Chapter Text
Wilbur had been young when he’d stood on his doorstep in the waning sunlight and been handed a tiny bundle, smaller than anything had a right to be. He’d been young when his lover had smiled carefully, like a string held taut and fragile, then walked away, leaving Wilbur standing in his doorway, trying to keep tears from spilling over his cheeks, keep his heart from falling out of his chest and following its home as she gently walked away.
He had known it was coming. She’d never been meant to stay in one place, to be tied inextricably to a home the way Wilbur always managed to be. His face was still wet as he watched her go. He had kept watching her, an orange flame on the horizon, until he felt a little, fragile grasp on the hand holding the bundle.
And he had finally looked down into the soft cotton in his arms, and his chest had contracted because oh god, there was a tiny soft fist grabbing at his finger, and it was so, so small. He carefully, carefully moved the cloth out of the way, and looked into tiny dark eyes that looked remarkably like his.
If he hadn’t been crying before, he was now.
He had stumbled into his home, barely daring to take his eyes off the tiny person in his arms. Wilbur didn’t have anything to take care of a baby; god, he was young, he barely took care of himself. So he pulled out his dresser drawer, and covered it in blankets, and gently (fearfully) put the baby inside.
And he had been young, and terrified, and lost without his lover, heart beating manically. He had knelt beside the makeshift cradle, and looked at his child, who was miraculously calm despite the turmoil Wilbur was experiencing not two feet away. His mind was finally beginning to catch up with his body, and he began to calm down. He’d helped Phil with Techno, hell, he’d practically raised Tommy himself. He knew how to take care of children. He could raise this baby, his baby. God, his child.
And as he was grappling with the realization that yes, this was his baby, he was a father, he suddenly found himself with a far more pressing concern.
He didn’t know his own baby’s name.
He gently and frantically unwrapped the blankets around his child, and Sally-- bless her-- had anticipated his realization. A tiny piece of paper was pinned to the inside of the blanket, covered in her familiar scrawl, and god, Wilbur missed her already.
Her name is Fundy.
And Wilbur choked back a sob, and set the paper on the gutted dresser, and with shaking hands, picked up his child. Lighter than anything, and carefully clutched to his chest, and his.
His little champion.
The first weeks were terrible. Wilbur rarely got sleep on good days, and Fundy was determined to wake him up at all hours of the night. His house quickly became chaos; dishes, bottles, and rags were thrown everywhere. His eyes were perpetually falling closed; Fundy’s eyes were perpetually blinking open. On one particularly embarrassing occasion, he had put his to-do list in the furnace instead of the bread he was trying to toast. Later, bittersweetly, Wilbur would look back and wonder how he’d managed to keep them both alive through the rocky waters of the beginning.
Eventually (finally), a routine emerged. Wilbur bargained to buy a cow for milk, learned to sew clothes for his rapidly growing child. A proper crib was built, even if they fell asleep curled into each other on the couch more often than not. Candles burned down and were replaced and burned down again. Fundy began to stay awake during bearable hours, and grew a bright orange head of hair.
(The first time Wilbur noticed the hair, like a little flame peeking out over the top of the crib, he felt a gentle pain in his chest; the heartache of missing Sally mingling with the pride he felt that the familiarly red hair had found a way to stay in his life after all. He’d spun Fundy around the room, smiling at the tiny giggles that filled the air.)
Somewhere in between the frantic accommodations being made, and the learning to be a father, the sewing and cleaning and crying, Wilbur dreamed. He was still young, and full of beliefs, and the new life in his arms only fed into his fierce desire to make the world better. He sometimes murmured his plans to Fundy, in the wee hours of the morning, when they were both dozing off. He spoke to Fundy at all times, delighting in the way her eyes widened whenever he got enthusiastic in his ramblings.
This was how he spoke to Fundy the night he first dreamt of L’manburg.
“You deserve a place where you can reach your fullest potential, little fox. Where you can laugh and laugh until your ittle widdle face hurts. No expectations, no tyranny, no monsters under your bed,” he pinched Fundy’s toes at that, his face lighting up when she burst into hysterical giggles. “Just words, Fundy. The way it was always meant to be.”
He began writing, after that, beginning to imagine what a place like that would look like. Notebooks and loose paper floated around, now, with the dishes and clothes and toys. His hands were perpetually stained with ink and orange sweet potatoes; Fundy had started eating them a few weeks ago, mashed up and messy. Wilbur was painfully reminded of another family member who had grown up on potatoes, reminded of hours spent debating the usefulness of governments, hours laughing at each other, then fighting each other. He never had long to dwell on ghosts, though, not when Fundy was bright and full of life and had just learned her first word, “fishie”, which hurt him in a different, separate way.
When Fundy started crawling, Wilbur was terrified. Even after nearly nine months, his house was still what it had been at the start, a very young man’s home. He spent weeks following Fundy around the house, covering all the sharp corners, snatching poisonous items away before they could disappear into a tiny, munching mouth. Because of the terrifyingly underprepared house, they started spending time outside.
Their routine went as so: Wilbur would pack food for Fundy (mashed apples and soft crackers) and himself (coffee always, bread sometimes). Wilbur would carry Fundy on his back, up to the top of a hill near their house. He would lay a blanket out, and they would sit there, Fundy watching (eating) the beetles on the ground, Wilbur jotting ideas into his notebook, letting the breeze blow his hair out of his eyes.
Wilbur would watch the grass sway, and talk to Fundy, sometimes reaching over to pluck a beetle out from grabby hands. Fundy nodded along, now, sometimes interjecting babble into Wilbur’s stream of consciousness; Wilbur delighted in this to no end, talking meaninglessly back and forth for hours at a time. Fundy stumbled into words this way, sometimes, adding to a growing vocabulary: papa, fishies, ‘tatoes, champ’on, and several swears that Wilbur hadn’t thought to avoid. They whiled away the days like this, enjoying the last of the summer.
Sometimes, though, when Wilbur was out of ideas, when Fundy was antsy and trying to chew the furniture, Wilbur would bundle them up in towels and old t-shirts, pack juice and tea and bread, and they would go down to the little river in the valley.
When they got close enough to hear the river rushing, Wilbur would drop the knapsack and scoop Fundy up, both giggling madly, and run to the edge of the water. They would stay there in the warm shallows, Fundy getting freckles and Wilbur getting sunburnt, until they were exhausted and happy. Sometimes, Fundy would fall asleep on the bank, curled up next to Wilbur, and he would glance down the stream. Sally was never there with them, but sometimes, when Fundy shrieked at the cold water, when the light caught in bright orange hair, he could almost hear her laugh.
In the first winter, Fundy got sick.
Sick like hacking coughs, and shuddering breaths, and a tiny head so warm it dried the wet rags Wilbur desperately put on it. Wilbur had seen his brothers like this, seen his father’s eyebrows knit in worry, but it had never been a real issue. Phil was a careful man, always prepared for the worst, and they’d always had ample potions on hand in case things got too bad.
Wilbur was not a careful man.
He dreamt and sang and chased inspiration, but inspiration only got you so far in the world, and sitting beside his child’s bedside, in their tiny, run-down house, he found himself wishing desperately that he had listened to his father more. The world always needed poets and orators, but it never cared for them the way it cared for warriors and potionmakers and shopkeeps. Wilbur’s empty pockets were proof enough of that.
But Fundy was pale, and still so tiny, and shaking like a leaf every time she breathed, and Wilbur didn’t know what to do. He wished he had been more prepared to be a father, he wished he still had Sally, he wished Fundy would stop shivering despite the blankets.
He wished he had his Dad.
And this thought was what brought him stumbling in front of his neighbor’s door, praying to anyone who could hear that the man was as kind as people made him out to be, clutching a tiny form to his chest much like he had on the very first day. He knocked on the door desperately, all poise lost to the weak coughs wracking Fundy’s body.
The door opened, by some miracle, and a figure stood in front of Wilbur, white eyes wide at the disheveled form in front of him.
“Hello, can I help you?” the man asked, accent familiar to Wilbur, reminding him achingly of the family he’d left behind.
“Yes, uh,” Wilbur says, trying desperately to collect his thoughts, “my daughter is sick, and I didn’t know where else to go, I don’t have any medicine and I was afraid she would, ah, wouldn’t make it?” his voice chokes off, and suddenly Wilbur is fighting tears on the doorstep of a stranger, who is looking more worried by the minute.
“Come in, yeah, I have medicine, man. What d’you need?”
And before he knows it, Wilbur is sitting on the floor next to the couch where Fundy is sleeping (taking breaths that don’t rattle and pain Wilbur’s heart, and considerably less feverish), clutching a cup of tea and letting Eret ask him questions about how he ended up at their doorstep.
He learns that Eret has dreams that run parallel to Wilbur’s, learns that they want to be known as more than just a citizen, as more than a builder. Learns that they want respect, and a house they’ve built for themselves, and to be remembered when they’re gone. Wilbur listens intently, heart warming as he hears some of his own sentiments in Eret’s words. They speak for a long time, trading ideas and stories and laughing, until the snow swirling outside gets so thick that Eret insists they stay the night.
Wilbur slept on the floor that night, on the couch next to his feverish little champion, with his coat rolled up under his head and one of Eret’s spare blankets covering him, still fully dressed.
It’s the best he’d slept in months.
When he returned home with Fundy the next morning, Eret waving them off, Wilbur had promised to repay her if she ever needed help. She’d smiled wanly at him, and said that she’d hold him to it. When Wilbur returned home with Fundy to their little cottage, he had been struck with the realization that he’d just made a friend for the first time since Sally.
By the time spring came, Fundy was able to walk on tiny legs, and Wilbur was ready to be done with being cooped up in the house. They’d visited Eret a few more times, but the snow had kept them from doing much else. Now, as the trees finally began to bud, Wilbur could start bundling them in layers (still shaken by the sickness, and unwilling to let even a draft come near Fundy) and taking Fundy outside again.
Since Fundy could walk alongside Wilbur for stretches now, his back is free to carry his guitar again. He started writing little songs to teach Fundy about animals and colors, all suspiciously similar to his nicknames; “Little orange fox, strong little fox, watch her grow, grow grow. From the tips of her ears to the tops of her toes.” Fundy was still small enough for Wilbur to gather up and spin in circles, so the songs tended to end in fits of laughter instead of proper chords, but neither of them seemed to mind.
Wilbur started to sew again, frantically making tiny dungarees for his rapidly growing toddler. He’d grown better at it, and could now embroider lopsided little foxes onto Fundy’s pockets, sew tiny salmon and stars onto the straps.
Fundy’s first birthday was spent at the river. Wilbur and Eret talk and laugh as Fundy opens the little pile of presents in front of them; crayons from Eret, a little book of stories from Wilbur, and a small plush chicken that Wilbur had grabbed when he left his family behind. He smiled sadly at that, wishing distantly that Techno was there, standing behind him, ready to deliver a deadpan joke. That Tommy was there, yelling and laughing and full of life. That Phil was watching it all, laughing at them, yelling encouragement for their chaos.
But here was Fundy, bright and laughing, trying to color Wilbur’s face with crayon. Here was Eret, laughing into his hand as Wilbur tried to look serious with a crayon mustache. And here was Wilbur, gathering up his child in his arms and blowing raspberries onto her cheek to make her laugh. Wilbur had made a home here, stumbling into a makeshift sort of family as he chased inspiration.
And so they spent the day at the waterside, laughing and talking and planning for the future. Fundy ate her first slice of cake, messily and enthusiastically, as Wilbur asked Eret about the politics of the surrounding areas. Eret knew far more about the local area than Wilbur did, so Wilbur listened intently, a drowsy Fundy in his lap, as his friend told him the stories of the local powerhouses, unofficial and unchallenged rulers. The legends sounded farfetched, but Wilbur had grown up with Techno, and knew firsthand what were tall tales and what were fearful warnings.
And there, on the riverbank, with his toddler napping on his shoulder, Wilbur began to let himself plan.
Summers came and went in much the same fashion. Fundy grew like a weed, and soon Wilbur’s days were spent wrangling a hyperactive five-year-old. Wilbur could hardly sit down before a head of orange hair ran past him, hands full of frogs or cookies or picture books. The days seemed to pass faster and faster, Fundy learning and drawing and scraping knees on the big oak tree behind their house.
Wilbur was writing in earnest now, both songs and visions of a gleaming future. Fundy sat at his feet nearly every night as he wrote on the couch, drawing with broken crayons and humming tiny songs as Wilbur talked about freedom, and love, and family. They finally had oil lanterns now, with Wilbur able to go into town and sell his less incendiary work, so they sat in warm light together into the nights.
Fundy was talking now, asking Wilbur questions, listening intently every night as Wilbur told stories about far-off people. Stories with morals, stories with happy endings. Stories with endings told only after Fundy had drifted off, as Wilbur spoke the story to himself.
One night, Fundy was told the story of a farmer who loved to win. He got into a competition with another farmer over crop yields, and spent the next nine months plotting and planning ways to maximise his crop. He won, but it was bittersweet, because when he finally got home, he had missed his little brother’s first word, the farmer’s name.
The next, he told the story of a man who had stayed alive for centuries, evading Death at every turn. The man was lonely, and from his loneliness, a son was born out of sunlight and music. He loved his son, and gave him everything he could, taught him everything he knew. When his son was nearly grown, he asked his father if he would die. The man did not know. His son, for fear of hurting his father with his eventual death, left his home, and broke his father’s heart anyway.
The story always ended with the son returning, with the father embracing him in pride and love. Fundy didn’t ask why Wilbur cried when he told this story.
When Fundy was six, Wilbur woke up to a frantic knocking. He stumbled blearily to the door, hoping to god that Fundy hadn’t heard the pounding. He opened the door to see a bedraggled, blonde teenager, smiling very big in a way that suggested he was extremely nervous.
“Wilbur! How are you, big man?” his voice cracked at the end of his sentence. Wilbur blinked, suddenly wide awake.
He wouldn’t have. He couldn’t have.
“Tommy?” The boy in question smiled guiltily, and Wilbur realized that he’d gotten braces. “What the fuck, where’s Dad? Is he with you?”
Wilbur knew the answer before Tommy said anything, and groaned. If Phil hadn’t killed him yet, he was going to now.
“Tommy. What the fuck are you doing here.”
Tommy’s shoulders shrank sheepishly, beginning to look less proud of himself and more like the child that he was. Wilbur was struck by the resemblence to the scrawny kid that he’d last seen when he’d left home.
“I came looking for ya, Wil.” His voice was almost apologetic, or as close to it as Tommy ever got. “I missed you.”
Wilbur broke, then. For nearly seven years, he had avoided going back home, avoided the guilt that came with having abandoned his family. Kept his mind on Fundy, and freedom, and whether he could afford to buy another bottle of ink that month.
Despite his best efforts, home had followed him like a lost puppy, and found him anyway. He lunged forward, ignoring Tommy’s yelp of shock, hugging him close. God, he’d gotten so tall, nearly above Wilbur’s shoulders. He had missed him growing up, missed Tommy’s loud voice and childish confidence. He might’ve felt bad for how hard he was holding Tommy, if the boy wasn’t clinging to him just as tightly. God, he was skin and bones, how long had he been wandering alone? Wilbur needed to get some food in his stupid, persistent little brother.
“Papa?”
Wilbur let go of Tommy and turned to see Fundy standing in the hallway, blinking sleepily up at the brothers. Wilbur smiled softly, crouching down to ruffle messy orange hair.
“Ah. Good morning, little champion.”
He scooped her up, then turned back to Tommy, who looked like he was having a small stroke, looking back and forth from Wilbur to Fundy with his jaw slack.
“Fundy, this is your Uncle Tommy. You remember, the one I told you about? He’s gonna stay with us for a little while until I can cart his ass back home to Dad,” Wilbur said, making eye contact with Tommy as he watched him slowly puzzle it out.
Wilbur saw the moment it clicked, and barely held back a burst of laughter from the horrified look on Tommy’s face.
“Uncle Tommy? Wil, you had a kid? How- Uncle Tommy? When did you- Wait,” Tommy suddenly froze, face a mix between delighted and terrified. “Does this make Phil a granddad?”
Tommy quickly found a place in their strange little life, despite all of Wilbur’s best efforts to “cart his ass back home”. He had refused outright to live in Wilbur’s house past the first night, insisting that he needed to live on his own to prove his independence, which made Wilbur feel achingly like he was looking at a younger version of himself. He’d let Tommy run wild, and the boy had managed to excavate part of a hill and start living in it. Wilbur was both impressed and saddened by how persistent and cocky Tommy had become in his absence.
Fundy, of course, was fascinated by her loud, belligerent uncle. Wilbur found himself sitting outside more and more, watching Fundy follow Tommy around as he made speeches about everything from the meaning of life to who his favorite woman was. On one memorable occasion, Tommy had tried to pick up Fundy, and had been bitten for his troubles. They held a mutual respect for each other after that, once Wilbur had stopped cackling long enough to pull Fundy away.
Tommy somehow managed to keep Fundy out of any real danger, though, a miraculous act that required the joint work of Tommy’s friend Tubbo (who practically lived with Tommy and, by extension, Wilbur) and Wilbur’s threats of greivous bodily harm if Fundy got hurt.
The two boys, coupled with Wilbur’s careful observation and the occasional sparring match with Eret, made Fundy one of the most well-protected children for miles.
And so the days went, Tommy and Tubbo exploring the hills around Wilbur’s house, Fundy trailing behind them. Eret and Wilbur sat within earshot, carefully discussing the possibility of independence. Wilbur had chanced a visit into the main town weeks ago, when Fundy was asleep and Eret was making sure she was safe. He’d seen the ones Eret had warned him about; the three unofficial leaders of the town and its surrounding area, including Wilbur’s home.
The first one, loud and smiling, who almost reminded Wilbur of Tommy, had it not been for the look in his eye that suggested a future full of smoke, and fire, and bloodshed. He looked the least sure of himself, laughed the loudest.
The second one, quieter, pricklier, smiling like a scorpion twitches its tail, eyes hidden by dark glasses. He kept a bow and quiver near him at all times, and his hands twitched for it whenever the other two knocked into him too hard.
Between them had stood the most imposing figure; a towering man, axe slung across his back, face completely covered by a white mask with a crooked smile drawn on it. Wilbur saw the way the other two naturally turned to him when confused, how he pulled them both along with him.
They were all young, and obviously fascinated with each other. Wilbur watched the way they easily isolated themselves from the crowded square around them, the way they clambered and fought and laughed as they unintentionally carved a path in the crowd. The townspeople gave them a wide berth.
Wilbur was reminded in that moment of Techno and himself, chasing each other through the woods wildly. He was struck suddenly with the realization that these boys would start and end wars at each others’ sides or for their causes, which made them far more dangerous than any isolated tyrant or king.
He noticed the way a storeowner leaned away from the quiet one, the way people finched away when the masked one laughed too loudly. Caught his eyes on the clothes they wore, neater than anyone around them.
When he’d gotten home that night, seen Tommy and Fundy curled up on the couch, he’d remembered Techno, fighting from a young age, driven to blood by his mind. Remembered how he had held Techno as he shook, the bloodlust failing to protect him for the realities of killing. And he looked back now at his baby brother, and his child, barely up to his knees, and made up his mind.
No more hidden notebooks, no more whispering ideals. Eret and Wilbur already had a plan, they just had to find the right time to put it into motion. And so, Wilbur prepared to wait.
On Fundy’s tenth birthday, Wilbur discovered that he had a son.
Fundy had seemed nervous all day, whispering back and forth to Eret, skirting the edges of the small celebration they had put together. Tommy (who had somehow grown even taller and lankier) was trying to stick his fingers in the cake that Tubbo and Wilbur had made, Tubbo tackling him to the grassy ground in a last ditch effort to save the cake. Wilbur was starting to grow worried; usually Fundy would have at least made a jab at Tommy’s expense, but nothing.
“Hey, Wilbur, can I speak to you?” Eret asked, and when Wilbur nodded, they guided him inside, Tommy’s frantic yells growing fainter as they shut the door behind them.
“Fundy wanted me to tell you something,” Eret began, then stopped. They paused, then:
“Fundy is a boy. He’s your son.”
Wilbur’s heart dropped. His mind raced, thinking about how worried Fundy had seemed all day, how anxious his child had been. How long had Fundy been carrying this for? How had Wilbur not noticed sooner?
“Why didn’t Fundy tell me himself? Eret, have I fucked up? Eret--” Wilbur was cut off, Eret holding up a hand.
“Wilbur, you didn’t do anything wrong. Fundy loves you very, very much.”
“Then why was he so worried?” Wilbur’s chest was tight, and he forced himself to stay calm. This wasn’t about him. He was fine. Deep breaths.
As Eret gently talked, Wilbur felt the knot in his chest loosen as the picture grew clearer. Eret, god bless them, patiently explained to Wilbur that Fundy hadn’t been scared of Wilbur; he’d been scared for Wilbur, that he’d somehow hurt his father by robbing him of a daughter.
Wilbur only cried a little at that.
“Eret,” he said finally, fixing his beanie on his head and clearing his throat, “can you send Fundy in? Tell him I’m not at all mad, and I love him very much? God, do I look as much a wreck as I feel?”
Eret smiled at that, standing up. “No more than usual, dude.”
Wilbur laughed softly, then waited, until Fundy burst through the door, straightening up and standing painfully still. His bright orange hair was mussed up, like he’d been knocked on the head by a stray gangly elbow. He waited silently, looking at Wilbur.
“Hi, Fundy,” Wilbur said, then smiled softly. “My son.”
Fundy rushed forward, wrapping his arms tightly around Wilbur, like he’d done as a tiny child after a bad dream. Wilbur clutched him tightly, feeling the shaky, shallow breaths his little fox was taking. He took a deep breath, remembering what he’d done when Fundy was small, even smaller than he was now.
“Little orange fox, strong little fox, watch him grow, grow grow. From the tips of his ears to the tops of his toes.”
Fundy started laughing through his hiccups, squirming away when Wilbur tried to blow a raspberry on his cheek.
“Dad, quit it!” he said, squirming valiantly, but he was laughing, and Wilbur realized that his son- his son! - looked more relaxed than he’d seen him in months.
“You know,” Wilbur started, still holding Fundy in his lap, wearing the look he always used when he told stories, “when your mother dropped you in my arms and swam away down the river--”
“Dad, you know I know she wasn’t a fish, right?”
Wilbur raised his eyebrow. “You never know, Fundy. Anyone could be a shapeshifter, even you. Anyway, when she gave you to me, the first thing I saw was your hair. So bright and orange, I thought you were a little fox kit.
“But then I unraveled the blanket, and I saw a pair of tiny, brown eyes staring back at me. Do you know whose they were?”
“Mine, Dad,” Fundy filled in his part of the story, the ritual worn smooth over the years.
“Yes, yours, but they were mine, too. And I didn’t know anything about who you were going to be, or accomplish, or grow into, but I knew right then, Fundy, that you were my child, and I loved you, and that nothing was going to change that. Not shapeshifting fishes, not all the kings in the world. And absolutely not my own son.”
Fundy looked up at him, then, and Wilbur’s heart melted as he saw the relief in familiar brown eyes. Wilbur ruffled Fundy’s orange hair, then grinned impishly at his son.
“Now. Do you wanna see if we can get Tommy to stick his face in the cake? We made an extra.”
A few months after Fundy’s birthday, Tommy found something in a cave. Later, much later, Wilbur would wish that Tommy had been lazier, had been more careful, had been less careful and broken them entirely.
As things like this go, however, Wilbur barely noticed when Tommy brought them home.
“Wil, look! No, I can tell you’re not paying attention, bitch, look at these!” Wilbur finally glanced up from his notebook, glasses crooked on his nose.
Tommy was holding two circular objects, both absolutely covered in dirt and grime, nearly unrecognizable. He was also covered in dirt, grinning ear to ear. They really needed to find a dentist to get his braces off.
“Tommy, what the fuck, did you find those in a mud pit? What are they, even?
“Wilbur. My brother. These are music discs! We can clean ‘em up, and play ‘em! Techno always kept all of his to himself, but I’ve got some now! Oh my god,” Tommy interrupted himself before Wilbur could ask exactly how he planned on playing the discs with no jukebox, “I need to show Tubbo. Tubbo! C’mere!”
And Tommy was running off again, leaving a trail of mud through the house. Wilbur would get that later, probably. For now, he was plotting declarations and speeches and legacies. Everything else could wait a little bit.
Wilbur officially became a criminal the fall when Fundy was fourteen. Eret had been helping Fundy with transitioning, teaching Wilbur how to sew binders and helping Fundy through rough patches that Wilbur couldn’t see. Wilbur was sure that he was racking up favors by the day, but he was painfully grateful that Eret was helping.
Eret had been making sure that Fundy knew all the options open to him, and Fundy had eventually decided on potions; simple, reliable, easy to access. Wilbur was more than happy to get the medicine his son needed.
Except that it was more complicated than that, because Wilbur was a musician, and a poet, and the roof was leaking despite Tommy’s valiant attempts to fix it, and the local potion economy was being held up by a trifecta of familiar faces, insisting that they needed the extra tax on potions to afford town renovations. Wilbur had seen the town, and he had seen the trio walking around it, and one of them looked to be benefitting from the extra money more than the other. He had seen sickness in the town, too, sickness all too familiar to him. Sickness that could easily be helped by potions.
And god, he felt like he was a brand new father again, stumbling through the snow to Eret’s house to beg for medicine, and it frustrated him sorely, and it drove him to visionary lengths. He took a trip to a village in the north one chilly weekend, buying books that hadn’t been seen in his town in years. He took the long way back home, and returned with a new cut on his cheek and a brewing stand.
And he was almost home. He was walking through the town square, books clutched to his chest, when he tripped-- he had been so sure there was nothing in front of him-- and the books scattered.
He fell to his knees, gathering them up quickly, quickly, when a gloved hand offered him the final book, thankfully one of the least conspicuous.
Wilbur followed the hand up, up, and found himself eye-to-eye with a ceramic mask.
He fought the urge to scramble back, to run; he instead gently took the book, smiling as gratefully as he could stomach as he tasted bile in the back of his throat.
“Thank you, Dream.”
“No problem. Hey, be more careful next time, alright?” Dream drawled, mask expressionless and unreadable. “Wouldn’t want to lose something valuable.”
Wilbur nodded quickly, giving his thanks again, before casually and anxiously stalking off. He could hear the other two laughing, and continued the rest of the way home, heart pounding. That was close, far too close for comfort. He had to be more careful, for Fundy, for Tommy. Hell, even Tubbo could get hurt if Wilbur slipped up.
His bones were aching the whole way back home, head pounding from the perpetual adrenaline high he’d been coasting. Fuck, he needed sleep, or a drink, or something. He was amazed that he’d made it this far alone.
When he finally arrived back at the cabin, Fundy, Tommy and Tubbo all ran out to meet him.
“Careful, careful, I am elderly--” He started, but the three boys were already tackling him to the ground, talking over each other.
“Dad, dad, Tubbo was showing me how he catches bees, and--”
“It was a truly magnificent hive Wil, one of the greatest I’ve ever laid my eyes on, and you know how many things I look at, being a big man and all--”
“And they chased us all the way back to the house Wilbur, we couldn’t go in Tommy’s on account of all the holes--”
They continued like that, practically hanging off of Wilbur, gesturing wildly and knocking things off the shelves and putting them back lopsided, and Wilbur laughed, and discovered that he was incredibly, bone-achingly happy.
It wasn’t until late that night, when he had put all his sleepy boys to bed, that he realized his journal was missing.