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They hadn’t meant to stay out this late.
It’s nearing nine o’clock when Phil finally drags Tommy away from the shining bright lights of the spinning ride, the one his two other brothers are currently sitting on and waiting patiently for the hum of the engine to light up. The whole night around them, however, is alive. People thrum to and fro, lights flashing across the packed dirt pathways. Music plays, there seems to be multiple melodies coming from separate speakers, and it smells like fried food and the remnants of sunlight streak across the sky. Phil’s exhausted. Tommy, however, is not.
“I want to watch,” he whines, staring back over his shoulder as Phil leads him towards a bench he’d spotted a few seconds ago. “I can’t believe he didn’t let me on, what a bitch.”
“You’ll be able to go next year,” Phil says placatingly, staring down at his youngest son as they reach the bench. He plops down– Tommy hesitates, crossing his arms and scowling down at his father. “I’m sorry, Toms.”
“I’m not even short,” Tommy complains, finally turning to sit down on the sticky wood grain and stare up at the lights of the ride. It hums to life– the plastic and metal screeches as it moves, and Phil worries, for just a brief moment. “I'm the tallest in my class.”
“I’m sure you are,” Phil says, watching as the ride starts to spin. “But I’d rather you not fall off in the middle of that. Plus, it looks kind of scary.”
“Well, I’m not a pussy,” Tommy challenges, clearly watching the ride with wide eyes and a weird sort of reverence that all eleven-year-olds hold towards large pieces of machinery that have the chance to kill them.
“Language,” Phil scolds, but it’s half-hearted. It’s nine pm on a Saturday night and the carnival around them is still thriving– only now, instead of families with small children, it’s older kids and teenagers and some few adults here and there with drinks in hand. Hell, if Phil wasn’t going to drive them home in a bit, he’d be getting a drink of his own. Tommy sticks his tongue out. Phil sticks it out right back. They both lean back against the bench, Tommy kicking his feet in the dirt as Phil watches the ride spin up, up, up. He swears he catches a glimpse of Wilbur’s hair. “Did you have fun today?”
“Yes,” Tommy admits, leaning over and pressing his head against Phil’s shoulder. For as boisterous as he is, he’s still little, and the years he’s spent with Phil has attuned him into the kid’s mannerisms. He’s tired. “It was fun.”
“You and Tubbo and Ranboo didn’t cause too much trouble?” Tommy seems to mull on the question, shaking his head a bit. The lights sparkle in his hair, his eyes.
“No,” he says. “Just got ice cream.”
“Keep the change,” Phil tells him quietly, and Tommy beams, turning his head into his shoulder as they wait.
Eventually, the ride slows down, moving and shifting and screeching until it’s all bumbled up against the platform again and off comes Wilbur and Techno. They’re stumbling, faces lit up with dizzy joy as they push through the metal gate labelled “EXIT” and scan the surrounding area. Tommy shoots up once he’s caught sight of them, darting over between people as they take the few steps over.
“How was it?” He asks, bouncing on his toes as Phil follows, smiling faintly. “Was it fun? Did it go fast? Did your seat belts come loose? I think if my seat belt came loose I’d scream. Your eyes are all weird. Are you dizzy?”
“Shut up,” Technoblade says fondly. “It was fine.”
“It was fun!” Wilbur chirps happily, arms still locked with Techno’s despite the dizziness apparently having worn off by now. Phil settles to a stop, watching as Tommy flits around the two older boys and chatters incessantly. For someone who’d been on the verge of sleep a moment ago, he’s wide awake now.
“Alright,” Phil interrupts, watching all three boys’ heads snap to him. “That was the last one. Let’s start heading back to the car, yeah?”
“Awww,” Wilbur whines, “already?”
“We’ve been here since eleven am,” Phil says, wavering his hands around and starting to corral them towards the exit of the fair. They go, traversing the lines of food trucks and carnival games as the sun finally sets all the way, more and more lights flickering on and filling the area with an artificial glow. There’s an aura of satisfied exhaustion in their little group, Techno quietly listening as Wilbur and Tommy go back and forth, constantly bickering over the ethical consumption of human flesh. How the conversation reached this point is beyond Phil– maybe it’s the smell of hot dogs and fair food in the air, and how his own stomach is sort of rumbling. Maybe they’ll stop for a snack before they leave for good– there’s fried pickles over in the corner that look alright.
Phil’s caught up in his own thoughts that he nearly misses how Wilbur goes quiet next.
Tommy’s still talking, rambling on about something or other, and Techno jumps in with a jab to keep him going. Wilbur, however, has stopped entirely. Stopped walking, too. Phil bumps into him gently, giving his shoulder a nudge.
“Wil?” He asks, glancing to the left, where Wilbur’s eyes are locked onto a shooting game stand. “You alright?”
“Phil,” Wilbur says, and then, honey-sweet: “Dad.”
Oh boy.
“What do you want?” Phil asks, heaving a sigh.
“Look at the ducks,” Wilbur all but whispers, reverently lifting a hand to point towards the shooting game. In the back of the stall is a line of plush yellow ducks, orange beaks and beady black eyes staring out across the sea of carnival-goers. Wilbur is staring, looking right at them. “I want one.”
“We played games already today,” Phil starts to say, hoping they can move on before–
“Oh, are those ducks?” Tommy’s voice pipes up, and Phil sighs. Tommy comes back into view, grinning widely as they all start to meander towards the stall. “They’re cute!”
“I kind of want one,” Technoblade says. “I think I could win that.”
“No way in hell,” Tommy snipes. They approach the counter of the stall, Phil eyeing the ducks– and the game– warily. It’s a standard shooting game, the water guns lining the counter and attached with cheap plastic cords. Obviously rigged, but he can… probably get around that.
“Dad,” Wilbur says again, and fuck if that isn’t Phil’s kryponite. Wilbur calling him dad, actual proper dad, will never not make him soft. “Can we please try to get the ducks. Please?” When Phil turns to look at him, a “no” ready on his lips, Wilbur’s practically fluttering his lashes up at him. A second later, he’s elbowing Tommy, who neatly slides into place beside him and sticks out his lower lip in a pout.
It’s practiced. It’s cliche. It’s puppy dog eyes, center stage.
Phil melts like butter.
“Alright,” he says, reaching around to his back pocket for his wallet. “Each of you want a duck?”
“Yes!” Wilbur cheers, pumping his feet. “Yes please!”
“Yes!!!!!” Tommy cheers right along beside, grabbing Wilbur’s hands and spinning wildly. “Ducks! Yeah! One letter off–”
“Tommy!” Phil wheezes, laughing.
“I would also like a duck,” Techno says, leaning on the counter and eyeing the prizes. There are some bigger plushes hanging– but the ducks are most certainly the cutest. “Get me a duck, Phil. Otherwise you’re picking favorites. And those two–” he waves a hand at the two spinning brothers– “are not your favorites. They can’t be. If they are, there’s something clinically wrong with you.”
“All right, all right,” Phil says, stifling his wheezing laughter for the moment in order to tug out fifteen dollars. Five bucks a pop, the sign reads, and Phil’s pretty certain he won’t need more than three. He slides the money over the counter to the tired-looking teen behind it, and carefully picks up one of the water guns.
“You better win,” Tommy whispers by his elbow, having stopped spinning. Technoblade is still watching from the counter, leaning on his elbows and eyeing the target with interest. Behind him, Wilbur whistles.
“You got this, dad!” He cheers, and Phil smiles, and carefully aims.
Ding ding ding!
“There’s your first shot,” the kid says, looking mildly surprised. “What prize–”
“DUCK!” Tommy shouts, pointing wildly over the counter. The kid visibly startles, then turns and snags one of the ducks. He slides it over, Tommy clutching the thing to his chest with a pleased look.
“You’ve got two more tries,” the kid says, and Phil just smiles at him.
Ding ding ding!
Ding ding ding!
“You’re really good at this, man,” the kid says as he hands over the two other stuffed ducks, leaning on the counter. “Like, I’m not supposed to say, but this thing is rigged.”
“I know,” Phil says. “I’ve got really good luck, I guess.”
“And really good aim,” Techno points out, eyeing the duck in his hands with a pleased look. “Don’t sell yourself short, Phil.”
“I’m going to name mine Fuck,” Wilbur proudly announces.
“Mine will be Little Fuck!”
“And mine will be…” Everyone turns, watching Techno as he stares at the duck and ponders. “Chuck.”
“Laaame,” Wilbur calls, booing softly.
“Get a better name!” Tommy cries, bouncing off of Techno’s stomach and then holding his own duck up to Techno’s, bouncing their noses together. “Look. They’re kissing.”
“Eugh,” Techno scowls, tugging his duck away. “Don’t defile Chuck, you cretin.”
“Dad, Techno’s calling me names,” Tommy calls out, and Phil sighs through his smile.
“Do you know what cretin means?” He asks, snagging Tommy by the back of his shirt as he zooms past him and towards Wilbur. Tommy stops, clutching the duck to his chest and tipping his head back to stare up at Phil.
“No,” he admits.
“Then don’t worry about it,” Phil tells him gently, letting go. Tommy scowls but keeps darting over to Wilbur, smushing their ducks together instead. “Techno,” Phil says, turning and catching the oldest’s eyes. “Don’t call your brother a cretin.”
“I’ll do what I want,” Techno says simply, tucking the duck under his arm. Wilbur is shouting something behind him, and Phil smiles wider. “...thanks for the duck. And the day. I didn’t think I’d like it as much as I did.”
“No problem,” Phil says quietly, reaching out to ruffle Techno’s hair with one gentle hand. “I’m glad you had a good time. Ready to go home, though?”
Techno nods, and Phil turns at that, waving a hand towards Wilbur and Tommy.
“Time to go!” He says, watching as Wilbur reluctantly removes the stuffed duck from where he’s borderline been suffocating Tommy, and starts dragging him forward. They make their way to the entrance again, ducks carefully carried by each respective owner, although Little Fuck nearly takes a dive into a mud puddle when Tommy spots it, obstinately insisting on splashing through the muck. By the time they reach the car, Techno is yawning, Tommy is covered in muck, and Wilbur is still clutching Fuck to his chest possessively.
Phil herds them all into the car, clambering into the front seat himself and turning the key. Behind them, they can still hear faint music as Phil rolls down the front windows in order to clear the stuffy summer air, and Techno sticks his head out of the passenger side. The lights paint the sky in color, and laughter rises in the distance. The parking lot is empty enough for there to be no traffic at this point, and Phil pulls out with ease. It’s no surprise the bumping of the car rocks Techno and Tommy to sleep– although, when Phil glances back around five minutes from home, he finds Wilbur’s eyes still open, watching the world fly by, duck still in his hands.
“You alright?” Phil asks quietly, as not to wake the other two in the car. Wilbur blinks– glances up, meeting Phil’s gaze in the rearview.
“Yeah,” he says, in a similar sort of quiet tone. It’s the tone Wilbur uses when he’s upset; not one Phil likes being familiar with, but is despite that. “Just… happy.”
“I’m glad,” Phil says gently. “It was fun.”
“Thanks,” Wilbur says, the words spilling out of him like an ocean, a flash flood, water flitting under a bridge. The moment is fleeting, but in the way that the beauty of nature is fleeting. It’s a squirrel on a fencepost, a bird in the air, a beetle on the windowsill. “For the duck.”
“Of course,” Phil says, glancing back at the road. He can see their house down the way– porch light left on to welcome them warmly, the car still smelling like warm sunny air and soda. “I love you.”
Wilbur smiles, head gently leaning against the window. His fingers card through the duck’s soft fur, a reverence there that Phil catches without mentioning it. “Love you too.”