so much bigger. So much more filling.
Nobody was looking, and the only person close by was preoccupied.

Techno took the chance and dove.

It was all going fairly well, he thought, tearing quickly into the lamb’s skin, licking its leg bone clean as he dragged the body off into the bushes, till he heard a yell.

The man he saw prior, behind him, sword in hand and looking down at his blood covered form like he was a beast meant to be slain. Eyes burning and casting a shadow over his much, much smaller one.

Multiple things happened at once. The man raised his arm high, then struck, landing a blow to his arm as Techno stumbled back, seething in pain and baring his tusks. Then, another yell, and the sound of quick steps reached his ears as he looked to see a small group, around four people, chasing a brown-haired boy with fox ears and tail, a giant bag of food, too big for his body, held in his arms.

They had locked eyes for just a moment, red through matted blood covered hair, and brown surrounded by bruises and scrapes that seemed to just shine. It was like a livewire went through his system, and he suddenly felt so much for this stronger, this boy around his age, running just as he had been, struggling to survive. A connection, a string wrapping around his heart and mind, and pulling him forward before he could think.

The man had gone to strike again, calling out in a language he hadn’t understood.
But then, Techno had dodged, kicking the man in his weak leg and scrambling away, following the other boy into the woods till neither party could hear shouting anymore, the trees became more and more dense, and the world seemed to had gone still.

Techno hadn’t known what to do then, offering nothing more than a greeting in his native tongue, which seemed to prompt only confusion, before the other seemed to have an idea of their own. He had looked at the other in curiosity as they rummaged around the bag, only to pull out an apple, holding it out to him, smiling wide yet tiredly, growing fangs poking into his lip.

Normally, Techno would be more cautious, would pull away and bare his tusks, but Wilbur was different, always has been different.

The two had split a feast that night, and Techno had never felt so full and warm since.

Techno had learned common quickly, listening to the other speak about whatever it was that was on his mind, telling stories he had heard from towns people and things he’d done. And, Techno had listened, happy with the voice filling in the spaces where he didn’t want to, or was uncomfortable to, himself.

Even to this day he doesn’t know what led Wilbur to that point, but looking back the bruises, far too intentional looking, were telling. It’s a thought that makes him huff in anger, but knows there’s little he can do about it.

The two had stuck together, young and growing by each other’s side as time seemed to past so quickly, too quickly. Twins in all but blood through it all. When Wilbur would toss and turn in his sleep, whimpering and cowering from some unknown force, Techno would be there, pulling himself just a bit closer and huffing into the others hair.

When Techno would shiver in the winter, eyes fluttering as he felt more and more sluggish, little energy to even eat. Wilbur would be there. Wrapping him in all the cloths they had even as he shivered, and feeding him by hand, titling his head back to drink and restarting the fire every time it went out.

They had no idea how much their lives would change the day wings of black ivory shadowed them, a man of death’s bidding walking ever closer as they backed up, teeth bared and a small blade held tight in his brother’s hands.

Sometimes. he wishes they could go back to that despite the struggle. The struggle to survive, to eat, to wish, to live. Passing through towns on light feet in fear of shining blades and flying arrows. Cowering at the sound of groaning as walking corpses shambled their way past their current home. Both so young and the world all too much.

The memory of that time is so blurred now, they couldn’t have been more than seven yet it seemed far longer.

Things changed when going with Phil, for better and for worse.

Wilbur was finicky with his traits, able to shift to look far more human than Techno was able, but only when well fed. And with Phil, they were. His brother didn’t seem to like it about himself, staying shifted near twenty-four seven. It had made him upset, missing seeing the shades of brown and orange ears and tail. But at the end of the day, Techno couldn’t judge, not really.

He knew he could shift back now, was quite excited when he was able to do so again for the first time with Wilbur. And while he did shift decently often, he often stayed in a sort of mid-stage. Skin a pinkish- brownish tan with small patches of fur, hoofed feet and bent legs, long ears and tusks, a swishing tail at his backside.

It made for a rather imitating image during battle, a trade mark of sorts. Techno has a brand, what can he say?

Still, Techno can’t wonder how long its been since Wilbur let go. Does he even remember how?

He misses the connection they had, a life before the voices overrode his senses and Wilbur began to seem farther away for reasons he still didn’t know.

The reminiscing lights a fire in him, far too tired of being scared, of being a coward.

He’s the blood god, he’s killed hundreds if not thousands. He’s lived hundreds of lives and has drank from the cup of Gods, only to come back for more.

He can do this, can’t he?

He’ll get his twin back.

Even if it kills him

Because Technoblade never dies.

Chapter Text

Hey guys, I know it’s been awhile. A lot has been going on for me, something that will be in the author’s note of when I post the next chapter. But, while I’m not one to usually make announcements like this, it felt necessary.

Technoblade is dead.

I know many are discontinuing their works that have him in them and even deleting them, and as a fellow author and reader, to anyone who sees this, I implore you not to. We are all grieving right now. Its an awful time in the world as it is, and it got no better with him now gone. But, you don’t have to stop writing him.

You don’t have to stop writing, or drawing or thinking of him or his character. Let him continue on in whatever little stories or drawings you have. Let his legacy continue for what he was, while acknowledging that in reality he can’t return.

He may be dead, but his memory doesn’t have to be,

He’s gone, but he doesn’t have to be forgotten.

I’m going to continue to write this story. I’m going to continue to write him in it.

Please, just be patient.

Understand that we are all grieving, and give his friends and family their privacy. Give them their peace to mourn someone they knew more than we did.

Thank you all so much, never before have I felt so connected to a fandom and its content creators. Please, appreciate those that appreciate you. Check in on your loved ones. Comfort each other if you can.

Fuck cancer.

Chapter Text

“You’re annoying” Wilbur drawls as he takes his seat.

Watching, as Tommy kicks back in his own chair, falling over with a loud thud. It’s another small little difference that has Wilbur almost unnerved. His Tommy, after many years, had learned not to do that after hurting his arm particularly badly one time because of it. Though, despite his whines, it was not, broken.

It both brings a smile to his face, but makes him dower as he adjusts in his seat, brows knitting at the thought. It’s weird, being so out of place and homesick in your own home- well- this wasn’t his home was it? No, the home he had made for himself with the kids and Sally wasn’t this one. That home was actually Sally’s to begin with. An old, unused thing that was once owned by her more land-dwelling family members till they passed, and it was passed down to her.

He remembers being hesitant to take it. He had felt bad, really. She shouldn’t have to provide a home for him and- at the time- two children. It wasn’t fair, and truthfully, he feared settling in too comfortability. Feared the kids finally becoming comfortable and settling, only for the home they made to be ripped out from under them just because he and Sally had a messy break-up or something.

In the end, she hadn’t minded, and he still accepted. He’s glad he did, but fuck if it didn’t hurt right now. He keeps finding himself looking around for a mock of reddish hair and bushy tail as he sits. The breakdown helped hold some of that feeling of loss at bay, but it’s still there. Burning, and churning, and sickening. He also still aches like he was bowled over by a horse and trampled on, a casual pulsing through his body, mainly his back with that still light fever. So, that isn’t helping. Though, it’s receded some, thankfully. And he knows Tommy and Tubbo have noticed to some degree as, once Tommy is up, he can just see the two share a look as the blond boy nudges his side harshly and speaks to him.

“Wilbah.”

Despite it all, his mouth quirks into a smile as he looks to Tommy and feels a light kick to his leg from the squirming boy, Tubbo letting out a small giggle behind him as he watches. Even now, they always draw him out his own head, and he doesn’t think he could ever tell them how thankful he is for it.

“Yes, Tommy?” He drawls, keeping an otherwise straight face as those wide eyes look up at him. Before that’s completely thrown out the window at the next words. Spoken so seriously, as if asking for state secret of upmost importance.

“Can cows be lesbian?”

It makes him laugh, loud and confused. And he can hear Tubbo behind him do the same as he rests his head against the table with an arm, groaning. He can’t fucking do this, but Gods will he try.

“I don’t know Tommy.”

“But can they?”

Then there’s Tubbo, joining in, what must be a gremlin like expression of smug on his face if he were to look up. He goes to reply again before a call breaks the comfortable, familiar, banter between them.

“Alright, settle down.” Phil says as he walks into the room, and he knows it’s not just himself that stands straighter. He can practically feel the man cringing at the unease he causes, even as Wilbur turns to give him an encouraging smile. Tommy and Tubbo are looking to him, and if he acts okay, they might be too. It’s what he’s always had to do, and he has no plans on stopping now.

Thankfully, the sight does seem to settle them a bit, though by the looks of things it had gotten at least a bit better without his intervention. He didn’t exactly want them to have breakdowns- Gods does he not want that, especially with how much they bloody suck- but crying does help. He just wishes he had been there with them through it. But, nevertheless.

“What’s for dinner, bitch!?” Tommy demands, small hands slamming against the table, a seemingly triumph look on his face before Wilbur pushes him back into his seat with a small chiding, “Tommy.”. Phil does not waver though. Instead, he laughs, waving the display off as he begins to hand each them a bowl, setting it in front of them in a way that really does remind him of his younger years with Techno. A man, oh so patient and smiling at their antics. Calling them for dinner and setting out bowls. That mundanity of helping later with idle conversation and a grin. A domestic scene that shifted with time. First a father and two. Then a father and three, then four. Then a brother and two. Then a husband and wife in all but law and three children. Then a brother and father once again, three children pulling tearfully at the older’s heels, mourning a fresh loss.

“Just some potato stew mate. Nothing too fancy…” Phil replies, voice trailing for a moment. And, yeah, their cupboards were pretty bare at this time, it makes sense. He idly scans the kitchen for a moment, trying to refamiliarize himself with it till something catches his eye. The old cook book he always had sitting there and never used was moved, and the only reason he remembers it at all is because that’s where he kept all the bills and job listens and things alike. Tommy had found them on the table once, when young, and had asked about it, pointing to the “funny numbers” while holding the papers with little grubby hands. He had since hidden them from then on, especially with the realization Tommy would one day understand the severity of it.

And ah fuck Phil is looking at him. That’s going to be brought up later isn’t it?

“Hey Wil, how are you feeling?”

He probably doesn’t look that great right now. He’s honestly cried far too much in this past- day? Two days? – time is a blur to him right now in more ways than one. Still, the question has him finicky on the base principal of not wanting to answer. He knows Tommy and Tubbo are worried too and it all feels so ridiculous, as if the situation couldn’t get any more so. He rolls his eyes, huffing small in a false amusement.

“I’m fine, Phil. Stop mother-henning.”

That at least, draws a barked laugh from Tommy. Phil casts him a lasting look, almost inspecting, before turning and grabbing a ladle. He grabs the now cooled pot with careful hands and serves them in silence. He has to fight the instinctual urge to get up and do it himself because- Tubbo doesn’t like that much he has a weak stomach at times – and Tommy can’t have his that high he always spills – and grabs the bottom of his chair with a sigh. He calls Phil a mother hen, but he knows well he’s more apt for the description.

If he hadn’t stuck himself in this form his ears would be flicked back in irritation.

And Gods if that isn’t a sudden thought. He almost forgets sometimes, his species. The reminder was a stark one in the form of Fundy. The boy plaguing his thoughts now with his absence. It was all too easy to take the time with him for granted, just as he did Sally.

He groans, and he looks up to see Phil looking at him like he’s expecting him to lash out like he may have when young at the slightest irritation the older man would cause. He doesn’t, just as he hasn’t thus far, and that seems to add to the man’s unease. Let him be, Wilbur has more things to worry about right now than the other’s discomfort at his sudden maturity.

“Looks like shit.”

Tommy mutters at his side, face pulled into a pout.

“Yes, but shit you don’t have to help clean up.”

He would make the kids help clean when they were old enough. It was a good skill to have, but it always brought complaints. That seems to satisfy the boy enough to make him shut up and begin to eat, Tubbo following. The two talk through mouthfuls and he can’t be bothered to be mad about it. It’s not like he’s the best example. The two fall into that old, easy dynamic they have, even when young. It’s comforting, if nothing else. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Phil. It’s a surprise to him when the man almost squirms in his gaze as he sits down, spooning at his food.

“Aren’t you hungry? You really should eat.”

Phil says quietly, and it’s then he remembers he should probably do that. He nods, taking a spoonful. It’s good, really good. It’s good in the way only a parent’s cooking can be. Nostalgic and warm. It makes him feel all the hotter, adding to the feverish flush, but in a more pleasant way. He hums, small. It’s been a long time since he’s been taken care of this way. The closest thing he has is a time he got sick when with Sally, having fallen into her river during winter. She had come over then to feed him soup and slap him upside the head for being stupid. She was so beautiful. Long orange – red curls and teal and red tinted cheeks. Her eyes shone like the rarest of gems to him. She was- a small hand pokes his side, it makes him jerk and whirl over, meeting a displeased Tommy.

“Stop being dumb, m’talkin to you.”

He gives the boy an apologetic grin in that natural, worn way.

“Yes, Tommy?”

Tommy grins wider. It feels a warning.

“Sooo, who’s Fundy, huh?”

The question is phrased as sly, but it makes Wilbur freeze. For a second, he questions how the other knows the name- before remembering he had asked where the fox boy was when he first woke. It feels all too long ago. He fumbles and he can hear Phil make a confused sound.

“I- uh-“

Tommy laughs, Tubbo snickering in turn.

“You like, like someoneeeeee. Gross. Love is cringe.”

Definitely not that. Tubbo turns to Tommy.

“Aren’t you the one always talking about women, though?”

“Yeah- but that’s different! Women are amazing!”

He can hear Phil laugh and it isn’t helping. He brings his hands to grip his chair in placement for his hair again, huffing out a long breath. He feels like he’s being interrogated and it makes his brain whisper in a paranoid discomfort.

“I don’t “like, like” Fundy, Tommy, I can promise that.”

Tommy rolls his eyes pouting, and Tubbo contents himself eating.

“Your face says otherwise, foolish little man.”

“Oh noo, big words from the child. Just eat.”

He says, a bit terse, though he hides it behind a grin. Tommy grumbles, but thankfully complies. If it were any other day, he’d be spending at least another few minutes, but he’s fairly certain Tommy still feels sympathy for him right now. Phil huffs an impressed laugh.

“Are they…always like this?”

He asks, with all the confusion of an absent parent. Part of him wants to tiredly snark and say "no, actually." But, he doesn't.

“Yes. Get used to it.”

The man nods. They eat in silence for a time – mostly – Tommy and Tubbo talk as they like, cut off conversation he doesn’t quite catch - but they don’t talk to him too much. Tommy seems to pick up on the fact he pushed something he shouldn’t have, and both can tell he feels like shit. He’s a bit relived by it, simply basking in the food and scene. If only it were perfect. If only it weren’t missing such important people. People no one knows but him besides Techno. Speaking of-

“I spoke to Techno. He’s coming over.” Phil gives, so casually, so suddenly, it leaves his brain spinning and his throat closing in an attempt not to choke on the all too fitting piece of potato he just swallowed.

“What?”

Everything stills again and he can hear his heart pick up in his chest. He hasn’t seen the other in so painfully long. It honestly hurt more than Phil. Those early years spent together, working together to survive like little feral animals, even with the language gap, were burned in his brain. Wilbur and Techno, a pair that couldn’t be separated.

Until they were.

“Techno’s coming!?”

Tommy asks, small hands banging on the table and sloshing his soup around in his bowl, speckling the wood of the table, face lit in excitement. He’s always idolized the piglin man. He honestly understands, even if it’s certainly left him bitter. Techno is strong, talented, a legend. Everything he isn’t. Tubbo too, looks hesitantly intrigued. His throat feels clogged as the whispers grow in volume in his ears.

“Yes. I thought it would be good with…everything.”

Of course, he would. He wonders if Phil will neglect them for Techno as obviously right in front of him. He feels like he can’t breathe.

“Knowing him, he should be here by tonight.”

Tonight. It’s already late. He only has a few hours at best to prepare. Tommy leans his head back with a whine and turns to him, a question he already knows pursed on his lips. He’s responding before he can think, brain cotton logged.

“No, you cannot skip bedtime.”

“But Wilbyyyyyy.”

“Nope.”

“But-“

He’s giving him puppy dog eyes. It isn’t all that effective when his brain is screaming at him.

“No.”

“Ughhhhhhhhhhhhh bitch.”

Tommy curses him out in low mutters but he doesn’t pay it mind, staring down at his soup with dead expression. He swishes his spoon around in it, tapping the metal to the surface and watching the liquid ripple around cut potatoes. He can bet the food choice was purposeful now. Always thinking about Techno, about what he likes. It’s not like the feathered man knows shit about them, especially him now. Time travel is just fucked in that way, isn’t it?

“Why?”

He finds himself finally asking after another long beat of all too uncomfortable silence. Phil meets his eyes as they turn up from his soup, set and chilling. His back aches further, cold pinpricks like a grid of icicles pressing and rubbing against his skin so roughly it almost burns. Maybe, it’s the fever.

“Wilbur I’m not-“

“Sure you aren’t.”

He sighs, bringing a hand to rub at his still feverish brow, slumping in his seat. He shouldn’t do this in front of the kids. He waves a dismissive hand, not even having to look up to know Phil’s opened his mouth to speak.

“I don’t want to hear it, not now”

It’s a more mature response than he’s sure Phil’s expecting. Those kinds of words were always the start of some argument, and he certainly still wants to yell- but both has matured – and quite frankly can’t be fucking bothered.

The rest of dinner goes in a stilted, uncomfortable blur. He takes comfort in Tommy and Tubbo’s prodding, small feet kicking at his heels and idle conversation. Phil doesn’t really join in, though he notes the man listening with a genuine intrigue. He’s watching, observing. He’s learning what kind of people his youngest’s are and filing it for later. It is nice, to see even that effort. The man meets his gaze sometimes, looking so pitifully regretful. But, he doesn’t indulge him.

The time to get the kids to bed comes all too quick, and Wilbur ushers a groaning Tommy and a grumbling Tubbo to their rooms before Phil can even try. He expects them to be up for a while, especially Tommy. But, they always get sleepy around this hour, even if they’ve slept all day. It makes him laugh as he reminds Tommy to brush his teeth and helps Tubbo find his pajamas in the mess he made of his room. It’s just familiar enough to feel okay before another new rouge element enters the scene.

When it’s done, and his – sick? – body is slumping in an all too quick exhaustion, palms pressed to the kitchen counter, half washed bowls piled in the sink, does Phil walk up to him.

“Son.”

He greets.

“Phil.”

He gives back.

“Are you alright?”

Wilbur scoffs quietly, wavering on his feet some as he turns to face the man, lent on the counter.

“Stop asking me that. I’m not fragile.”

The man’s face twists up in an unreadable expression. Though, Wilbur could guess pained. He had been fragile, once. He must look it now, to the man. Even if he were not in a time fuckery situation, he wouldn’t have been fragile. That scruffy, cheery kid Phil had known for a time, has been dead for a very long time. Sometimes, he wonders how long it’s truly been. He finds he’s felt dead far longer than he’s lived. Gods, Tommy would call him emo if he heard him now. Sally would laugh, too, maybe pinch his cheek for good measure. Fundy probably wouldn’t even know what any of it means.

“I know. I know you aren’t.”

Another pause, the air thick with an uncomfortability. Some things just won’t be acknowledged, like him crying on the man. He has full intent to pretend that didn’t happen. Phil is probably the same. The man speaks once more, tone soft.

“I only called him to help. He really does miss you too, you know?”

He scoffs again, unable to help it. The man had said that before, but now with a calmer head, he has the coherence to not believe it. Not fully, anyway.

“He doesn’t act it. Besides, that isn’t the problem and you know it.”

He spits, and for the first time since he got here, he feels a bit like the grumbling teen his body suggests he is. Gods, is that still weird. He resists the urge to look at his hands, and tick every little difference off on some mental checklist.

“I know.”

He almost hates how done and worn Phil seems with him. It feels undeserved. You’re tired? You? Welcome to my world. It’s a younger thought of his. He sighs, blowing the air through his teeth.

“If you’re just going to go right back into praising Techno and Techno alone, you may as well leave. I can survive a little fever.”

He settles on, after a long blank of breath. He can Phil intake just audibly behind him, and he has half the mind to whop his head around and bare his teeth like Phil is more accustomed to. He has to remind himself he is an adult, in situations like these. It’s awful tempting, though. But, he’s also too tired for it. So, he settles on turning around instead, leaning back on the counter and watching Phil’s expression pinch.

“I never meant to do that.”

An excuse. He shrugs.

“But you did.”

And, what argument is there to that? They both understand Techno needs particular attention. That isn’t what the issue is here. It wouldn’t stop him from feeling left out or jealous, of course not. Especially when young and grabbing at Phil’s heels, tears in his eyes and just begging for a single word of praise. The issue is that Phil made that active decision. That he chose what was important to him, took it, and left. Wilbur Tommy, Tubbo, they were not those things.

“I do love you, you know that, right?”

He’s certain they had a sort of talk like this already, between his tears prior. But, hearing the words still makes his grip on his arms, arms now crossed, all the tighter, as he takes a deep breath, opens his mouth searching for response. When, the door opens.

“Alright, what happened?”

A deep rumble of a voice greets his ears, and he can’t help the patient flinch back, nor the spike of fear in his chest at the voice. Phil looks between him, and the direction of the door, seeming to consider. Before, looking at Wilbur still, the man speaks.

“A lot. Come on in, Techno, we need to talk.”

Has he mentioned he hates time travel?

Because he does.

Chapter Text

“Wilbur?”

Wilbur, in all his bitter, yet wistful moments, sometimes wondered what Techno would look like. If he was still a bit scrawny like him, if his hair was longer, if he still wore his glasses. He wondered what he’d look like with Tommy, with Tubbo, with Fundy. He liked to imagine his brother’s face screwed up in uncomfortable, nervous and awkward posture in Fundy’s infancy. The other had never liked children, was always unsettled by Tommy, small grabbing hands and drool. It’s something that made him laugh, even as the tensions grew as Techno and Phil’s coming, permutant, departure got all the more evident.

But, those thoughts were brief. Little flashes that would come to mind as he went through the attic and packed boxes for move. Old, broken framed pictures and a shock of pink hair that felt almost at times, mocking. Any time he dared to fully sit down, to wonder, to imagine, he felt a sort of dissonance. Empty on visual and lacking of that cohesion to tie any wonderings together, Techno’s face beyond pictures blurring further and further in his head with the time. That voice, a low rumble he could feel through his chest curled so close to him, becoming a less known sound in his ears with the time. He had almost forgotten.

“Wilbur.”

And yet, there it is.

He less feels himself turn to face Techno, than he notices the pink shape in his vision. A mass of long pink hair, braided back and strands blown around and out of order from riding horseback. A broader frame, from what he remembers, older, features once softer sharpened with age. Still a teenager, just as he is now, hints of gangly limbs non the verge of being fully filled out and eyes bright with the hints of youth. But, aged still beyond his memories, just off enough from what he once knew to be almost instinctually wrong.

A new scar on the left one, tusks pushing past his bottom jaw longer, the right missing a just noticeable chip in the bone. Flowing shirt, missing glasses, gold pricings on swine like ears.

Red eyes, locked with his, just as warm as he recalls.

He stares, and Phil chuckles a small light, stepping between them, gently pressing a hand to his frozen chest, warm.

“Hello Techno.”

Phil greets, and there’s a hummed rumble in reply as red eyes scan up and down his form. He can feel them, searching, noting each little difference as he does. Lingering, on the pink flush of his face, on the bandied pressed to his cheek.

“Wilbur…how have-“

Techno begins, and he thinks for the first time in all he’s able to recall, Techno started the conversation. Soft, deeper, quiet on his ears.

Worried.

He steps back, turning his gaze to Phil, glaring as something in him swells, visible to Techno and stopping his words halfway past his lips.

“I’m not doing this.”

A laugh, small and croaked, squeezing his throat with the urge to cough,

“I’m not doing this.”

He repeats. He can hear Phil’s denial distant, looks up to see Techno’s face, typical dead expression pinched in a sort of dismay, a hurt. As if his rejection isn’t warranted, expected. He’s old enough to understand, no matter his state now. But, from the initial collapse to now, it’s all been too much. He’s just waiting to wake up to his normalcy, no matter how bitter. Greek tragedies and Gods’ interventions over family drama or however he wound up this way, is Techno’s thing, not his. He shakes his head, pushing off the counter he backed into, and passed Phil, sending the man’s wings bumping into Techno.

“Wilbur!-“

Phil, again, Techno always so quiet, complacent in anything and everything the man says. He grits his teeth.

“No! Go talk to your favorite son alone! I’m not doing this!”

He doesn’t care for the reasons Phil gave, he doesn’t care if he understands. He doesn’t care for any of it. He’s just tired. He wants to sleep, and wake up back home. Or, maybe, not wake up at all. It batters against his skull as he makes his way down the hall. He’s almost certain Tommy, Tubbo or both are listening in. Especially Tommy. But, he’s too- frustrated- to care too much in this moment.

A hand sets on his shoulder, halting him to stop, and he’s prepared to whirl on the man, teeth bared. But, before he can, he feels the weight recede, and he turns slower now, watching as Techno pulls Phil back by a similar hand on his shoulder.

“Let him go.”

Comes that deep, rumbling voice. Phil’s expression pinches, and in those red eyes he can almost see those dark, blood colored pools swirling in a silent contemplation, perhaps more. Phil sags, and nods.

“Get some rest.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice as he all but bolts down the hall and into his room, slamming the door shut.
He leans back against it, sighing a heavy breath, back and head panging, sliding down to the floor.

He can’t hide forever. But, he’s never been as brave as Techno anyway. So, why does it matter?

If he tells himself that, it might make the burn in his chest feel better.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“What was that?”

Techno wastes no time in his questioning, he never has. That’s something Phil isn’t quite sure the source of. He is somewhat like that, but the monotone and flicking, worried and curious ear, is something all of Techno’s own. There’s a lot about Techno, that he doesn’t fully understand. And it’s only now does he realize Wilbur is much the same. It’s that slow sinking realization that’s come in these days, the truth that he doesn’t really know his children. Techno is not exempt from this, not in the slightest. The realization that, he hasn’t been doing as good a job as he wholly and truly wished he was.

He sighs, brushing back his hair with a hand. He hasn’t taken the moment to brush them since his arrival, the unkempt nature has him itching, feathers similar.

“My mistakes.”

Phil gives, almost bitter. It’s one thing, really, to know you’ve ruined someone’s life, but to see it and be reminded of it each second of the day, it eats at him. It east at him with unanswered prayers and child’s screams.

“Phil.”

Techno says, and Phil watches those stern, but such worried eyes, search his own. The gilt tugs at him, thin fibers dug to the skin of his throat and cutting his vocal cords. He shakes his head, and sets a firm hand on Techno’s shoulder, guiding him to sit on the couch.

“A lot has happened, Techno, since we left. I’m afraid I’ve made a bigger mistake than I had known.”

“What do you mean?”

In some ways, Techno I still a child to him, holding a natural curiosity of an insightful mind. He’s so proud of the man Techno is becoming, but he knows he is not free of guilt even in his “favorite” son.

“I should have never left. Should have never made you leave, and I’m sorry.”

Techno goes to speak. He can see it, a tense to those broad and battle-hardened shoulders, a muted but true expression of something almost as appalled as it is concerned. Phil raises a hand, shaking his head.

“It wasn’t fair to you, voices or not, and it wasn’t fair to Wilbur, or Tommy, or Tubbo. I had a responsibility as a parent, and I have now, finally-“

Phil stresses, voice low in this quiet. Techno shifts.

“-How much I have failed.”

Techno shakes his head. In Techno’s eyes, Phil would suppose, he’s been nothing but good. Perhaps not a father, but a friend, someone who has always been there for him.

“Phil- what’s goin’ on? Why are you sayin’ this? What happened to Wilbur?”

Perhaps it is that, that has Phil getting to the point.

“I hit him.”

The time after those words, the silence that follows, is not one Phil tracks. Phil can feel the way his son stiffens at his side, though. That tensing to posture, shoulders hiked in a way the hybrid would find appropriate for battle. Phil would not be surprised to be struck in this moment. But, in that grating silence there is nothing.

Not till Techno, silent, stands up, and walks away.

Phil does nothing to stop him.

Angry steps, muted in attempt to stay calm, tap down the hall, towards Wilbur’s room. The hallway door, slamming behind him.

At the very least, Phil knows that no matter the distance or grudge, those two will always have each other. He stands up, and walks to the kitchen.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Techno doesn’t understand.

He isn’t stupid, he’s always known something about the situation was wrong. He matured fast, can never say he felt young in the way Wilbur and especially Tommy seemed to. But, he does remember missing them, especially Wilbur.

Those first nights after the initial trip away were hard. He had never told Phil, but he and Wilbur would often share a cot, on those rougher nights. It’s something they did, on the run. He can remember that much even now. Bed made of the soft leaves the could find, curling around each other like stray cats, pressing his face into the matted, yet bushy material of Wilbur’s tail. He misses that tail, those ears. He had hoped, upon his arrival, he’d be able to see them again, that Wilbur would have let go.

He had not.

Rather, he was received with nothing but a scorn. Wilbur’s face, twitched in something he knows looked almost betrayed, an age to that face that he finds almost unsettling. The teen he found, rather, face flush with what he could note as a sick, if just by smell, and a bandaged cheek, a fraying little cotton swab behind medical gauze. It didn’t look like anything serious, but Techno could only gather so little before the other was stomping away burdened by something he can’t understand.

Wilbur used to be happy, when they would return.

He can still remember that time, too. The feeling of stumbling back as brown-haired figure slammed into him with an embrace, and a baby’s babbles, and small hands catching his pants. Could remember that each time, it took longer and longer those hugs got tighter and tighter, till they just stopped entirely. Can remember the first day it was only Tommy that had come to greet them, stepping into the house in full to find Wilbur passed out asleep on the couch.

It had been much longer than that time. It was only expected, wasn’t it?

The voices nag at him, as he steps down the hall, stalling in front of Wilbur’s door, ignoring the very advise he had just given Phil of leaving the other alone.

Wtf Phil??

Not pog.

Knocknocknocknock.

L.

Phil had hit Wilbur.

Phil told him so easily, so unashamed. No- not that- like it didn’t even matter. Was Techno so distant as to seem unconcerned, to seem like he wouldn’t care about that fact? No, Phil knew that. He knows all he’s thinking is wrong, but he’s angry. Techno isn’t one for feelings like this, Techno doesn’t like them. They’re complicated, hard to deal with, he has to be sure he doesn’t give into them in moments like this.

BLOOD.

BLOOD.

BLOOD.

BLOOD.

To not give into that rush through his system at those words. The pulse through his fingers, aching to grab onto blade so hard his knuckles go white and burst. To bare his tusks and snarl. To not do any of those things, as he knocks on the door.

“Not now, Phil.”

Of course, the other would assume that. It makes Techno huff a breath, tasting something bitter in the back of his throat and bridging at his tongue, face twisted in a grim, impassive scowl.

“Not Phil.”

Techno gives, and he can hear a subtle jerk of sorts, almost a flinch as feet scramble on hardwood ground to stand. A beat of silence, almost considering, just enough to be hopeful, before a quick rebuttal.

“….No. No, go away, Techno.”

It wasn’t like this, before. This, is tiring. Techno’s blood buzzes under his skin. The other’s voice is different, than he remembers, Techno notes.

“Please.”

Techno insists. The response comes faster this time round.

“No, go away.”

Its easy, to see where this is going. There are few times Wilbur got this way, when they were children- “children”- in Techno’s case. And, in those moments, he knew well that bartering would be an often useless encolour. Or, rather, bartering in a way Techno was more comfortable with, was useless. It makes him cringe, the thought of being so vulnerable, especially now. But, those words repeat in his head, in some cases literally as his voices rave. Wilbur would deserve this much, surely. Techno sighs, shoulders sagged.

“….I missed you.”

He admits.

“Yeah, right..”

Wilbur denies. It’s almost painful, to Techno’s ears, that vulnerability so thoughtlessly dismissed. And, for what proper reason? Wilbur isn’t wrong to do so, Techno was always aware of this, yet he had never done anything about it till now.

“I did.”

“You sure made that apparent.’

Bitten and sharp, Techno huffs, ears flicked back.

“Wilbur…”

“No, I don’t want to hear it. Phil is enough. All- this- is enough.”

There’s something to those words, peaked in a voice break. It’s a sound fitting a lie, though not quite. It’s bitten off, as if there were more to say, but stalled by hastily pulled breaks. Something greater than the sum of what little Techno knows.

“Please.”

Techno has never been one to beg. It all moves fast, or rather feels it, but Techno can feel himself suffocating in those in-between silences where burden of what has become of them feels too great. It makes Techno want to recoil on that instinctual level, antsy with talking to what now feels like a stranger. Searching the image of that face he only got so briefly, looking for the ghost of someone he had known once, but finding that air between strangely empty of presence. Or, perhaps, too full, with a matter he can’t understand.

Wilbur speaks. That deeper tenor, yet wispy at it’s edges whimpered through grit teeth, surely to be hunched over himself now.

“I can’t do this….”

Techno decides then, that he would rather tempt fate than stand about in a waiting game neither of them ever won.

“Can I come in?”

A nicety at best. There is no reply, no denial or acceptance. In the end it would be unlikely to matter which, as Techno nods.

“Okay..”

The door isn’t locked, whether it be by Wilbur’s own forgetfulness in this moment, or had he turned the lock, Techno does not know. What he does, though, is that the way Wilbur’s hunched over his desk now, lit by lamplight and gripping his hair, is not a sight he enjoys.

Techno steps closer, wordless in his advance and Wilbur does not pay him any glance, as he remains froze in that position, still beyond the rhythmic tap of a finger against old oakwood. Techno can remember, watching Phil carve that desk when their old one had gotten too small. Most of the furniture beyond the more complicated or decorative things were hand made in this house. It was an activity Techno can remember being particular enraptured by on those dim evenings.

“I wish it was a dream.”

Wilbur breathes, sounding like a man who’s lost.

“It feels like one….”

Techno, doesn’t understand. He leans closer, trying to glance Wilbur’s face, but the other merely looks away, pushing off the desk with a sigh so heavy, and so worn, Techno can find Wilbur more akin to the few soldiers he’s met than the memory he has of the other. Weary, in a way not of torture or rapture, but mature none the less.

“Why are you even here? What did Phil have to say for you to finally show up? Or, do you just follow every word he says so easily?”

It’s bitter, certainly, but the tone while hostile, lacks a certain level of intensity he knows is more accustomed to Wilbur in these moments. The silver tongue to Techno’s well used blade.

“He said you needed help.”

Techno eyes that bandage with new context, crossing his arms with a physical tension he can watch Wilbur track.

“He didn’t tell me what he did, though.”

Wilbur seems to debate those words, and Techno can’t keep the anger fully out his voice. It isn’t common he’s so easily expressed in that matter, but even now Techno would like to imagine he could read Wilbur, and he knows despite his wants if that much is true, it surely goes both ways. It is that anger, that seems to be considered, as thoughts seem to run through Wilbur’s head. It’s a rather long span of silence, and whatever Wilbur is mulling over this long shows both a hesitance, concern and care that Techno finds himself wonder just what exactly it’s on. It feels more than he understands.

It is with another sigh, trembling now, does Wilbur seem to cast that fleeting anger aside as he stumbles back onto his bed with a heavy slump, muffling a cough into a fist.

“Whatever, Technoblade. Just-“

Wilbur gestures, vague, seeming a lost for words. Techno chuffs, considering, before leaning against the wall, looking away, if just to offer some sense of privacy.

“…..Do you still play?”

It’s the first thing that comes to mind, spoken before Techno can even think on it long enough to reason. It brings him pause, and if by the stilted silence, it brings Wilbur pause too.

Awkwarddd

Bruuuh

Blood

Brothers?

The author took a long time for this huh?

Talkkk

“Yeah… I do.”

Techno almost startles, wetting his lips with a chuff of breath.

“… Cool.”

The silence hangs heavy, and in this briefest of moments Techno almost allows himself a nostalgic whimsy. A world where there would be no nagging at his brain and twitching to his hands, pacing the floor on dark nights and gnashing his teeth for the smell of copper. Where this silence would not exist, and those lives before him were not something he’d have to know, and he could be mortal like the rest of them.

They would be happy, in that world. Techno could hold that golden mesh of curls and bright blue eyes, babbling baby and safe in hands life his. Could poke at Wilbur’s side, wholly childish and listen to that fox’s yip that would be apt to pass the other’s lips.

“Do you still read, those myths of yours, anyway?”

Techno blinks, and nods.

“Hmm.”

There’s little to say, but he can hear some forlorn, yet honest and just breathed chuckle.

“Still a nerd.”

Passes perhaps upturned lips, and he grumbles something in false displeasure. It is n opening made for him. So tentative, so slim. Techno can picture it. That shuttered window pushed up to peak by trembling fingers where Techno in turn so tentatively reaches to keep that opening balanced and present. It is offered with a maturity not fitting their last encounters, caught in that space between. Almost, methodically, as if checking something on a list.

“Jus’ cause I read don’t mean I’m a nerd, Wilbur.”

“Yeah, right. Go stick your snout in a book.”

Techno rolls his eyes, pushing off the wall with a sigh, taking a look around the room. It was one they used to share, when much younger, before the old guest room was made into Techno’s. It hasn’t changed much, not by Techno’s memory. Rather, empty. Something just a little less lived in, but still Wilbur. At least, Wilbur enough.

“I did, miss you.”

Techno admits again, though almost through gritted teeth. Not in the fact that it isn’t true, but in the fact it feels almost physically painful to say.

Wilbur doesn’t respond.

“I uh….. won’t let Phil… hit you again.”

That feels even worse. Techno finds himself almost instinctually disbelieving of it. But, he knows it’s true, and he doesn’t know what to do about it. What does one do? It certainly seems like the man regrets it, and in the fleeting seconds Techno fully mulls over what they have done, rose tinted view aside, was it really the worst thing? Was any of it? Phil apologized to him. Wilbur is hurt, Tommy no doubt following, but can Techno take any responsibility for that?

He doesn’t want to.

Wilbur remains quiet, though he sees the other nod. His blood continues to buzz.

“Good to see you, Wil…. Really.”

It is then he takes his leave. Perhaps it is running, perhaps it is giving Wilbur the solitude the brunette had initially wanted.

His voices call him a coward all the same.

The door shuts with a click, and Techno does not spare Phil any glances as he stalks out the door and into the back wood, drawing his blade. It is only then, and there, in that silence and moonlit in thicket of trees does he allow that buzz to reach a boil. Slashing at trees like some furious think, tusks bared yet silent in this rage, no sound daring to pass his drawn back lips. It is something done with a shame, he will not allow to be vocalized.

Techno has never felt so lost before.

The trees do not answer his silent screams. And neither does Phil, upon his return, s the two lock eyes and an understanding even with animosity rests heavy in that too thin air.

They are broken.

And, no matter how late, it is something they have to try and fix.

There is no other option now.

Chapter Text

Perhaps it took too long, for it all to sink in, but as Wilbur stands in the room he was raised in, young and aching and Techno’s voice a ring in his head and Techno’s steps an echo down the hall, he understands.

He understands it fully. Beyond the realization that all he had known sand built for himself is gone. Beyond the fact that his son is gone, his brothers are gone, that he is gone. This, is a new world. And, perhaps, a second chance.

He cannot pretend to be appreciative of it.

He wants to scream and mourn and tear himself apart all over again. Wilbur finds himself, pacing, wanting to make all those stupid little mistakes he had prior, just to see and feel something familiar. Something to match the person that looks at him in the mirror. He wants to break himself again, and make those rash calls. To run away, Tommy and Tubbo in tow, and be reassured in the fact that they could play something familiar over again. It doesn’t have to change. A few days difference, that’s all. He could go down that familiar path and come out the other side with his family.

He knows, though, that, that isn’t true.

There was always a sort of, selfish hope in him. A perhaps naive thing. That, upon his running, one day, Phil or Techno would show up and scoop him and the kids out those abounded rainy places and into their arms and apologize. That Phil would hold him clothes and press band aids over his wounds like he were small again, and Techno would be there. And, Techno would smile again, all toothy and young as he should have remained. No oddly weary glances and tenseness. To just tease him again and apologize for not caring, for forgetting how to.

But, just the same, Wilbur had spent so long demonizing the two in his brain. It made it so much easer to ignore. To ignore that ache, and that pain at both being so thoroughly abandoned, yet running away himself.

Now, he can’t do that.

How long had he wanted to hear Techno say “I missed you”? How did it come so, easily? If he had just, stayed, would it have played out this way? Or, was his panic at- well- returning to this- something actually worth noticing for a change? Did all these tears of, not only himself, finally make Phil realize? To make it worth bring Techno home?

He’s cried a lot, and perhaps that moment he had sobbed into his father’s chest when the world felt some horrid dream was enough to send a message.

Wilbur groans, walking to the bed that feels too small for how big he should be, and flops down onto it, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. He has to grit his teeth not to moan something pained. His back, thrums, with an uncomfortability, it has him sitting up and slipping a hand under the shirt he should really change out, raking his nails over the skin with a muffle curse. It’s a discomfort almost great enough to draw away his thoughts. It almost makes him, laugh. His son, is gone. His brothers, the ones he knew, are gone. Sally… she’d still be, around, somewhere. The fear that he could have missed her, that he will miss her, by these days difference, is so strong within him, that he cannot handle it in more than a passing thought. His brain rejects the very idea on such a visceral level that those whispers that plague him so constantly rise in a scream that sounds all too like his own.

Wanted or not, grateful, or not, Wilbur can recognize this, as a chance. And, be it some deluded dream of a dying brain, left on that kitchen floor he collapsed to in front of his family, or honest to Gods time travel, he’s going to try. He doesn’t want to, fuck no he doesn’t. But, what choice does he have?

He groans, raises an arm above his head from under his shirt, ignoring the way it burns, and throws the other over his eyes, and tries to sleep.

He dares not go out now, not with Phil and Techno waiting for him.

No, they can wait, just a little longer.

_____________________________________________

“I’m sorry, Wilbur.”

It is a soft voice, Wilbur hears. The world is an inky black, before his eyes. He can tell they are open, can feel himself blinking. His stomach has, dropped out from him, it leaves his mouth open in a breath he finds he can’t quite take. The breathlessness of being suspended mi- air, a chill around him that flows against his skin with an almost visceral viciousness that it feels more akin to water. A stream, flowing up into an even darker expanse.

“Perhaps it was selfish of me.”

A hand, settles against his cheek. He tries to look forward, at least, in what he assumes is forward. He sees nothing, cannot move to see anything. He just, floats, and though he doesn’t know how, he does know there is a hand cupping his face. Soft skin, cold skin, pressed so naturally to the baby fat of his too youthful face. Though he cannot move, he leans into it all the same, a sigh built in his chest, though it does not dare pass his throat.

“I just wanted you all to be happy.”

The voice says. A woman’s voice, he’s sure. It echoes in his skull, though not painfully. A voice so, strong, he can feel it vibrate through his bones and brain and him. Everything he is, hears it, understands it. A hum, in return, builds and just squeezes past his throat, questioning. A, confusion, warm there.

“I know, darling. I changed you, but, you will happy, won’t you?”

Wilbur, doesn’t understand. And, he is Wilbur. He is Wilbur, and this body, is wrong. He cannot see it, can barely feel it, but it is wrong. His soul is too old for it, his life so changed. Sand, in a bottle, packed so tightly and pushing at the corkscrew top, begging to not be thrown out to sea lest he spill all he is into the water. Yet, he is not scared, here. He does not think he can be. He does not think, he can think.

“I believe you can. You just- oh- well you’re about to wake up so-“

Wilbur wants to ask, so badly, what it means, who the voice is, why he feels so wrong. It’s so, familiar, to him, in the oddest of ways. It is but a brief thing, in reality, barely a minute of time, some dream popped up so suddenly from his restlessness. But, of course, it is broken, by a slap to the face.

Well, not quite a slap, that would perhaps be in bad taste at the moment, but Wilbur certainly jerks awake to the sensation of much smaller hands, bopping him across the forehead. Even without opening his eyes, and freshly confused, he does not need to see to grumble.

“Tommy....”

They each have their ways of waking him, one would think a baby Fundy would be more apt to this method, but the kit rather prefers to pull his hair. Tubbo shakes him. Tommy, well- childish laughter greets his ears.

“Wil- Wil- Wil- Wil- Wil-“

Wilbur groans, blindly pushing at his brother’s face, the boy yelping and rolling off him and onto the bed. He has to muffle another curse, upon sitting up. He doesn’t feel as sick as he’s been, these past few days, but it seems to have rather turned into a hot ache that runs up and down his spine. He rubs at his eyes, opening them too see Tommy, practically bouncing on the bed, as expected.

“What?”

He grumbles. Tommy looks no less amused.

“Wake up bitch, Techno is here!”

Gods, does Wilbur want to scream at that, and for a moment he feels that old childish jealousy hit him like a physical weight. He can see the strain, thought, to Tommy’s grin. It doesn’t fit the baby fat to Tommy’s cheeks now, so much younger looing now compared to that lost future than he even realized.

“And he’s so much cooler, right?”

He asks with an appropriate amount of bitterness, shooing the other off his bed as he so reluctantly and painedly stands up, stretching before he learns better not to. Tommy opens his mouth to speak, looking briefly concerned before continuing.

“Yeah, so get up already…..Phil made breakfast.”

Tommy mutters, the last part, more a mumble, all arms crossed and pouting. Wilbur can tell it’s more than that, though. It sounds oddly, in his now much younger brother’s mouth, and the thought of just, living this life as if any of it were normal even beyond his situation, feels incomprehensible. The tears, at least, have seemed to do Tommy well, but he knows well none of them are out of fuel. He’d almost feel bad for Phil, and on some level as a parent- not a parent anymore- he can feel bad. It’s, an adjustment, regardless, and for whatever reason, Wilbur has both steeled and doomed himself to trying, half hoping he’ll just wake up soon.

“Yeah, alright. Tubbo up?”

“Ob-vi-ous-ly.”

Tommy sounds out, Wilbur rolls his eyes, brushing his hand against the blonde’s back, guiding him to the door.

“Yes, because Gods forbid you be without him for more than five minutes, now go, I need to use the bathroom and I don’t need you watching.”

Tommy sticks out his tongue, stepping out his room, but before Wilbur can close the door, shouting.

“Have fun takin’ a piss!”

Before promptly running down the hall. Tommy never did change too much, really. It’s almost, comforting, how alike this Tommy now is to the one he got used to. They’re both the same Tommy, really. Thinking on it, it gives Wilbur a headache, not that he doesn’t already have one. He groans, shutting the door and making way to the bathroom.

He makes quick work of himself, taking a mind numbed comfort in just going through familiar motions, though sometimes braced on the counter due to his back pain, until he gets to the bandage, still on his cheek. It still stands a stark white, and he remembers the injury well enough that he knows he doesn’t still need it. It wasn’t exactly stitch worthy, and in his life time he had taken far more beatings at a much more constant rate, largely due to poor decisions, an angry streak, and shady job applications. So, it is with little fanfare he rips the literal band aid off. It makes him wince at best, depositing the stained thing in the nearest bin and once more, gruelingly, looking at himself.

Just a scuff, like a skinned knee, a line of jewel jagged torn skin, already scabbing. Looking at it still, it fills his throat with something hot, like bile. He feels, so horribly young, in these moments, and now it is literal, and he doesn’t know what to do. There is no plan, for this, there never could be.

He’s just, lost.

He sighs, one of many, straightens himself with grit teeth, grabs a change of clothes, winces through the process, then steps out his door. If he has to try, he supposes he starts now.

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Techno is there, shockingly, at the dinner- breakfast- table, sat and looking as uncomfortable as one could possibly be. Sure, he is not fidgeting, no he is so still with a tension, he may as well look akin to a gargoyle perched on some old and decaying building. But, the literal beads of sweat trailing down the piglin hybrid’s forehead are, comically, telling, at best. Almost, also comically, sad, at worst. Tommy too, is there, standing at some distance, whispering something into Tubbo’s ear, not subtle at all in his pointing to Techno, mouth cupped and all like gossiping teenagers, of which they are no longer.

Phil is setting down plates with an all too passive smile, eggs, lacking the bacon. He can remember always having a bit of an abundance of eggs. They were easy to make meals with, cheaper compared to most things in the market, and went bad slower than say something like bread.

Phil’s eyes trail to him, and Techno, who only glances at the man in the briefest of ways- and Wilbur can swear that tension increases to something more hostile- before they make way to Wilbur in turn. They steady there, red and almost inspecting, looking to his pain pinched and worn expression, to the mark, obvious on his cheek. The way the teen huffs, makes him want to laugh. Techno is a teenager, here, and he is angry, for him. It doesn’t feel, right. Not anymore, at least. So, Wilbur turns to the two boys, Tubbo now whispering something in Tommy’s ear, much quieter than Tommy had been whispering.

“Tommy, Tubbo, food.”

He gives lamely, making somewhat uncomfortably to the table, pulling out his chair, and sitting down. A plate of scrambled eggs is set before him, and it is made exactly as he liked them, less mashed, and center. He wouldn’t have thought Phil would remember, he knows it is likely a coincidence. They boys make their way over, and sit down, Tubbo looks between Techno and him curiously, Tommy practically vibrates in his chair.

“Good morning, Wilbur. Did you sleep well?”

Phil starts, Wilbur considers just nodding, before he reminds himself to try. If he doesn’t do anything, he may just dwell too much to handle existing this way. It does not escape his notice, the way Techno so viscerally brews at the fact Phil even speaks to him. It’s a sort of feeling that comes off in waves, that Wilbur can tell even now.

“Yeah, was sleeping well, till this-“

He pokes a thumb in Tommy’s direction- who’s forking at his eggs audibly, all poorly contained energy.

“Woke me.”

“I’m not a thing!”

Tommy cries out with a level of volume Techno- unused to Tommy as- Tommy- was not prepared for, for the way his “twin’s” silver wear grates audibly on the plate, dragged by an already tense nerve, held so sight and in such a way it’s more akin to a weapon. Wilbur feels unconvinced that Techno would not stab Phil with it, if prompted, and that feels odd enough. He can’t exactly recall a time he saw Techno so mad at Phil, after all. Not they were around to let Wilbur see it even if that were the case.

“You’re a Tommy thing.”

He responds almost on an idle instinct. There is a certain level of comfort that comes from antagonizing Tommy that never went away, even as he grew into an adult. It’s the few times Wilbur gets to feel like Tommy’s brother, rather than his care taker.

“You’re stupid!”

Tommy yells, and the volume once more, paired with the words, make both Techno and Phil twitch. Tubbo does little to hide the grin on his face between bites of food. Gods, it’s fucking comical, how awkward and tense the two are, Techno especially, both at Phil and everyone else. It strikes something fond in him he certainly doesn’t want to feel. This is how Tommy has always been, for one reason or another- him- being called stupid isn’t exactly new or concerning. Still, Wilbur goes to debate, but, finds the words locked behind his teeth. They’re all looking at him, sneaking those glances to his cheek and the pensive expression he can’t quite hide, with nerves not even Techno or Phil are as subtle as he’s sure they’d like to be. He’s always wanted attention, to be looked at, but they see him as so fragile now, and though Wilbur wants to deny it, he is. Not for the reasons they think, but…

“Yeah, probably.”

He settles on with a shrug, and Tommy huffs, settling back down in his chair- of which he had leaned forward on- with a huff, forking once more loudly at his food Wilbur notices he barely touches. Probably spite, since Phil made it. Tommy likes to hold grudges and despite how forgiving Tommy has been to Phil in the past, he also has a fiercely loyal protective streak. Beyond Tommy, though, it is silent. Scraping of utensils and eating, and Wilbur hazards a look around. Tubbo seems largely fine, it doesn’t surprise Wilbur much, since Tubbo was always the most disconnected from this particular issue- not that it didn’t effect him. Tommy is some mix of agitated and excited by Techno’s mere presence in comparison to Phil’s. Techno is, perhaps literally, sweating, trying to avoid looking at him between glances and not once letting his gaze stray to anyone else. Phil just looks, apologetic, but understanding of the silence.

“Techno.”

Wilbur grits out, feeling- annoyance, at having to start this, but also a petty joy at what he’s about to do.

“Techno, you remember Tommy, don’t you?”

Wilbur asks, all false smile and near bared teeth. Techno pales, a bit, looking quickly upward at being addressed. The gaze is almost pleading, as it shoots between him and Tommy, though also pained at the very question itself. Wilbur can’t find it in him to sympathize as Tommy once more shoots u-up in his chair, nodding.

Wilbur gestures to Tommy, giving Techno a poignant look, and for a moment he swears he hears Phil let out a breath that may be an almost snicker.

“Hi, Tommy…. You remember me?”

Techno asks, all slow and stilted and uncomfortable.

But, despite the lack of enthusiasm, Tommy explodes in energy. The babble that comes out the ten-year old’s mouth is almost incomprehensible, and Wilbur finds an almost joy at the way Techno’s pupils blow wide in a shock at how fast and how energetic Tommy is, all directed at him. It distracts Tommy, at least, and if this is what he’s stuck with, Wilbur can at least have the petty revenge of sicking Tommy onto someone It Is in Tommy’s prattling and Techno’s lost nods, does he feel a brush on his ankle, all soft with fur and just barely touching him.

He looks over, meeting Tubbo’s gaze, the boy sank down not so subtly in his chair to even reach his leg. Tubbo never did grow much, but seeing him like this, it feels like the boy is so much more tiny. Wilbur hums, and Tubbo gestures with his head towards Phil, who poignantly looks down at his plate at the gestures, as if he could not see the interaction.

“You okay?”

It asks.

Wilbur thinks on it. His back, burns. His heart, aches. He is grieving something that, for all he knows, could have just been in his head. He is grieving, a life, no matter how flawed, that he lived. He is here, surrounded by people who, hurt him, or maybe he hurt. He is here, a full dining table. A dad, a twin, brothers. No son, at his heels, no partner, whispering in his ears. But, Wilbur too, looks. Tommy is smiling so wide. Techno looks such a mix of annoyance, shock and a hidden fond. Phil is giving both of them fond and loving looks.

Wilbur meets Tubbo’s eyes, and after a long moment, he nods.

It doesn’t feel like a complete lie.