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Fundy wasn’t ignorant to the way in which Wilbur viewed him. Young, naïve and immature. Things that growing up alongside the theatrical maniac he called his father, Fundy was labelled to secure his absence in the discussions that swept the final days of his home, L’manberg.
L’manberg had meant so much to Wilbur, so much in fact he was willing to let Fundy fight in a war to save it. To save the walls Wilbur had built for Fundy’s safety. To protect his family, or at least that’s what Wilbur claimed.
So… Fundy did.
He fought to protect his home; he always did. He fought to protect his family from the possessive binds of the enemy, but it was never enough for Wilbur. Months later, with the dingy cement and concrete infrastructure that was once named L’manberg reduced to nothing but rubble, buried deep under layers of chasms and glass, it was still not enough for Wilbur.
Fundy placed a paw on the pine door that lay in front of him, his father’s newest passion project. One that Fundy knew, Wilbur would’ve at the least roped Tommy into helping with. It was made of the same cement as L’manberg, and was held up by the same dreams and tape as every creation of Wilbur’s.
It had been some time ago that Fundy had heard the news of the building’s construction, through Quackity’s right hand man, Sam, when he’d arrived at the Las Nevada’s restaurant for dinner one night. The establishment had been empty, the usual no matter the time of day, and Tubbo had immediately served him. Sam arrived not long after Fundy had finished his meal and had made the news public.
Wilbur was alive, and Wilbur was constructing.
Fundy sighed, the setting sun casting an ever-increasing shadow around the front of the building and looming over the entrance where Fundy stood. He knew his father was alive, Phil had communicated it to him already, but Fundy had chosen to feign ignorance. Maybe Fundy was naïve, believing that his problems would just disappear if he left them to their own devices, but in Fundy’s eyes it was better than walking head first into a ticking maniac’s bomb.
Now, however, it seems Fundy was out of options. Quackity had deemed it necessary that someone had to deal with Wilbur, and out of all the options at Las Nevadas, that Fundy was the most applicable due to his relation. Where Quackity had thought up that idea, Fundy had no clue, but either way by the country’s legislation he stood at the steps to his next problem.
Pressing his hand into the door, Fundy watched the blonde-coloured wood shift in response and crack open. The last golden rays of sunlight peered through the decoratively placed stained glass windows at the bow of the building, and it was in that moment Fundy realised the infrastructure was a church.
Fundy ran his eyes up the rows of plastic chairs that lined the concrete floors, his eyes landing on the silhouetted figure of his father standing at the pedestal in the fleeting rays of the sun. A torn book rested in Wilbur’s clenched hands, and the crystalized shards of the glass behind him gleamed down and gave an eerie red glow to his face.
“Tommy? What do you want, I told you I need to think over my plan.” Wilbur’s voice was tired, wrenched with false responsibilities. As Wilbur turned around, placing the book on the pedestal and standing to his full stature, Fundy felt his ear twitch in anticipation as they took in each other’s appearances.
“Oh. Fundy. It’s you.” There was a displaced air in Wilbur’s voice, as if he was struggling to hide his surprise. “Well, that is a tad unexpected I suppose.” Wilbur coughed, clearing phlegm caught in his throat and Fundy twitched his nose as the detectable scent of smoke reached him.
“Is that all?” Fundy stepped forward, clearing the space between the two of them. “Is that really all you have to say to me?”
“Well, what else do you expect from me?” It was a suggestion, a challenge for Fundy.
“What are you doing here Wilbur?”
“Please Fundy, I am your father, no need to speak to me with such tenacity” Wilbur placed his hands behind his back, something he’d always done to show he was no longer listening to reason.
“I’m not a kid anymore Wilbur, so stop treating me like one.” Fundy felt the rage begin to bubble under his skin and had to bite back a snarl. “Why are you in Las Nevadas.”
“It’s clear-cut really, I’m building a church.” Wilbur smirked, happy with the simplicity of his answer. “Can you not tell?” He gestured gracefully to the empty room around them, as if he’d rehearsed this encounter a thousand times over.
Fundy’s ears now both flicked in irritation, a telling response to the words as he knew his father was only trying to rile him up.
“I suppose you want a few extra details Fundy?” Wilbur left the question hanging in the air as a tempting hook, desperately trying to reel Fundy back into Wilbur’s comfort zone. Fundy didn’t response, but Wilbur continued unperturbed. “Well, if you must know…” Wilbur strolled towards the pedestal and grabbed the leather bind of the book flicking through the yellowing pages till he found the one he wanted. The flick of Wilbur’s wrist sent the book to follow its trajectory and land at Fundy’s feet. It held a collection of wild sketches and notes detailing Wilbur’s plans for building the church. “Since Las Nevadas is a monopoly of gambling and regrets the best idea would be to simply make use of the growing economy, make my own mark of its sands, so I created this church. A holy place where people can atone for their sins. Pray to the heavens, maybe burn a few candles… or a few flags...” He paused his speech as Fundy’s ears flattened to his skull. “You could be the first to atone to yours Fundy… it would be fitting of a traitor after all.”
“At least I can realise that.” Fundy snapped, his ears remaining flattened. He gave the journal a sharp kick causing the leather bound to spiral riotously and crumple as it came into contact with the closest plastic chair, the yellowed pages splitting from the seams and spilling on the floor. “You have not right to call me the traitor when you abandoned me!”
Wilbur’s face crumpled in the same moment the journal did and any composure he had been trying to maintain was lost. Wilbur’s voice jumped to a shout. “You abandoned our home Fundy, at our time of need! You cemented your decision when you joined that tyrant Schlatt, and now you have the audacity to join a criminal in Quackity?!”
“They treated me, treat me like I matter Wilbur, like I’m not a child! Why can’t you just be happy for me?” Fundy’s voice cracked towards the end of the sentence.
“…I’ll treat you like an adult when you start acting like one Fundy!”
The frosty night air swept through the room from the open door, and caused both parties to receive shivers as a cold silence was brought between them.
Fundy clenched his hands, but released them with a sob. “L’manberg was always more important to you, wasn’t it?” He looked up at his father, but Wilbur avoided making any form of eye contact. “It still is now.” He swiveled on his feet and begun walking out of the building, the click of his claws on the wood picking up in pace as he edged closer towards the door.
“Fundy… I am happy for you.” Wilbur’s voice echoed through the concrete hall, dissipating into the cement and bringing Fundy to a standstill at the sill of the door. Wilbur was never the type to realise his faults, let alone voice them. “At least I try to be.”
“Wilbur. Leave Las Nevadas.” It was a statement, not a suggestion. “You can come see me when you aren’t living in the past.”
Fundy walked out of the church, the fresh moonlight from the freezing night casting an auspicious glow that highlighted his exit. The pine door shut behind him with a satisfying click.
Fundy was right, he’d never been good enough for Wilbur.
For a change, however, Fundy knew he didn’t have to be.