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Las Nevadas doesn’t have a library. Libraries, after all, are not places of profit or risk or defence. None of the things Las Nevadas was built on, and none of the things it needs to stay standing.
What Las Nevadas does have is a bookshelf. It’s a small one, located on the second floor of the hotel, and it’s sandwiched between two couches, clearly intended for decoration rather than function, but a bookshelf it is. And so, it has books. A journal of pressed flowers, a beginner’s guide to redstone. What looks to be a mystery book about a village that went mad. A slightly ragged dictionary.
That dictionary is why Fundy had come. He picks it up, and turns pages, searching for that specific part of the ‘H’ section. His claw traces ink, light enough to leave the thin paper untorn, till he finds it.
Home /hōm/ n. 1. a house or other shelter that is the fixed place where a person, etc., lives. 2. A place which has special meaning for someone, often a birthplace. 3—
Fundy’s eyes see more definitions, tumbling down the page like falling water, but Fundy is uninterested in reading more. He closes the dictionary.
Now that it’s done, Fundy is unsure what he thought it would achieve. A dictionary isn’t some arbiter of truth, a definition not some grand revelation. Ink on a page isn’t going to make everything fall into place. Won’t answer his question.
Special meaning. Often a birthplace.
By that definition, L’manberg is his home. A crater in the ground. A ghost of a place, haunted by promises of freedom and acts of betrayal. But by the first –shelter, fixed place where a person, etc., lives – it was Las Nevadas.
So why does neither feel like it?
Time, Fundy tells himself. You and it just need time. Everything in Las Nevadas is still covered with a shine that screams of not only newness but also the sterility of being untouched. Little crevices are lived in – Quackity and his office, Purpled and his shack, Slime and his… slime, which Fundy doesn’t really want to linger on – but most of the country is still empty. Hollow. A ghost town, though, of course, Las Nevadas hasn’t been around long enough to start collecting ghosts.
Sometimes, after the dreams and the nightmares, Fundy will wake up and look out the window and see a haunted city. Except not one haunted by the past but instead by the future, by deaths and losses and betrayals that have yet to be. Then he’ll blink and rub the sleep from his eyes and tell himself he’s being stupid.
He's been sleeping a lot more. It’s a battle, a forced submersion; each and every time he feels like he’s drowning himself on purpose. Letting himself sink – the water fill him – even as his lungs scream. But Quackity wants to know more about his dreams. Wants to know if they can be used.
Is a gamble still a matter of chance when you have seen the outcome?
The house always wins. That’s the motto of Las Nevadas, the adage that decorates its hypothetical coat of arms. So, he’ll make this country his home, and he’ll force himself to sleep. Because Fundy’s tired of losing.
He had tried being on his own. No teams, just himself and his cabin. He had tried, really tried, but when it comes down to it seems Fundy was born for sides.
Fundy exits the building, heads for the Eiffel Tower. He’s not entirely sure how it compares to the real thing – the memories from his childhood are distant, tinted rose – but with the sunset behind it, it makes a beautiful view.
At the base of it is Yogurt, playing with Foolish’s green helpers. Doozers, he remembers. Yogurt’s white fur is haloed with yellow, made close to orange by the setting sun, from the sand clinging to him.
“Hi Yogurt,” greets Fundy. “Where’s Foolish?”
Yogurt’s ears perk up, and his tail wags, but he makes no move to get up. “Foolish had to get some blocks,” he says, as he knocks down a sand tower a Doozer was building. The Doozer falls into melodramatics, clutching their heart and tumbling to the ground much like their tower. Both Yogurt and the other Doozers seem impressed, breaking into giggles or claps or both. Even Fundy is moved by the performance, so he offers his own applause. Good acting on the Dream SMP is always something to be appreciated.
“It’s okay though,” continues Yogurt, the Doozer now lying unmoving except for the single eye tracking their reactions. “Foolish left the Doozers to take care of me.”
“I can see that,” says Fundy. He’s not entirely comfortable with Yogurt being left alone with a chat and only a chat but, if it had to be done, he’s glad it was the Doozers. They could be weird, like all chats, but they’re well-intentioned and have no reason to snitch to anyone. Not that he’s sure who exactly they’d snitch to. Maybe most people on the server have a vague dislike of Fundy, but he doubts anyone thinks he matters enough to warrant action. Especially not action against his child, who most people don’t even know about.
“What have you got there?” asks Yogurt, pointing to the dictionary.
Fundy had half-forgotten he brought it with him. “Oh, this? It contains words.”
Yogurt rolls his eyes. “Yeah, it’s a book. I can see that. But what’s it about?”
“Words,” replies Fundy, unable to keep the grin off his face.
“Daaad,” whines Yogurt.
“What? I’m not lying,” says Fundy. Yogurt scrunches his nose in disbelief, as if he can’t believe his dad is being this stupid, and Fundy wishes he had a camera on him; the sight is adorable. “Come on, it’s time to go home.”
Yogurt looks at the Doozers mournfully. The Doozers look back, even more mournfully. As they should. His son is the most lovable son ever, and everyone should be sad to see him go.
“Can I play with them again tomorrow?” asks Yogurt.
“If Foolish is okay with it,” replies Fundy. “Now, say goodbye.” He looks at the Doozers. “You guys will say thanks to Foolish for me, right?”
All of them nod, their white moustaches bobbing in time.
“And will tell him how awesome I am, right?” continues Fundy.
A couple of heads nod. Most of the Doozers, however, shake theirs.
“Had to try,” says Fundy. Then he waits for Yogurt to say goodbye. He goes around to each one, whispering something in their ear. Fundy’s a little suspicious – most of the Doozers giggle at their message – but if Yogurt is planning something, he wants to see the fruition of said plans. So, he lets them be, not even trying to eavesdrop.
On the walk home, Yogurt takes his hand. “Okay, what’s the book really about?” he asks.
“Words,” repeats Fundy, grinning. He sees Yogurt start to glare, a slight growl escaping from his lips, so he continues. “No, really. It lists all the words and their meanings.”
Yogurt stops growling. “All the words?” he asks, his eyes wide.
“Well, not all the words,” amends Fundy. “Not technically. But most of them. More than you know. Like definition, which means the meaning of a word.”
“But I know a lot of words!” protests Yogurt. “And I know what definition means now!”
Fundy nods. “Exactly. That’s how many words. So many words, not even your master brain can fit them all.”
This seems to appease Yogurt. “What meaning were you looking for then?”
Fundy pauses. But he’s trying to avoid lying to Yogurt as much as possible, so he says, “Home.”
“Can I see?” asks Yogurt. Fundy pauses their walking to flip through the pages, handing it to Yogurt once he finds the word.
Yogurt reads. “So, it’s just a house then?” he asks once he’s done.
“Not quite,” replies Fundy. He searches for the words, trying to assemble something coherent. “It’s… more than that. A home is somewhere where you feel safe, or loved. Ideally both.”
What was the last place that made him feel either of those? The camarvan, his father holding him close as a storm raged outside? The space where the shadows of L’manberg’s walls fell, where during the hot days you could rest and talk and laugh? Or perhaps the question should be when was the last time a place made him feel either of those?
“I’m confused,” admits Yogurt. “A home doesn’t need to be a place, then? Because that describes you.”
“What?” asks Fundy, confused.
“You’re my home,” says Yogurt. “When I’m with you, I feel safe and loved.” He pauses when he notices Fundy staring at him. He hesitates, like he’s caught between thinking his father is really just that slow and fearing that he misunderstood something himself. “So, by that… definition, you’re my home.”
Fundy feels tears start to form.
“Dad?” asks Yogurt, panicked. “Are you crying?”
“No,” denies Fundy, wiping his face. “No. I’m just proud to have such a smart kid, that’s all.”
“Well, I am pretty smart,” says Yogurt, puffing out his chest.
“Yeah,” says Fundy. “Yeah, you are.”