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When Wilbur was ten, he got sick.
It started out as a tickle in the back of his throat, the kind you clear your throat to get rid of then move along with your day. Phil made him chug down some vitamins and eat extra fruit for lunch, and then he was allowed to go play outside with Tommy. That had been that.
Then the cough worsened. It was a dry cough, it itched something fierce when he tried to ignore it, sending him into small bursts of coughing. Phil took him to a healer, who waved him off with the explanation of seasonal allergies and the instructions to drink more water and refrain from exerting himself too much. Several days went by, and the cough went along with it.
Life passed as usual in their little home by the woods. His wings had finally started to shed their down, little tufts of feather breaking in, tawny and golden. Tommy loved to play with them, pudgy hands running through the fluff as he babbled about wanting a pair of his own. Wilbur hummed, braiding flowers into his hair, tuning out the chatter into a pleasant buzz. He plucked a daisy, looping it onto the chain, followed by a red poppy. Nimble fingers tucked them into each other, in and out like his father taught him. The tall grass tickled his ear.
A few seconds passed before he had realized that it was oddly quiet. He looked up to find Tommy staring directly at him, eyes wide open and mouth opening and closing like a gasping fish. Something wet dropped down his lip, then onto the flowers in his hand. He looked down at the red drops staining the white petals, like dewdrops, and touched a finger to his nose, finding it coming away crimson.
He wiped it away, smearing it onto his cheek. Tommy’s lower lip trembled.
“Hey, hey, Toms,” Wilbur said gently, “It’s okay, I’m okay. I probably just sneezed too hard, alright? No need to tell dad.”
Tommy nodded, tiny hands clutching at the hem of his shirt. Wilbur set the flower chain aside, hiding it among the reeds, and got to his feet. The sun glared, momentarily blinding him.
“Come on,” Wilbur said, blinking away the grey. “Let’s wash the dirt off then go help dad with dinner.”
He washed the blood off by a nearby creek, checking his reflection in the water to make sure that nothing remained. Dad was busy, he didn't have time to worry about something as inconsequential as a nosebleed. Tommy rinsed the dirt off his hands, patting them dry on his trousers. Wilbur winced at its now slightly darker cuffs.
A voice called out to them, rising over the meadow plains. Phil stood by the doorway for their cottage, waving as he shouted at them to come back inside and wash up. Wilbur leaned down to whisper into Tommy’s ear.
“Last one there is a rotten egg.”
He cackled as he ran away, Tommy’s enraged squawks growing distant. Phil smiled as Wilbur sprinted past him, taloned hands reaching out to ruffle Wilbur’s hair as he rounded, fluttering his wings to gain speed, and wrapped his arms around his father’s waist, peeking out to watch Tommy fail to catch himself from falling face first into the dirt. Phil laughed, prying Wilbur away from his back to pick up Tommy from the soil where he sat, staring as if the ground had come alive to mock him.
Wilbur stuck his tongue out when Tommy was finally set down onto the tiled floors of their home, and Tommy responded in turn by blowing a raspberry.
Phil playfully scolded the both of them, telling them to take a bath before their muddy footprints undo all his hard work at cleaning. Wilbur responded with a quip of his own, but dutifully wiped his feet on the mat, Tommy following suit.
He let Tommy run a bath first, and passed the time by strumming on the guitar he had gotten on his birthday, fingers struggling to reach the proper strings as he clumsily made his way through a song.
Nevertheless, it was leagues better than yesterday, and he didn’t mess up the strumming pattern, which ultimately made today’s practice a win. Poorly scribbled sheet music filled up the lower half of his bed, covered in half scratched out chords and uneven staff lines. Dad’s birthday was coming up, he wanted to surprise him.
He went through a few more songs before Tommy emerged from the bathroom, hair dripping wet, steam sneaking out of the door crack. Wilbur called him a drowned chicken and got up, putting aside the guitar and grabbing a change of clothing.
He changed the water in the tub and added more coal to the furnace, swishing his hands around to determine if the temperature was warm enough to dip in. Once he deemed it satisfactory, he hopped in, ducking his head into the water once and sputtering when it shot up his nose. He scrubbed at his hair and arms, reaching back to preen his wings of the dirt and rocks that had lodged in them. The water quickly turned a light brown. The mirror fogged up, and he reached over, drawing a little smiley face in the corner.
Once finished, he drained the water and got changed, shivering as cool air blew in to brush off the warmth from the bath. He dried his hair and headed down, breathing in the smell of stew.
Phil was ladling the stew into wooden bowls, Tommy setting out plates for the bread and meat. Wilbur rushed down the remaining flight of stares, ducking under Phil’s arm and grabbing the spoons and fork, and placing them around the dinner plates. Dad set down the bowls, followed by some glasses of juice.
Wilbur pulled a chair out and climbed onto it, whispering grace to Prime and grabbing a slice of bread. Phil spooned some beef onto their plates, and some carrots and string beans. Wilbur picked up a strip and placed it in between his bread, folding it into a little sandwich.
“Did you boys have fun?” Phil asked, taking a bite of his own meal.
Tommy nodded enthusiastically. “Wilbur taught me how to make daisy chains.”
Phil glanced at him appraisingly. “Yeah? I bet it looked really cool.”
“It fell apart after ten seconds,” Wilbur giggled, but added after Tommy frowned at him, “but it was decent, I suppose.”
“It was the best daisy chain ever.” Tommy puffed out his chest, looking like a baby chick with the way his expression pinched. There was sauce on his upper lip. Wilbur stifled a laugh.
Phil smiled. “I bet it was, mate.”
They finished dinner and played some cards. Wilbur beat them three times in a row, but that’s probably because they didn’t quite understand the rules of the game he had made up only a few minutes prior. Wilbur took Tommy up to bed when the younger one started to yawn and Phil tucked them both in, kissing their foreheads good night.
The lantern went out, the door creaked shut, and Wilbur closed his eyes, burrowing deep under covers.
That was the last time he got to go outside.
Wilbur woke to warmth. It wasn’t the pleasant kind, like hugs and hot cocoa, no it was the kind that left you tossing and turning in bed, swallowing and wincing at the way it rubbed your throat wrong. He burrowed deeper into the blanket, feeling chills run down the length of his spine. He forced his eyes to open, hissing at the headache that immediately formed. Sunlight peeked in through the fuzzy edges of the blanket, and he vaguely realized it must be late morning already. Muffled talk sounded from below, wafting up through his window. Tommy’s high pitched voice followed by dad’s more subdued laughter.
Like swimming through molasses, he crawled out from underneath his blanket, pushing his sore legs to stand as he wrapped his blanket around his shoulders. It spilled over onto the floor, probably getting dust into the little fibers, but he didn’t care. All he wanted was a glass of water.
He kept a hand on the wall as he descended down the stairwell, not wanting to lose balance and break his neck. His family’s voices grew louder, and he caught a fluff of blonde hair as he turned the corner.
Dad turned to him with a grin, “Awake, sleepyhead?”
His smile faded as he caught sight of his son’s eyes, and the way his wings winged drooped behind him. He rushed over as Wilbur leaned heavily on the dining table, the room spinning around him.
“Dad—“
Wilbur doubled over, vomiting onto the rug. Vaguely, he registered hands combing back his hair, a hand rubbing the space between his wings, but he’s too occupied with retching whatever little he had in his stomach from the night before, bile burning his throat. Hot tears splashed down his cheeks, and he choked out a sob as he convulsed again, dry heaving.
“You’ll be okay, mate,” Phil murmured, “You’ll be okay. Tommy, grab a wet towel.”
Wilbur shivered on the floor, nauseous but thankfully no longer wanting to puke. Phil lifted him up, bundling him in feathered arms and leaving the soiled blanket behind. He shuddered, breathing shallowly as the motion caused his vision to spin again.
Phil cooed lowly, trills and warbles on his tongue as he hushed the boy, bringing him back up to his room. Wilbur could only cry into his shirt, apologizing for the mess on the floor.
“Aw, Wil, mate , it’s not your fault,” his father sounded heartbroken, and Wilbur reached up with shaky fingers, echoing his trill with a chirp.
Phil gently set him down, grabbing a spare blanket from the closet as Wilbur curled into himself, weakly keening. Phil put the now gathered blankets over him, keeping a hand cupping his cheek, thumb lightly running over the bristles of feathers that marked him below the eyes. He leaned into the warmth of his father’s hand, honestly kind of just wanting to fall asleep again right there and then.
“Did you feel off last night, Wil?” Phil asked softly.
Wilbur shook his head, regretting it immediately when spots blinked in and out of his vision.
“Is he okay?” A small voice asked. Wilbur cracked his eyes open again, and found Tommy standing at the doorway with a soaked cloth and a mug filled with water. Honestly, screw everything he’s said before, that boy won best brother of the year.
“He’s just sick, Toms.” Phil said, taking the towel and wringing out the excess, draping it over Wilbur’s head. Bliss .
“Is he gon’ get better soon?”
“It should only last a few days,” Phil said, putting the glass up on the nightstand in case Wilbur got thirsty, “He’ll be right as rain soon after.”
“Oh, okay.” Tommy beamed. He ran out the room, and Wilbur closed his eyes again, not wanting to bother with the effort of figuring out where he was going.
Phil combed back his fringe, placing a kiss on his fevered forehead.
Tommy ran back in, and the clacks of his claws on the wood made Wilbur peek out. Tommy was holding out to Wilbur a stuffed cow.
“I brought you Henry,” Tommy said, “He can keep you company.”
Wilbur stuck out a hand from his cocoon, taking the stuffed animal and snuggling against it. Phil ruffled his hair, taking Tommy’s hand to bring him out.
“Call for me if you need me, alright? I’ll be making soup.”
Wilbur tried to reply, but he was out before the door even closed shut.
When he awoke in the afternoon, he found himself feeling significantly better, and very much parched. He reached out to take the glass of water, supporting the bottom with a palm as his fingers still felt weak in its grip, and gulped down the liquid, feeling the cool water soothe his throat. When he’d finished, he put the now empty glass back on the nightstand, tugging on his sleeves curiously when he realized he had been wearing a different pair from before.
A gentle knock sounded, and Phil quietly opened the door, creeping in before his eyes widened to find Wilbur sat up and awake.
“Oh, Wil! Are you feeling any better?”
Wilbur nodded, “My head hurts but I don’t feel like vomiting anymore, I don’t think.”
“That’s great, mate,” Phil said, placing down a bowl of broth next to him, picking up the empty glass as he did so, “Do you think you can handle some soup?”
“Oh, please, I’m starved.”
“I’ll be back to pick up the leftovers. Don’t eat too fast, Wil.”
Wilbur ate a little bit too fast, as was now evident by the way he curled against the toilet, gagging up lunch. The taste of beef and bile cling to the roof of his tongue, and he cringed at it through the retching. In his hand, he clutched Henry tightly, fingers digging into the wool skin.
Phil sighed, rubbing his back as his wings fluttered in discomfort. “I warned you, mate.”
Wilbur wiped the spit with the back of his hand, slumping against the cool toilet bowl.
“It tasted really good.” He muttered.
Phil chuckled, hooking his hands underneath the boy’s armpits and gently hauling him up to his feet. Wilbur leaned on Phil more than he cared to admit as they slowly shuffled back to the bedroom, where Wilbur painstakingly crawled back into his bed.
“You know the drill. Call if you need me, I’ll be checking in every couple hours or so.”
Wilbur lethargically saluted him, watching as his father disappeared from view. He waited a few moments, until the sound of a quill on paper started, before he said:
“You know, you’re not supposed to be here.”
A head of blonde hair popped up from the side of his bed, before Tommy fully emerged, crossing his arms to lean on the space near Wilbur’s feet. “I snuck in.”
“You’re going to get sick.” Wilbur admonished, pulling up his collar to cover his nose and mouth.
“I will not be defeated so easily.”
“I’m gonna puke on you.”
Tommy made a face, gagging. “Gross.”
“Shoo. Get out of here before I call dad to haul you out.”
“I just wanted to see how you were.” Tommy pouted.
Wilbur softened. “I’m fine, Tommy. I’ll be back to playing with you before the week’s end, okay?”
“Promise?” Tommy held out a pinky, tiny face determined. Wilbur interlocked it with his own.
“Promise.”
One day passed.
Two days passed.
Three days passed, and Wilbur didn’t get better. The old cough returned with a vengeance, leaving his throat raw and chest aching. His fever burned, his farce warm and his hand ice cold. Any appetite he’d retained was lost, and anything heavier than a light soup was immediately vomited back out. He spent most of the days sleeping, and when awake, was too delirious to be lucid, crying and chirping in distress.
Phil held him as he whimpered into his father’s sleeve, small arms clutching his torso as coughs wracked through him. Dad quietly murmured comforts, cooing when he spasmed again, tears running down his cheeks.
He warbled some sort of plea, too delirious to really understand what he was saying, and Phil made a pained noise in return, hugging his boy tighter. He slumped against his father, and dozed off once again.
He drifted in and out of consciousness. Everything hurt, his head, his joints, his chest. When he wasn’t coughing, he was wheezing for breath that wouldn’t come, curled into his side as he gasped for air. He gagged, pulling his blankets closer. They weren’t enough. They were never enough. Pain lanced through him as he coughed again, and something warm dribbled out his lips.
Through hazy eyes, he saw red.
A crash pulled him from his shocked stupor, and he looked up to find Tommy staring at him in fear, tears pricking in the corner of his eyes. He turned and ran, screaming for their dad.
In a blink of an eye and the next, he is wrapped in layers of blankets, held next to a chest with a heart beating faster than it should. He let out a cry, pain like hot brands running through him, and Phil urged his horse faster.
“—don’t know, this is unorthodox—“
“—anything at all—“
“—sorry, Mr. Minecraft, I’ve no— for a— that doesn’t exist—“
“—fucking dying —“
“—can’t help you—“
He opened his eyes to a dimly lit room. He was tired, each breath like a weight on his chest, but he floated. It didn’t hurt for now. It made him almost cry in relief.
Tommy is curled up by the side of the bed, perched on one of the rickety chairs they kept in the storage. He stirred when Wilbur whispers his name, no longer able to speak anything louder than a breath.
“Wilby.” Tommy said brightly, expression turning apologetic when Wilbur winced at the volume. His next words are much quieter. “You were sleeping for so long.”
“I was tired.” Wilbur replied, giving his little brother a small smile. That, he could manage. “Where’s dad?”
“In his room,” Tommy said, “I think he’s praying.”
“Oh.” He yawned, feeling his head start to dip again. A bone deep exhaustion pulled at him. Tommy patted his hand.
“Go sleep, Wil. I’ll stand guard.”
Wilbur blinked, and fell unconscious once more.
Phil checked on him the next day. His limbs were too heavy to move, but pillows propped him up into a sitting position. He had asked Tommy to help him with that earlier.
“How are you doing, Wil?” Phil asked. There was something sad in his smile, an emotion Wilbur couldn’t place.
Wilbur coughed weakly, blinking away his swimming vision to look up at his father. “Same as yesterday.”
“Tommy said you needed me?”
Wilbur inclined his head to the right, where on the nightstand sat a tape recorder, with a small crude inscription that wrote: “To Dad.”
Phil picked it up with fragile hands, holding it like a mere breath its way could shatter it into pieces. “Wil—?”
“I recorded it a while back, it’s a song I wrote for you,” Wilbur whispered, “Happy birthday, dad.”
A trail of silver ran down his father’s cheek, followed by another, and then another. They leave a trail like rain on a dirtied window, stark in light of dusk. His dad was crying. He’d never seen dad cry before.
“Oh, Wilbur,” Phil’s voice broke like a clean splinter on glass, “Wil, you didn’t have to.”
Wilbur huffed. “Did you think I’d forget?”
“It’s wonderful, mate.” Phil slowly knelt down, clutching the gift in his hand, close to his chest. His breath hitched. “It’s wonderful.”
“I couldn’t think of what else to give you,” Wilbur admitted, “The only thing I could think of was a song.”
Phil laughed. It sounded a lot like a sob. He whispered words Wilbur just barely catches. “I just need you to be okay, Wil.”
Wilbur would like to say he went calmly. He’d like to say that he went in his sleep, that despite his death, dad and Tommy would have peace knowing he went painlessly. Life had no such mercies.
He died suffocating.
He sprung awake just after midnight, the bitter taste of iron on his tongue, gasping for air that wouldn’t come, would never come. His hands clawed at his chest, his throat, scratching away for some sort of reprieve, some way to breathe.
In his scramble, something must have been knocked over and shattered because Phil burst in seconds later, grasping at his face, combing back his hair, caressing his cheek, asking him what was wrong.
Wilbur couldn’t respond. He could only convulse, wracked with a pain that made exhausted tears drip silently down his chin. He writhed in his fathers arms, soundlessly sobbing as his lips turned blue, fingers growing weaker as they scrabbled for purchase.
Phil was pleading to him, red rimmed eyes and and tearful face, voice breaking like the glass shards by his feet. Please, please, please.
Blood bubbled up his throat, and he didn’t know if he was drowning or gasping for breath, but black spots swam in his vision, his father’s face blurring as he sunk deeper into the elder’s hold, limbs losing the energy to fight. Phil pressed their foreheads together, callused fingers gripping the back of his head as he muttered comforts and apologies alike.
Wilbur tilted his head up to lean into his dad, lungs rattling one last time before his trembling ceased all together, and he fell back, limp in his father’s arms. His heart slowed to a silent stop.
Phil buried his face in his son’s chest and wailed.