Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tubbo stared at the pile of books across his room, sitting on the ground, their pages bent and torn. He gripped the one he had on his hands in frustration while he glared at the lumped together torture devices.

He squinted at the printed words that flowed with the paper, before tossing it with the others. His arms fell against the covers as he threw his head back onto the pillow on his bed, pouting in irritation.

He’d been trying to read for the past few hours, but all he ended up doing was chucking them at the ugly wallpaper all over his room, managing to dent the plaster a few times.

His mind screamed at him to keep reading, that he’d find something. The fists of the idea slammed against the inside of his forehead, burning, roaring. The embers practically flew out of him with the tears that slid down his cheeks as he clenched his mouth shut to hold himself from crying aloud.

The sun crawled through the window panes as if it was afraid to enter. The subtle bell chiming in the distance reminded Tubbo that there was life outside the dull, stone castle.

He looked back to the window on his right as he hiccuped with tears and slight snot running down his face.

He was met with the black, glossy eyes of a crow.

It was probably the same one that had been visiting him for a while. His mind softened, the pounding in his skull stuttering to a stop for only a few moments, giving him a brief respite.

“Hey, birdy.” He said to the crow, knowing full well that it couldn’t understand or hear him. He’d let himself imagine, though.

“Hey there, Tubbo. How’s your day been so far?”

The pounding started all over again, but Tubbo held back the wince.

“Well-Well, uh, Awful. Awful, I would say. I can’t-” he sniffled, “I, uh, I can’t read. Today, at least. It’s harder.”

The bird tilted its head at him.

“Sorry about that. It must suck.”

“Uh, yeah, uh, it-it does.”

“Maybe you should do something else? You could ask the castle staff.”

“No servants have visited my room in so long,” Tubbo said, crawling off his bed and slumping against the wood floor, his arms cushioning his head on the window sill, “I’d say it’s been around a few weeks.”

“Did you check your time manager?”

“What?”

“The calendar. Did you check when they last visited?”

“I don’t wannaaaaa,” Tubbo groaned, stretching out his words. He hated that damn thing almost as much as sitting in his room all day.

“You better. You don’t know the last time they checked on you.”

Sometimes he wonders if it really was his imagination.

Tubbo stood up as he let out a shaky sigh, walking over to his desk and slumping in the chair. He guided his eyes over the pattern carved into the wood surface as he reached for the calendar in one of his drawers.

The rusty and stained paper wasn’t helping with his brain’s tantrum, the pulsing growing more noticeable the longer he wasn’t talking to the crow (he ignored that it was weaker when the bird wasn’t around), but he could see rather clearly it had been around three weeks since any staff had even been heard outside his chambers.

Tubbo frowned, his lips wobbly. Was he really that forgettable? Was he that bad of a kid?

The crow's slow steps clicked against the floor as it approached him. He felt feathers brush against his sock-covered ankle.

He looked up at his desk to ignore its eyes but met with them anyway. It seemed to be peering at the now tear-stained paper. It looked back at him, and Tubbo swore the inky abyss that swirled in the bird’s eyes veiled a world of emotion.

Tubbo internally scoffed at the thought. Even an animal wouldn’t feel pity for him, let alone sympathy.

“When was-”

“Oh, wait, I’ve remembered something!” Tubbo perked up, his mood brightening as he clambered out of his creaky chair and towards his wardrobe.

“What?”

“Well, you know how I’ve been getting better with the work that seamstresses do?”

“Yeah?”

Tubbo paused his speech to fumble with a shelf in his closet, pulling out a small chest lined with gold. He smiles, giddy with excitement.

“Here, I made you something.”

The crow pattered across the desk in curiosity as Tubbo shuffled with the box in his hands, setting it down on the wooden table.

The crow pecked at the lock, earning a giggle from Tubbo. He flicked the lock open with the combination and lifted the lid to reveal a miniature bandana colored red. The silk reflected the light outside his window, giving off a soft glow.

The bird stared at it with awe.

“Do you get the joke?”

“What?”

“Groups of crows are called a murder,” he paused, “Or were those ravens? Anyways, from what I’ve read, uh, murders usually have blood involved with it, which is red. So, yeah.”

The crow had already shaken its head, but Tubbo imagined it anyway, “Never mind that, put it on me, would you?”

Tubbo obeyed, wrapping the silky fabric around the bird’s neck gently, making sure the knot was secure before standing back.

“There we go. Do you like it?”

“It’s great, Tubbo.”

Tubbo didn’t have to imagine the crow twirling around, hopping and twisting its neck to catch even the smallest glimpse of the scarf. He chuckled.

“Let me help you with that,” Tubbo said as he tenderly picked the crow up and slowly walked towards the mirror that stood near the corner of his room, leaning against the bookshelf.

He glanced at the pile of mangled books again. He would have to straighten it out later.

The crow admired its reflection in the mirror, and Tubbo gasped because its eyes reflected pure gold behind the glass. But, with the sun giving everything that sort of glow, it was quickly brushed off.

(He ignored the discolored portion of his face and how it was always people's attention grabber. He ignored the memories that poured in when he screamed, the horror that shed through the bright lights, the bandaging when it burned, it burned, it burned, it burned it burned it-)

“Still like it?” Tubbo spoke again as the bird hopped off the seat in his palms and onto the edge of the table.

“Looks even better now that I can see it.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Tubbo hummed as he swept the chest back up and put it back into its spot in the closet. The crow flew around the room as he did and perched itself on one of the lower parts of his bed frame.

“When was the last time you ate?” Tubbo heard the voice in his mind.

The question startled him.

“I think it was, uh, two or three days ago. I’ve been getting better with not hoping,” He added.

Tubbo could practically feel an annoyed, yet concerned eyebrow raise from the crow.

“I’m not that hungry,” he began, but was cut off.

“Are you sure?”

“...No.”

“Go get something to eat then, jeez! You’re gonna end up starving yourself, one of these days.”

“Ok! Ok! Fine.”

Tubbo crept down the hall, which served no purpose because his shoes had a slight heel and they echoed against the tile and ridiculously tall walls. But it felt cool to tip-toe, so he kept doing it.

He learned to ignore the cotton drapes that hung on the walls because when he was younger he would assemble all kinds of furniture to balance on just to stare at them. He would always end up falling. And then getting yelled at for making an unnecessary racket.

Tubbo halted in front of one of the tapestries at the near end of the chamber hall, ignoring the imaginary huffs the bird trailing after him let out at the quick pitstop. He reached an unsteady hand to the edge of the cloth and ran his fingers over the threaded art.

He remembered his mother holding him close to her lap, mouth turned down in disappointment as his eyes examined the seamstresses working.

Tubbo held back a scowl as he tore his arm away and he turned the corner to the next corridor.

His stomach growled. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was glad he was reminded to eat. He didn’t think he would’ve eaten if he hadn’t been. Even if it was a crow he was imagining having a conversation with.

Sometimes, he didn’t even believe any of it was real.

Because of past visits, the crow had memorized the part of the castle that Tubbo was in most often, which included the kitchen. It practically raced across the floor, which was now carpeted with fuzzy reds and golds and greens. Tubbo laughed and sped up to keep up with the bird.

At the end of the hall was a framed portrait that Tubbo spent a long time looking at when he was younger. It always brought him a sense of respect, but also an emptiness that ate him alive, leaving no crumbs, in the form of a golden frame carved and shaped elegantly.

It was a painting of his parents. His father’s brown hair blended in with the bright red and gold background, his eyes the same. Tubbo’s mother had orange hair, braided as if she was a gentle soul when her brown eyes showed no mercy.

Their faces were stoic, serious with everything. No happiness shone through the curves of their faces, or in the way they blinked.

Tubbo wasn’t in the picture. It made sense, though, because it would look like they were with a random kid. His blond hair and blue eyes contrasted with them, he was the odd one out. He would be the only one smiling.

He stared at it with a growing sense of melancholy as the bird stopped at the end of the hall.

“Are you coming?” It cawed. He didn’t have to imagine that.

Tubbo zoned back in and stared at the bird.

“Yeah, I’m coming.”

The bird arrived at the kitchen chambers before he did, which wasn’t surprising. Tubbo was too tired to run, the pulsing still active in his head. He pushed the iron doors open and walked inside, tiles shifting color again.

A few servants were washing dishes and turned their heads at the sight of him. He knew not to expect them to bow.

The crow trudged onward, forcing Tubbo to follow.

He walked across the kitchen as the utensils shone in the bright, aching lights overhead. The crow had somehow ended up on top of the metal counter, black feathers and red bandana reflecting with every step it took. The workers seemed displeased at that, even if it was at a counter none of them were working at. Tubbo flushed with embarrassment.

Ovens worked with the heat and figurative flames inside of them, but Tubbo couldn’t. The fire inside his chest rose, and up, and up, and he couldn’t stand it.

“Your Highness, what have we told you?” One of them asked, a glint of irritation evident in his eyes. His white uniform wrinkled with every movement he made. It made guilt and dread feed and build a hole inside Tubbo.

“You said to, uh, not let birds onto the counters...”

The chef’s eyes narrowed as his grip on the knife tightened, almost like a threat. Tubbo knew it wasn’t, but he was timid enough to worry.

“And what does that mean?”

“That I should, uhm, take, uh, take it off the counter, sir,” Tubbo managed to squeak out, fingers getting shakier.

“Then take it off the counter, kid.” Harsh words cut through him like the blade the chef was using at that moment, who was clearly pissed off. It made Tubbo’s lips wobble and his urge to cry all over again stronger.

Tubbo nodded as he scrambled to pick up the bird as gently yet quickly as he could, all the while the crow glared at the chefs. Tubbo’s hands shook as he cradled the delicate animal in them, and the crow stood still.

With the crow tucked into his hands, Tubbo apologizes to the chef and goes on his way, legs shaking.

Tubbo took another turn, politely greeting the chefs he saw next, walking slightly faster to avoid their gazes, which burned into him with every step.

He saw the pot and he wanted to scream until everyones ears bled. He ignored it.

“Have you named me yet?”

“Huh?” Tubbo stopped at the pantry, staring at the crow as he was letting him down from the cozy nest made of his hands.

“You always call me birdie. Why? You can give me a name, you know.”

“Well,” Tubbo trailed off, his voice dying with his train of thought once he saw some bread that looked decently fresh on one of the shelves, “I’ll name you after I get something to eat.”

The bird did what looked to be a shrug.

“Alright then. I can be patient.”

The flowers buzzed with the attention of bees and butterflies, who happily sucked on each one, greed filling each and every one of the bugs’ mouths. The healthy petals on the flowers gleamed, sunlight flowing through them gracefully.

Each plant was carefully cut and taken care of, but it seems the garden was becoming like Tubbo. Forgotten, unnecessary, useless.

Tubbo and the crow sat on the wooden bench painted white that sat across a pond, which had a variety of fish swimming through the slow currents.

He brought one of the few loaves of bread to his mouth, chewing slowly to savor the taste. The crow chirped to catch his attention, which worked because he ripped off a piece of the treat and left it next to the bird.

“I’ve had a few name ideas, but they went as fast as they came,” Tubbo reasoned with the crow, which had started huffing and puffing when a name hadn't been given quick enough.

Worst of all, the pulsing was still there, sitting. It was practically stuck to the walls of his head, clinging like lice, crawling everywhere, biting him, almost.

“This is bad. You can’t keep calling me ‘birdie’ if you can even call that a name.” The crow complained, nipping at the bread and eating some.

A duck found its place in the pond, and put its head underwater to fish. Tubbo broke off a piece of the bread he had and tossed it to the fishing duck, which made direct contact with it. The pulsing got stronger, clamoring to the front of his brain, screeching at him as the eyes of the duck burned into his, and he tore away.

It reminded him of an old servant named Ben. His eyes were catching, and Tubbo could never really look away. It had been many years since anyone had seen him last, but Tubbo remembered because Ben cared.

Ben did so many things with him. They played together, he helped Tubbo read when he was having an ‘off’ day, and it would make Tubbo’s heart ache because Ben would call him “son,” like a father did and it would make his day brighter, happiness would walk with him down corridors for hours.

He remembered when Ben had to ‘leave’. He knew what happened, but he never quite got over it. Tears sprung to his eyes as the melancholy drilled into him.

“Benson,” Tubbo whispered, barely catching the attention of the crow that sat next to him.

“Is that my name? Why? Is there a reason behind it?” The crow cheered, wings fluttering and flitting, so much that Tubbo wondered what it was like to live with them. Wings. He could fly away with wings.

The lanterns that were planted into the ground were surrounded with grass, which looked practically yellow in the light of the lanterns' flame.

The sun was moving down faster than either of them thought. He watched the sun move slowly, But time felt quick.

Quick little chirps came from the songbirds that were on the bird fountains, stone shape curves into intricate swirls and patterns for design. The crow wasn’t paying attention.

“I saw the duck and it reminded me of you, I guess. Because you're both birds.” He answered, glancing at the dark bird.

Both knew he was lying.

“That’s an awful reason. I’m literally a crow. A crow. Why would you take inspiration from a duck?” Tubbo didn’t have to imagine the bird waving its wings around, squawking like he was offended.

“I don’t know,” Tubbo said, and Benson scooted closer to him, “Did I offend you, Benson?”

“A little,” Benson responded, “Less than I’d like to admit, though. That’s what’s cool about you, Tubbo. You can’t really offend any different kind of person. You’re very clueless.”

Tubbo turned to face Benson, eyebrows raised.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He asked, letting confusion lace his voice like the collar on the uniform his father would wear in the paintings.

Sometimes confusion suffocated him in the same way.

“Nothinnnng.” Benson almost grinned.

“If you were in my position, what would you have named me?” Tubbo poked.

“Thats a story for another day.”

“Speaking of stories,” Tubbo hung his head on the back of the bench, “I need to put all the books in my room away.”

“No one’s fault but yours,” Benson attempted to jab.

“I never said it wasn’t.”

“I know. We don’t have much to talk about, so I figured I’d try to make something.”

Benson went silent.

“Are you doing ok?”

The sudden shift in subjects scared him.

“You know, I’ve been imagining a conversation with you this whole time. Do you think I’m ok?” Tubbo chuckled, but it died down once he looked at Benson again.

This was one of the moments where Tubbo wondered if it wasn’t all in his head.

That’s ridiculous.

“Tubbo, you know what I mean.”

And Tubbo’s throat screamed. It burned and gurgled in the airless fear that tremored through him. He’s fine. He's fine. He’s always been just fine.

He couldn’t be mad at a bird. It’s stupid to be mad at a bird. Especially one that you consider a friend.

“It hurts,” Tubbo chokes out, still drowning in the unrelentless distress, “Why don’t they love me?”

“I’m sure they do,” Benson waddled over to him and Tubbo felt a wing brush against his arm.

“You’re lying.” Tubbo pointed out.

“I know.”

“Why?”

“Sometimes you have to lie to comfort people. Plus, you’re still very clueless.”

Tubbo almost suffocated on tears that were nowhere to be seen.

“I-I still don’t-” Tubbo gulped down the anguish, “Sorry, uh, I still don’t know what you mean by that.”

“Too complicated for a bird like me to explain, kid.”

Tubbo hummed, trying to calm down, heart still slamming against his chest, and turned back to the duck.

It was gone.

Tubbo sighed and looked back at Benson.

But Benson was also gone.

And thankfully, the pulsing in his head was, too.

The sun was at the very bottom of the horizon now.

When did it start setting?

The candles inside the lanterns seemed to giggle at his dumbfounded face.

The motion was repetitive but soothing.

The needle and string in his hand were practically the only things keeping Tubbo sane. He could have weaved until his heart was full, content even. It flooded him with a sense of relief that nothing else could, and it tingled him with delight in every part of his body.

Tubbo grabbed another piece of cloth, barely shaky hand poking a hole into it and continuing his work.

Tubbo had snuck out again after Benson disappeared and ended up in the seamstress’s workshop. He’d managed to snatch a good amount of fabric, which would keep him happy for a while. He even managed to find gold lace.

The same gold lace that choked his father’s paintings with an arrogance nothing else can capture.

Tubbo let out a shaky sigh, not wanting to think about anyone but Benson. That’s who he was making this for, so there was no reason to let his thoughts take over him.

The candlelight seemed to watch him work eagerly as if it had friends to tell. The melted wax slipped down the candle slowly as the light flickered.

He pushed the small fabric together as well as he could, before inserting the needle into the middle of the bunched-up cloth and attaching it to the rest of the dress shirt collar.

The pulsing was gone now, and he embraced it with open arms and a warm smile. He’d rather have it gone than there, as its presence was rather painful.

It was weird that it only happened when he tried to talk with animals. Especially Benson.

“And,” Tubbo muttered to himself, stitching the rest of the miniature dress shirt (that strangely looked like the one he had laid out on the edge of his nightstand for the next day) closed, “Done. Phew.”

He let it sink onto the desk, watching it as exhaustion began to wrap its arms around him, subtly setting its hands on his eyes and closing them. He wanted to refuse, but it was hard.

Everything was hard, but no one cared.

He balled his hands into fists, clutching his nightshirt and letting himself succumb to the sting in his eyes. Tears trailed down his cheeks moments later, and he couldn’t stop the hiccups and quiet wheezing.

Why didn’t anyone love him? He wanted to be held, he wanted to be loved, to be kissed by his mother and father, and to laugh along with anyone, anyone. Even a stranger. He wanted someone to dance with him, to read with him, someone who cared.

But no one cared. No one would ever care.

Never.

If they did he wouldn’t be crying.

Maybe they did? Maybe this was tough love? This is a stupid thing to be crying over, after all.

If they did, he would be talking to all sorts of people, not locked in a stupid castle.

He rubbed his cheeks with his palm and glanced at his reflection in the mirror. The ugly scar under his eye never stood out more.

If they loved him, it wouldn’t be there.

His mind wailed at him again, don’t blame them for your ignorance, and he knew. He knew. But he can’t-He can’t, he-

Tubbo gasped, slipping out of the chair and curling up onto the soft carpet shifting his grip onto the soft fabric.

-He can’t stand it any longer.

“Please,” Tubbo pleaded with no one, with nothing, “I don’t-I just-I-I-I-”

He wanted Benson. Benson was the only one who loved him.

“Please,” He sobbed out again, the plea repeating.

The books on the ground never stood out more.

“Get me out of here,” He sobbed, weakly banging his fist on the floor, knowing no one would hear him, that it was hopeless, “I don’t wanna-I don’t-I...I just-please, anywhere-”

His cries were there.

The castle didn’t hear them.

No one ever heard them.

A needle and thread sat there, gleaming with a boy’s troubles. The candlelight illuminating the room flickered.

Benson dove back into the sky, a new story to tell, bandana flying in the wind along with squawks of excitement and feathers swaying in the wind.
And a man greeted the crow with delight.

Tubbo stared at the rope and the messy handwriting that lined a no longer blank piece of paper, deep in thought. He’d managed to gather a rucksack filled with gold that he could snatch in the time he had and food he could eat without experiencing the judgmental gazes of workers.

Benson sat at the window, feathers ruffled as the wind flew past and into the room, cool air sending tingles of chills up Tubbo’s arms.

The candle that could have seen him break down, curl up and sob his anguish away, was useless now. If only it were a person, it could have seen and comforted him. The flame had flickered out when he shut his eyes and released himself to sleep.
It was useless. Unloved.

Just like Tubbo.

He sighed, heaving himself up and waiting for the bird to say something.

The bird stared.

The pounding in his head returned.

“What are you doing?”

“Benson, I’ve decided,” Tubbo cleared his throat, the still unshed tears from the night before choking him, his voice screaming from the dry skin inside, “I’ve, uh, decided to run away.”

He wanted water. He would jump into a lake just to get rid of the parching sting enveloping his throat.

Benson stared at him, the sun illuminating the feathers that curled around the bandana. Something about the shift in atmosphere that gazed over the two was taken as alarm.

“Wait, only for uh-for a, Uhm, a while,” he scrambled to explain himself, “I just want to see what the village is like. I’ve never, Uhm, been out there. I think.”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” Benson cooed, the noise soothing, “I don’t care as long as you’re safe.”

Tubbo sighed again.

“Uhm, ok. Yeah.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Right after I give you something.”

The crow picked up the importance of the gift and flew over to Tubbo before settling down on the edge of the table.

Tubbo guided himself to the wardrobe again, aiming for the same shelf with the same box.

Time repeated as he presented the chest to Benson, who chirped happily and waited for the moment when the box would open.

Tubbo clicked the lock and it revealed the bird-fitted dress shirt. The chirping turned to squawking with delight and surprise.

Tubbo helped Benson put it on, fingers slipping the buttons through the folds easily, almost like he had strings on his hands. The loose bits of fabric that hung off the collar and the red lacing contrasted his shirt’s greens.

“Tubbo, you are amazing,” The bird complimented, flying over to the mirror and admiring the reflection.

Benson’s eyes were still gold in the reflection. It was ignored, just like the wrinkled skin underneath Tubbo’s eye.

“It’s nothing, really,” he dismissed, walking over to sit alongside the crow, “I’ve seen you staring at my growing collection, so I’d thought I’d give you your own.”

The air softened, vulnerability wrapping around the two like a mother grieving with her children, holding them like it would be ok as soft cries choked their way out of their mouths and she sniffled silently.

Tubbo never had that.

“How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t think it’ll be that long,” Tubbo hummed, scooting towards the bird to comfort it, “I’ll probably be back sooner rather than later.”

“Go on, then. I’ll be fine here.”

If Benson could ever possibly be human, a hand would be cupping Tubbo’s cheek, like a brother, and a weak smile of wistful goodbyes would take over the face of the crow.

Tubbo longed for it, but he answered the bird instead.

“Alright, Benson.”

Tubbo made his way to his desk and wrapped the rucksack around a section of his belt, and walked back to the wardrobe.

He unhooked a brown cloak that had the same goddamn golden lace that crawled its way into every surface of his life. It angered him.

Tubbo quickly shook it from his head and connected the two top buttons.

He walked back to the table with the rope and anchored it to the bed frame.

“Are you sure it’s strong enough to hold you?” The bird said anxiously. If Benson were human, it would be fiddling with it’s fingertips, scratching at the skin near the nail, maybe even biting its lip.

Tubbo shouldn’t get his hopes up too much. Even Benson doesn’t care that much.

“Yeah, it’s made of copper and heavy lumber,” Tubbo responded, huffing as he tied the knot with more strength, “It weighs more than I ever will.”

Benson nodded slowly, shifting back to silence as a pair of eyes settled on the boy.

Tubbo began to wrap the other end of the rope around his waist, the burning sensation stronger when he pulled to tighten it. He made his way to the window.
He stopped and turned back to the crow, who was in the same spot.

“Uh, see you later,” Tubbo said slowly, careful with his words, “Bye, Benson.”

Benson nodded again, this time as a farewell.

Tubbo nodded back and climbed up the window sill to sit on top of it.

The wind embraced him. Tubbo hugged it back.

Trees flowed with the air, with the distant chatter and sounds of bells ringing. The leaves danced with each other as they fell.

Tubbo gazed at it, taking a shaky breath and looking down.

The height screamed at him, mocking and frightening. It was telling him to turn back, there’s nothing down here, but Tubbo had all the confidence in the world.

And Benson believed in him, too.

Tubbo almost doubted himself.

But he thought about how the tears had become acquainted with him, and that it was practically a daily routine to cry.
He thought about the hateful looks he got, even when he knew he didn’t do anything wrong.

He didn’t want that.

So he jumped, ready to let the wind blow through his hair and the temporary freedom to welcome him out to the real world.

The pile of books on the floor remained, as did a loyal bird with more to it than seen at first glance, or the millionth one. Tubbo wasn’t counting.

Benson had another story to tell. More urgent than before.

And a certain man responded, as he always did.

Chapter Text

 Philza Minecraft liked to consider himself a simple man.

He was patient, but that's a trait all immortals learn. He liked things that were uncomplicated, and you could fall for the outside of his facade because he displayed simple emotions.

The numbers of paper stacked on his desk left unaddressed, no red stamps accompanying them, said otherwise.

Envelope decorated each box stored away on his shelf, a crow assigned to each of them. The name plasters were old and rusty, but they all stayed on through thick and thin.

Birds tweeted to each other outside, and Phil wasn’t one to eavesdrop, so he tuned them out and continued to go through the countless letters, sorting them into piles and assigning a different bird to each letter.

Phil could never really get tired of doing this; if there was one way mankind could get along, which was through writing. He loved to be the one responsible for sending a piece of writing that might make someone cry, giggle, angered, and everything in between.

Sometimes, Phil would let that teary, closed throat of his let loose, and he would sob softly in the wooden chair with felt on it as a cushion, letting sadness overcome him just that once in a while. He liked how it felt, like a wife embracing her beloved, whispering for him to let it out, you’re okay as her arms held him gently with all the love in the world.

Phil liked crying. He was free when he was sad, so he let the feeling into his guarded sense of self.

One of the only reasons he did like it was the veil that covered a good portion of his body, made of a fabric where he could see people, but people couldn’t see him. It was one of the best things he’d ever bought from a market successfully, and it sure did help the intimidation tactic. Wilbur said so himself.

“Wanna know something, Phil?” Wilbur spoke, taking down another sweater from the clothing line between their houses.

“Shoot, mate,” Phil said back, folding a travel cape and setting it down in the respective basket.

“When I first saw you, Phil, with the, uh,” Wilbur stopped doing chores for a second, sitting himself on the ground against the wall of his house as he stumbled with his words, “You know that hat you’re wearing? It scared the shit out of me. The veil part, I mean.”

“Really?” Phil said, surprise evident in his tone.

“It’s not a bad thing, Phil,” Wilbur quickly cleared, “It makes you intimidating. Like, people can’t see your face so they don’t know what you’re thinking. Also, you never know when it might come in handy if you’re ever in a, hm, a fight, maybe?”

“Never thought about it like that,” Phil said, “I just thought it looked cool.”

“Well, it does.”

“Yup. Wilbur, get up and help me, I know you’re trying to get out of doing chores with me. It worked once, and it won’t work again.”

Wilbur groaned as Phil grabbed another dress shirt and tossed it towards him.

Phil let out quiet curses as the letters gathered in his arms slipped from the achy limbs and glided to the ground. He bent down to pick them up, his back protesting as he went back to his thoughts.

Sometimes the crows stayed long enough to have a chat with him. Anything and everything would become a topic of conversation, and on their breaks, Phil tended to join them, mess around like when he was younger and things hadn’t gone to shit.

He enjoyed it.

But what he enjoyed more than anything was his makeshift family, their home far from everyone. They all appeared at different times, but they all impacted him in a way that no one else ever had.

(Sometimes he thought about when they would leave. When Death would approach them and guide them away from him.

He hated every time that it happened. He wished he could hold them tight in his arms and never let go.)

The houses were built in a circle facing each other, and separate builds surrounded them. 

Phil remembered when it was just him and Wilbur there. An old, rickety house, before a loud, abandoned Avian boy stumbled upon the clearing filled with flowers and claimed it as his own. Phil could recall the memory clear as day. 

Phil stared, dumbfounded at the sight of a (slightly, only slightly) taller, younger, and much more rowdy Avian hybrid outside of his house. He peered down through the open window. Said hybrid was clawing at his garden’s gate, practically swallowing the scent of the lilac bushes growing there with a hidden desperation.

He looked to be around 13.

This somehow didn't wake up his 17-year-old son, Wilbur.

“Do you need something?” Phil called from above.

The golden-haired youth had looked up at the tired man with a childish grin.

“Hello, sir! Do you live here?” The voice was raspy, caution coating it silently and a small hint of aggression mixing with it.

It almost broke Phil’s heart. Too bad, he was immortal and almost used to shit like this.

Phil fumbled with a response for a moment. “I do.”

“Great, help me out, old guy. Can I have your carrots?”

Phil stared a little longer, before sighing.

“Sure, let me get the keys.”

After searching for the garden key in a rushed manner, thanks to a loud child, Phil stumbled outside and shuffled over to the kid, who was sitting on the ground, clearly trying to look annoyed.

“Took you long enough, bitch!”

“Shouldn’t you be respectful of your elders?” Phil deadpanned.

“Respect isn't for unpog people, and everyone is unpog. Except for women. All women should be respected.”

“At least we can agree about that,” Phil grumbled as he unlocked the gate.

After searching one of his chests for spare carrots, Phil ushered the boy inside his house, despite the protests from said Avian.

“You can eat here. It’s too cold for your own good,” Phil reasoned, making sure the way he was dragging the boy was gentle.

“Fuck off, bitch! I can do what I want! Plus, it’s not even that cold!”

“First off, my name is Phil, not bitch, second of all, don’t Avians sleep in high elevation? You must be freezing!”

“Whatever, daaaaaad.” Sarcasm leaked into the teenager’s voice, which annoyed Philza, but he noticed the kid stopped struggling and followed him inside. Thank the Overwatchers.

“Tommy,” The young Avian mumbled.

“What?”

“Did you not hear me, old guy? Geez, you’re more elderly than you seem.”

“Oh, shut it!”

“Whatever, whatever! My name’s Tommy, bigman.”

Phil shut the door behind him, lanterns blaring warmth in the rest of the house.

“Nice to meet you, then,” Phil gave Tommy a small smile.

The floor creaked as Philza walked back and forth, across the room and back with papers shoved delicately in his arms. 

As he made his way to one of the shelves in the office space, his legs nearly gave out on him and he stumbled to catch himself on the wall, panting as his heart pounded against his chest.

He sighed with a wince as his back screamed when he bent down to reach a box with an unlabeled name, his bones seeming to screech like an old door’s hinges with the sudden movement.

He looked at the empty label again.

Oh, right. That crow still didn’t have a name. He’d have to give them one.

Sudden flapping caught his attention, and his head snapped towards the noise. Phil picked himself up again and headed towards it, a tired smile on his face.

“Hello there, Benson. Did you need something?” Phil asked, shakily seating himself in the chair that sat at the window.

“Hello, Dadza!”

“What’s with the..”

“Miniature dress shirt? Well, remember when I told you about the boy that I always talk to?”

Phil’s smile grew wider. He was glad one of his crows could speak to someone when off duty.

“Yes, I do. What about him? Did he make it?”

“Yeah! Anyways, I have sooo much to tell you.”

Phil shifted, allowing Benson to crawl inside.

“Well- wait, I did tell you that he was a prince, right?” The crow tilted it’s head, bandana tilting with it.

“Yep.”

“Ok, ok- well, anyways, he decided to sneak out and see the town outside his castle!”

“That’s nice.” Phil tried his best to look interested, but his eyes were drooping again.

“Yeah, I think he might bring me something back!”

“Wonderful. Hey, could you take this?” Phil handed the bird a letter in an attempt to push the conversation further into the future, which somehow worked. It took a second for Benson to peer at it and read the address, but the crow nodded and took it as the flapping receded.

Right before picking up where he left off, letters staring him in the face, Another crow swooped in and landed on the same window sill, dropping a stack of letters and packages before taking off again.

Phil groaned, his work had been piling up more and more since Sapnap’s arrival. He’d pulled about four (or was it five?) all nighters at this point. 

He couldn’t remember how many hours he’d been awake anymore.

Speaking of Sapnap, his memory started to drift.

Wilbur’s wind chimes clanged against each other, making harshly beautiful sounds in the breeze, which Phil noted had been stronger than usual.

It was a calm day, but he felt something was off. He was kneeling by the stream, washing out a pail to collect honey afterward, when he saw Tommy in the distance.

“Philza, ma’ friend!” Tommy ran over to him, a seemingly panicked look on his face. Anyone but Phil would’ve fallen for the relaxed tone of voice.

“Hey there, Tommy. Did you need something-” Phil was cut off by Wilbur letting out a screech from the forest. Phil snapped his head towards the sound and started heading towards it.

“Haha...aha! Wilbur sure does scream like a little girl, don’t you think?” Tommy grabbed Phil by the shoulders and guided him over to the opposite direction of the noise as he attempted to play it off.

“Tommy, I swear to the Overwatchers that if you caught another bloody raccoon and Wilbur has another panic attack over it-” Phil threatened, waving the empty pail in his hands. 

“Ok ok, I know what you think, but it’s not another raccoon, Clementine is just, uuuh, acting up again! Yup! Nothing else, no siree,” Tommy instantly started flailing his hands and stepping away from Phil, nervously laughing as he did so.

Ok, something was definitely up.

Phil took the tense silence as an opportunity to book it towards the forest, laughing as Tommy started shouting curses for the whole world to hear as he tried to catch up.

As Phil brushed past a few rocks within the thicket, he spotted Wilbur and crunched the leaves underneath him to make his presence known as he made his way over.

“Shit, Phil’s here, hurry, go on, hide! Uh, Phil! Heeeeyyyy!” Wilbur said shakily, standing very firmly against a tree.

“What did you two do?” Phil went straight to the point, marching up to face the taller. He knew the veil scared him.

“ It’s fine, he won’t be that mad about me, right? ” A voice sounded from behind Wilbur, quiet but holding so much…negativity at the same time.

“Who the hell?-” Phil took a step back, slowly making his way around the tree trunk.

And, in all his glory, the prince of the fucking Nether, sitting behind a tree with foggy eyes and more than a couple of scratches.

What happened?

“Sapnap? What the hell are you doing here?” Phil helped him up, letting worry about the prince shine through his firm tone.

“It’s...a long story.”

“A story I’m willing to listen to. Please, come over to my house, I’ll make you something and we can talk about it there, mkay’?”

Phil stumbled over to his desk, his mind begging for some sort of relaxation. It clawed at every nerve in his shaky body, and he could practically feel his brain looking for a chance to make him pass out. 

Phil gripped the edge of the wooden table with his (very long and tiring)life, waiting for his heart to slow down, his limbs aching more every second. 

Sucks to be his brain, then. He wasn’t giving in any time soon. 

Phil swiped a letter from the other side of his desk, bringing his (somehow)still shaky hand to his face as he tried to read the address.

Key word being ‘tried’.

Phil squinted, his body swaying ever so slightly.

Shit, why was his vision so blurry ?

Phil sunk to the ground, heart still rapid with movement. Everything hurt , from his fingers to his nose. He rested his head against the edge of his chair. He clutched his hands into fists and dug his nails into his palms with as much strength as he had.

“Fuck,” Phil muttered, letting out a displeased grunt. He needed to work, this wasn’t helping.

His eyes drooped.

And to note, Phil was not about to fall asleep. He was just taking a quick break.

He breathed out and closed his eyes, eyebrows furrowing.

The only thing he listened to was the silent wind chimes that were waving in the distance.

A small but noticeable knock snapped him out of the sleep-succumbing daze that was enveloping him with (an upsettingly tempting) warmth. Phil didn’t get up. Well, he wouldn’t be able to either way, his legs gave out a while ago.

“Phil?” A muffled voice sounded from the other side of the door.

Phil wanted them to go away. They can go help Wilbur with the mining, or something.

“Phil? Hellooo?”

Geez.

“Phil, are you ok? Dad? Are you there?” Worry was evident in the tone of the voice. Too bad Phil couldn’t give a shit at the current moment.

“Phil, I’m coming in,” the voice sounded again, the jiggling of the doorknob accompanying it, something Phil didn’t process before the creak of the door was heard and Phil panicked .

He tried to lift himself up, but his arms laughed at him and Wilbur was at his side immediately, concern hatched into his features. 

Oh. Wilbur was done with mining already?

“Geez, Dad, are you alright? Why’re you on the ground?” Wilbur soothed, reaching for the flute in the empty quiver on his back with the hand that wasn’t on Phil’s shoulder.

“S’nothing, just,” Phil slurred as he yawned, laying his head on his chair, “Just tired, tha’s all..”

Wilbur was Phil’s first child, after the (hopefully not) failed wish for a kid around two years earlier, and he had him with one of the Overwatchers, the Goddess of Death. It was a long story. Wilbur took after her in the physical sense, with the dark hair and eyes.

“I swear, have you been pulling all nighters again?” Wilbur raised his voice, almost scolding Phil as he positioned his arms under his armpits to lift him up.

“No point in lying,” Phil yawned again, allowing himself to be lifted to his feet.

“Gods,” Wilbur sighed, supporting Phil as he walked him out the office, “Look, maybe you should ask Tommy to help you out. He can do this weird messenger thing, he’s an Avian.”

“No, no, you’ve already taught him how to hunt. He’s going crazy with it,” Phil waved his hand as best he could, “I don’t want to ruin his fun with stupid letters.”

“So you do think it’s stupid?”

“You know that’s not what I mean…” Phil stumbled with his numb tongue.

A door opening caught both or their attention, and Sapnap walked out of it, hair disheveled and clothing still ripped.

Phil still needed to fix that. Shit.

“What’s going on?” Sapnap shut the door behind him and walked towards the two, eyebrows raised and voice raspy.

“Phil’s been overworking himself again. Could you organize the letters in his office? It would be a big help to him and it would be great for you, since-”

“Yeah. Yeah, ok, I know, just, just stop talking about that .” Sapnap snapped as his hair raised slightly, and his ears became slightly more sharpened than before.

“Yeah, uh, ok. Sorry.”

Sapnap nearly slammed the door on his way out.

“I need to stitch his shirt closed. I just remembered that.”

“Ok, well, too bad, you’re going to bed,” Wilbur dragged the man up the stairs, and marched Phil down the hall to his bedroom door.

“I need to woooooork,” Phil protested, but his eyes showed otherwise.

“You’re on the verge of passing out, Phil, you think you can work?”

“Yes.”

“EEUrrhh, WRONG,” Wilbur imitated a buzzing sound, dropping Phil onto the bed, “Let me get you a night shirt, then you can get dressed into your pjs and sleep.”

“But-”

“The only ‘butt’ I’m going to see is under the covers, connected to an old ass man, who is asleep ,” Wilbur tossed a nightshirt at Phil and crossed his arms.

Phil let it hit his face, and looked at it numbly.

“Fine. You win, mate,” Phil sighed, taking his dress shirt off and replacing it with the night one.

“Yes, yes, now sleep. Old men need rest.” Wilbur grinned as he walked around the room, blowing out the candles and heading towards the bedroom door.

“Fuck off, Wilbur.”

Wilbur cackled as he shut the door.

Wilbur stared at his wind chimes while sitting on his porch, deep in thought, when he heard a, “whoop! Take that, spikey bitch!” , and turned his head.

“Wilbur, ma’ frienddd!” Tommy glided towards him, wings outspread and blowing through the wind, grin as wide as ever. Behind him, Clementine followed, wings sharp and doing loops around the boy, gusts of air spouting from her snout, boosting them both faster.

“Hello, Toms,” Wilbur called back as Tommy landed, “What did you and Clementine catch?”

“Ha! As if Clementine caught anything. I caught all of it myself.” Tommy said proudly while the dragonite huffing in the background with a sack of prey tied around her waist.

“Didn’t know it was opposite day,” Wilbur put a hand to his chin stroking it to mock the Avian in front of him, which was working.

“Fuck you, bitch! You don’t know my kind of talent!” Tommy pointed an accusatory finger at Wilbur, who chuckled.

“I taught you how to hunt, Tommy.” 

“Shut uuuuup!” 

Wilbur felt a tap on his arm, and looked down to see a bird with a bandana and a dress shirt, for some reason. It also held an aura of panic, dread, and Wilbur didn’t like it.

“Hello there, little one. Phil’s resting right now, if that's what you're wondering,” he spoke, booping its beak, trying to comfort it.

It huffed, and pecked at the bandana with swift, scared movements.

“Oh! Do you want me to take it off for you?” Wilbur asked.

“Wilbur, I’m gonna go and get a fire basket to cook the food I got,” Tommy whispered, obviously still salty from Wilbur’s earlier comment, “I’ll be back.”

Wilbur nodded and turned back to the crow, who was shaking its head up and down rapidly, earning a chuckle from Wilbur as Tommy walked off with Clementine following him.

“Alright then,” Wilbur said more to himself than the bird, but unwrapped the silky fabric from its neck, “Is that it?”

The crow poked his wrist, causing Wilbur to yelp. He snatched his arm from the bird.

“Ow! What was that for? Look, it’s not my fault Phil is old and constantly pulls all-nighters, don’t blame me for him sleeping like a baby and not being able to talk to you or do what you want!” He scolded, which made the bird tilt its head.

The bird picked the bandana up and rapidly flew up to Wilbur’s wrist, setting the miniature scarf onto it while perching on his sleeve.

“Oh, ok. Sorry about that. Do you want me to put it on my wrist or something? I think it’s too small for me to get a good knot.”

The crow tapped his wrist again with stubborn determination and eyes that read, hurry up, dammit! , and frankly it pissed Wilbur off just a tad bit.

“Alright, I’ll try,” Wilbur sighed.

Surprisingly, the bandana did fit around Wilbur’s wrist; it was found out after a few attempts to tie a knot with one hand.. The bird only watched. Selfish little prick.

“There. Happy?” Wilbur looked at the crow who nodded and quickly hopped down from his arm.

“Bye, then.” Wilbur called out, watching the bird fly away frantically.

He stared at the sky for a while.

“WILBUR, HOLY SHIT! THE BUCKET’S ON FIRE-” Tommy screeched.

“WHAT?”

Phil woke up. He wasn’t tired, but he did smell smoke leaking in from the open window. He also heard screaming. Very high pitched screaming that sounded like they were coming from little girls.

Dammit, not again.

Chapter Text

Tubbo fell.

The wind swerved around him, the breath he had left following it, clawing at his sides to get back but failing. He had to close his eyes because of how much air was hitting them. He opened them again slightly.

Trees watched in awe as they saw the teenager drop, drop, drop the same way Tubbo watched the water from the night before fall and nuzzle softly with the grass. Their leaves fell with him, as if to comfort him with the fact that they’re falling, too, there’s nothing to be worried about.

It didn’t really matter to him, because he regretted every life choice up to this point.

Holy shit, that was a far drop. Good thing he had a rope wrapped around him.

He shut his eyes again as he felt thorns impale them and tears pushing through.

He thought he heard the faint flapping of birds in the distance, and he almost hoped it was Benson. Benson was something he would always look forward to.

Tubbo knew it was probably the way his ears repeated the sound every now and then, considering he wouldn’t have been able to hear it with the rushing of wind clawing at his ears, desperate to cling.

Before he knew it, the coil around his abdomen tightened, snapping against it with force. He was almost yanked back into the air, lungs shriveling up in surprise. His stomach dropped, causing him to groan from the pain.

At least he was at the end of the fall, right?

That didn’t exactly help when Tubbo opened his eyes and found that he had ended up hanging around almost a meter and a half off the ground. 

What was even worse was that he was sideways. He felt blood rushing to his forehead, which made him feel heavier and dizzier. His arms tingled and fell limp.

He glared at the flowers down below. It was like they were mocking him, giggling at him. He wanted so badly to stomp on them. Little fuckers.

Tubbo pushed against the rope with his palms, grunting as he tried to get it off of his waist. He felt for the knot, patting it, but struggled to untangle it when he tugged with all his strength. He tried wiggling his fingers into the holes between each coil of rope, but all that did was cause blisters to form on his fingertips. He hissed as he pulled away his hands.

He shakily grabbed the rope with his red, burning hands, and pulled himself up as well as he could, muscles tightening with each tug. He managed to get himself upright and repeat his previous attempts to free himself.

Finally, when the sun shone right in his eyes, burning, and the stupid flowers went back to what they were doing, he got it undone.

And face planted into the flowerbed.

He felt his lungs slam into his ribs as he landed.

“Oww..” Tubbo groaned, feeling the blood trickle from his nose already.

He wants to cuss so bad, but he can’t. Being royalty is being royalty. At least he could cuss in his mind.

He glanced at the flowers, eyes narrowing with (NOT childish, nope, no way) hatred, lips snarling upwards as his frown deepened. The flowers

I’ll blame the flowers for my bloody nose , he thought as he plucked a petal off and let it fall out of his hands, right in front of the victim. How cruel is he, huh?

He imagined the flowers shivering, tingles in their spines as they watched, terror choking them blue as he assasinated one of their friends.

When did his thoughts get so dark?

Suddenly, his environment sharpened around him and everything shone .

The tree branches almost waved at him and he finally saw the beauty of flowers, as they twisted and curved around each other, almost like they were embracing. Like a mother and her children after a good grade, perhaps.

The leaves circled around their respective trees, sunlight glimmering on the water droplets from the early morning mist that was around just a few hours ago. The moss on the stone bricks of his castle climbed up and reached its elegant hands up to the sky.

Tubbo didn’t really know what to think about it. He could feel the warmth wrap around him, slowly gripping every part of his body as he took a step away from the place he landed.

Warmth. Warmth . He loved it so much he wanted to cry. He wanted to wrap his arms around the heat and stay like that for hours.

He didn’t, though. Not like he could, anyway.

Slowly, he got to his feet and snapped out of his violent attitude towards flowers. He used the unbuttoned portion of his cape and wiped the blood from his face, which had nearly reached his chin at this point. He blows on his fingers as nature watches him, wide eyed at the being they’ve never seen before.

He didn’t care all too much that there was a(probably permanent) blood stain on the covering.

The pouch of golden coins weighed down his pants slightly, but it only gave him shivers of anticipation for the town up ahead. He rubbed his palms together as he reached for the rolled up scroll that was buckled to his belt-

He patted empty air.

Wait, what? 

He looked down as his heart beat faster, banging against his lungs and ribs, blood pumping rapidly as he felt his neck and forehead get hotter.

The silver hook shone in the sun, like the swaying wind patting his shoulders with such a gentle force that Tubbo would’ve thought someone was there.

It wasn’t there.

Shit.

“Shit,” he muttered, nearly regretting opening his dry, chapped lips in the first place.

He felt around his waist again, which he was sure was bruising from the rope by now, the lumping bag filled with money feeling heavier by the second.

Tubbo craned his neck in each direction, scanning over every part of the bark, ground, and the goddamn flowers, as if the map would poke its head from a hiding spot. 

He turned around. That's when he saw it.

A wet, soggy piece of map in a puddle a few steps away.

Tubbo’s eyes widened as he trudged forward towards the sight on his shaky legs.

Great. He has a bloody nose, rope burned hands, no map, and no way back into the castle without avoiding trouble. He was screwed.

Sighing, he tried to salvage what was still left of the damp guide by slowly dragging it out of the puddle. In doing so, it fell apart completely, and Tubbo screamed as loudly as he could with his jaw sealed tight to his skull.

How the hell did he get into this mess?

He picked the soggy paper residue from his palms and turned around, too frustrated to even look at the map.

Tubbo changed his mind right after and stomped on it until it was mush.

He looked at the pile of goo that used to resemble something. Something that had been useful, but utterly failed to do its job.

Useless.

Unloved.

Just like him.

He shook his head, turning around and walking back to the dent in the flowerbed that he’d made.

“What do I do now..” Tubbo mumbled to no one in particular. Gods, he wished Benson were here. Maybe Benson would be able to help him out of this mess.

He cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled for the bird.

“Bensooonn!”

He rounded a few trees, straying further from the castle.

“Bensonnn,” he called in a lower note.

He screamed for the crow until tears were pushing against the back of his eyes and his throat was raw and felt like it was bleeding. He clenched his red palms and dug his nails into the skin.

As soon as he calmed down, he shook his head. Tubbo needed to be independent. He can’t rely on a bird to solve his problems.

So he flicked the hood of his cloak up and trudged deeper into the thicket, branches scraping against his limbs and leaves crunching under his feet. The flowers cheered as they saw him move past. They might’ve booed, though. You can never be too sure.

Suddenly, he realized how cold it really was. He realized this by the shivering of his hands and the back of his knees. He buttoned the warmth up a little more and slipped his hands underneath, rubbing his hands together.

He felt a fat drop of..water? On his head, which made him freeze in his tracks and tighten his fists again.

He watched the rain pelt down onto the grass and slip down tree trunks.

He absolutely hated his life.

He kept walking anyway, water soaking through his dress shoes and to the bone of his feet.

It’s so fucking cold .

Tubbo always thought about things, despite the fact that there was nothing to think about when you’re a prince locked up all day. Sometimes he thinks about the stories he reads, or the one's he makes up in his mind. Sometimes he imagines a place where people love him.

It almost overwhelmed him with guilt whenever he did, though.

They probably did love him. In their own twisted way.

Maybe the people in the town he was (hopefully)getting closer to would welcome him with open arms, warm smiles and laughter, treating him with the gentle kindness he so desperately wanted to have.

He shivered as the wind blew underneath the cloak again, chilling his skin through his dress shirt.

The rain had nearly stopped by now, clouds clutching them all one by one and cradling them away from the world. Of course, it left behind mud, mush, and everything cold and wet and gloomy.

Tubbo had had his eyes cast towards the ground. It was a habit he had, and he didn’t think it was a good thing. Especially if he was going to become king one day. But maybe it was a good thing because he saw a piece of buried stone, smoothing over but worn from use.

He didn’t think anything about it at first, considering the dozens of rocks all over the forest, as far as he had seen. But this stone had caught his eye because it was almost a perfect square.

That's a path.

Holy crap that's a path .

He craned his head back up and sped up, the numbing in his cheeks and nose groaning as he did so. He felt so warm and fuzzy inside, contrasting the burning of cold that settled on the surface of his body.

He nearly ran until he saw more clusters of gray that stood out against the dark, mushy green. His heels clicked against them and joy was the only thing left in him, outrunning the chill that settled in his legs.

Slowly he saw the houses creep in through the branches and to his vision. Tubbo swore at that moment he saw it gleam. It shone like a thousand suns did, or the smile of a child getting their favorite treat. He almost cried, in fact.

He probably shouldn’t have been so happy about the fact that now there is a big, hurley man with a dagger to his throat that is positioned in a way that if he moved just a bit, even gulping, blood would be drawn.

Shit, he probably never should have done this.

“Answer me loud and clear, ya’ hear?” The man said, beard glistening in sweat and dress shirt damp from the rain. “What’re ya’ doin’ here, kid?”

“Uhm,” Tubbo stumbled with his tongue, eyes wide in fear as it wrapped it’s filthy hands around his throat and squeezed, “I’m lost, sir. Yeah.”

Tubbo didn’t want to reveal he was royalty. The people would probably call the guards and Tubbo would get the yelling of his lifetime. Plus, Tubbo thought that this guy doesn’t seem kind enough to let him roam.

“Could you, uh..”

“Don’t. Move.”

“Yeah, ok. Ok.”

The man examined him, piercing green eyes ripping up and down his body, as if he didn’t trust him. Of course, who would trust someone who walked into…whatever this was?

This was the first real time that Tubbo actually noticed what was going on in the background. People were staring at him with glares in their eyes and weapons clattered all over tables and stalls. Oh boy, did he just stumble into an anarchist town?

Slowly, he positioned his feet to face the forest.

“Guys,” the man cooed to the others, smile growing ever wider as red was practically flaring in his eyes. His cheeks were all rosy and his eyebrows furrowed in rage and disgust, “We have a little prince in our town!”

“Wh-What?”

“Don’t act stupid, rich boy,” the man spat at him, “you’ve ignored the townspeople for years. You and your stupid, no good family have caused nothing but dept, hunger, and death.”

“What?” Tubbo’s eyes widened, both in fear and confusion. “Why’d they do that?”

“Wouldn’t you like to fucking know,” the man's axe raised slightly in his hand.

Tubbo stayed frozen, fear shakiness frosting over him like the winter ice over lakes and ponds.

He remembered a time when he and Beson would try to crawl to the other side of frozen bodies of water when they occasionally visited the garden.

“Y’know, kid,” another man, shorter but obviously stronger than the first, “you would make a good tool to the rebellion.”

“What?”

“We’re about to start a war, kid. Against you and your pathetic parents.”

The two men looked at each other.

“What do ya’ say, kid? Wanna help take your parents out?” The first one grinned, showing off his grimey teeth, yellow and rotting.

“No, thank you.” Tubbo squeaked before he could think.

The mood shifted and both men's gazes darken, gripping their weapons tightly.

Tubbo knew he was going to die. So, he did the stupidest thing ever, and ran.

Tubbo had proven his intelligence a while ago, which was near to nothing, but he could say he had a pretty good plan.

But that plan would probably never go into motion considering the fact that he didn’t exercise much, and those guys chasing after him with swords definitely did.

Leaves and branches whizzed by him as he stomped as fast as he could.

All he needed to do was outrun them, even lose them for a few minutes. Anything.

His throat was raw and bloodier than ever, his wheezes squeezing out painfully. The cold bit into his senses and he hated it.

He wanted to go back to the castle. To curl up in his bed and just sleep it off.

He couldn’t do that when there were guys almost two meters tall on his tail, weapons swinging down mere centimeters away from him.

He gasped as he tripped over a fallen tree trunk, rolling across the muddy grass and soaking up his cloak and getting it all over his face. His scar burned, smudging blood onto his mouth, nose, and probably his clothing and the grass around him.

He shakily got back up and scrambled back to the treetops, hearing the calls of the men getting closer and closer and closer.

But as soon as he stopped in front of a cliff with a waterfall cascading down the height, he knew he was screwed.

Seriously, it probably would’ve been the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen under any other circumstances.

He fell to his knees and gasped for air, his lungs crawling up his throat to grasp it and swallow it whole. His arms were pink and shaky from the cold. He covered his eyes and begged like a small child that they wouldn’t be able to see him.

It was in vain, though, because the same man from earlier picked him up by the hood of his cloak, ripped the crown from his hair, which left his scalp bleeding, and smashed his head against a tree.

The blinding white was terrible, it seethed and glowed in his vision and the ringing wailed like tiny dogs getting their limbs chopped off. It nearly made his ears bleed, eardrums laughing painfully.

Wait, who were these guys again?

At first he couldn’t hear what they were saying, because of the blinding sound in his ears and the blood from his head dripping into them.

Something came up his throat and all he heard was cussing and the squelching of vomit meeting with boots before he was thrown to the ground, hard. 

His hearing started to clear up and suddenly he felt very sleepy.

“Fuckin’ bitch, royals can do whatever they want, HUH?”

Tubbo whimpered at the booming voice.

“This little- ugh. Say, you thinkin’ what I’m thinking?”

“Sure am, the kids obviously concussed. He wouldn't make it.”

“Well then, this could be our declaration of war. Kill their kid, show them who’s boss.”

Tubbo did not like where this was going.

He felt his jelly-like arms and legs being lifted by the ankles and wrist with strong hands and grips, walking him over to the edge of the cliff, where the water was gushing loudly and made Tubbo struggle.

He didn’t do much, other than earn a slice to the arm, and the warm crimson dripping down his soft, solid skin.

“Bye bye, prince.”

And with that, he was tossed down, down, down with the water. His cloak billowed around him, so he looked like he was falling from the sky. His eyes were closed. This is the end, he thought. I’m going to die. He would've screamed but he didn’t really know what was going on right now.

He splashed into the lake moments later, sinking down with bubbles coming from breathing out.

Tubbo had thought for a mere second that Benson was next to him, because he saw the bird for a second or two. The crow was probably off somewhere else, though.

Crap. The bile in his throat was rising up, climbing, but he knew better than to let it out underwater.

He was almost at the bottom now, and his eyes hurt. It was weird, because from what he knew he would probably be near the surface.

It almost felt like he was being vacuumed into another world.

He saw blinding light and the water dulled his hearing, relieving him of the muted noises coming from the depths.

It didn’t matter, though, because he passed out a few moments before.

Tommy can’t help but feel something’s wrong. He felt his feathers twitch a while ago, almost like a shiver. He usually shrugged it off because nothing bad happened, but the pink of the tree trunks practically whispered to him.

His feathers twitched again. He shook his head, irritated.

Tommy would tell Wilbur about it when he got back. Plus, Clementine was chirping behind him, probably another catch.

Benson needed to hurry.

Chapter Text

Tubbo was awoken by slobber pouring down onto his nose. Frankly, it wasn’t ideal, but at least he wasn’t drowning.

He stared up at pink leaves, and a small dragon was peering down at him with a look that was unreadable, eyes flickering between curiosity and concern.

Wait, what?

Tubbo raised himself up from the ground quickly, gripping the grass that he swore wasn’t as tall as it was now with white knuckles. His head rang and his ears groaned and the light burned just like the scar under his eye and he hated it and he wanted- he was bleeding- he needed-

“Woah there, I wasn't expecting you to wake up so quickly.”

Tubbo scrambled out of his pain-stricken haze and made eye contact with a grinning stranger, which helped him calm down but also did nothing at the same time. Why was his voice so loud?

The guy planted a steadying hand on his shoulder, claw like nails gently digging into his shoulder. It gave him a strange sense of strength that made him feel like he could fight against anything.

Well, not the bile pushing at the back of his mouth, but whatever. He wanted to go back to sleep.

The stranger’s face hesitated slightly as he observed him. Tubbo took this chance to look him up and down, too.

He seemed to be around his age, sharp blond hair with blue eyes reflecting him almost like a mirror, except this guy’s eyes were more vibrant and his hair was more extroverted than his if that even made sense).

He was wearing a dress shirt with a red cloth vest on top, and his pants seemed to have been ripped and sewn back together in some places. Of course, his wings were the most distracting part of the boy, but Tubbo liked the simpleness of his outfit.

The boy’s ears (which were made purely of feathers, by the way) faded into black. His hands didn’t have feathers, but they faded into a color that was darker than the rest of the skin. If Tubbo had to guess, the boy’s legs most likely had the same gradient.

He doubled over and threw up.

The stranger made a surprised looking face and scooted away, the tiny dragon following.

“There there, uh, person. I don’t know your name yet,” the stranger tried, awkwardly rubbing circles into his back, “my name is Tommy, if you want it. Well, of course you would, you would want to know the name of your savior, after all.”

Tubbo’s stomach let him rest as he turned his head in question and spoke in a raspy voice. “Savior?”

“Yeah, you were falling from the sky. I saw you so Clementine helped me get up there and glide you down.”

The small dragon perked up, “Yep!”

Tubbo stared wide-eyed at the creature. It’s voice was a bit garbly and it seemed a bit slurred, but who was Tubbo to care? His whole life was slurred. Maybe.

Wow, he was tired. Where was he, again? It looked like the garden, but it could easily be one of his books.

“M’tired,” he said, his eyes drooping, “I’m going back to bed.”

He felt a static warp, the feeling in his limbs turning into a dull, numb, maybe distant? Sensation. He felt a small, weak, pounding in his head, nearly screaming at him.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” the other reasoned, but Tubbo really didn’t care so he laid down and blinked drowsily. Tommy looked annoyed but concerned at the same time.

“You don’t look too good, I’m gonna pick you up and take you to The Ignition, is that ok?”

“Mmm,” Tubbo blinked.

He felt arms swivel him into a strange hold that made him want to cry, but if he did vomit would join the tears in flowing freely from his body.

Someone said something, whether it was the dragon or Tommy, he didn’t know. It was so warm and it made him clutch the source tighter, burying his face into it. It was soft, and he tried not to scare it away.

He doesn’t remember his bed being so comfortable, so he took the chance to rest. A day without crying himself to sleep, score!

He heard something, and this time it was clear what was being said.

“No no no no, shit, you can’t fall asleep now, that’s bad. Hey, hey, HEY, bitch boy, stay awake please or I’ll beat you up!”

It sounded panicked, and it made Tubbo wonder who Tommy was talking to. Was it him? No, no one else was sleeping except him.

He’s tired.

And, for the second time that day, Tubbo passed out.

Tommy doesn’t know what to think.

He knows he should be worried, but he can’t bring himself to look at the other boy in his arms.

Some stranger who is probably his age, if not younger, has his head cradled into the feathers of his wing and is clutching the feathers surprisingly gently as if he’s scared to let go, and is probably out cold.

He should’ve trusted the instant flutter of his feathers a few hours ago, when the trees seemed wrong. He really should’ve trusted his gut.

“Clementine,” Tommy rasped out as he ran, “Please get one of the crows and tell Phil what’s going on.”

The dragon nodded, worry fresh in her eyes as she swooped off.

Tommy sees the top of his sleeping tower that was connected to Phil’s house, which was the largest of all the builds, and he grins, but not in a happy way.

He can’t help but let his concern spike and stab into his senses when he feels wet warmth drip down his feathers. Did something start bleeding again? Was Tommy being too rough? He had no idea how to handle this situation!

Tommy looks at the familiar cliff that separates the forest and the ground, jumping down and opening his wings just like the elytrans he saw when he was younger, ready to catch the wind and get this kid to Wilbur.

That was his only major mistake throughout the entire day.

Tommy is an avian, whose wings are meant for gliding. Not flying.

So of course he realized this when he tilted his extra limbs in the wrong way and he felt sickening pain ring through his nerves and shock him still. He dropped the rest of the way down.

Tommy wasn’t all that far away from the ground, so he didn’t have too much to worry about. Of course, he can’t glide without his wings, so he fell right onto his arm to avoid hurting his wings or the boy and further.

He sat there, lungs screeching for air and practically throwing itself up his throat, for mere seconds as his upper arm throbbed.

Tubbo moved a little bit and blood dripped onto his vest, which was enough to send him up and running across the field and into the sweet scent of home.

He let himself groan in pain as he observed the area around the houses and skidded to a stop, earning a grunt from the other in his arms.

It was empty, which meant Wilbur was either inside, doing chores, or in his infirmary. A one third chance was good enough, Tommy was not about to cry because he was getting too worried for a boy he found falling from the sky and his wings were in agony.

The avian raced across the plains, arm probably bruising already and wings hanging uselessly behind him.

Clementine was next to him once again, on the ground running with him.

Tommy reached the normal sized building and slammed his foot into the door, Clementine sniffing the boy he is now struggling to hold as Tommy nearly lost his balance. That guy might be light, but Tommy is not used to carrying people.

“Tommy, I’m busy restocking. Niki’s coming over, y’know.” Tommy heard Wilbur’s voice from the inside, annoyance laced in his tone.

“That can wait, Wil!”

“No, it can’t, Toms.”

Tommy felt a sense of dread overcome his senses, the pain in his back and his wings nearing borderline unbearable.

“I don’t care, let me through,” Tommy pleaded, and even to him it sounded unnatural. Tommy was not one to let shakiness or pain take control of his tongue, it never shook and it never cracked in a sad way.

He could practically feel the movement and the tense atmosphere crash down onto the older as he spoke.

“Please!” Tommy added, just in case.

He heard rapid footsteps approach the door and the lock shuffling open and the door swung and nearly hit Tommy’s face.

Wilbur’s eyes were wide and his brows were furrowed with concern. The first thing Tommy noticed was the swirling storm of emotion erupting from the older’s head, and that was just from the downturn of his mouth.

Tommy rushed inside before Wilbur could get a word and spotted the nearest bed, dropping the unconscious boy onto the mattress before collapsing on the one next to him.

Phil is going to be pissed.

Wilbur didn’t know what to do. Well, he did. But it was an appropriate thing to say in a situation like this.

He wanted to question the hell out of Tommy, who was this kid? What were you thinking? What’ll Phil think?

But the second Tommy looked back into his eyes Wilbur knew that it wasn’t the time. Wilbur strode over to the other side of the room and sat down on the bed with Tommy.

“Ok, go ahead and lay down on your stomach for me, m’kay?” Wilbur guided softly, letting his voice lower to a tone that he knew Tommy found soothing.

“But that kid is in worse shape, Wil, I-”

“We’ll I don’t trust a kid that you probably just kidnapped and, at best, sprained your shoulders for.”

Tommy rolled his eyes and Wilbur hid the urge to sucker punch him in the face deep inside of his soul where it would never be found.

The avian hesitantly laid himself down on the mattress and cushioned his head with the pillow that accompanied it. Wilbur smiled approvingly and began to examine the damage.

“How did you open your wings?” Wilbur asked as he searched the place for his guitar. Tommy, who wasn’t done bitching around, responded.

“As wide as your mouth when you talk, asshole.”

“Tommy.”

Said boy grumbled before responding again. “I opened them like an elytran.”

“You’re still hung up on that?” Wilbur turned around as he clutched the newly found guitar, “that was forever ago.”

“I know, but I just…I dunno,” Tommy’s muffled voice sounded in the pillow, “they all looked so happy, flying around like that. I wish I could fly.”

“I think gliding is pretty cool.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“No, I’m not, I do think it’s cool.”

Tommy's deadpan could be felt from across the room.

“You were literally making fun of my gliding just a few hours ago.”

Wilbur strummed his guitar in one of Tommy's favorite melodies as a response, and the tense aching around the avian’s back eased away.

“Wilbur, you’ve gotta help him,” Tommy spoke again, voice drowsy, “I think he got hurt, like, really bad. He threw up the second he woke up and then he fell asleep again.”

Wilbur didn’t like the sound of that, and it was clear in the way his playing hesitated only for a moment, and decided to assume he was dealing with a concussion with the child in the other bed, who slept soundly. Wilbur would get to him in a minute.

He grabbed some bandages and observed Tommy for any bleeding. Wilbur didn’t have wings, so even if there was any blood, Wilbur wouldn’t be able to use his Occult genes to do anything about it.

Wilbur slowly removed the vest and dress shirt that Tommy wore and began to bandage the avian’s shoulder and the base of his wings when Phil barged in, a bird on his shoulder and eyes wide.

Wilbur had no idea how the older man was going to react.

“Hey, Phil-”

“What the hell is going on?”

“When Tommy wakes up, we should ask him,” Wilbur said, glancing down at the boy, who had fallen asleep.

Phil sighed and sat down next to Wilbur in Tommy’s bed, placing his face into his hands and groaning. Wilbur wanted to do the same, but he was busy wrapping up with Tommy.

Wilbur walked over to the other kid, who seemed to be around the same age as Tommy, and observed his injuries.

He had a scar that looked like a spot on a cat, and the skin was ripped open as if someone had torn it or had gone through too much movement. The kid also had a bash to the head, which had blood on it, and probably a few minor things.

“Bloody hell,” Phil mutters, taking in the appearance of the kid, “who is he? Why does he look so…beat up?” Why does he look so much like me? was a question that didn’t go unheard despite it never being spoken.

“I dunno,” Wilbur sighed before glancing at Tommy again, “but Tommy said some things that pointed towards a concussion, too.”

“What gene class do you think he’s from?”

“Maybe he’s part of the Enhanced? I can’t really tell.”

Phil turned the boy’s head, and his eyes widened.

“Okay, Wilbur, don’t freak out,” said the man's father, taking a few steps back.

“What? What is it? Is something wrong?” Wilbur was panicking at this point, the tone of voice was one he couldn’t detect. This was one of the moments Phil didn’t have his veil on.

“You know the birthmark on your neck? The one I have, too?”

“...Yeah?”

“This kid has it. Look.”

Wilbur scrambled to the side of the bed Phil was on, and peered at the boy’s neck. There it was, in all its glory. A Totem of Undying shaped birthmark just a few centimeters below his ear.

Fuck. They were in for a weird next few days, Wilbur decided as he looked at Phil, who had put his veil back on.

“So we have a long lost family member?”

Phil did not talk, and the room practically shrunk in the tenseness radiating off of Phil. Wilbur took this as his cue to shut up.

Benson waited to be with his friend again.