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Wilbur loves his family.
He loves Dad for the easy conversation they share, for the undying, eternal love and care he’s given without question; for the way Wilbur can sit any which way in his chair at the breakfast table and even if he’s trying to hide the fact he’s had a bad night—because of aches, pains or those goddamned nightmares—Dad always knows and he’s always there.
He loves Techno for their late night conversations; for the way he’s a shoulder, an ear or a stubborn bastard that won’t fall to untrained sword swings when Wilbur needs something more than to lose himself in his music or a book, to sort the thoughts in his mind. Some good-old-fashioned sparring is exhausting work too, especially when up against someone like Technoblade who lives and breathes the way of the sword, and especially when Tommy finds them up in the shadow of the Steep and joins in with a blunted sword and a boisterous energy that doesn’t burn up as quickly as Wil’s does, and he’s chosen to surrender on more than one occasion rather than being forced to.
(And sometimes he simply gives up before he can grow exhausted, because Tommy’s smile can calm him faster than a song on his guitar.)
So yes, Wilbur loves and adores his family.
It’s a firm certainty.
An unchangeable truth.
Techno is intelligent, he’s kind and understanding and blissfully quiet. Dad is a cornerstone of support that will never move, never leave, never turn his back.
Tommy is far more analytical than he lets on, far more observant than what he allows people to see because of his past, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise when he can see more than Wilbur on a first glance: knows when Dad is faking whatever chore as he listens to the voice of the wind and desires quiet, just so he can hear her sing all the better; knows when Techno isn’t simply training, but working methodical and determined to try and quieten the voices in his mind; knows when Wilbur needs a little more time to strum the same six chords on his guitar or when he’s gone past the point of amusement and calm and the discordant notes have become a shackle that Tommy will distract him from before he’s trapped in his room for a week.
Tommy knows what his family needs and when, and they all love him for it; how he fits the space in their family they didn’t even realise was empty until he came along, a little bruised, a little battered and more than a little terrified of the world around him, but with a heart so big and a love so pure they couldn’t imagine the valley returning to the quiet it had been before.
Of course Wilbur loves him.
But with Tommy, so too comes an emotion in his chest that is wreathed in spikes; a knot of bleeding thorns that are drenched in something dark that he will not name.
Wilbur is thin, he has pale skin and a body so tall that he has to bow his head to pass through the entryway, has to duck down whenever Dad reaches up to ruffle Wil’s hair or thread fingers through an unruly fringe to remove a stick or a twig or a stray feather. He has wings that hangs limp and loose and get in the way when he’s cooking dinner alongside his father, and long fingers, too long to fit cleanly around the neck of his guitar, almost too long that they get in the way when he strums an ungraceful chord.
Tommy is thin and pale too, and tall just like Wilbur even if Wilbur is seventeen and nearing early adulthood while Tommy is still a teenager (he doesn’t know how old he is, it’s not something the Nether-born keep track of when the Underworld doesn’t track time with sun cycles or seasons) but compared to Wilbur, Tommy’s body is lithe and agile; strong in the way he holds his own against Technoblade and has, before, forced him to give ground with a sword in one hand and his fire in the other.
Wilbur’s limbs are like willow branches; flimsy, weak and good for little more than getting in the way. He has none of the grace that Tommy embodies; none of the prowess threaded into the fibre of the boy’s skin; no testament of strength when Wil’s eyes wander up Tommy’s back as they stand in the flower field; Tommy catching the sun to tan his skin and unfazed by the spidery silk trails of scars that line lace across his back; mountain ranges and river valleys of adventures mapped into his skin.
Wilbur has none of that. He’s simply pale, but too pale, and yellowing like an old bruise turned ugly; bony and too much like the undead that Technoblade culls at the edges of their valley.
When Wilbur takes himself to the Red Wood for some peace and quiet, he stops taking a detour of the stream to catch his reflection. Averts his eyes when he catches himself in the dark of the window’s tricks.
He saves the focus towards his own body for the quiet hours when he’s entirely alone, for the moments when he’s tucked away in his nest, surrounded by books older than he is; weathered by time but loved far more than his own body that is wrong and malformed and disproportionate compared to everyone else.
Wil’s not strong like Technoblade; he’s thin, he’s weak, his wrists are bony and his twin (not his twin, not really; and maybe Technoblade holds Wil in contempt now at the thought that this weak, pathetic excuses of an avian thought to claim him, not just as brother, but as twin, as equal) is not, he’s muscled and strong and moves with power and confidence.
Wil is almost like Dad.
But that almost is a chasm uncrossable, because Wilbur might have wings like him, but they’ll never be as grand, as perfect, as majestic; far too small for his gangly frame, almost like they were stuck on as an afterthought, not created for him but trying to cover his faults and shortcomings. (There’s a note of jealously and sadness and something cruel, spiked and bleeding when he thinks of those thoughts, stood at the edge of the river and looking down as his fractured reflection; how his wings glisten with reds and golds and fade into purple, with only the touch of Dad’s obsidian touching the tips of his feathers.
Once his wings were a comfort of joy to him, but now whenever he catches their sight in the river, or the window reflection, he can only turn his head with shame churning in his stomach. It is as if he wants to be seen; as if his wings demand the attention and love and adoration he doesn’t deserve and he can’t help but want for Dad’s dark colours, so that he can bury himself in their shadow and blend with the world around them rather than stand out like a sore thumb; a blue anemone in a field of white tulips.
But it’s more than an ugliness in bright, bold colours, with only a touch of familiarity hemming the extended flight feathers that scrape against the dirty ground when Wilbur can’t bring himself to lift his wings and fold them against his back when he walks.)
The circumstances of his birth have always been unsure; fragments of truth piece together from bedtime stories that Dad would spin for him as they lay in bed—Wilbur young and oh so inquisitive, oh so curious, with a thousand and one questions to which answers would change and grow, but not like an oak, where years would see it taller and stronger and flowering with bright emerald leaves and amber treasures of little acorns but like the reflection of the moon on the river’s surface; always shifting, never complete and he’s left to fill in the blanks.
Sometimes he thinks it’s because Dad’s ashamed, like the story is a blemish as much as the child forced upon him where the mother is absent. Once, on a particularly bad day, he thought it was because Dad doesn’t care enough to remember but that is impossible, because if Dad didn’t care then he wouldn’t be here, or Wilbur wouldn’t be here.
He’s left to wonder if he truly is Philza’s.)
Wil’s not like Tommy either; when his eyes light up, lips curling with mischievousness and a glow unrepeatable.
He smiles like the sun and whilst Dad and Techno might bask in his happiness, Wilbur feels like he’s the only one burning.
Sometimes he’s lucky enough to forget.
Sometimes Wil finds a moment to breathe in the Red Wood, surrounded by birdsong, or free up with the wind as she lifts him, carries him; cards her fingers through his hair and through his feathers in a way that he can believe is admiring and tender-love; whispering words he’ll never be able to understand but knows are gentle all the same.
Sometimes Wilbur feels like he belongs with his family when Tommy will bound over to him when they meet in the flower field, or out in the cow pen where he’s been sneaking Henry another carrot, or an apple or a branch of greens that is tastier than the grass at his feet; shining so bright and rambling quick, fast that it drowns out Wilbur’s thoughts and the shadows are chased back to the moments of sleepless nights.
Sometimes Wilbur’s allowed to forget when he sits in front of the hearth and Techno opposite, his brother chased from his room by his own demons—his own foul conjurations that whisper of blood and death and the torturous months he spent in the humans’ fighting pits, surviving day to day with a broken sword in one hand and the weight of those he had slain a burden on his caring heart, not knowing if he would make it to tomorrow—and they share honeyed wine and rude songs that Wilbur plucks on his guitar with an ease that comes from wanting to comfort his brother, his family; voice soft and mellow and something worth listening to, to chase the demons away ‘til the dawn.
Sometimes Wil can’t forget and he’s a slave to his own war-torn mind; cringing at the way Tommy calls to him—“Wilby, Wilby,” — turning away from Dad’s knowing glaze as he sags at the table, too tired to lift his head or lift a spoon into his mouth, closing his eyes as if that would keep Technoblade’s worried questions at bay.
Sometimes Wilbur can’t escape and he is tangled in three loving arms; with their words echoing, concern edging the corners of their smiles and he can almost feel the falsity of it all, like a weight upon his chest.
It wasn’t like this before Tommy.
And that’s not to say that this is because of Tommy, because Wilbur has had these kinds of thoughts before—once or twice near the water’s edge, wondering why his wing’s weren’t the same as Dad’s, why they weren’t as big; waking up to the silence of the valley when Technoblade was gone and some dark, selfish voice whispered that maybe now Dad would dedicate every hour to him when it’s just the two of them—but with his arrival, and with the weeks growing into months means that he’s settled and pushing his boundaries….
(It doesn't help when Tommy looks up at him with bright blue eyes and sees someone who doesn't exist; a careful construct of things Wilbur wants to be; a puppet with strings not yet tangled, who should be the big brother Tommy sees, but all he is, is a flower wilting beneath the heat of Tommy’s light; a sun the burns too hot, too bright and will one day expose all of Wilbur's faults when he can no longer hold on.)
Since Tommy, the thoughts have grown more consistent.
Before, it was simply the three of them, and they knew where they stood.
When it’s just him and Dad, they sit together out in the sun or on the living room floor, or up in Dad’s nest and preen, because it’s not like Wilbur always has dark, malicious thoughts to the way he looks or to the way his wings aren’t as big as Dad’s; aren’t the same colour, the way they’re too-colourful and weigh heavy like they’re water-logged; Dad’s fingers are gentle, meticulous and diligent as he straightens Wilbur’s feathers and feels the soft of his down beneath gentle fingers, brushing away those that have come loose and setting them aside like they’re precious and worth more than a moment’s consideration before being thrown away.
Sometimes they talk and sometimes Wilbur hums, and sometimes he’s lulled to sleep by the gentle ministrations, but most importantly there’s never any weight on his shoulders in those moments and Wilbur covets the time when he can breathe without a mountain on his chest.
Techno isn’t quite as skilled as Dad when it comes to preening, but he’s learnt the patience of sitting still, of bowing to Wilbur’s whims when he takes long pink hair and threads them into braids that maybe don’t mean anything for Techno, but preening is something instinctual for avians and Techno is family. The meaning isn’t lost on him.
The pair of them have grown up with one another, meaning that they can push, tease and taunt like the kids the used to be without fear of crossing lines, because they know one another so well. (And maybe that is Wilbur’s downfall on heavy, storm-cloud-raging-bad days and Techno doesn’t disappear down the trail with Carl or to the training grounds because he knows Wilbur needs a little help staying outside of his head on those days.)
Because just as Techno has so often let Wil weigh him down with chord progressions and choices of rhythm and “tell me, what sounds better, I’m struggling to figure this out by myself, Tech,” when he shares dirty, witty songs in the late of night, Wilbur will play his role of brother too, and although he’s never been any good at fighting, he still takes up a stick, a sword, a shield whenever Technoblade wants a sparring partner beyond those he conjures from his imagination.
But Wilbur sees the way Technoblade changes when it’s Tommy who stands in the sparring ring with him.
He sees the way his eyes light up, the way the darkness is vanquished and the breathy, excited laughter that spills from his mouth amidst teases and taunts that are so much sharper than those he’s thrown Wilbur’s way, because Tommy isn’t weak like Wilbur is; he was forged in fire and reborn in a world that spat him out like a bad taste, forced him to flee on bleeding feet and stole every place he ever felt safe until he ran right into their arms—or more accurately Technoblade’s snare, but they are grateful because without it, three would not have become four—so it makes sense that he can stay in the ring longer, be the more exciting partner to spar against when there’s a genuine challenge on the days Tommy can control his fire and it burns in his heart and beneath the soles of his feet (instead of on his tongue when he and Wilbur argue on those bad storm-cloud days—Wilbur, not Wilby, never Wilby) and it’s like he does so to make Wilbur feel inadequate…
With Tommy, there’s a thorn of jealousy, stained a different colour in the twilight hours when Wilbur’s mind compares himself to his family, not just because he’s tall and growing, loud and boisterous, but because he fits where Wilbur wants to and it’s hard to be pushed aside and it’s harder when Tommy fills his place without even meaning to.
Harder when Tommy is better at being Wilbur than Wil himself.
Music was meant to be his talent, his skill. Music was meant to be his gift in front of the hearth-fire, his to shape and form and sing amongst the canopies with the birds echoing his refrain from gentle branches and he doesn’t understand why but he can’t help the want to destroy everything when he hears Dad’s laughter and the wind laughs along with him, her voice melodic as she brushes through the smooth-stones and hollow driftwood.
It might be Wilbur’s song that they sing together, but it’s Tommy who gave them the chance to have that moment and that burns him like poison in his bloodstream.
It’s Tommy who Techno asks to braid his hair one evening, although Wilbur is there and he’s not playing his guitar, just writing words and humming a tune so it’s not like he’s busy, but he’s not the one Techno asks either.
It’s Tommy who stumbles through the door one day, leaves in his hair, smile on his face and Dad just behind them, talking of the sky and of flying, because that’s where they’ve been, up in the clouds even though Wilbur is the one with wings, (too-colourful, not big enough, not graceful enough) but he’s not the one Dad had invited.
It’s Tommy who knocks on his bedroom door one evening, when Wilbur is curled up in his nest, lazy eye open as the door swings open and his younger brother hovers on the perch that is too small for his nether-born feet, but he’s balanced on it anyway, having clambered up to Wilbur’s room when a nightmare chased him out of bed and it’s Wilby who he has chosen to come to.
It’s Wilby who lays a wing over him and hums one of his songs—old, new, words forgotten or unbothered with in the sleep-haze—to chase the night into the dawn and it’s Wilby who listens when Tommy whispers about the monsters that haunt him still.
It’s Tommy who is one who pulls all four of them together and makes them something new. Something together.
A whole heart rather than three-quarters.
But bad days aren’t conquered simply because Dad can see the way Wilbur slips into his chair at breakfast and nudges at his food, gentle words shared in a quiet kitchen because Dad sees and helps catch one bad thought and accidently overlooks another.
Bad days aren’t abolished when Techno drags Wilbur out of the Red Woods where he’s holed himself up, dragging him down to the stable where Carl is walking the field and his private potato patch is flowering with food to harvest; pulling Wil down so they are knelt in the mud, side by side, dirt under their fingernails and easy conversation passing between their lips, and a song that the birds whistle, echo and repeat.
Bad days aren’t eradicated when Tommy tells Wilbur just how much he means to him—how much all of them mean to him while they’re laid in the long grass and the bees bumble back and forth between the flowers, and it makes Wilbur hate himself all the more because here is his little brother, trying to piece back the jigsaw puzzle that is Wilbur’s mess when he’s meant to be the reliable one, the put-together one; the shoulder that Tommy can come to in the middle of the night when he has nightmares, or the times when he is overcome with missing Tubbo or Ranboo or the Nether.
It’s no one’s fault when Wilbur compares himself to his family and sees all of his short-comings. Long, branchy legs that are ungraceful and that take up too much space when he lounges on the sofa; smaller wings, a thin lanky frame, bony wrists and willow fingers that can barely pluck a melody on his guitar let alone a sword handle.
And then, one night, Wilbur finds himself stood at the kitchen sink, listening to the gentle trickle of music from the wind chime outside where the rain patters lightly on drift wood and smooth river stone and the window pane; not-quite focused on his task but letting his hands move with the same mindlessness as when he strums idle on his guitar; cleaning up where dinner had been prepared later, eaten late enough for the sun to have set long ago.
It’s only Wilbur downstairs.
Tommy had fallen asleep after a long day of hunting monsters near the Steep with Techno, having regaled Dad and Wilbur with the count of monsters he’d taken on all by himself, and that there was a cave-in near the gorge that disturbed the old spiders’ nest, they’ll have to clear it out—“Dad, you’ll come with us won’t you, it’s not like I can fly down into the ravine and if I ask Techno to help, he’d just toss me”—hiding his exhaustion behind an excited voice and before too long he had succumbed, and fallen asleep.
Dad had tucked him neatly into his arms, as precious as a newborn and carried him up to his room; Technoblade eyeing the door and the window where the storm outside threatened strength in the twilight hours, carrying himself away to the stable to check up on the animals with a promise that he’ll be back as soon as, leaving Wil to clear away plates and glasses and Tommy’s half-finished bowl.
Since the night when Tommy ran away and the truth of his bloodlust came to light—not like Techno’s bloodlust, but still similar and controllable—meat had become a main staple of all his dinners and as if shackles had been removed, he’s come into his own a lot more; having grown even taller, having taken on Technoblade’s visage even more even if he hasn’t got piglin blood; having filled out his shirts and growing tall for his trousers; Dad having mentioned needing to visit Dry Water soon enough, because it’s not like Wilbur’s old clothes are going to fit him much longer.
There’s a comparison there, if Wilbur were to look for it, but he doesn’t want to, he’s too tired to search deeper when everything else sits so plainly in front of him. He doesn’t realise his hands have stopped until thunder rolls outside the window and he startles back into the present with wide eyes and fingers clenching around the wooden bowl he’s holding over the sink.
Rabbit stew.
It’s a meal Tommy has regularly, just as often as the deer that he hunts with Techno, perfecting his aim with a bow and the strength of his draw that sees his arrows precise and swift for a single shot; Dad having learnt how to prepare a meal he’ll never eat, but he’ll make it for Tommy without question because Tommy is his son and he wants the best for him.
They all want the best for him.
Wilbur wants….
He’s not quite sure of the progression of thoughts, not quite sure when his logic bowed beneath the stampede hooves of emotion but one moment Wilbur is simply stood in front of the kitchen sink and the next moment there’s a clattering of a spoon dropping to the floor, one of his hands over his mouth, clamped tight like it’s turned against him, suffocating, one hand fighting, one hand restraining as he chokes on unshed tears and another cold, wet sliver of meat that slips down his throat.
It’s not rancid, it’s not rotten—not like Tommy has forced himself to eat when he had no other choice; forced to survive in a world that showed him at every turn he didn’t truly belong—but it makes Wilbur’s stomach flip regardless and he’s barely managed to swallow a few of the smallest mouthfuls before it suddenly all comes rushing back up again, amix with bile, spittle and a nausea that won’t cease as Wilbur clings desperately to the edges of the kitchen sink; eldritch fingers clambering for the tap to disguise the sound in hopes that Dad won’t hear him.
He retches and he vomits and his body shakes with a deep sense of hatred at the stupidity of his actions. It’s not like meat is poisonous to him, he’s just not meant to consume it, but some stupid desperation had seen the spoon, the broth and meat, the thing that fixed Tommy’s pain and thought it might do something for him.
And now he’s half-bowed over the kitchen sink; wings heavy and limp; skin sweaty, clammy and he’s hating himself all over again.
It’s stupid, so stupid, comparing himself to Tommy for things beyond either of their control, he knows, and it’s not like his wings are malformed and ugly but sometimes he looks at them and can’t see what he will become – what he already is – but everything he’s not and its tiring, it’s exhausting, why can’t he just—
“Wil?”
Wil turns like he’s been burnt—has, has been burnt, one too many times and he suffers still—wings fluffed, eyes wide and almost terrified as he catches sight of Techno paused in the shadows, stalled in the movement of having been slipping out of his rain-damp cloak, hands hovering as if he’s the one that’s been caught.
Wilbur watches, with his heart in his throat; anger and defence and shame rising in his blood as Techno’s eyes sweep across his visage, to the shake in his knees and ugly curled fingers, to Tommy’s bowl discarded on the kitchen counter where the taps still running.
To the spoon that glints malignant from the floor.
“Wil. What did you do?”
Instead of answering, Wilbur whirls around and promptly empties the rest of his stomach.
The thought confrontation terrifies him as much as being caught, but Wil doesn’t have the energy to mouth out an excuse, to bluster and bolster that he’s fine; to shoo Technoblade away with a glare and a sweep of his wing that demands his silence and seals his tongue where he might think to tell Dad—doesn’t think Technoblade would listen to him this time anyway, even if he held blackmail over his neck like an executioner’s axe and Wilbur is thankful is cruelly reminded they’re brothers—and he can’t help but sag over the kitchen counter, fingers clumsy and ungraceful as he fumbles for the tap and halves the flow so that it will clear up the last of his mess before he turns it a final time and casts the kitchen in tense silence.
Almost-silence.
Wilbur can hear Techno hovering at the edge of the lantern light, his own ragged breathes as torn as the storm that creeps in the from the north and the barest snippet of Wilbur’s own lullaby that floats down the stairs with all the grace of Dad’s baritone and it makes him cringe, makes his body contort and twist even though there’s only acid in his stomach and razors scraping his throat.
Something clinks beside him. A glass of water. Techno’s hand still holding it gently.
It feels like a challenge.
Like a question and a demand and an order all at once.
Wilbur doesn’t have the energy to turn away from him, doesn’t have the strength to refuse when his throat burns with the shame of having wanted to be like Tommy enough that he’ll make himself into something by force-feeding himself meat as if that would fill out his shirts and make his wings grow and maybe then the thoughts that he wants to stain them a dark, murky, midnight black will leave him.
Wilbur drains the glass, and when it’s empty, he refills it and drains it again. He’s not thirsty, and his throat doesn’t burn, but drinking holds back words and he can’t speak if he’s choking on water, so Wilbur throws his head back again and drinks to save himself from drowning in air.
But Technoblade isn’t a fool that will let himself be ignored and forgotten, laying a hand on Wil’s wrist and guiding—guiding, not dragging—him towards the sofa where they’ve spent countless late nights with sweetened honey-wine between them and Wilbur’s songs, the ones wrapped up in rude jokes and innuendos and dirty swears that would have Dad burying his face in his hands but now all Wilbur can focus on is how the couch sags beneath him, how the material scratches, how the fur throw still has berry juice staining it from where Tommy hadn’t been careful enough—
“Wil?”
It’s not a challenge, nor really a question or a demand or an order, but an invitation. Because Techno has voices and sometimes so does Wil, though not nearly as violent, not nearly as demanding as those in his head that demand blood and sacrifice and the deaths of thousands in repentance to the horrors of the pits—
It’s not a challenge; not really a question but Wilbur withers all the same, body meek and small and far too colourful as he sinks into the couch and hides behind a sweeping wall of feathers. They’re greasy and in disarray and puffed in a way that is habitually defensive; speaking words Wilbur doesn’t want to say, revealing too much all at once, but Technoblade sits on the other couch and simply waits.
If Wil closes his eyes, he can pretend it’s another night where neither of them can sleep—Techno because of voices, Wil because of the storm outside—and although gangly, willow fingers are eldritch around the neck of his guitar, it can speak for him in place of words he keeps locked firmly behind gritted teeth.
But Wil’s guitar is up in his room and the silence grows; his mind spinning like a spool of thread unwinding, tangling and knotted, and when panic claws at his throat with the feeling of a dam fit to burst, Wilbur finally does.
He’s tired and he’s exhausted but the words flow like water in a river, caught in the turmoil of the emotion he feels when he kneels at its edge and catches himself in the reflection; thin, pale and with a body so tall; with wings that droop off his lanky frame that is so alike to Tommy’s but lacking in all the important part; an analytical mind that is coldly logical and yet the words he speaks are drenched in emotion and a jealously that isn’t truly anchored in Tommy’s visage but the place Wilbur used to stand: the summit he’s stumbled from, the throne upon which he used to sit that is now crumbled and cracked; a child’s plaything rather than a seat that powers him with confidence and guile and a wit that can shape words into ditties and poems and an ode to the beauty he had once been able to see.
Now the poetry is barbed and sharp.
He’s not just tall, he’s gangly. He’s not just pale, he’s gaunt.
He’s not tired, he’s exhausted and worn out and unsatisfied while the world around him is flippant and beautiful and fluid like a river that flows too fast and too wild; Wilbur like a leaf on its surface that will catch a drop and drown long before he can follow its course to the sea.
He’s left gasping for breath and not sleeping in a bed that holds ugly feathers that have moulted and those few that he has plucked before they had fallen out if only to anchor the pain in reality rather than in his mind; caught up in the want to raze the world over: anger, just beneath the surface with enough inherit force to destroy that makes him want to sweep his arm across the kitchen side, and send everything flying; the knives, the plates, the meat and the blood that stains the chopping board and the floor when everything comes crumbling down.
Afterwards, maybe Wilbur would regret it, just as he regrets it each time he has already done so; sending books and tomes and self-written songs that little his shelves tumbling to the floor; glasses and mug and ink pots shattering into a million pieces and leave a mark where it strikes, smashes, stains.
He’s thrown stones at the shore, sticks in the woods; everything flung without care; plates and cups, food and quills, spare strings and clothes that don’t smash or bang like the heavier things do and there isn’t as much calm to throwing them aside when Wilbur is caught up in the desire to ruin everything; like he needs the world to look exactly like he felt on the inside just so he might have a chance of fitting in; just so he doesn’t have to stomp in the stream because he’s disgusted with the reflection that glares back.
After Wilbur’s anger will come his tears.
Technoblade knows, because he’s been in his place plenty of times before.
Now it’s Wil’s turn to tear everything apart and start fresh.
To cull the poisoned tree and plant a new seed that will flower bright in the spring.
The words fall with the weight of rain; the river banks breaking and a flood washes the plains as Wilbur drags his insecurities from the shadowy pits he’d tried to bury them even though the words taste like blood and his throat burns with the rancid taste of meat, of bile; burning with the shame of having to speak these words at all, because he was here first, he was has always been Philza’s son, Technoblade’s brother and now Tommy’s brother too, but something in his mind wouldn’t let him stop comparing, wouldn’t let him see himself for what he is could be—
“Wilbur?”
It’s Dad, having finally finished putting Tommy to bed and now he’s behind them still stood in the threshold, staring at Wilbur and Techno with concern in his eyes.
Wilbur can’t see, because he’s got his wings lifted up and around him, all bristled and puffy and ugly; but those eyes have befallen upon him a thousand and one times before that he can simply hear it in the sound of his voice.
It’s a good thing, because Wilbur can’t even bare to look at him right now. Instead he turns his head and stares at the way the fire flickers in the half; crackling and laughing with Tommy’s laughter and it’s like he’s here too, even though he’s not, he’s in bed, bundled in blankets and lulled by Dad singing him the lullaby Wilbur wrote for Techno.
“Nothing.”
He cringes at the way his teeth snap the words out.
“Wilbur,” comes his name, but it’s Techno this time, inviting and warning—not a challenge, not a question—but Wilbur bristles like his back is up against a wall. He’s not angry at them, he’s angry at himself because everything has come tumbling down around them.
He’s meant to be the older brother, he’s meant to be the put-together one who doesn’t hear voices and wasn’t chased from the Nether, wasn’t tortured or beaten or forced to fight from one day to the next to survive and instead spent seven months in a valley almost always alone while Dad searched and Tommy ran and Techno fought—
He’s not broken enough for the pain to be justified.
He’s not damaged beyond anything he hasn’t done to himself.
He’s not Philza’s son because their colours don’t match and his wings are too small, and he’s not Technoblade’s twin because he is Piglin and Wilbur is a mockery of an avian child that hasn’t yet reached his immortality and the words coming spilling out of him as his wings cave in, red over red, brown and gold and that teasing blue-black-midnight-beauty that only just graces his wings and hangs him suspended with the hopes of, rather than the undeniable unbreakable bond he wishes it to be.
“Wilbur,” Dad says, like he can hear Wilbur’s thoughts—
Oh.
He just said all of that out loud.
“What?”
He aims for angry—defence, reactive, barbed. His voice sounds small. His throat feels like it’s closing up.
Wil had thought that speaking the words aloud might lift their weight from his shoulders, but his entire body shakes and were he standing, he know he would fall.
He’s not sure if there would be a hand to help him rise to his feet.
But the space beside him on the sofa dips and a gentleness he doesn’t deserve strokes tender at the wings he’s wrapped around himself. Another, much larger—much bigger, much softer, much more graceful and far, far more beautiful—slips around him and Wil can’t help the way his whole body leans, pulled into Dad’s gravitational orbit, craving for words to soothe the spikes wreathed in blood that are wrapped around his throat and fill his chest with every breath of air; desperate for something else to fill his mind for a moment instead of the inadequacies that come to him in lists, numerically, alphabetically, chronologically, ascending and descending in severity, weight, guilt—
“Wilbur,” Dad says in that voice he uses when Tommy gets a touch too loud, or Technoblade repeats something the voices say, or when Wilbur shirks off an invitation to preen because he doesn’t want to think about his wings in that moment.
Slowly, Wilbur peeks out from behind his own, but keeps his gaze firmly sat on his hands instead of the way Dad is looking at him. Curls his fingers together and sees the way they go pale with pressure when Technoblade abandons the opposite sofa to squish himself against Wilbur’s side.
“I’m sorry,” he says, in a low voice. “I didn’t mean to.”
Didn’t mean to let them know. Didn’t mean to feel like this.
Didn’t mean to succumb to the stupidity and forced himself to eat food that isn’t poisonous, but certainly isn’t good for him just because he’s decided the human-looking parts are as ugly as the avian-attempted.
“It’s okay,” Dad says, even though it’s not, but it’s just one of those things said on reflex. The love, though. The worry and the care and the compassion isn’t. It’s familiar, it’s familial, it’s a constant Dad has always given him since Wilbur’s earliest memories and he sinks deeper into open arms, Techno following until he’s almost lying on top of him. Wil doesn’t find he minds.
“Why did you do it Wilbur?” Dad asks eventually, after more tears and more whispers and a rush of shame when Technoblade briefly mentions the food, the meat, the fact that Wilbur hadn’t come to him, he’d found Wilbur emptying the contents of his stomach into the kitchen sink.
That’s a question he isn’t sure how to answer. Or, he might, but then, there are too many answers. Reasons. Excuses.
Because he’s too thin. Because he’s tall but not big. Because Tommy shines like the sun and blazes a trail so bright Wilbur is blinded and he doesn’t want to be left behind. Because he wants to stop comparing himself to his younger brother and he wants to catch up before they all start comparing him too.
Because Wilbur is smart and logical and tired and exhausted and he’d made an error– a slip– fucked up big time and fucked himself over as he shovelled as much food into his mouth as possible, because it made Tommy feel better and he wanted to feel better too.
Flying helps calm Dad, and so does the wind chime and the wind and spending hours mixing potions and travelling to the outlining human villages to keep any eye on the world outside their secluded valley. Fighting and sparring helps keep Techno calm, as well as the voices, and if that’s not enough he’ll lead Carl out the stable and out into the wilds to find a monster to hack into tiny little pieces.
Music used to help Wilbur, but lately he can’t hold his guitar without his fingers stumbling, without the birds shrieking in disagreement, without the notes tangling into one loud cacophony of truths and….
He’d been desperate.
Stupid, but desperate.
The sofa shifts around him. Wilbur keeps his eyes closed. Stale air chokes his lungs.
“Wilbur.” It’s not quite a plea, but it’s wanting and guiding and careful all the same; a hand coming to card through his fringe and wipe away the dampness that pours over his cheeks. “Can you look at me, Wil?”
Wil does, because it’s Dad and it’s Techno, and although Tommy is upstairs, asleep in his bed, Wilbur can feel his lingering warmth from the hearth-fire and he can envision the pain-worry-guilt that would twist his face should he see the way tears drip down Wilbur’s.
“You,” Dad begins and his voice shakes as he speaks; Wilbur can feel it in the way his wing is laid around him. “You don’t need to be anyone but yourself Wilbur. Whoever that is. Whoever it is that you choose to be.”
Wilbur shakes his head, a broken sound on his lips, but Techno just leans heavier into him. “You’re you. You’re my older brother and an annoying bastard with a sharp tongue and a sharper mind. You’re doing that stupid thing where you over think things, but this time no one stopped to help pick you up out of your hole,” he says, monotone, dry but so full of love that the feeling of it tugs a smile at the corner of his mouth.
It’s a small victory for all three of them.
At least Wilbur isn’t as broken as he thought.
“We love you.” Dad says, unprompted. Wil rolls his eyes, because that’s the response he always give s whenever Philza’s emotions overcome him in moments where his own loneliness is a bit too much to handle alone. “I mean it,” he says, firm, a touch louder, and Techno curls in like because he agrees. Because he wants Wilbur to know he also loves him.
“We all do. And Tommy too.”
“He thinks the world of you,” Techno mutters.
“Don’t know why,” Wil says, and it doesn’t fall quite right to be teasing.
The pair of them tense slightly, minds searching for the right words. Wilbur just leans his head against Dad, curls his fingers around Techno’s wrist. “Sorry. Habit.”
“It’s okay. You’re okay,” Dad says and idly Wilbur wonders how many times he’ll repeat himself. He wonders how long it will take until he believes him.
The three of them lay there for hours longer, until the hearth-fire has entirely burns itself out, until Technoblade’s light snores fill the quiet with the accompaniment of the rain. Dad excuses himself to his bed, joking about old age and how sofas aren’t good for his back, or for his wings—Wilbur’s neither—and he takes the hint.
But his nest is cold and empty compared to the sitting room and the couch that Techno claims entirely. He changes out of his day clothes; pulling on a loose shirt with slits for his wings and baggy cotton trousers before slipping back out of his room and down the perches to the sitting room.
He keeps his footsteps light and his wings folded neatly against his back as he creeps down the hall and up the stairs, to where Tommy is fast asleep, tangled up in his duvet with one foot sticking out of the bed.
Wilbur is thin, he has pale skin and a body so tall that it’s a tight squeeze to slip into the bed also; wings curled against his back but unfurling when he’s settled on his side; feet nudging at Tommy’s to get them back under the covers and make enough room for him. He’s not sneaky enough to stop Tommy from waking, a confused “huh? Wilby?” that is gently shushed, a hand in his hair to distract.
Ineffective.
“What you doin’ in my bed?” Tommy slurs, tongue thick with sleep as he drags one eyes to glare accusingly at the window and the still-dark skies. Instead of asking, Wilbur just lays his head down, small smile, searching eyes. “You mind?”
“No.”
The answer is practically instantaneous. It makes Wil smile.
Slowly, he reaches an arm out, at first just laying across Tommy’s lower back, before shifting so that it loops beneath his arm; Wil’s wing coming to drape over the both of them where the duvet isn’t quite big enough to cover the two of them: both tall, both pale, both gangly and with plenty of room to keep growing.
“Want to talk about it?”
Tommy’s voice is still heavy with sleep, but he’s fighting against it; waking, slowly becoming aware that Wilbur is awake and in his bed, and this is out of character enough for his sleep-drunk mind to pester him into something more alert should it be Tommy’s turn to be the shoulder.
“No. Thank you though.”
There are still things they that need to be said, maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after; but its late now, late enough to be early and Wilbur curls around his baby brother, listening to his gentle muttering soften into snores until Wilbur is asleep too.