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wilbur had been the first, when he was eleven.
phil still remembers how tiny he had looked in the office of the group home, slouched posture doing nothing to help the matter. he’d been swamped in a massive yellow sweater, and was rolling a marble between his hands.
(years later, phil would bring it up: “whatever happened to that old marble you used to carry everywhere?” and wilbur would laugh aloud and tell him that he’d imagined it was the entire world, that he could see all of the boundary lines between the countries and the oceans, and all of the people waving back at him, way up out of the atmosphere- and then, in a rare display of sappy emotion, would say, “didn’t really need it once you gave me the world instead, phil.”)
phil remembers how unassuming he had seemed, but how bright he was, and how suspicious of everything. wil’s sharp eyes had tracked him around the office even before he’d introduced himself. and when phil had said, a bit awkwardly, “hullo, mate,” he had flicked his eyes up and down over phil’s frame before smiling politely and saying, “hello, mr. watson.”
he had almost missed how calculated it was. almost.
the first day had been easy enough- he’d signed enough paperwork to last a lifetime and then driven wilbur home. strange, really, how easy it was to foster a child. the process itself hadn’t been easy, but when it came down to it, one day he was childless and the next he was allowed to walk out of a building and take a kid home with him. it was an exceptionally bizarre sensation.
to his credit, wilbur was a fairly easy child to start with.
phil learned quickly that he was not shy. he wasn’t especially sociable, but neither was he hesitant to interact with phil, necessarily. instead, it seemed a matter of wilbur finding what he deemed to be the “correct” response. each interaction between the two, at least for the first month or so, was carefully orchestrated by wilbur, so subtly phil couldn’t be sure if it was happening at all.
as he learned more about wilbur’s mother, he realized why: after living in such an unpredictable environment, wil had become highly attuned to social cues, hyper-aware of others’ reactions, and accustomed to walking on eggshells.
it took several weeks for wilbur to get used to phil’s speaking cadence and tone patterns, and he’d relaxed into a much softer, much sweeter, endearing little boy. in fact, phil swears he could pinpoint exactly when it’d happen, exactly when “anything is fine, mr. watson,” had turned into “can we get ice cream, phil?”
though his trust in phil had increased on a steep curve during wilbur’s time as his foster kid, his calculated nature never went away. he was as intelligent and perceptive as ever, always goofy and playful, but too good at knowing phil’s tells.
all of the kids had been precocious in their own ways; perhaps wilbur was just the most shocking because he was the first. but phil would never get used to walking out of his office with his glasses pushed up onto his head to find wilbur giving him a knowing look and pointing to a cup of tea on the table.
really, he was nearly psychic.
and then techno had given wil a run for his money. they’d both been smart in different ways: they shared an awareness of subtle social cues (probably why they’d missed that techno was autistic, phil thought) but wilbur was better at learning, accumulating new information. by contrast, techno worked on the fly; he was able to draw connections between topics and spot patterns that phil and wilbur would consistently miss.
if phil had to break it down to a sentence, he’d put it like this: wilbur was the planner, but techno was the strategist.
that left tommy as the executor.
the youngest had been the last addition to the family. for their notable differences, techno and wilbur were still scarily similar, born only nine months apart and practically inseparable. tommy was different. his endless energy and impulsivity seemed harsh, grating at first, but his genuine care and thoughtfulness evened it out.
he was, by far, the most outwardly intense of the siblings, but strangely the peacekeeper more often than not. he’d yell and rant and whine at his brothers up until it became an actual conflict, and then he got serious. phil was most impressed by his empathy; tommy could see all sides of an argument and sympathize effectively with everyone.
nobody would have expected it, but he was the best at compromise.
and phil, for all the effort he put into understanding his sons, for all of the support and love he had offered them throughout the years, was regrettably human and fallible. he’d fucked up.
techno’s diagnosis had stressed him out. he didn’t care that his kid was autistic- of course not that, never that- but was upset that he hadn’t caught it sooner. when he lies awake at night, all he can see behind his eyelids are all of the times he’d gotten frustrated with tech in the grocery store, snapped at him for being dramatic over what was probably hurting him physically.
no matter how much techno reassured him, phil knew he’d never quite forgive himself for that.
when it came down to it, that’s what parenthood was: fucking up constantly and being unable to forgive yourself for any of it.
somehow, he got lucky. somehow, his kids turned out okay, for the most part. they were lovely and responsible and redeemable human beings.
right now, they also happened to be miserable human beings.
that was the second issue. tech’s diagnosis had led to psychologist appointments, intentional sit-down conversations with teachers and school counselors, hours and hours of time and emotional energy used up. it was good for techno in the long run, but in the short term it functioned like a root canal.
phil didn’t enjoy it either. he knows it’s been intruding on his time with tommy and wil, even if it’s absolutely necessary.
so to compensate, he’s been bonding with the youngest more, and trying to get him to bond with techno. wil and tech’s weird pseudo-irish-twin bond had led, over the years, to tommy being just slightly on the outskirts. and toms had bonded well with wilbur over his music while techno’d been at fencing practice every week.
phil had really, really thought some tommy-techno time might be beneficial with all the change going on.
in his haste, he’d overlooked wilbur. well- not overlooked, per se, but neglected.
actually, that sounded worse. phil didn’t want to entertain the idea that he’d missed something for lack of care.
no, he felt that it was his misguided intentions. and, besides, wilbur was always more independent of the family emotionally, and though he spent the most time collectively with everyone, he was also able to retreat to his room for a day or two in solitude and come out fine.
phil had taken a calculated risk, and as it turned out, he was dogshit at math.
after wilbur’s explosion at techno, after his way-too-cruel, incredibly out of character comments, phil had yelled himself hoarse. it was the only time he could ever remember yelling at wilbur, ever. in fact, he doesn’t think he’d ever even raised his voice before that, except maybe in jest.
he did feel guilty for yelling. not at all for standing up for techno or for telling wil off, but he regrets not taking the time to cool off before having a constructive conversation. tommy, bless him, had been the quick-thinking compassionate one, getting tech’s headphones on him and both of them out of the door before phil could process what was happening.
what had their family come to if the youngest was taking care of the rest of them, and doing it so instinctually? was it a mark of tommy’s maturity, or phil’s moral failings?
wilbur had at least had the decency to look ashamed after the whole ordeal. phil had shouted at him for at least twenty minutes, going dizzy with “how dare you say that to your own brother, how dare you mock him like that! i have never in my life been so disappointed!”
and wilbur had just stood there and taken it.
hours later, now, the house is dead silent, and phil is alone in the kitchen.
wilbur was upstairs in his room. techno and tommy were at karl’s, with him and dream. and phil has nowhere to go because he’s the adult and so he just has to find some way to deal with his own damn self.
it’s not like he doesn’t know exactly what’s going on, either. maybe ignorance would be bliss.
techno’s diagnosis was the first domino in a very long line. he’d become a little more open, more vulnerable, and certainly less predictable as a result of letting down the facade he’d unknowingly built up over the years.
masking , phil reminded himself. have to use the right terminology .
phil had been spending more time with techno to make sure he felt supported, and about the same amount of time with tommy so as not to abandon the youngest. so it’d cut into wilbur’s time.
combined with the fact that wilbur might be feeling the same guilt at not knowing before that tech was autistic, and that he was probably feeling left out, and that he might feel that he didn’t even recognize techno anymore, his first brother, his best friend- well, phil would have exploded too. still, he hadn’t expected wilbur’s trojan horse act.
he’d been wary of ableism from techno’s teachers, from his classmates or even his friends. he’d never considered the attack might come from his own brother.
nonetheless, he knows wilbur’s last intention was to hurt techno. it seems counterintuitive- he called him freak and said he threw temper tantrums - but phil knows wilbur.
after the sherlock-esque detective behavior in wilbur’s first month of being fostered, and the untethered sweetness of the two weeks after that, wilbur had had a bad day. he’d screamed his head off at phil. he’d sworn, and insulted, and finally thrown a glass at the wall. when it shattered, he and phil both went silent.
phil had been too stunned to say anything, and wilbur had just breathed for thirty seconds, orange juice dripping onto the floor. finally, when he went to move away, phil had regained his voice, saying, “no- the glass-” and then gone and picked wil up himself so he wouldn't cut his feet. when they’d both calmed down and the mess had been straightened up, wilbur had told him in a soft, soft voice, “i wanted to make you mad so i’d know what it was like and so i would hurt.”
phil had never held wilbur tighter than that day. he still has a scar on the side of his foot from accidentally stepping on the glass himself, too intent on protecting his brilliantly-minded and terrifyingly enraged son.
he had been his son that early, after all. the formal adoption had only changed their legal titles.
so phil knows that the whole display from tonight was some fucked-up form of self harm for wilbur, and a test. he wants phil to push him away so he can feel validated in his emotions about being left out.
it makes phil an awful combination of bitter, sorrowful, and furious, because if wilbur had taken a minute to think and not be stupid, he might have thought to communicate those feelings to phil, who would always validate them in a healthy and constructive way.
at the same time, though, growing up in foster care and with a messed-up mother doesn’t set you up for success emotionally.
phil is unable to do anything but replay the events of the night, of the last six years, over and over and over. he sits at the table until the dark purple fades to soft blue and then to gold and pink as the sun starts to rise again.
he remembers, vaguely, that tech had once compared happiness to pink and yellow in his chest, and thinks he’d love how the sky looks right now if he was awake to see it.
when he makes his way upstairs as quietly as possible to check on wilbur, he finds his oldest sprawled on his bed, still in the clothes from last night but looking otherwise peaceful. he sends up a silent prayer of thanks that wil hasn’t vanished in the night.
picking up his phone, he goes to message the two younger boys, despite knowing they won’t be awake for a few more hours at least. with any luck, they’ll feel comfortable coming back to the house today. if not, phil is prepared to shell out money for them to have a day out with karl and dream, as a sort of thank-you to the boys for watching over his. their friend group was, really, a godsend for chaotic times like these, chapters in their lives where they all needed a bit of extra support, even phil.
like when wilbur had overdosed. or when tommy ran away for the first and then the third and sixth times.
phil’s thankfully interrupted from that train of thought by a creak from the hall. he turns, and sees his oldest son, his first, standing outside of the kitchen, looking exposed and far too young.
“wilbur,” he says, breath caught in his throat at the surprise.
wil looks at him, eyes glassy, and in a voice that reminds phil too much of a ragged yellow sweater, and a little blue marble, and the orange juice stain on the far wall, says, “do you still love me?”
“oh, wil,” phil sighs, “why wouldn’t i love you?”
the two end up, somehow, on the couch, phil cradling his son while wilbur cries into his shoulder, harder than phil’s ever seen him cry before. they’re horrible, heaving sobs that rattle wil’s frame, and phil realizes with a jolt how skinny his kid is, how fragile he feels.
they sit there for close to an hour, wilbur regaining his breath bit by bit. phil has almost zoned out when he hears a quiet, “do you think he hates me?”
he shifts so he can look wil in the face. “no, i don’t think he hates you. i think he’s probably pretty upset and angry right now, and i don’t know how long he’ll feel that way.”
wilbur nods, looking… upset but resolute. “do you think tommy’s disappointed in me?”
that gives phil pause. it’s always been important to wilbur to be an example for his younger siblings- in fact, was probably the reason he shied away from bringing his problems to their attention more often than not.
“i think,” phil says, choosing his words carefully, “that tommy was probably caught off guard by your behavior last night. you made a mistake,” he continues, “but that doesn’t make you a bad person.”
wilbur nods slowly, unconvinced, and slumps back onto phil’s chest. phil debates getting up to make tea- not that he wants to move away from him, but the hot drink might make him feel better. and despite wil’s cruelty, he still deserves love and care. probably more than he’s been getting lately, really.
before he can make the decision, though, his phone buzzes with an incoming call from tommy.
he picks up immediately. “toms. how are you two doing?”
“hey dad,” tommy replies, sounding more subdued than usual. “we’re okay, we both just woke up.”
phil nods, though tommy can’t see it through the phone. “are you two on your way back then, or are you planning to be out for most of the day?”
there’s a pause, and some scuffling, unsubtle whispering on the other end. finally, tommy’s voice comes through the line again: “i, uh, i think we might spend most of the day out. tech’s pretty angry this morning and wanted to spar with dream. is that okay?”
phil doesn’t miss the way wilbur stiffens against him, able to hear tommy faintly. “of course that’s okay. do you have money for food? need me to drop anything off?”
“think we’ve got everything,” tommy assures him. “i grabbed tech’s bag yesterday, so he’s got his wallet and all of his autism stuff.”
phil snorts. “okay, don’t- don’t call it his autism stuff, toms. thank you for thinking ahead that way.”
“hey, it’s no problem, big man,” tommy says, but phil can hear a hint of shy pride in his voice.
“okay,” phil mumbles, smile soft on his face. “well, let me know how much you spend, and i’ll pay you back. and keep me updated on where you are. and let me know if you need anything, anything at all.”
“yeah, yeah, yeah,” tommy sighs, failing to hide the overt affection towards his dad in his tone. “will do. i love you, dad.”
“i love you too,” phil replies, and then from tommy’s end, a muffled, “love you!” from what sounds like techno, dream, and karl.
he hangs up, and glances down at wil. “what do you want to do today?”
wilbur blinks. “aren’t i grounded?”
“fuck yes you are,” phil says, startling a laugh out of wil. “but i’ve also been leaving you out, haven’t i?” and suddenly he’s struck by the fact that wilbur is almost an adult, that he might move out soon, that he’s losing his oldest kid to adulthood.
“well,” wilbur says, “tech-” and here his face twists up, looking pained. “tech needed you to have more time for him.”
“yeah,” phil sighs. “it’s been a hard week, huh?”
wil nods.
the two of them end up at the 80s themed diner where phil had given wilbur his adoption papers. they haven’t been in awhile; the grease-soaked food is good, but far enough away from the house that they tend to go for takeout that’s closer and easier to access.
for special occasions, though, sally’s is their go-to. they settle into the corner booth with the sharpie graffiti on the seats, facing the door. it’d started with wilbur’s need to face the entire room and have his back to no one, but over time, they grew to adore the torn-up vinyl. they get their usual orders: vanilla milkshakes and fries for both of them, a grilled cheese for wilbur, and a cheeseburger for phil.
all of it feels blessedly normal.
by the end of the meal, wilbur is even smiling, though the dark circles under his eyes let on how hard the week’s been for him. nonetheless, phil is glad they can have this afternoon. both of them needed it far more than he’d thought.
“remember when you forgot what an anteater was?” wil says suddenly.
“oh, fuck off,” phil says emphatically, and they both burst into hysterical giggles. still his kid. his goofy, sweet, clumsy, snarky kid.
the ride home passes uneventfully. it’s only when phil has parked in the driveway and is turning to ruffle wil’s hair when he sees the lights on in the kitchen. when he looks up at wilbur, he’s pale, flicking his eyes between his dad and where his brothers are undoubtedly waiting for them.
phil gives him a tense smile. “time to go, kid.”
when they come in, techno is sitting at the kitchen counter, jaw clenched. tommy is standing beside him, but between tech and the door- shielding him, phil supposes, from anything wilbur might do. might say. their house is a battleground.
“techno,” wilbur says, and phil jolts in surprise. he hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly.
“what,” tech says coldly, “could you possibly have to say to me?”
which: fair. phil can’t imagine he’d have a better response, in fact, knows he’d get violent. technoblade is remarkably composed.
out of the corner of phil’s eye, he sees wilbur visibly gulp.
“i wanted-” he takes a deep inhale. “i wanted to apologize for what i said. it was cruel and it was ableist, and i shouldn’t have- i mean, i never wanted to hurt you- i know i did hurt you, and i want to take full responsibility for that, but it was never about you. i was just- upset and egotistical, i guess. and i wanted to make someone else hurt like i was hurting, and have an excuse to isolate myself. and i’m sorry.” here he stops, and then, “and you don’t have to forgive me.”
techno’s face doesn’t change. “is that all?”
phil swears he can see wil’s heart split open inside of his chest.
“um.” wilbur swallows hard. “yes. i guess that’s all.”
“great!” tech says, all false cheer, and moves to get up and leave. tommy’s face is drawn tight, guarded, eyes to the ground.
“w-wait,” phil stutters. “techno. you don’t have anything to say?”
he turns so fast tommy takes a jerky step backwards. “no,” he growls, “i have nothing at all to say to the traitor.”
“okay,” phil sighs, “let’s not- i know this is hard on all of us-”
and then techno’s shouting. “NO, phil, you have NO IDEA what it’s been like. i thought i escaped this bullshit fucking years ago! i did everything i could to not be a freak so people wouldn’t call me one!” he’s laughing, almost maniacally, “and then when i finally get an answer about what’s fucking wrong with me, my OWN BROTHER can’t accept it, still doesn’t want me!”
“there’s nothing wrong with you, tech,” phil hears himself say over the ringing in his ears.
“bullshit,” techno snarls.
phil had once seen a pitbull that’d been rescued from a fighting ring, when he’d volunteered weekends at the shelter. every time they’d offered it a pillow or a blanket to lay on, it’d torn it to shreds, disallowing itself any comfort for the mistrust of it getting taken away in the future. better to sleep on a cold floor now and get used to it than miss the warmth later on, right?
phil’s really, really fucking sick of his kids reminding him of sad shit.
techno’s talking again, facing wilbur fully this time, looking him in the eyes.
“wilbur,” he says, oddly calm, “i will never forget anything you said to me as long as i live. whether or not i forgive you a week or a month or a year from today, i hope you know that every time i get called a freak i will hear it in your voice.”
and then he moves past tommy, past wilbur, past phil, and upstairs to be alone on the ground.
in the quiet aftermath, wilbur’s the only one making noise. he’s wheezing, arms around his ribcage, unable to stay upright. “phil,” he gasps, “phil.”
“i know,” phil hushes him, “i know. it’ll be alright.” because what else can he say?
he glances up and sees tommy trying desperately not to cry in the corner.
“toms, come here,” he says empathetically, and tommy comes to join the group hug.
“i just,” wilbur cries, “i just want everything to be okay.”
“you apologized,” phil reminds him. “that’s all you can do. just give him time.”
wilbur nods into his chest, and phil makes eye contact with a very teary tommy. could have gone a lot better , he thinks, but could have gone a lot worse too. at least no one kicked the other’s teeth out.
later that night, he goes up to techno’s room, fully intending to knock and check up on him. but he hears music coming from inside. the only time tech ever listens to music out loud is when he’s melancholy- not upset, not even sad, really, but an uneven mixture of sorrowful and nostalgic. with a start, he thinks he recognizes the song, and leans in closer to listen.
a very familiar guitar echoes back at him. wilbur’s music.
phil leans against the door, carefully, feeling a fond sense of near-amusement.
so techno still loves his brother. and wilbur’s sorry.
if it can’t all be resolved immediately, at least they’ve planted the seeds for it.