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Fundy had been scared of thunderstorms as a child.
He had hated the noise, his fox ears picking up the booming thunder with an unkind ease, and the lightning burning his eyes when he stared out the windows. He’d press his hands over his ears and bury his face in his knees, anything to block out the storm around him. He couldn’t remember when the fear started, if he wailed as a barely born kit at them, or if his brain decided one day he just couldn’t stand them.
One thing he did know was how he used to deal with them.
His dad would come into the room, some kind of sixth sense for when Fundy was feeling awful he seemed to have kicked in. ( “It’s called being a parent, Fundy,” His dad used to laugh when he said that to him in the quiet hours of the morning after a hard night, “I’ll always come when you need me.” ) He’d walk into the room, footsteps silent in the wake of the thunder, eyes brimming with concern and care when the flashes of lightning illuminated the room. He’d sit down on Fundy’s bed, and ask if he wanted a hug, (Fundy always said yes, but he always asked anyway. A song and dance, comforting in its looping refrain.) and picked him up when he nodded, quick and earnest.
Wilbur would hold him to his chest, solid and warm and steady as the world was rocked by nature's tantrum. The blankets kicked to the edge of the bed were drawn up around them, a layer blocking them from the world, as Wilbur rocked and hummed and soothed Fundy. He would bring his forehead down to rest on Fundy’s own, larger hands cupping over Fundy's, where they were clamped over his delicate ears. He’d coo and coax his straining fingers out of his fur, muttering comfort as he blocked the storm from this little world of their own he always managed to make in moments like these. His words edged through the noise outside, their own dulcet song made of one man's whispers.
“It’s alright Fundy. Just a thunderstorm. I know it hurts, and I know it’s scary, but you know what else I know?” A shake of the head beneath his, quick and curious.
“I know how brave you are, and how strong. I know you can beat this storm, outlast it. My brave little champion can withstand anything.” And with that, he’d pull away, just by a few inches and bop Fundy on the nose, a gentle pressure that always prompted a giggle from his little kit, no matter how many times it happened.
And by the time he pulled away, whether it be minutes or hours later, the storm would be gone, rain lessening and thunder a mere memory. The sun would crawl from its bedding, clouds a gorgeous swath of red and gold, the sky swirling blue. They’d pay no mind to the sunrise, too busy with the heaviness of sleep pressing down as they stayed curled up in Fundy’s bed.(Far too small for Wilbur, but in moments like these, he’d never complain). After all, there was no need to watch the sunrise, content in the fact that they would have so many more in their future.
---
Now, as an adult, Fundy was rather ambivalent towards thunderstorms.
There was no fondness in his heart towards them, as they were a pain in general to deal with, the pouring rain and dangerous lighting making for a hazard to any server goer outside during a storm.
But Fundy had long outgrown his childish fear of storms as well. As he got older, his ears and eyes got less sensitive, growing into his traits and gifts (though he never got quite as tall as he’d have liked). He’d long thrown aside the past of cuddles and whispered words of praise into his ears for every crack of lightning. False praise meant nothing in the long run and there was nothing worthwhile to miss, even if he always felt a bit cold as storm clouds rolled across the sky, missing the warmth of another's arms that he just came around to admitting he missed.
To say Fundy’s feelings regarding his father were complicated would be an understatement. For months after his father
left, killed himself,
died, he'd burned with some sort of righteous anger, rebellion and petulance and anguish mixing in his chest in a wholly unpleasant manner. He wasn’t proud of how he was then, of the weeks spent stewing in anger instead of sadness, of denying the truth to feel better. Denial was nothing good, he’d come to realize, seen in mutters of “it’s not real” or “it’s not my fault” or “he can’t die”. Too many people on this server fell into the tempting trap of denial and Fundy refused to do the same again. He crawled his way out of that festering pit of self-assurance and the call of convenient scapegoats in yellow sweaters with his own two hands and he wasn’t going back there anytime soon.
Even if sometimes, knowing the truth really, really sucked.
He’d long since grappled with the fact that his father wasn’t an infallible man, not some hero from legend or character from fairytale. He was simply a person, flawed and fragile as people often are.
When Fundy was a kid, Wilbur always seemed so strong, tall and proud and elegant. As quick with a bow as he was with his words (even if he was never much good with a sword) and passionate in everything he did. He was music embodied, spirit in human form. He was all Fundy wanted to be, and the days were bright.
As an adult Fundy knew better, of course he did, but it had never meant so much as when they started L’Manburg. His father had fallen apart at the seams and no one had seen until it was far too late, fire wrought blade firmly through his sternum on its second strike. Looking back, months and months later, it's easy to see why the chips fell the way they did, even if what pushed the first domino is difficult to define as what kept the rest falling behind it.
Maybe it started with the war, first of many. Maybe it started with explosions and blood-slicked blackstone and the first heart of three flickering out on four wrists. Maybe it was the first betrayal, the rending of trust in a way that couldn’t be mended like they did their bloodied uniforms in the shell-shocked aftermath.
Maybe it was the next set of betrayals, false or true, in quick succession. Maybe it was the second life ripped away, an arrow through a singer's throat. Maybe it was the flag or the walls or a ravine’s stale air. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
A thousand grains of sand, and who could know which one was the tipping point? Maybe it didn’t matter what the first was, because the ending was so clear. (A button. Lyrics on the wall. A disappointed father. A son pleading for the only reprieve he knew. A sword. A cry from the crowd. Blood staining stone and diamond alike. A final heart fading to gray on a cold wrist.)
Or maybe the ending was murkier than it seemed, if by how others could see it. Maybe the smoke from that day still filled their minds and filmed over their eyes. Fundy knew he’d avoided the truth of the day for too long, pulling on all the feelings he felt (Abandoned, betrayed, looked-over) instead of accepting the truth.
Wilbur was gone. He blew up L’Manburg. He asked to be killed, pleaded in fact. And looking at the room, at the TNT, at the button, Fundy couldn’t help but think, with nausea swelling in his stomach, that that was always the plan. Not necessarily to his own sword in Philza’s hand, but to his own sword all the same. He’d never expected to make it out.
And that realization is one that made Fundy, for the first time in a very long time, cry.
-
Fundy wasn’t mad about L’Manburg anymore.
How could he be when he realized it was a suicide note in disguise? When he’d aided in a destruction ten times the size merely two months later, watching
his father’s killer, his grandfather,
Philza, Technoblade and the very man his father built this place against, Dream, look down like some kind of twisted g-ds, calling judgement to their fingertips and not caring about the cries below. And he’d helped them, betrayed and sabotaged his home with a grin. It hadn’t felt good, just a new poison joining the mix of toxic waste in his heart.
So no. Fundy wasn’t mad about L’Manburg anymore. He’d long outgrown the crater anyway.
That didn’t mean Fundy wasn’t angry. He’d tried, tried to push it down or send it away. Tried to get rid of these feelings. He never wanted to be like he was then, those nebulous months spent screaming, fighting, pushing everyone away. But Fundy was angry and he burned with it, like a flag, like a tree, like a country. His insides churned from the force of his anger, his cheeks flaming and eyes stinging from internal smoke. He hated it. He hated being angry but he didn’t know how to stop.
He remembered days and nights spent waiting for his dad to notice him, to notice something he’d done or something he’d changed. He’d wait and wait until he’d show up, coming out of his office with faraway eyes and a stack of papers always in hand. Fundy would flag him down and he always stopped to talk, but it was never for long, or at least not in the way Fundy wanted. His eyes would dart back to his office, or to another destination, his fingers twitching for a pen. He’d nod and listen and spew praise or acknowledgment but Fundy could see he wasn’t there. (If Fundy could really see back then maybe he would have picked up on the darkening bags under his eyes, or the way his suit didn’t fit so well anymore, or that the twitch for a pen had developed into a full time quiver.) Early days of peace spent in a suit different from the rest and the beginnings of resentment curling in his gut.
Or he’d pay too much attention, a president's watchful eye with all its focus on his son. He’d coo over everything he did, praise so sweetly genuine it must be faked, eyes looking straight into him for all he was. It never felt like enough. It never felt like enough, not as a kid when he could break a plate and his father would still look at him like he’d hung the stars. Not as an adult, spilling his secrets after weeks of spying and receiving nothing but scorn in return. (he ignored the cries he’d heard on the day he tore himself from his family for their own good. He ignored the way he never got to tell him that part was a lie. He didn’t know how to tell him that a part of it might not be.)
There were a thousand factors, a thousand itches he couldn’t scratch, the stove heat ticking higher until the pot boiled over the sides, until everything had all gone up in steam and smoke. Tommy’s dismissal of his feelings, of his place in L’Manburg , snide comments from server members who spoke with a certainty they hadn’t earned, and an sliding scale of affection from his father, days spent waiting for an office door to open and then hours of trying to escape (unearned) praise and cloying fawning. There was no middle ground to tread, not in a way he wanted. And sure, he never brought it up, never approached the topic in any way that counted. He wanted Wilbur to be the one to approach him, to ask for his time, to realize what was wrong. Why should it be Fundy’s job? (Why should it have been Wilbur’s job? Why was it not both, an equal exchange, a relationship in two parts, balanced as it should be.)
“I’ll always come when you need me”, his father used to say when the winds pressed on the windows and the rain turned the soil into mud.
He’d lied.
There were a lot of things Fundy was upset about, that burned at his insides weeks and months later. But the one that burned the most, the wick that wouldn’t die? How easy it had been to be left behind.
And he knew it was selfish, knew it was childish, and frankly sad. But he couldn’t move on from it. And he knew it wasn’t fair, that it wasn’t logical, especially not with his father’s case.
Because at each turn he hadn’t left.
He was exiled and Fundy disowned him, opportunity at every angle, ready to be grabbed. Fundy tried to find a place by his side again, weeks and weeks later (though it could have been years with how much things had changed) only to be turned away, scathing words digging into his heart, the cooing words and praises long gone, buttons Fundy had placed himself (a callous joke, he must admit) casting a shadow over Wilbur’s pallid face. And something shattered in Fundy that day, hope splintering into soul-shattering disappointment and insatiable anger. He missed the quiet words of denial Wilbur spoke in the wake of betrayal ( “You know that's not-” ). Missed the weeks spent in a cavern, no one but a teenager with the world on his shoulders and an anarchist who stayed firmly dis-attached for company (until the festival, and at that point, something had shifted in a way no one could have predicted). Missed how in his own confident return, his own proud declaration of spying, he never revealed the most important truth of all, he never rectified his greatest mistake. And then Wilbur died. And it felt like every mistake would persist forever, a tear never mended.
If someone had asked Fundy to explain how he felt in that moment, he wouldn’t be able to describe it, as the world rent asunder beneath his feet, smoke and ash swirling through thickened air, clearing just for a moment as stone crumbled and a scene he never wanted to recall became clear. His father, too far away to hear, and another man he’d never met but recognized in an instant, locked in fervent conversation, a button having been pressed and (though he didn’t know it then) a plea made.
And Wilbur had looked out, to the crowd, to Fundy , and for a moment, a millisecond, their eyes met. And a thousand words and a thousand feelings passed between the two in a single moment, cut short like a heart string by a diamond sword and flickering flames. And that was the end, he’d thought, I’ll never get to see him again, or hear his voice or wait out a thunderstorm with him. So many last moments unnoticed until they’d long passed. Funny how that is.
At least he thought it so, until a spirit flickered into focus, gray skin and yellow sweater making a damning appearance. It’s almost funny how similar he felt what seemed only moments earlier, as a body lay cooling on destroyed stone, walled in and ignored. And the hurt flared up all over again, an open wound ripped further by the sheer presence of the specter. And maybe that wasn’t fair to him, to his easy smile and grayed out eyes, but nothing in this world was fair, so why should he be?
And Fundy would be the first to admit (not that anyone would ask) that he wasn’t proud of how he treated Ghostbur. He regretted it, guilt coating his throat at the memories of it all, but he could never see himself doing anything different.
How was he supposed to feel, when his father’s specter was standing there, telling him everything he wanted to hear ( I’m very proud of you, Fundy. ) and it simply wasn’t enough. Because his eyes were gray instead of brown, his fingers stained blue over silver see-through skin, his voice echoing impossibly from a foot away, instead of present and proud as it should be. Because he wasn’t right, he shouldn’t be there, he just wasn’t right. Something in him was utterly wrong, despite his gentle demeanor and unexpected wit and soft tone and eager attitude.
He just wasn’t right. And shamefully, in the six months he was ‘alive’, Fundy found himself wishing he wasn’t. That he’d never come back, no part of him that is, that he’d left only memories as the dead should.
Most people would give anything to speak to a dead loved one again. Fundy did anything he could to avoid it.
He still wasn’t sure if he regretted it.
His very existence had stung, all earnest love and forgotten memories. It was easy to get angry at the specter, at his avoidance of serious topics, at his damaged memory, at his naivety. It was so easy to blame him for what he couldn’t control, while taking advantage of it at will.
He’d never forget the rush of relief when he realized Ghostbur had forgotten the disownment, followed by the slow flood of shame that never quite managed to wash out its predecessor. Maybe it was cruel, to benefit from the very flaw you blame someone for, but it’d been so long since he’d gotten to value kindness. The world didn’t favor it, and Fundy had always wanted to succeed, to thrive.
Thrive, he did not.
When was the last time he got close to it? In his original home of L’Manburg, where he lost his first life and despite that, everything just seemed lighter? In Manburg, where betrayal thrived and deceit was a currency? In New L’Manburg, where a thin layer of dirt and hope covered up the aching holes of the past? In the bitter in-between from Doomsday to when Quackity showed up outside his door with an opening and a contract to sign? Or now, in Las Nevadas, surrounded by people, but none of the organic bonds to be seen, only synthetic connections as false as the desert climate carved from snow they were stationed in?
Fundy didn’t know. All he knew now was the cold air and bright lights, and the hours on the job, no visitors in sight, giving him plenty of time to wander inside his own head.
And wander he did. Especially since the news of his dad’s revival, he found himself stuck in his own head, reliving memories and thinking up conversations that never happened. What would he have said if Wilbur had shown up after he was revived? What would he do? Turn him away? Break down and cry? Yell, scream, fight with him? Even now he wasn’t sure, and honestly it all seemed pointless anyway, for Wilbur still hadn’t come. It’d been weeks, and he’d seen neither hide nor hair of the revived man, only hearing whispers from Phil, nothing concrete and nothing satisfying. Every bit of info he got, the more he craved, the more he burned inside. Wilbur hadn’t come to see him. Brought back to life and still refusing to see his son. Nevermind the fact that Fundy hadn’t sought him out either, letting him take his time. Afterall, 13 years alone (or so he’d heard from Phil) couldn’t be good for anyone. He was trying to give him time, that was all, no ulterior fear coursing through his veins at the idea of a confrontation, of all the ‘what if’s?” he’d been sewing in his mind unravelling. He wasn’t sure he could handle it.
And so he was giving Wilbur time, pushing the ball into his court, letting him be the white side of the board, as he fell further into his own thoughts. As lightning crackled outside, rain turning Las Nevadas into a flood warning waiting to happen, he packed up, done with his shift and feeling a restlessness under his skin that he couldn’t name. He ventured outside to the downpour that awaited.
His fur was soaked immediately, clothes clinging to his form as they got thoroughly drenched. He grimaced looking towards the sky, darkened both by the evening time and a thick veil of storm clouds. The rain trailed its merciless path from the sky to the ground, a constant noise thrumming throughout the world, blanketing everything in a layer of noise. Though if he strained his ears, who almost thought he could hear a second crying, a person’s voice layered under the sky’s weeping.
Despite himself, his curiosity peaked. Who would be out here in the pouring rain like? Were they hurt or in trouble? Or were they simply on their way and stuck in the rain? It was strange, there wasn’t usually anyone else out here, the only thing around for miles being Las Nevadas, and all its residents had been elsewhere accounted for today. So who could it be?
He made his way towards the sound, the rain pounding down around him, turning the dirt into mud and drenching him to the bone. The wind made it hard to pinpoint the sound's location, the sound of labored breathing and hitching sobs drifting in his ears from what seemed like everywhere. Eventually a figure appeared in the distance, the rain obscuring their features from afar, but their panic was quite apparent.
They were knelt on the ground, fingers grasping at mud and shoulders shaking under a dark coat.
A dark coat?
Shit.
Oh man, this is not what he wanted to deal with today.
But as usual, the universe didn’t give a shit about what he wanted, because there was his father, Wilbur Soot, now just a few feet in front of him.
The rain continued to pour down around them, a sheet masking the details but Fundy’s sharp eyes managed to track his form anyway, note all the changes from the last time he saw his dad.
A coat clinging to his shoulders, thin and shaking. Burn scars peeking out of a sunny sweater darkened and drenched by rain. His hair was longer, curling and clean despite its drenched nature, with a portion of the strands bone white, not the gray of aging, but the bold touch of stress and rebuilding. His hands were dug into the mud and his chest heaved with each crack of thunder.
He’s sobbing, Fundy notes distantly, cowering from nature’s cries. He looks pitiful and small, all his grandiose sucked out in howling winds, and just for a moment, Fundy wants to run away. Leave him alone in the mud, walk away like he was never there, give into the spite and grief and anger and abandon Wilbur out in the cold.
But looking down at his father, smaller than he’d ever looked before, even in death, even as a spirit roaming, he knew he couldn’t leave him there. He thinks of thunderstorms and blanket forts and backdrop sunrises, sepia toned in the indulgence of old memories. He thinks of revolutions and elections and fishing trips, bitter and broken but no less indulgent. He thinks of him and his father, and finds something he can save.
And he crouches down in the mud next to his dad.
“Wil-, Dad, can you hear me?” Fundy stutters, his voice drowned out by rain and shuddering sobs. Wilbur showed no signs of hearing him, gold rimmed eyes miles away, the words running off like excess water. He was muttering, a mixture of pleas and prayers, mumbles of wishes, saying he didn't want to go back, he wanted to stay, he wanted to stay himself.
And those mutterings, with Wilbur collapsed on his knees, brought back a distant memory, a story Wilbur told him as a kid.
"Wish Children," He'd open with, eyes filled with something Fundy couldn't decipher, voice thick with a solid truth usually absent from story time, "are something very special. They're said to be a gift from the Old G-ds, a way to show love in its purest form. Other's called it cruelty, a sign of the fragility of life, of what some people could never have. In any manner, Wish Children are beings of pure love. Made from people with too much love to give, a desire unfettered and previously unfulfilled. A Wish Child is born from a creature, mob or animal, that was loved so fiercely, the universe decided it simply must be more. That it must be human. Wish Children are special, their very existence is a sign of love persisting. Wish Children are a blessing," and at this he bops Fundy's nose, eyes clearing a bit of their mist as he looks down on him with unending love instead, "a sign of a good environment and a flourishing land, where joy and love are so abundant, life is created." A bit of the mist returns, though Fundy couldn’t quite clock it at the time. "Wish Children are rather rare these days, not enough love in this world I suppose.'' His nose wrinkles with something unsaid, but he doesn't let his tone darken, he never did during story-time. A moment of quiet, as heavy as it was warm, settled over the two for just a blip of time, before a flash of burning curiosity broke itself from Fundy's mouth.
"Papa," He started, voice thick with a weight he didn't quite understand, a question posed more from in his blood than in his brain on his tongue, "What happens to a Wish Child if the love disappears?"
A look flashes over Wilbur's face, a mixture of stricken sickness and old disillusionment that Fundy fleetingly wished he'd never seen, just for a moment.
"I don't know Fundy. Some say nothing, that they've become human enough in their own right to persist. Others say they live in some in-between state, neither human nor creature, cursed by their own shortcomings, whatever others deemed they were. The rest say they revert back to what they were before, with nothing more than a set of clothes and an unanswered name left behind. But no one knows for sure. And I hope neither of us ever have to find out."
When looking back on it as a teen or young adult, he always thought the “us” was for Fundy’s sake, a shared hope for him to stay safe and cared for forever, for there to always be an undoubtable amount of love in his life, so much so that it sang in his veins and kept him on two legs. But now, looking at Wilbur curled on the muddy ground, fragile and shaking, he wondered if the “us” hadn’t meant something more. If the beanie on Wilbur’s head wasn’t hiding more than hair nowadays, or if his nails had always been so sharp. More so, he remembered the fear that came, after the 16th and again in the lonely weeks after Doomsday. The days he spent in front of the mirror, searching for extra fur or longer claws, any sign that he’d been forsaken by more than his server mates, a sign if the universe itself gave up on him. He never found anything, and scoffed off the fervent fear as a childhood story with a now proven ending. Now, looking down at his father, he couldn’t help but wonder if he was just lucky enough to be loved brightly enough for the light to never quite go out.
He’d never questioned his father’s status as human, he never questioned much about his fathers existence in general. He was just there...until he wasn’t. But now as he looked at him he could almost swear he saw the outline of ears moving underneath. However, he shook himself, the questions of his Dad’s hybrid status could wait until it didn’t look like he was about to hyperventilate himself into unconsciousness.
He didn’t know how to deal with this panic attack or PTSD episode or whatever it was. He’d never been the comforter, only the comforted, but he’d make do. He drew on his memories of gentle healing and earnest help and in one motion, put his hands over Wilbur’s ears. His chest ached with some dull sensation of missing a moment long gone as he tucked his father into his chest, doing his best to block out the roar of thunder, knowing there was nothing he could do about the rain, the two of them already soaked to the bone. He could feel his hands trembling with shivers from the chill setting in, and Wilbur underneath him was certainly no better, frame shuddering from sobs and his muscles tightening in an attempt to bring some warmth to his frigid form. Still, that problem would have to wait. Fundy shifted all his focus to his dad, keeping his hands as steady as he can over his ears and touching their foreheads together, speaking as clearly as he can all the way. It’s mostly platitudes and breathing counts, with anecdotes from the months they’d been separated slipping in as the moment lengthened.
He couldn’t help but notice the intricacies of his dad's panic attack from his position. He’d stopped crying, or at least audibly, with silent tears still tracking down his face, but he’d taken to muttering instead. He couldn’t make much out of his words the pounding of the rain, but he swore he heard the words ‘train station’ and ‘no more’, intermingled between constant pleading. Something in his heart shook at the sound, at the fragility in his father’s voice. Weakness was something Wilbur tried so hard for so long not to show, and here he was crying and pleading with someone either not there or who didn’t deign to listen, unaware of his situation. It felt hard to be angry with someone so helpless. His feelings were still complicated, still toiling and roiling inside, but at this moment, he wasn’t angry at all.
The rain continued to pound around them but slowly Wilbur’s breath started to match Fundy’s instead of the rapid drip drip drip of the storm. His hands twitched from where they’d laid in the mud, having unclenched in the past few minutes. He could feel the moment he fully came back to himself, the moment whatever his Dad had been seeing faded away to make way for the real storm that surrounded them. His eyes fluttered open, clear of their confused glaze, though still shiny with tears and curiously gold-rimmed. His body seemed to stutter, like an old computer trying to restart, as he took in the situation. He leaned back, as if wanting to pull away, but a crack of thunder sounded a second after and he dove back into the near hug with a flinch. It was an odd parallel, the child holding the father, but strangely Fundy didn’t mind. It was...nice. Despite the chill setting into his bones and the wet clothes sagging uncomfortably on his frame and the ache building in his knees the longer he knelt, more than anything, he felt warm. They just sat there, shaking slightly (whether from the cold or exhaustion was anyone’s guess) silent and listening to nature’s song of wind and rain.
“I’m sorry.” Fundy could feel the words being murmured in their intertwined positions, quiet but endlessly intense. He stiffened against his own will, trying to bid the sudden tears away from his eyes, and he knew Wilbur could feel it too. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” Fundy himself was surprised by the words that came out of his mouth. He was even more surprised to find how much he meant them. “Not right now. We can talk later, apologize later. For now let's just stay like this. Please.” Fundy could feel Wilbur nod, slow but sure, but made no vocal response. Fundy wouldn’t be surprised if he tired himself out with just those five words.
He did want an apology in the future, and further still he wanted to give his own. Even more, he wanted to have a conversation. He wanted to talk about everything and anything. About death and responsibility and Wish Children and being forgotten. But right now, he just wanted to sit and watch the sun slowly crawl its way out of its slumber, the rain beginning to patter off as mobs began to catch flame and the stars winked out to make way for daytime clouds.
It was a different ending to a strange version of a childhood tradition, Fundy noted, as they settled in to watch the sunrise, no longer so naïve to think they had forever to catch the next one, but content enough in the now to enjoy it.
As a kid, Fundy was scared of storms, but now, Fundy thinks he might just come around to appreciate them.