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schlatt really truly loved his son toby and that’s why he had him for as long as he did. he worked himself thin trying to provide for him but he was so young and had no idea what he was doing. zero support and was strapped for cash. he was exhausted, working day to night but it still never seemed to be enough. toby was thin, and schlatt was thinner, his sister was away at sea and the rent kept going up. toby needed to go to school but the tuition was so expensive. he was barely speaking but he was already 3.
schlatt stayed up late into the night filing paperwork for tobys 4th birthday. he wanted to buy him that bee plush he had been eyeing for weeks. toby rarely asked for anything because of their situation and it made schlatt boil. he felt like a disappointment. he couldn’t provide for his son. he couldn’t give him what he deserved but toby always smiled at him. he looked at him like he was the world. schlatt didn’t deserve that gaze. he didn’t deserve that affection, adoration. so he worked, he worked to give toby some normalcy. tobys 4th birthday has finally come, he had purchased the bee plush. it was soft. toby cried tears of joy, schlatt sobbed silently for the thing he was about to do.
schlatt knew about the watsons up the street. 3 boys and 1 toby’s age. though they never held a formal conversation he’d seen them a few times, seemed happy, well off. better than schlatt could provide. so on toby’s 4th birthday he made a decision. he wrote a letter.
‘dear mr. watson,
this is my son toby, he turns 4 today and i am unfit to be his father.
he was born when i was 17, his mother left the moment he was born. i had no idea how to take care of a kid, he wouldn’t stop crying. some blue eyed blond newborn that looked nothing like me. he doesn’t say much, he hasn’t gotten a proper education. he enjoys bees, a lot. keeps him entertained for hours. i’m strapped for cash, working from home doesn’t make much but i can’t afford to leave toby alone, troublemaker he is. he’s a lovable little rascal so take care of him for me?
a sincerely grateful father’
he loved his toby more than the entire world. till the day he died leaving him would be the hardest thing he ever had to do. “papa’s so sorry bumblebee”
“you’ve gotta stay right here okay? no leaving the box. it’s a magic box that’ll keep you safe. when the angel comes you hand him this letter alright? papa loves you so much, never forgot that.”
“love papa too!” the bright eyed boy shouted
“my beautiful boy, papa needs to go now, can you be a big boy and wait here?”
a nod.
“there’s my brave boy.”
schlatt felt his tears, welling. a kiss to his sons forehead and ruffle of his hair. toby wrapped tightly in the thickest blanket he owned and schlatt’s only coat, unsure of how cold it’d get when the sun finished setting.
he needed to leave or he’d make a mistake. so he turned his back and walked the mile back down to their one bedroom apartment.
he sobbed the moment he reached his empty home.
he’d been sober for toby, 3 years and 10 months. now that wasn’t necessary and he needed a drink, badly.
toby grew up quite well, always the loving caring but chaotic boy. newly proclaimed ‘tubbo’ and ode to the box he was found in. hair progressively getting darker as the years went on. on his 10th birthday he received a letter, a letter addressed to a familiar ‘mr. watson’.
a letter dated 6 years ago. tubbo still struggled with reading so most of it was read outloud by tommy, sometimes wilbur. everynight he’d have the letter read to him until he had it memorized. analyzing everything about it, the words, handwriting, tear stains, eraser markings, everything.
for tubbo’s 13th birthday he received a coat. the same exact coat from 9 years ago. it smelt like dust, a small hole near the sleeve, a note card with division written on the unlined side and two nickels. he kept it all. the card, the letter, the 10 cents, the coat and the bee. all tucked away in his memories box, along with polaroids of his adoptive family. him, tommy, wil, techno and uncle phil. though he knew little about his father he found it hard to hold resentment to him. he had been giving a lovely life just as the man had wished.
he had tried to find him once, he might’ve been in over his head. going all alone to the nearest village with a crappy sketch he drew. he was found with his notepad by a frantic wilbur, he was scolded that day and also grounded.
his childhood doodles always had a man with a blue sweater and horns, with some variation of dad misspelled. he can’t remember much of him. almost nothing. only the feeling of kisses and scruff on his forehead and burnt eggs. sometimes he would dream of his ‘dab’ but the face was always blurry. he was tall and broad. always reading papers or sighing. always talking to him but he could never understand. it felt warm. warmth he hadn’t felt in the watson household. he had always had the slightest bit of envy for the watson kids, he could never truly see phil as a father. their was always an invisible line he couldn’t get past.
when techno and phil left he saw the impact it had on wilbur and tommy. wilbur started to look more and more like the man in his dreams. tall and sighing. tubbo and tommy had begun helping around the house and tending to the cows while wilbur went to work. tubbo fixing the radios and light switches. tommy sewing patches and jackets for the 3. tommy teaching tubbo how to read even if it was excruciatingly hard, even if there were tears. hearing wilbur cry out for his dad in the middle of the night and having to act as if they couldn’t hear. selling tommy’s bed frame because he hardly slept alone. phil sending letters with false promises of a return. a lady named sally who came by with warm bread and hugs. a baby fox and a funeral for his mother. packing up to leave, savings spent on the journey. a new kingdom with a green smile. a van for potions and hiding behind the trees to hear tommy sing to the newly planted tree. new faces and new beginnings. a home they made, an idea for independence. a war, a duel, a death and a betrayal. pain, loss, healing and independence. than, the election. a familiar person, an exile and a new position.
the handwriting, he could never forget that handwriting. how could he when that’s what he read every night before bed? the same sighs from years ago but it no longer smelt of burnt eggs. it smelt of liquor and cigars.
he can’t let him find out, hiding his new stumps in his brown hair. he can’t tell anyone, wil is paranoid with betrayal, schlatt is angry and tommy is a horrible liar. everyone will hate him if they find out.
the festival, the speech, the box.
a box, it’s funny how the world works. he’s back in his box. this is no magical box, it won’t keep him safe.
his oldest brother pointing an explosive at his head, with no sign of remorse. his father laughing in the background as tubbo begs for techno not to shoot him, that he’s sorry. protests coming from all around but it was all too hard to see. the tears blurry his eyesight. lost in panic tubbo screamed “PAPA PLEASE DONT LET ME DIE!” and everything went silent, the only thing heard was the wind and tubbos silent sobs. schlatt signaled for the explosive to be lowered and the tyrant was still. only one word was spoken.
“toby?”