Archive of Our Own

"You're sending me where?" Wilbur demanded.

"If I can't teach you responsibility, I'm not handing the empire over to you," Phil said, voice level.

Wilbur looked down at the little trash island his dad wanted to send him to, so inconsequential it wasn't even named on the map, and scoffed.

"Hell no," he said. "I'm not going there."

"Wilbur, either you go, or you forfeit your right to the throne and your inheritance. I didn't raise you like this. You shouldn't be partying like this and ignoring the people--the people I'm not priming you to rule over, but to rule for."

Wilbur crossed his arms.

"I haven't done anything," he whined.

"That's the problem. You've never had to work for anything. This is your last chance to prove to me you're worthy of taking over, mate. You go to this island and teach until summer--and if you show me results, if you show me improved literacy rates–then you can come home. If you don't? If you lie to me and slack off again? I'm cutting you off."

"Wh--that's not fair! You can't do that. Techno, tell him he can't do that," Wilbur said, looking to Technoblade for support. Technoblade pointedly avoided eye contact and didn't answer. Unbelievable.

"You're leaving today," Phil said. "A valet will fetch you later."

Wilbur's mouth flapped uselessly. He looked between Technoblade and Philza.

"This is--this is so unfair! I don't want to teach snotty brats!" He stamped his foot.

They remained unmoved.

He turned on his heel and stormed off.

A valet did indeed fetch him later, waiting impatiently while he frantically packed before bundling him onto a sleigh--and not one of the comfortable ones, either, with the padded seats. This thing creaked anytime he moved, made of lightweight wood meant to make it easier for the horse to pull over long distances.

The valet handed him a map and said,

"Your ferry leaves in three hours. Don't miss it."

Wilbur sat by himself in the sleigh, clutching the map hard enough to crumple it. He couldn't believe Phil was fucking him over like this--and Technoblade agreed with him! The island didn't even have a name! It was just some dumb backwater town they'd taken over during expansion. It didn't matter.

With a growl of frustration, he snapped the reins. The horse took off through the snow.

His hands were numb in his mittens and his nose was frozen solid by the time he reached the dock. The salty sea spray made everything worse. His teeth chattered.

The ferryman stood waiting in a light jacket, lounging around like he was immune to the cold, next to a boat that could barely be described as a proper ferry. For that matter, ferryman was generous; he had to be younger than Wilbur, all scruffy blond hair and not a hint of stubble in sight.

He caught the horse's bridle and said,

"You must be the disgraced son, then, yeah?"

Wilbur bristled.

"What? I am not disgraced!"

The ferryboy laughed in his face.

"You going on a cute vacation, then? Fun getaway retreat? If you are, you picked a great location."

Wilbur growled and made a point of staying in the sleigh as it was loaded onto the ferry. The ferryboy stroked his horse's nose and buried his hands in its thick mane.

"Shouldn't you be driving the boat?" Wil asked.

"Nah," he said, cheerily. "You were early. You never know--there might be other passengers."

Wilbur grumbled and tucked himself into his coat.

The ferryboy doddled a little longer before detangling his hands from the horse's mane. He flexed his fingers and breathed into cupped palms. Maybe he felt the cold afterall. Why did he insist on wearing such light clothes, then?

The ferryboy pushed from shore. The ferry felt every bit as cheap and frail as the sleigh, lurching with every small lap of the water. Wilbur clutched the edges of his sleigh and clenched his eyes shut--he didn't miss the ferryboy laughing at him again.

"Don't worry," he said. "I haven't sunk yet and I've been doing this for years."

"I might be seasick," Wil confessed.

"Do it on your sled or over the edge, man. I'm not cleaning that up."

"You're a real asshole, ferryboy, you know that?"

The ferryboy sputtered.

"Fuck off! My name's Tommy and I am the biggest man you'll ever meet."

"I'm Wilbur. See, was that so hard? Didn't anyone ever teach you manners?"

"Didn't anyone ever teach you manners?" Tommy fired back.

Wilbur turned his nose up. Tommy sulked to the front of the ferry.

After lurching their way through rough waves for long enough that the sea spray turned Wilbur into an icicle, Tommy grabbed a hook and roped a spire of jagged black rock. The ferry swung into something of a bay, protected from the rage of the sea by a wall of rocks, and bumped against the edge of what Wilbur realized with dawning horror was not a second, remarkably large pile of rocks, but in fact the island.

Tommy hopped onto the icy rocks and tethered the ferry.

"Welcome!" he said.

The ferry bumped gently against the rocks.

Wilbur gaped.

"How am I supposed to get the sleigh onto this?" he asked. "There's no fucking dock!"

Tommy shrugged, grinning.

"We'll have to lift it, big man."

"Lift it? I'm not lifting it!"

"Then I guess it's going back to the mainland without you."

Wilbur grumbled and huffed. Tommy watched on gleefully while he unhooked the horse, but to his credit, he did help Wilbur lift the sleigh onto the rocky shore. Wilbur was grateful for how lightweight the piece of junk was, now.

"Right," Tommy said, hopping into the sleigh, "Let me show you to your most luxurious new home."

Wilbur growled at him but passed over the reins.

He could do with a warm bath to thaw his toes, and a hot meal. This journey was exhausting.

All he had to do was get a couple brats to pass a few reading tests and he'd be home; no way he'd stay here for more than a month.

The town rose from the mist and snow flurries, all squat and crooked houses buried in drifts of snow. Roofs bristled with icicles. The streets sat dead quiet; windows flickered with muted light from fireplaces.

"Jesus," Wilbur said. "It's like a fucking ghost town."

Tommy shrugged.

"We're all a bit too busy making a living to be dicking around with unimportant shit like you do on the mainland," he said.

He guided the horse behind a building so small it barely counted as anything at all, to a lean-to full of hay.

He leapt from the sleigh.

"You want a tour?" he asked.

"What? Of this place? It looks like an outhouse--I bet this is your house. Where am I staying?" Wilbur asked.

Tommy looked much too gleeful when he said,

"Oh, no. This is your house."

Wilbur stared at the shack with renewed horror.

"It's so…" he started, but no description could do it justice. Tommy guffawed.

"Oh, stop freaking out. C'mon." The door was frozen solid to the frame. Tommy kicked it until it came loose.

The inside was frigid and dark.

"Here it is. This is the kitchen, and the bedroom, and what other rooms do you have in a palace? The fucking… ballroom, and throne room. It's a four-in-one deal."

Wilbur wheezed faintly.

Tommy clapped him on the back.

"You might want to get a fire started. You're starting to look a bit blue. Tell you what, I'll do you a solid--I'll get your horse settled."

And with that, Tommy abandoned him.

Wilbur stomped to the fireplace. Mercifully, there was already wood and matches. As he struggled to catch the wood on fire, he snarled under his breath,

"Fucking Dadza. Sent me to this backwater shit hole to teach me a lesson. I'll teach him. I'm gonna die here and that'll show him."

The fire refused to catch.

With dawning horror, he considered what would happen if he couldn't get the fire lit and the shack warmed. What if he did die?

He sprinted to the door.

"Who's the prettiest horse in the world?" Tommy was asking the horse, combing his fingers through its forelock. When he caught sight of Wilbur, he turned a violent shade of red.

"Light my fire for me," Wilbur demanded.

Tommy scoffed.

"They really didn't teach you any manners. Damn, I'm better than a prince."

Wilbur grit his teeth.

"Please light my fire," he said.

"Now that's more like it," Tommy said. He laughed at the discarded matches Wilbur had left in front of the fireplace. "You've got to use kindling, dipshit."

"How am I supposed to know that?" Wilbur complained, aware his own face was probably red.

Tommy lit the fire for him and left him with the parting wisdom of,

"Don't let your fire go out or you'll freeze to death, and if you die I get all your possessions."

Wilbur yelled,

"That's not how it works!" out the door but Tommy was long gone into the swirling snow.

Wilbur woke up shivering.

His fire had indeed gone out, but he was not dead.

Someone (Technoblade, probably) had tucked a map of the town into his bag. He bundled up until only his eyes were visible and slogged through the snow to the one-room schoolhouse.

The windows were boarded up against the icy wind. The door, when he tried it, was frozen shut.

"What the fuck," Wilbur said. "Where are all the kids?"

"At work, fuckface," Tommy said from behind him.

Wilbur jumped a foot.

"Jesus fuck," Wilbur said, clutching his chest. He doubled over.

Tommy laughed at him.

Wilbur scooped up snow and threw it in his face.

"What do you mean, at work?"

Tommy rolled his eyes.

"Well, you spoiled-rotten little prince, some of us have to work for our food, especially in this shithole."

"I'm not spoi--hang on, what about your parents?"

Tommy scoffed.

"Does this town look like it has a booming population? We all just kinda ended up here, man, and we've got no families. We're big, independent men."

Wilbur took in his lack of gloves or a hat, took in the way he shivered in the howling wind and snow with nothing but his thin coat.

"We're going back to that fucking shack and you're explaining to me what's going on in this godforsaken town," Wilbur said, stomping away.

In the shack, he piled logs onto the fire and sat dangerously close. Tommy joined him, stretching his fingers toward the heat.

"So you're an orphan?" Wilbur said.

"I'm not a fucking orphan, I just don't have any parents, you bitch."

"That's literally the definition of an orphan, you insufferable child."

Tommy shoved him.

Wilbur shoved him back.

"Ugh! Stop it! That's probably treason, what you're doing. Work with me. You're telling me none of you stayed in school?"

"There's three of us, and Tubbo can't really read no matter how hard Ranboo tries to teach him, okay, it wasn't even worth our time."

"Can you read?"

Tommy spluttered.

"I can! I can fucking read, you bitch! I'm leaving!"

Wilbur caught him by the collar.

"Oh no you don't. We're starting your lessons right now and you're going to be my ticket out of here."

Tommy growled and flailed around.

"I have a fucking boat to get back to!" he complained.

"There's no way the sea is safe in this fucking weather," Wilbur said. "Sit."

Tommy sat, and grumbled while he did it, but Wilbur ignored him and pulled paper from his bag.

"Do you know the alphabet?"

"What am I, five? Of course I know the alphabet!"

"Prove it."

Tommy sang the alphabet. Then, just to prove he could, he sang it backward.

Wilbur grinned.

"Okay. Can you read this?"

He held the paper up.

"That says 'boat', I'm not a dipshit."

Wilbur scribbled another word down.

"And this?"

Tommy hesitated. His eyes darted across the large block letters. A flush rose in his cheeks and he tried to yank the paper out of Wilbur's hand.

"That's not a real word!" he yelled.

Wilbur held the paper out of reach. Tommy almost tumbled them into the fire.

"It says 'dipshit,' actually, so it is a real word, because you just used it."

Tommy withdrew, panting, still red in the face. He crossed his arms and hunched impossibly small. Wilbur was reminded of Technoblade, when Philza had first brought him home. His first language was Piglin, and it had taken him years to properly grasp English. None of their friends would guess it now, not with how often Techno read and how smoothly he spoke, but Wilbur knew for a fact he still fumbled over slang. He loved to dangle his own fluency over his head.

Only when it wouldn't actually hurt his feelings, though, and Tommy was sitting there looking majorly hurt.

"Listen," Wil said. "I'm literally here to teach you how to read. Not knowing how doesn't make you stupid, it just means you dropped out of school."

Tommy wrinkled his nose. His shoulders relaxed.

"Well I know I'm not stupid. Glad you've convinced yourself."

Wilbur snorted.

"Let's start with the basics."

Tommy knew words he'd see in his day to day life, but that was limited to the barge's path back and forth between the island and the mainland. He knew how to write his name, reportedly knowledge from the mysterious Ranboo.

"I need to meet this Ranboo, and Tubbo," Wilbur said. "See what I'm working with."

"Just come to dinner, Wil. I can see you weren't smart enough to catch the market before it closed for the day, anyway."

Wilbur looked around the shack with sudden panic.

There wasn't a crumb of food in sight.

"He didn't even stock it with food! First no cushions in the sleigh, now this!" Wilbur howled, dropping to his knees. "Why, Philza, why?"

Tommy laughed.

"Stop being dramatic, let's go."

Tommy rode double with Wilbur to the edge of the village. Nestled among the trees, far back from the road, sat a shack not unlike his own unfortunate lodgings. The difference was that this one shone with warm, welcoming light.

Tommy threw the door open.

"I'm back!" he bellowed. "I brought Wilbur, the prince-dude."

A tall enderman whose head scraped the ceiling whipped around. He squeaked.

"You brought the--the prince?" he asked. He didn't seem to know what to do with his hands, fumbling at the plates on the counter and the hot pan on the stove.

"Oh, chill, he's a complete loser."

"Hey!" Wilbur stepped on Tommy's heels and tripped him. "It's okay," he told the kid. "I don't believe in ceremony."

Tommy trod on his toes in revenge.

"Uh, well, it's nice to meet you. I'm Ranboo."

The door flew open behind them.

"There's a horse in the yard. Do you think if we steal it, anyone will notice?" By process of elimination, that was Tubbo, stomping snow off his boots at the door. His ram horns curled from curls so thick Wilbur couldn't see his eyes.

"I'd notice," Wil said, unable to help his smile, "since it's mine, and all."

Tubbo's head whipped up.

"Oh, shit! You're the disgraced prince."

Wilbur winced.

Tommy cackled.

"Okay," Ranboo said. "Dinner?"

Over dinner, Tommy delighted in telling Ranboo and Tubbo all the Wilbur gossip he'd picked up from the mainland.

Wilbur held his head in his hands.

"Why don't we talk about you three, huh?" he begged. "I think I've been embarrassed enough. Ranboo, you know how to read, right?"

The conversation stuttered to a halt.

Tommy hunched over his plate.

"Wilbur's teaching me to read," he explained to his potatoes, before stuffing a massive bite into his mouth.

Tubbo blinked owlishly.

"Are you really?" he asked Wilbur.

"Uh, yeah? It's why I'm here."

"I'm gonna be honest, you don't seem patient enough," Tubbo said.

"I like to think I can be patient, when the situation calls for it."

"Our old teacher said me and Tommy were too stupid to be taught," Tubbo said, matter-of-factly. "So we dropped out."

Wilbur didn't know what to say. His mouth flapped open and shut.

"That's not a fucking thing!" he settled on. "Sounds like that teacher was just bad at their job. I will not be."

Tommy and Tubbo didn't respond.

Ranboo cleared his throat.

"Uh, back to your original question. I know how to read a bit. I had to prove I could read and speak English to get my visa, and all that."

Wilbur had looked at the reports on the island, even if he hadn't retained much information because he was busy throwing a tantrum. A stark thirty-three percent literacy rate had felt insurmountable at the time, when he'd been expecting a whole school, but it turned out he was sitting across from the entire third.

Tubbo clinked his glass against Ranboo's.

"And then we got married to get you citizenship." He glanced at Wilbur. "Legally. This marriage definitely isn't about taxes, it's about love or some shit."

Wilbur laughed.

"Don't worry, I won't tell. After dinner, can I sit down with you both and see where you are?"

After dinner, they huddled around the fireplace.

Ranboo could read at a passable level, but Wilbur still offered to help him improve (even if that wouldn't get him home any faster).

Tubbo, on the other hand, struggled. Wilbur figured his education was on par with Tommy's, but he fumbled over the letters too much for it to just be a matter of learnedness.

Wilbur frowned down at his spelling attempts. Tubbo knew what he was writing, and Wilbur knew what he was writing, but the actual letters didn't reflect it.

"I think you need more help than I can give," he said.

Tommy, who had been suspiciously quiet and red-faced since bringing his lessons up, ripped the paper from his hand and tossed it into the fire.

"He's not stupid! You said it wasn't his fault!" he growled. Tubbo shoulders slumped.

"Tommy, it's fine--" he started.

"No, no, no," Wilbur interrupted, holding his hands up. "Of course he isn't stupid, Tommy. This isn't on you, Tubbo. I mean that I think you might have dyslexia, which means you're going to need lessons written in a special font, among other things. I can't magically pull that out of my ass but I can help you get it."

Tommy, who had been two seconds away from punching Wilbur in the face, deflated.

"Oh," he said. "I guess that's fine."

Tubbo frowned at the crisping papers.

"Huh," he said. "So everyone else doesn't have trouble keeping the letters straight?"

Wilbur laughed.

"Nope. That's a talent reserved just for you."

"You're gonna miss the market," Tommy said, dripping snow onto where Wilbur was huddled under every blanket the little shack provided. At least he'd closed the door. Wilbur poked his nose out of his warm cocoon.

"What?" he croaked.

"You said you didn't have food. You have money, right? You need to buy food. I figured I could help you avoid getting swindled, or whatever."

Wilbur sat bolt upright.

"Oh, shit. Shit," he cried, diving for his belongings. He tore them apart. He hadn't packed money, but he hadn't packed the map either, and surely his dad wouldn't send him here of all places to die?

He yanked a pouch of emeralds from the same pocket as the map and curled over it, laughing hysterically in relief.

"Have you proper fucking lost it?" Tommy asked, concerned.

Wilbur gave him a thumbs up.

The pouch was light--there was less there than he'd normally spend on a single meal. That was alright. He'd be frugal and… He didn't know; get an inexpensive wine, or something, to cut costs.

The market barely qualified as such. Lean-tos buried in drifts of snow braced against the harsh sea winds. Merchants bundled up in too many layers huddled behind their wares around small fires. There were few shoppers.

"This place is drab," Wilbur said, looking around. "Where's all the decorations?"

"For what?" Tommy asked, busy scoping out the different stalls.

"For Midwinter. You know, the big holiday, with roasted marshmallows and presents. Ringing any bells?"

"Oh, right. We don't really celebrate that here." Tommy said it distractedly, as if it wasn't the kind of holiday that got Wilbur all giddy even as a full-fledged adult. "I want you to try our island's specialty! C'mere."

Tommy dragged Wilbur to a stall that received a suspiciously wide berth from the other shoppers.

"Two sticks, please," Tommy told the stallkeeper. He looked expectantly at Wilbur.

"Oh, fine," Wilbur grumbled, forking over payment.

The seller handed Tommy what appeared to be dried fish speared on skewers. Tommy handed one to Wilbur with an elated grin. Wilbur eagerly made to take a bite.

The smell hit his nose.

Against his will, he gagged.

He shoved the fish back into Tommy's hand and dove for a clean patch of snow. He frantically scrubbed at his tongue. Even though he hadn't taken a bite, the smell was rank enough to cause a phantom taste to linger in his mouth.

Tommy cackled.

He showed an entire fish in his mouth.

"No, don't eat it! That shit was rotten last year," Wilbur wailed.

Tommy just laughed again.

"It's fermented. Oh, well. More for me. How sad."

Wilbur grimaced.

"You're a lost cause," he said, feeling queasy.

"Maybe you should give it a second chance," Tommy suggested, brandishing the fish under his nose. Wilbur leapt back into the snowbank, willing to be cold if it meant avoiding literal poison.

Wilbur mailed off an official accommodation request for Tubbo, and spent dinners at the trio's house helping Ranboo brush up on his reading and writing, but mostly he spent time with Tommy.

"Why do I have to write a letter to this Santa guy? This feels dumb," Tommy complained, scratching out a blocky greeting.

"It's a tradition!" Wilbur insisted. "I can't believe you've never written a letter to Santa."

Tommy rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, it's for kids. I never got gifts until I met Tubbo, either, so I know this is all a load of bull."

"C'mon," Wil wheedled. "Think of this as a school assignment. You don't have to believe in it to do it."

Tommy groaned.

"This is why I dropped out," he muttered, but still, he dutifully wrote a letter to Santa and rolled it up. He sealed it with a dash of sap from wood waiting to be fed to the fire and handed it to Wilbur.

Wilbur grinned and tucked it into the safety of his bag.

"There you go," he said. "That wasn't so hard. I'll make sure this gets to Santa."

"You're so obnoxious," Tommy said. "Next you'll be saying we should decorate our fucking house."

Wilbur lit up.

"Oh, Tommy, that's a great idea!"

"What?"

Wilbur grabbed his hand and dragged him out of the shack.

They gathered cedar and fir boughs, and turned up extra candles from the boys' messy storage system, and begged for brightly colored packing paper from market merchants.

"Look, you can drape the cedar over the mantle to give a pop of green," Wilbur said. Tommy followed his example and even if his side was crooked and drooping, the way he grinned at it meant Wilbur would never dream of fixing it. "I'll show you how to make a wreath, come here."

Together, they lashed the fir branches into two tiny circles and cut the paper into strips to make bows.

Tubbo pushed open the door.

"Tubbo, Tubbo!" Tommy crowed, leaping up. He carried his wreath to Tubbo. "Look what Wilbur forced me to make!"

"Holy shit, a wreath! Pog, man. I want to make one!"

Tubbo--and Ranboo, when he came home--made their own tiny wreaths. They hung them on the inside of the door, one under the other, to protect them from the elements. Even without a proper tree, the house was warmed by the candles and greenery.

"There we go," Wilbur said, draping an arm across Tommy's shoulders. "Now we're getting more festive."

Dear Santa,

I know you're not real and also I know you're reading this Wilbur. So notice the excellent spelling and punctuation. Yeah Bitch I managed to spell that word and I know I spelled it right. I am so fucking literate and good at reading and writing. Merry fucking Christmas.

In case you are real (but I know you aren't!) I don't give a shit about Christmas but Tubbo really really wants a pet. Ranboo wants a journal to write down what he forgets. They're my best friends and I wish I could make Christmas good for them.

Sincerely,

Wife Haver

Wilbur clutched the letter to his chest. He needed to teach Tommy what commas were, but there was something much more important he needed to fix first. He finally knew what was missing in their little home: presents.

"You'll do great," Wilbur told Tommy.

Tommy clutched the packet of papers to his chest.

"I hate tests. They're boring," he said. He made no move to sit at the table.

"I have full faith in your ability," Wilbur said. "If you do poorly, you can take it again. If you do well, I'll buy you candy."

Tommy eyed him.

"Promise?"

Wilbur crossed his heart.

"Promise," he said. "Now sit." He shoved Tommy into a chair and ruffled his hair. "You'll do great. I'll see you later."

He went straight for the market, which was already being packed up, and bought enough candy to have Tommy bouncing off the walls for three days straight.

Tommy barged into his shack just as he was finishing lunch. He threw the packet of papers at his head.

"I finished! And I didn't even cheat!" Tommy yelled. Wilbur raised a brow and Tommy crossed his arms. Wilbur waited him out, struggling against a laugh, until he hung his head and mumbled, "Ranboo refused to help me."

"Yeah, he's a good one," Wil said. "I'll grade this and in the meantime, this is for you."

He dumped the bag of candy into Tommy's hands.

Tommy stared at it.

"You don't know if I did well yet," he pointed out.

"Well, as the best teacher to have ever lived--"

"Oh, shove it," Tommy said, grinning at his selection of chocolates and sweets.

Wilbur laughed and went to grade his evaluation. Tommy sorted through his candy, smacking Wilbur's hand every time he tried to collect a tax.

Wilbur had spent so long teaching Tommy that he wasn't surprised by the results; a loose grasp of grammar and punctuation didn't disqualify someone from literacy. He dropped the papers and waited for Tommy to look up. When Tommy finally did, nervousness overcame his face.

"How'd I do?" he asked.

"Well…" Wilbur paused for dramatic effect. "You did amazing! I'm so proud of you!"

Tommy leapt to his feet and threw his hands in the air.

"Yes! I knew it! I am the biggest man! I've got to go tell Tubbo and Ranboo!" He darted in and hugged Wilbur with all his might before darting out the door.

Wilbur went to mail the updated census records home with a proud grin on his face.

Ranboo's journal was an easy gift to find.

Tubbo's pet was harder to find.

Wilbur bundled up and trekked out into the forest, following tiny tracks in the snow. Fir branches he pushed out of the way retaliated by dumping snow on his head and down the back of his coat.

He found the fox curled up beneath the sheltering, snow-laden branches of a massive tree. He ducked in and knelt down, holding out berries. The fox inched forward.

"That's it," he whispered. "Tubbo will love you."

Though it was still skittish, it pushed forward into his hand for pets once he bribed it with enough berries. He tucked it in his arms for the walk back and hid it with his horse while Christmas approached.

Tommy was the hardest. He hadn't asked for anything, and it wasn't like Wilbur could give away the game by asking Tubbo or Ranboo what he would like. Instead, he went to the scant merchants who were selling merchandise beyond necessities in the market.

He found a music box with a silly, cartoonish cow balanced on one hoof that spun around and around as the tune played, and knew immediately Tommy would love it (even if he pretended he didn't).

Tommy, Tubbo and Ranboo invited him over for Christmas eve dinner, 'because the holiday is such a big deal to you, or whatever,' according to Tommy. Wilbur pretended to fall asleep in front of the fire and waited until they'd draped a blanket over him and gone to bed to sneak out and get the gifts.

Each was tagged as From Santa, even the tag on the fox's rope collar.

Tubbo was the first awake, stumbling out with eyes half closed and not even noticing Wilbur or the fox until the little animal inched forward to sniff his toes.

He stared at it uncomprehendingly.

"Did Tommy bring you in here?" he asked the fox. The fox squeaked back.

"Check his collar," Wilbur suggested, vibrating with excitement.

Tommy bounded out while Tubbo was still puzzling over the tag. His eyes zeroed in immediately on the music box, which was wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine.

"What's that?" he asked. He noticed the fox. "What's that?"

"A gift from Santa," Tubbo said, a smile spreading slowly across his face.

Tommy whipped around to look at the gifts on the table.

"Are those for Ranboo?" he asked, and it killed Wilbur to know Tommy was genuinely hopeful, obviously thinking of the letter he had written.

"One of them," he said. "I'm pretty sure Santa left this one for you." He shoved the music box forward.

Tommy ripped into it.

He played it once through, then restarted it again, and while its merry little tune tinkled away, Tommy stared at Wilbur with wide eyes.

"I--thank you, Wilbur. This is awesome," he said, tripping over the words, face the most earnest Wilbur had ever seen it.

"Santa left those. See, the magic of Christmas is real!" Wilbur said.

Tommy rolled his eyes. He set the music box carefully down. Wilbur opened his arms and let Tommy nest beneath his chin in a tight hug.

"Merry Christmas, gremlin child," he said.

"Merry Christmas to you too," Tommy muttered. "Even if I still think it's for kids, this is cool, I guess."

Wilbur squeezed him.

"Just wait until I annihilate you in a snowball fight, you'll love that," Wilbur said. "We'll wait until Ranboo wakes up."

Ranboo woke up, and honest-to-god cried over his present while Tubbo and Tommy fluttered around him, nervous and unsure how to help. Once Wilbur had mopped his tears up, he lured them outside for a snowball fight.

Ranboo built a fort of snowballs and launched volleys from the safety of its walls. Tubbo, mostly immune to the sharp, cold sting, set about tossing snow over his walls in waves.

Wilbur was too busy whitewashing Tommy until he howled in rage to help.

"Looks like you found a way to have fun even out here, huh?" Phil said.

Wilbur stopped with a handful of snow poised to be shoved down the back of Tommy's coat and turned slowly.

Philza sat on a fluffy warhorse, grinning down at him. Technoblade sat next to him on his own horse.

"Dad? Dad! What the fuck!" Wilbur half-leapt onto the horse to give Phil a hug. His dad laughed and hugged him back. "What are you doing here?"

"You were making suspiciously fast progress and I wanted to see if you were forging documents," Technoblade said, sliding from his horse to tolerate a split-second hug.

Philza rolled his eyes and dismounted his own horse.

"And we weren't going to leave you alone on Christmas, mate," he said, hugging Wil again.

"I'm not alone, I'm with--oh." He turned to beckon the kids over, but saw the tail end of Ranboo's coat vanishing into their shack. He grabbed Philza's hand. "Come on, I've got to introduce you. I wasn't forging things, for your information, you massive dickheads. There's only three kids here. They're great. You'll love them, Phil."

"Oh, here we go," Technoblade muttered. "Your Phil genetics are kicking in." Wilbur threw snow at him.

Tommy, Tubbo and Ranboo were in the middle of shedding their snow-encrusted coats. They looked startled to see him dragging the emperor and other prince through the door.

"This is Phil, my dad, and that's Techno, my loser brother." They looked shell-shocked; even Tommy shuffled nervously under Phil and Techno's combined stare. Wilbur assured, "You can call them by their names, don't worry about titles." In turn, he pointed out, "That's Ranboo, that's Tubbo, and that's Tommy."

"It's nice to meet you," Phil said, with the warm smile he reserved for the scared and half-starved children that always washed up on his doorstep. Technoblade grunted something that could have been the same sentiment.

Wilbur grinned, bouncing on his toes.

"It's nice to meet you," Ranboo squeaked, and the dam broke.

Tubbo obsessed over Technoblade's sword, which he handed over with too much trust. Ranboo lit up when he realized Technoblade could half-communicate with him, thanks to Endspeak being common in warped forests. Tommy bounced around, talking to everyone rapid-fire, until the sun began to sink behind the trees.

He drifted to Wilbur's side and was happy to nestle under his arm, even if he seemed preoccupied. He heaved a great sigh and asked,

"When are you heading out?"

"Probably soon, it's gonna get cold when the sun goes down," he said. "Hey, we should pull that fish prank on Technoblade tomorrow. He deserves it."

Tommy's brow furrowed.

"The ferry doesn't run this late. I should know, I'm the one that drives it," he said.

"What does the ferry have to do with anything?" Wilbur asked. Tommy hadn't even reacted to the suggestion of a prank, even though he was always jumping at the opportunity to be the world's most endearing nuisance.

"Well, aren't you leaving? Technoblade said you 'actually did your job'." Tommy carved air quotes through the air.

"No? Well, I mean, eventually; it's cold as balls here. But I thought we were-" Brothers. "-I just mean, I don't exactly want to leave you here."

Tommy looked at him as if he was seeing him anew.

"But you said once you taught me to read, you were leaving."

"That was before I knew you! Tommy, did you seriously think I was just going to up and leave you?" Wilbur asked.

Tommy hung his head and scuffed his toe across the floor and muttered something that sounded like,

"I'm just some kid."

Wilbur grabbed him and heaved him into a proper, feet-barely-on-the-floor, back-cracking hug.

"You're my little Tommy! Don't be stupid. Phil! We've got three extra rooms at the palace, right?"