Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Fundy is good at pretending not to notice.

When he was little, he pretended not to notice his parents screaming at night.  He pretended not to notice his father’s red eyes when he was kissed goodnight.  He pretends not to notice how distant Wil has become, or how consuming the war has been.  

There’s a lot to be said about living in your own head and writing your own version of events — and Fundy’s life has been hard enough that pretending has gone a long way.

But this time, he’s pretending not to notice because Fundy’s pretty sure that Dream has a big crush on him.

It’s nearing dusk, and the great representatives of L’manburg are at a diplomatic meeting on the border.  

(That means that they all had to put on three-piece war uniforms and ride to the middle of the forest in the heat of noon.  By this point, Fundy has learned that these meetings are never as dignified as they’re chalked up to be.) 

“... and our exports on wood need to double-”

“-if you give us more land we can allow that-”

“-look, our last skirmish proves we need to increase border patrol-” 

He catches snippets of conversation as Dream and Wilbur banter back and forth.  After nearly four hours of diplomacy, Fundy’s vigilance has faded into exhaustion.  He doesn’t really care enough about the ins and outs of trade and their consequences.

Wilbur stares Dream down at their makeshift table.  His steely brown eyes have no effect on the masked man, but the way Dream tilts his chin up makes Fundy think that he’s matching his gaze eye-to-eye.  Though over a decade his junior, Dream is every inch his equal.

They make an odd pair, his father and Dream.  Their server’s leader is bright and as sharp as a paring knife, Wilbur’s intellectual rival on all levels.

But deeper down, he’s barely more than a kid, scraping the edge of adulthood.  And he knows that mask, as menacing as it tries to be, hides a boyish face with soft freckled cheeks and bright eyes.  When you break it down, no one is that intimidating.

Fundy stands on his father's left, close to his chair, just as Tommy stands on his right. Across from them, Dream is flanked by Sapnap and George.  Fundy thinks it's kind of funny, watching their setup like it.  So professional, so tense, so careful, but Dream is barely older than he is.

His gaze begins to wander as he stifles a yawn, almost chuckling with the observation.  Man.  If any of them, literally any of them, knew Dream like he did there would be no cause for such a dramatic meeting.

Fundy’s supposed to be keeping a close eye on Dream’s confidants, watching out for any sudden signs of hostility with an unwavering gaze, so he can fulfill his duty as a glorified bodyguard and sacrifice his life for his all-important father.  Something like that.  But honestly… eh who cares.  Judging by the growing boredom on Sapnap’s face and the slight I-want-this-to-be-over-so-I-can-take-a-nap sway to George’s stance he can guess neither of them are exactly in a “fighting” mood either.

His eyes dart down to his father’s quill, clutched between a slowly tightening fist.

The tension builds, ebbs and weaves through the wind that rustles the leaves on the trees and the hair on the heads, and Fundy’s fur that stands on end.  Much like crashing waves, it grows and abates but never snaps.  It's innate to the server.  Conflict will always be weaved into the air, into the ground of this place.

This is a long-fought battle between them, but slowly, heat and humidity drips through any growing tension.  Fundy breaks his carefully still facade to wipe away the sweat dripping down his fur.  It’s honestly a miracle none of them have gotten heatstroke yet.

“We cannot grant you independence,” Dream finally says coolly, in clear contrast to the environment around them.  Fundy tunes back in suddenly at the serious finality that colors his voice.  “L’manburg exists only as a colony, and a branch off the heart of the Greater Dream SMP.  We have granted you sovereignty and agency.  We cannot grant you freedom.”

He’s the wind, a powerful gale that turns and twists but is always subject to shift. Wilbur is a fire, carefully tempered passion and anger always on the brink of an explosion.  But the wind is a flexible, impenetrable force.  It knows how to bend with change.

And then that's it.  The meeting is done.

The carefully-kept diplomacy between them is tense and uncomfortable, but never hostile.  The two of them are both classy, refined people.  They’re equally as fit to sit down at a black-tux dinner over steak and a classical piano as they are to throw the first punch into each other's bloodied teeth.  And Wilbur's unhappy with this ending of their most recent saga.  Fundy can tell he’s gritting his teeth, grinding calcium behind thin lips bared into an animalistic smile.  One that probably looks like a polite gesture to most.

But what's new?  What could ever make Wilbur happy?

And he’ll bitch about it later, when the sun has sunk below the horizon, when he’s safe in his own house with his third bottle of beer.  Where no one else but Fundy can see his painstakingly crafted persona crack under the guise of alcohol into a heaving, cursing, furious mess.  But he’ll never show that side in public.

Because Dream is being a bastard, but he’s not being unfair.  And Wilbur can complain about that, but he can’t fight a reasonable man.

Their nations, always at odds.  Frankly, Fundy thinks it’s all ridiculous.

Slowly, both sides begin to pack up.  George and Sapnap start breaking down the makeshift table and fold up chairs wordlessly.  Niki unleashes the horses from where they were leashed to trees, patting them down lovingly as Jack hand-feeds them apples for the trip back.  Tubbo rolls up their documents, carefully shelving quills, ink, and parchment that hold the words they deem important.  Fundy watches them numbly.

The warm feeling of fur against him shocks him back to reality.  The flank of Wilbur’s horse brushes against his side as the man on top of the creature stares at him blankly.  “Do you want to ride on my horse back?”  Wilbur asks, offering his son a hand up.

It’s how they came here.  Wilbur might’ve deemed Fundy useful enough to be his sacrificial lamb of a bodyguard, but he’s not important enough to get his own horse.  He shakes his head no.

“Nah, I think I'll stay and walk back to camp later,” Fundy offers, attempting to sound as casual as possible.  

For a second he even wants Wilbur to ask what business he has on the Greater Dream SMP.  He wants his dad to care for him, to look down at him with furrowed eyebrows and beg him not to fraternize with their political enemies.  He wants Wilbur to insist he stay safe.  He wants Wilbur to insist he come home, right now .  If he can’t have an attentive father, he wants one that loves him, at least.

But Wilbur stopped caring years ago.  It’s been even longer since he’s noticed anything.

The president’s eyes are already glazed over in the careless anger of the meeting.  He nods tersely and Fundy sighs as he watches his father ride away.  Tommy, Tubbo, Jack, and Niki follow him at the wave of the commander’s hand.  He waits until the rest of his group disappears, until the last flick on the heel of Tubbo’s horse vanishes behind a darkened tree.

Then, Fundy catches Dream's eye through his mask, leagues away.  It’s one of the brief, subtle glances that they can afford.  He pointedly makes his way towards the forest.  The fox smirks as Dream fumbles with his words, removing himself from his friends with careless excuses.  He lazily meanders past the surrounding trees until the spruce parts into a small clearing. When Fundy hears a familiar rustling in the leaves behind him, he doesn’t even turn.  The water reflects orange as the sun hits the horizon, coating the air in warmth.

“Long meeting today,” Dream murmurs behind him.  Fundy’ll never admit, but he always crumbles at the sound of that voice.  It’s more familiar to him than the sun’s rays, than the back of his own hand.

“Gives me the excuse to see you, though,” Fundy responds slyly.  He turns around, coming face to face with the masked man, and sighs.

“C'mon, take that thing off.  It’s enough to have to see you in four hour political bitch-debates, I don’t want to see you in that stupid mask all the time too.”

Dream snorts and Fundy can imagine him rolling his eyes behind the ceramic.

“Aww, do you like seeing my face?”

Fundy stares him down, puffing out his chest.  He narrows his eyes, all mock-serious and blunt as he tries to get the other man to back down first.

“Yeah,” Fundy says, honestly. “And I love the way your eyes sparkle in the sunset,” he adds with a dramatic sigh that fades into a smirk.

He imagines Dream’s cheeks blushed red.

“Pull it off me, then,” Dream says, teasing. “If you really want it gone.”

Fundy caves with a short huff, resisting the urge to tell Dream to do it himself.  He reaches over, unclipping the metal connecting his cloth straps.  His fingers brush against the other man’s ears and the tips of his hair, and it feels strangely intimate.  The faint contact burns him, lingers even after it’s done.  

Dream shakes his ruffled up hair the second the mask is free, smoothing in stray locks between his fingertips.  Fundy studies the way his hair moves in the wind, the slight flutter of his eyelashes, each freckle dotting his cheekbones, the sweat trickling down his strong jaw in the humidity, the light blush painting his cheeks in a faint shade of pink that he knew would be there from their banter.

He’s seen Dream’s face on dozens of occasions by this point but it still takes his breath away every single time.

If he's being poetic, Fundy would say he’s trying to savor the man’s expression and capture it in memory forever.  If he isn't, he’d say he’s checking Dream out.

Because the other man is hot , and not just in the temperature-atmospheric way of the dripping, humid heat.  It’s a pity he chooses to ever wear a mask, really.  He doesn’t have the sort of face that should be hidden.

“C’mere,” Fundy offers, grabbing his wrist in a familiar gesture.

Fundy pulls him down to the edge of the pond.  Dream crosses his legs and they get lost in easy conversation for a while.  

Dream complains a little bit about the meeting, but he never touches politics.  It’s mostly complaining about the length of the talk and the wet-humid air around them as fall quickly approaches.  There are things that neither of them talk about, like the mystery behind Dream’s past and what he deals with in the shadows, or Fundy’s complicated history with his family.

And they especially don’t talk about politics, never about politics.  After so much time spent with Wilbur, Fundy finds it refreshing.  Politics is the one thing Wilbur always talks about, and the one thing Dream never does.

After all, they’re on opposing sides of a conflict; political rivals.  Despite everything, Fundy is still a proud warrior of L’manburg and is fighting for it’s collective freedom.  And the two of them really shouldn't work.  But Dream is just Dream to him, golden brown hair and a soft smile and gentle hands.  He has a laugh that exists on the brink of a wheeze, and a voice with a lilt.  He’s perfect, as different as they are.

Fundy can be himself around him, without any preconceived notions or assumptions.  Honestly, it's refreshing.  It’s nice to exist outside of their predetermined roles.  It’s nice to simply exist. Fundy knows the sentiment is shared.  So in spite of everything and by some miracle of fate, it works, it really does.

The sun lowers and lowers, and the sky begins to darken from orange to purple.  For a minute, the temperature around them is relaxing before it begins to dip into a freezing chill.  Despite his fur, it still seeps into Fundy’s bones and makes him shiver.  He curls closer into Dream’s side instinctively, leaning his head on the other man’s shoulder.

“You're gonna have to go home soon,” Dream reminds him with a light tap, as stars begin to form in the night sky.  

“I know,” Fundy sighs.  Wilbur might not care about his general whereabouts, but he will absolutely notice if his son is gone for the whole night.  

"I guess… I'll see you after the next meeting, then?  Like usual?"

The fox chuckles slightly.  Fundy tucks his knees to his chest, wrapping his tail tightly around himself. “We can’t keep meeting like this, yknow?” He says, keeping his eyes on the horizon.  “This is a little ridiculous.”

“We wouldn't have to if you’d just go on a date with me,” Dream wheedles. “A real one.

Fundy glances over his shoulder and lips curl into a smile almost immediately.  Dream is using his best pleading-puppy-dog eyes. “Maybe I will,” Fundy grins.  He stands a little too casually, brushing the dust off his pants and laughs as the other man curses and whoops unabashedly.

“ Finally! ” Dream mutters under his breath.

Fundy snaps his ears forward. “Hey, what was that?”

“Nothing, nothing!” Dream grins, holding up his hands defensively. “Didn’t say a thing .  I’m cool.”

Fundy laughs, ruffling the blonde locks on Dream’s head as he reluctantly moves to walk back home.  Dream grabs him at the wrist, whines at him to stay, and they playfully fight as Fundy tries to yank his hand back.  Before he can leave, Dream manages to press a kiss to his knuckles in their struggle and Fundy burns orange.

He saunters off, but even he can’t stop the slight bounce in his step and wag of his tail.

Dream watches him until he leaves, taking the last traces of light with him.

Chapter Text

-CRASH-

In one second, a sickening crunch hits the floor, and in the next, the kid’s eyes snap open.  

His chest heaves for air, thudding in anticipation.  And memory.

It’s still dark outside.  The water that normally laps at the foothills of his house is strangely still tonight, strangely calm. There’s no white noise tonight.  No distraction. It feels like the center of a hurricane, the weather patterns he’s learning about in his lessons and the old, weathered books he loves to thumb through.

He hasn’t seen a hurricane, not yet.  But he knows almost everything about them.  Like for one, there's an eye in every major storm, a place of total eerie calm where the wind stands still.  But the eye wall right next to it, encompassing it and inescapably surrounding it, is the most violent part of the storm.  You can cross over the edge from calm to dangerous and painful instantaneously.

The kid doesnt trust calm.  He doesn't trust peace.

Faintly, voices are coming from the kitchen.  This part is familiar, too.  One deep and low, one high and angry.  They’re the same sweet voices that sing him lullabies and tell him stories, now warped into horrific, malicious versions of themselves.  He barely recognizes the sound.

He should mind his own business, and head back to sleep.  But something draws him towards the source, like a moth to a flame.  His eyes, adjusted to the dark room, seek out the spilling of yellow light that peeks through the bottom of his door.  He edges closer and closer.  The voices slowly become more distinct and emotional the nearer he gets.

The kid paws at his door carefully.  Every motion is planned, calculated.

He doesn't want to be caught, after all.  Deep down, he knows he isn't supposed to hear this conversation.  It's one of the things that adults desperately try to hide from their children, as if kids are stupid and never catch on.

He twists open the doorknob silently, wincing as the sudden onslaught of brightness hits his sleep-weary eyes.  He rubs them, shielding his vision for a moment.  The walls blur a little at the edges, hazy when he looks too close.  The hallway stretches on for eternity.  It still feels like he’s in a dream.

“-all you talk about!” the higher-pitched voice screams.  He can barely make out the words, but he knows that tone of anger well.

The kid inches forward, feet quietly padding down the impossibly long hallway.

“This is my entire life,” the other, lower voice responds.  He’s not screaming, but his low, steady voice seems tight enough to snap. “What else do you want me to say, Sally?”

The kid rounds the last edge of the hallway, peeking slightly out from the corner.  His parents are standing in the kitchen, glaring at each other and completely unaware of his presence.

“I don't know,” she scoffs, practically spitting out each word.  "Maybe more than politics and money and L'manburg's independence?  Literally anything else?" 

Sally's eyes are puffy with tears, as red as the curly hair that swings around her shoulders.

"I don't understand.  You know this is my job ," he begins slowly.

"It is not just a job, and you know that, Wilbur," Sally interjects, seething.  "It changes how you feel, how you see others, keeps you from sleeping at night.  This is an obsession !

"Freeing and governing a country is what I've always wanted out of my life!" Wilbur retorts, teeth flashing as he barely attempts to contain his composure.  "You knew this when you started a family with me!"

"I don't give a shit how you live your life, I care when it affects mine!"  Her voice rises into a scream, peaking at a desperate crescendo with rage.  

Sally slams her hands down on their wooden dining table.  

Her kid flinches at the noise.  He shies away from the corner of the hallway and presses himself even closer to the wall. As if that could protect him.

His dad shuts his eyes tightly, clearly and painfully used to her screaming.  "I know you're frustrated-" he says carefully, cautiously.

Sally cuts him off immediately with a sarcastic laugh.  "Oh, I am?  How can you tell?  You can't completely ignore your family and then act surprised when I'm 'frustrated'."

"Okay, can we talk about this?  Rationally?" His dad gestures to a fractured glass bowl, lying in a thousand shattered pieces on their hardwood floor. The kid sucks in a silent breath as he notices the broken dish.  Huh, that must've been where the crashing noise that woke him came from.  Wilbur grits his teeth, clearly at the end of his rope.  "Stop throwing shit at me, at least?"

“So what? I can talk to you and be civilized and you won't listen anyway because I'm not talking about L’manberg's independence or the glory that is Wilbur Soot?  Don't you think it's useless to talk to you?”  Sally laughs maniacally, voice hardening before she slips into a deathly quiet whisper. “You will never listen to me, because you don't want to know that you're gonna fail.  You're just like your father. "

Wilbur's eyes glow with rage.  He breathes in, sharp.  Like the calm before the storm, the kid waits with bated breath for what has to happen next.

“Well, how do you want me to have a conversation with you if you’re acting like such a bitch?”  Wilbur snaps, all of a sudden, staring her down as he yells.    

The kid watches as the dams break open and feels a part of his heart sink with the waters as they fall.

Wilbur hasn't been the most pleasant-mannered in this fight.  But this is more than raising his voice.  His father is screaming at his mother, uninhibited and full of rage.

His yelling voice is rough from disuse, because his dad is a soft, well-mannered man.  Wilbur taught him to recite poetry, how to sing gently on his guitar and a piano, and how to give a powerful speech.  But he is not used to screaming.  He will never be.  The kid's eyes start to well with tears, without even realizing why.

His mom seems almost equally shocked for a moment, which is immediately replaced by anger.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” his mom glares, in a way that makes the kid's breath shake.  Sally matches every inch of Wilbur's gaze, but she looks less intimidating and more uncontrollably furious. Is she gonna throw something else right now?  Is he gonna be forced to watch, an accursed bystander, or get caught in the crossfire? He stamps down his panicked breaths, forces his lungs to return to normal.  He can't be caught standing here.  He can't make his presence known.  He has to be silent, invisible.

But Sally takes a deep breath, in and out slowly, and all her anger seemingly dissipates.

“I can't keep making you happy, if this isn't enough for you,” she says simply, quietly, painfully.

Wilbur doesn't even seem to notice her sudden change of emotion. He laughs bitterly into her face.  “How can you claim that this isn't enough for me?  This is coming from you !”

Sally is silent, for once.  The kid's parents glare at each other for a second, something passing between them that he doesn't yet understand.

“Fine! Your fucking career isn't the only problem!” Sally says, voice thick with emotion as if speaking something unspoken. “We both know it, she is tearing this family apart.  How can you let her do that?”

“You need to stop.  You can't say that.”  Wilbur is furious, face reddening and fists twisting and teeth bared into a violent growl.  Vaguely, the kid is aware that if neither of them have crossed a line yet, whatever Sally said just did it. “You have no idea-”

He looks as if he could rip Sally apart with his bare fists.  Even across the room, the kid notices the way his nails dig into his palms.  If Sally notices, she’s too despondent to care.

The kid is crying softly now, bawling with choked, silent emotion.  Tears pour down his cheeks and soak into the collar of his nightgown.  He can’t stand it, seeing his parents like this.  It’s too much to bear, too much to deal with.  He should’ve stayed in his room.

“Because you love her more than me,” Sally steps back, shaking her head.  She wipes the tears pouring from her eyes, more miserable than angry. 

“I love you,” Wilbur protests, voice dropping suddenly in volume.  He’s so, so sincere.  

Sally sniffles quietly.  “You don't mean it.”

“I do.  I love your bright mind.  Your music.  I love the light in your eyes, and I love the way you smile,” Wilbur pleads, words shaking in his mouth.  “I love you.  I will always love you.”

He grabs her hand tightly and the kid can tell that Sally doesn't have the heart to yank it away.

“But you don't love me enough,” she whispers.  “You can’t.  You can’t love me more .”

This time, Wilbur doesn't try to refute it.  “I can’t change you into someone you’re not, as much as I want to,” he says, with such finality.

They're silent for a long, long time.  Something else passes between them, another secret message that the kid doesn't understand, and then Sally steps away.  Wilbur slowly takes a seat at the kitchen table, head resting so painfully in his own hands.  Sally sweeps up the remains of glass on the floor.  The kid stays silently in the halls, struggling not to breathe or move too suddenly in the oppressive silence of the room.  He waits for something else to happen, but it never does.

By the time she's done cleaning the kitchen looks spotless.  Everything is forgotten, hidden once more. It's just another night. 

“I'm gonna go to bed,” Sally whispers.  She walks away from Wilbur.

The kid's eyes widen suddenly.  He scrambles, rushing back to his room.  His heart pounds into his ears as he races to shut his door quietly.  His mother's footsteps follow only moments after he's thrown himself back into bed.

-CRASH-

Fundy jerks up from his bed, heart racing in his chest.

He’s in his own bed.  He’s not a little kid anymore.  The sky is faintly light outside, peeking through storm clouds and rain that thuds against his window.

Fundy jumps again at the next crash of the clapping thunder.  He holds a paw up to his temples, grimacing.  The hazy remnants of his nightmare seem to be hammering their way out of his skull.  He has a pounding headache.

It’s just thunder, Fundy wills himself to realize.  It can’t hurt you.

Then, the next clap of thunder comes.  His heart scrambles within his chest as he wills his breathing to still on instinct.

I can’t let anyone hear me.

Then, Fundy pauses and lets out a loud exhale, almost chuckling at his sudden paranoia.  What the hell is he doing?

The dream, the figment of his imagination if it could be called such a thing, had started to fade when Fundy woke up.  More and more of it disappears with each passing second.  

It doesn't make any sense.

Was… his mom in his dream?  It’s true that she isn’t here anymore, but Fundy doesn’t like to think too much about the reasons why.  For most of his life, it’s just been him and Wilbur. Hell, most people on this SMP don’t even have parents, they’ve just spawned in. He’s never thought anything of his family situation.

Wilbur talks about Sally sometimes.  Sure, it’s usually when he’s drunk, but he always speaks of her fondly.  Fundy doesn’t remember the two of them arguing ever.  

Fundy doesn’t remember most things, honestly.

His whole childhood is kind of blurry, but for the most part he’s cool with it.  Those are supposed to be the most boring memories, right?  It’s not like he’s missing much.

The last remnants of the dream cloud over with every flutter of his eyelashes.

Blink

He had a dream about his parents screaming in his old house.  

Blink

His parents screaming.

Blink

Screaming?

Blink

Fundy grasps at the edges of memories that dance just out of his reach, but there’s nothing concrete left to grab at.

Whatever.  He can’t worry about this right now.  He has a date with Dream today, after all.

It’s been a rough night, but the thought alone makes Fundy perk up and grin stupidly to himself.

Vaguely, Fundy realizes that he didn’t exactly grow up with the… best role models.  But for him, today feels like the start of something new, something he can control and guide himself.  Fundy has never witnessed a healthy relationship himself.  

He’s gonna be the first.

Chapter Text

His first real date with Dream is a picnic in the woods.

Fundy is only a little ashamed to say he completely freaks out before it.  And only a little more ashamed to say he tries on like, six shirts before settling on his final outfit.

Niki helps him get ready, which is the only reason his obsessive outfit changes don't take any longer.  He doesn't tell her why he's getting all dressed up "to go to the woods", but she doesn't ask in the first place.  That's the great thing about her.  She's sort of like Wilbur in that she never presses and lets him live freely, but she's also a loving, attentive part of his life too.  If Fundy had to put it into words, he'd say that Niki is the closest thing he has to a big sister.

"You look so handsome," she murmurs, straightening out the collar of his button-up.

Fundy scoffs at the compliment.  "Please, don’t flatter me."

"Nah, I mean it," Niki smiles at him sweetly.  "That outfit looks great on you.  Cheers to whoever put it together, they're a genius."

He rolls his eyes at her, but his smile is too big to be truly mean.

"Yeah, I gotta thank them so much," Fundy says, sarcastic and genuine all at once.

She tousles his hair as payback.  

"Hey, wait right here!" Niki says suddenly, grinning at him.  "I've got something for you before you go!"

Fundy's heart warms as he watches her shuffle around the house, before it suddenly thuds to a stop in his chest.

She is tearing this family apart.

He tenses up at the faint words, way stronger than his usual nerves about going on a date with Dream.

She is tearing this family apart.

It's a hazy snippet, a leftover phrase from his forgotten dream earlier.  The thought is a little louder this time, a little more uncomfortable.

She is tearing this family apart.

He winces at the repetition of his thoughts, louder and louder every cycle.  It hurts his head. It's a grating noise in his ears, forcing him to confront… something.

Fundy tries to unpack it, before his brain has the chance to screech the ear-splitting phrase back at him a fourth time.  Who is this even about?  Faintly, he can recognize the voice as that of his mother.  But, she? Fundy doesn't know many women, especially not in L'manburg... so Sally must've been referring to Niki.

But if–if–the dream was real (which it probably wasn't anyway, was probably just a weirdly specific nightmare) what could Niki have even done wrong?  She's been nothing but sweet to him his entire life.  He can't imagine Niki ever tearing apart his family and causing Sally to leave, especially not on purpose.

But before he can think about it anymore, Niki rounds the corner.  So Fundy wills himself to forget it, like he's done all his life, and focus on the present instead.

She's carrying a cute little wicker basket in her hands, which she hands off to him.  "I brought you some of my fresh-baked scones," Niki announces proudly.  "For your 'walk in the woods'," she adds with a wink.

Fundy wills himself not to blush as he gratefully accepts the basket.  Sometimes he thinks she knows a lot more than she lets on.  "Aww thank you Niki, you're the best. You didn't need to!" he exclaims.

She shakes her head firmly.  "Nonsense.  Now go out and have fun and y'know. Stay safe."

Fundy crosses his arms, vaguely aware that his cheeks are growing warm.  "Stay safe?  Niki, what do you think I'm doing?"

"Taking a walk in the forest and exploring nature, of course." She grins at him boldly as Fundy lets out an exaggerated groan.  "Now go, go!  Don't leave the… nature waiting for you." Niki ushers him out the door with a friendly swat before he has the chance to form any comebacks.

Fundy finds him near the coordinates he said he'd be at.  It's a pretty spot, next to a small brook under oak trees and there's a checked picnic blanket set up and Dream is-

"Are you wearing a suit?"

Dream grins at him sheepishly.  "Is this too much?"  He looks down and winces slightly.  "Yeah, this is too much.  George said it might be too much-"

Fundy chuckles, an incredulous snort at first before turning into an uninhibited wheeze.  "A little, yes," he chokes out in between his laughs.

"Hey," Dream pouts. "This is our first date!  I wanted to look good for you."

"You do, you do!" Fundy reassures him.  "You're just also gonna overheat to death because we're in a forest."

He closes the gap Dream, still giggling, and slightly straightens out his jacket.  Damn, he really went all out.  He’s wearing a navy blue suit with a vest and a tie and everything.  Dream’s hair is even slicked back with gel.  Fundy has literally never seen the other man look this put together.

“You look incredible,” Fundy adds softly.

Dream's eyes flick down to the younger man's as they stand inches apart.  His gaze lingers on Fundy's mouth as his breath hitches, suddenly serious.  Fundy’s heart races in anticipation but a moment later, Dream clears his throat awkwardly.  

“Uh, I brought us some food,” he stammers out, face turning red.  “Do you want to sit?”

Fundy nods eagerly, blushing equally hard.  He sits, crossing his legs on the immaculately set up picnic blanket, and sets down his own basket of scones.

“You really went all out!” Fundy remarks, impressed.  He notes the small wooden table between them already set up with plates and a little vase of flowers.

“Nothing but the best for you,” Dream replies sweetly, smiling a little.  He fumbles awkwardly as he digs through his picnic basket. 

“I made some sandwiches for us and um,” Dream holds up two chilled glasses and a bottle of champagne.  “I… wasn’t sure, do you drink?”

The question slams into a Fundy with one solid rush, hazy and stinging at the edges.  He can barely suck in a breath before-

“Do you want to drink a little?”  His dad grins at him lazily in the memory, hand shaking as he offers the bottle to Fundy.  Wilbur's properly drunk right now, but at least he's in a good mood tonight. 

 Fundy resists a sigh, and gently pries the bottle out of his hand to place on the nearest table.  "I'm good, Dad.  Let's get you to bed," he offers gently.

Wilbur shakes his head lazily, stretching out on the couch and batting away Fundy’s attempts to hoist him up.  Fundy knows better than to argue by this point.  He grabs a pillow and a light blanket from the end of their sofa, and tucks it around his shoulders.

Wilbur yawns, mouth stretching wide.  He hums happily at Fundy’s efforts.  “You're such a good kid,” he mutters, words drifting with exhaustion.  “Love you…” Wilbur falls asleep before his head hits the pillow.

The sound wretches Fundy’s heart open.  He can’t find it in himself to say I love you, too.  Not when Wilbur won’t hear it.  Not when Wilbur never says it sober.

Wilbur started drinking after Sally left.

Not a light drink over dinner, not a celebratory drink, not a bar night with Jack and Niki.

Heavy drinking.  Lonely, isolated, painful drinking.  Throwing up, crying, kind of drinking. Decorating the floor in beer bottles kind of drinking.  Always being slightly hungover or tipsy in the daytime kind of drinking.

Fundy learns to get used to slurred, angry words and the clink of beer bottles and the sound of retching and his father falling asleep on the couch.  He gets used to not having a father-

“-or do you want some orange juice instead?”

Fundy snaps back to reality at Dream's question.  He blinks, hard, waving off the sudden memory.

"Sorry, what did you say?" he asks hesitantly.

"Orange juice?"  Dream holds up a juice carton.  "You went kinda quiet when I asked if you wanted champagne."

"Oh uh, yeah sorry." Fundy winces, scanning Dream’s expression carefully.  "I don't drink... if that's cool?"

But to his surprise, Dream breathes a sigh of relief and actually smiles.  "Me neither, actually.  I just didn't want to assume."

It's funny how similar they are, and yet they're still dancing around each other anyway.

Later, Fundy will learn that Dream likes a clean living.  He doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, never takes recreational drugs, hates gambling.  He doesn't even drink coffee that often.  In fact, that's one of the reasons he's so strongly against L'manburg's independence—because its origin started with the drug van.  And yeah, maybe that's a little controlling, but it comes from a good place.  But he doesn't know that yet.  For now, Fundy just grins at him cheesily.  Dream has overthought this date by a lot, but Fundy appreciates the effort.  He really prepared for everything.

"Sure then, I'd love some orange juice," Fundy exclaims.  "I love oranges!  It’s been such a long time since I've had them, though."

That’s his Dream right there, always respectful, never pushy.  That's something Fundy has never known.

He's willing to get used to it.

The rest of the date is a breeze.  They eat and talk and eat more, and walk around the trees for a bit.  After a while, Dream takes off the suit jacket and vest and loosens the collar of his shirt because it really is too hot.  Fundy won't stop making fun of him, as much as he's checking Dream out, as Dream gets more and more annoyed and threatens to push him into the river.  He doesn't, of course, because he's always been too nice, and pulls Fundy back at the last moment until they collide into a pile of limbs, and then their faces are too close together as they giggle and Fundy can't stop staring until Dream asks "Can I kiss you?" in the soft, needy, voice of his and the only answer to that is yes, yes, a million times yes.  

On their second real date, they go hiking.

“I can't believe it took me this long to get you to go on a date with me,” Dream grins, as they climb up the stony foothills of the mountain.  He’s either in a good mood or just exceptionally chatty and prone to teasing today.  It sort of works out because Fundy is in a quieter mode.  “C’mon, isn't this great?”

Fundy glares at him, grabbing at the branch of a tree to hoist himself up. “I’m not gonna sing your praises about how great you are.”

“Yeah, but you want to though,” Dream says in a singsong voice.

He huffs, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

“But seriously, what took you so long?” Dream jokes.  Fundy knows the spirals in his brain are jumping all over the place and looping back and making him talk without thinking twice. “Are you afraid of relationships or something?”

Fundy clears his throat uncomfortably.

Wait, why is he uncomfortable?

But the thought is already gone by the time Dream opens his mouth again.

Eventually, they reach a nice clearing, on a cliff that looks over much of the server, and decide to take a break.  Fundy wipes the sweat from his brow as he stares in awe.  It's a great vantage point, and they’re pretty high up.  He can see biomes blend together in a terrific mirage of color, forest into plains into ocean into desert.

“This is beautiful,” Fundy sighs.

“It is,” Dream says, eyes sparkling.  Fundy glances back at him, and they lock eyes.  Dream hasn’t even turned to see the view.

Fundy knocks against his shoulder as they lean together in the familiar gesture. Dream hesitates, brushing the side of his hand against Fundy’s shoulder before wrapping an arm around him firmly.  Fundy rolls his eyes at Dream’s caution.

“You’re such a gentleman,” he snorts.

“And you’re…” Dream pauses before grinning, all sappy.  “You're my sweet little tangerine.”

Fundy's spine snaps straight in an instant.  His ribs can barely contain the thuds of his heart.

He would’ve let out a lighthearted groan and teased Dream endlessly on a regular day.

But something is wrong about this.

“You okay?” Dream says faintly, in the distance.  His voice sounds like it's submerged in the distance, underneath feet of seawater. “C’mon that wasn't that cheesy, was it?”

All of a sudden, the blonde man in front of him is replaced with a smiling, redheaded woman.

“-because you remind me of a clementine," says the light, painfully familiar voice.  

Sally's face grins in the memory, but it’s been so long, her face is a little hazy.  He can’t remember what she looks like.  Her blue? Green?- god why can't he remembe r- eyes sparkle. Thick red hair waves in the sea breeze’s draft from their kitchen window.

It’s been… too long since he's thought of that memory.  His vision is all static, blurry, unreal.

“I brought you oranges!” Dream says, in the present.

“I cut up some fruit for you!” Sally says, in the past.

“Come here-”

“You want some?”

“You look so cute right now.”

Their voices overlap and Fundy can't distinguish what's real.  Mountain wind and ocean breeze and seconds that feel like eons burn together.  The memory fractures and spirals out, clashing against reality.  Slowly, he comes to realize the warm hand on his shoulder.  He tethers into it, and forces the memory out of his mind.  And Dream is back.

When Fundy realizes the tangerines offered in Dream’s open palm he crumbles at the gesture.

He remembered.  Fundy smiles at him sweetly as he grabs an orange.

"But I can stop calling you a tangerine, if you don't like it,”  Dream says, sincere and joking all at once.

Fundy shakes his head insistently.  “No it's fine, it's really cute actually!  I think it's just… similar to a nickname my mom used to call me?” He frowns. “I'm not sure.”

Dream cocks his head, surprised.  Fundy never talks about his mother.  Not with anyone, and especially not with Dream.  It's one of their unspoken topics, secretive pasts locked behind closed doors to maintain their careful ease with each other.  And he especially doesn't want to change that today.  

“So… what makes you think of me as a fruit?” Fundy changes the subject quickly, clearing his throat.  And he deflects.  Oh, how he deflects and hides his insecurities behind inappropriate jokes.  Fundy smirks at Dream as his heart pounds silently. “Do you also like me in your mouth?”

Dream flushes, cheeks burning red.  “No!  I mean… I like kissing you?  But that’s not what I meant.  You're sweet!  But, bitter around the edges.”

He spins the fruit around his hands, effortlessly twirling it between his fingers as Fundy watches. “Did you know that the flavor of a fruit is dependent on a lot of things?”

“You're so cute when you're talking about your nerd stuff.”

“Partly, it’s based on its genetics,” Dream goes on, unperturbed.  “But the environment also has a factor.  Like temperature, humidity, and sunlight.  Fruit can taste bitter if it's born in less than ideal conditions, but that’s out of its control.”

Fundy thinks they might not be talking about oranges anymore.

“And the color.  Your fur is beautiful, the way orange hues mix with red and gold and yellow.  You remind me of a sunset, Fundy.  Or… or-”

“A tangerine.” Fundy finishes, smiling wistfully.

Dream is sensitive, far more so than most would realize.  Especially not of the “cruel dictator” most see him as.

He’s a writer , and the way he talks reminds Fundy of it, of the book he worked on that he was too shy to show anyone, of the scraps of weathered paper Fundy finds everywhere, strewn across tables or in his pockets.  Of his carefully written poetry, though he never learned to write properly.  The slightly sloppy texture of his inked words is etched in Fundy’s brain.

Dream’s handwriting is nothing like Fundy’s perfectly formed letters, cursive and calligraphy from hours spent at the kitchen table under Wilbur’s lessons.  Perfection was taught to him as a virtue.  But Dream’s writing, rough around the edges, unburdened, is a thousand times more beautiful.

Godsdamnit.  Dream always knows how to see through him.

If Dream is the wind’s strength and flexibility, Fundy is it’s impermanence.

“You really watch everything,” Fundy says softly.

Dream smiles.  “And I see you.”

Their dates start to fly by.

For their third date, they go to a cafe in the Greater Dream SMP.  It's the first time they've been seen around other people, which makes Fundy a little nervous but Dream insists that this is his favorite spot.  And when Dream calls him boyfriend to the waiter and holds his hand under the table, can he really complain?

The smell of coffee around them makes him tense up, for reasons he doesn't understand.  But they order iced tea, and by the time their drinks get there whatever that memory was is easily forgotten.

Later they spend over three hours on a puzzle.  Which actually turns out to be way harder than it looks.  Fundy is already laughing as Dream struggles.  His large, scarred hands precisely skilled in nearly every weapon fumble with the little wooden pieces.  Dream lightly slams the table- 

Sally slams the table-

As he pretends to rage quit, laughing too.

Dream’s wheezing laughter and the warmth in his chest help Fundy ignore the instinctual spike of fear that rises from his stomach.  Fundy knows there's nothing to worry about.  Not when Dream is with him.  It's so sweet and innocent and domestic and Fundy loves every second of it, so fucking much.

On their fourth date, they go swimming at the beach.  Fundy is always a little nervous being even slightly naked.  He's uncomfortable and dysphoric with his body even when he’s alone.  Being shirtless around his favorite person is even worse.  But if Dream notices the dual faint scars that horizontally lace his ribs he doesn't say anything.  Fundy should’ve known Dream well enough to know there’s nothing about his body that could change how he feels about him.

They splash each other with water and chase each other down the burning hot sand of the beach.  When he gets dragged under the waves for a kiss, Dream tastes like salt.

Their fifth date is a picnic again, but Fundy sets it up this time.  

This part of the forest is a little closer to L'manburg.  And sure, that's a bit risky, but it's Fundy's favorite area and he wants to share that with Dream.  He wants to share everything with him.

Fundy attempts to show him around, to the soft fields of grass and the trees he remembers climbing, and brooks he ran through as a kid.  But this time, there's much less eating and walking, and a lot more kissing.  When the sun dips below the horizon, Dream tackles him into the soft grass he’s spent his childhood in.  Laughter fills the air between mouths pressed together as one.

When Dream's hands find the hips that he’s always been self-conscious of and trail under his shirt to the scars on his chest, Fundy finds he doesn't mind it.  For once in his life, he actually enjoys his body.  And when Dream calls him handsome quietly, lips pressed against his fur, Fundy finds that for once in his life, he actually believes it.

The growing darkness shadows his insecurities and the warm hands pressed against them make him beautiful.

Eventually, they start drifting off as stars begin to shine.

Curled into the warm crook of his lover’s arm against the chill of the night, Fundy finds his home.

“Stay with me,” Dream murmurs.

And with heavy eyelids, Fundy says “I’ll never leave.”

There's a good thing about Dream.  The safety he makes Fundy feel is unparalleled, something he's never known and has always craved.  He is protection and warmth.  

But the bad thing is… it lulls him under a false sense of security.  That safety is unwarranted, unearned, as much as it’s wanted.  Especially when there’s still reasons to be afraid.

Fundy doesn’t know what wakes him this time.  Maybe it’s a noise, maybe it’s instinct. But his eyes snap open regardless.

His lover’s soft warmth against him sharpens into a heated blade of fear in an instant.  Anxiety spikes though his throat, pooling in his stomach.  White-hot fear courses through his veins, sharp adrenaline, sweat, bitter in his mouth.  Before he’s fully conscious, before he knows what’s going on, he’s already terrified.  Fundy wakes up coughing and gagging and on the verge of tears.

The moon is high in the sky, world pitch-black with risen stars.

It’s late.  It’s too late.

Fundy can’t be out this late.  He shouldn’t have fallen asleep, shouldn’t have been careless, not when that could tip off his normally careless father.  He’s done too much this time.

Fuck.

He rushes back home.  Fundy’s heart thuds against his chest in time with his footsteps, carving a path in the dirt beneath his feet.  It’s a good thing he’s not that far from L’manburg in the first place.  He dodges through trees, jumps over fallen logs, rising fear contributing to every inch of his speed.

Eventually, he makes it back home.  Fundy struggles to control his rapid breaths, not to disturb the unnerving silence of their surroundings.  His house is quiet, and that’s good, probably?  That means that hopefully, Wilbur should be asleep by now.  Probably passed out from a couple too many drinks, dead to the world.

Fundy made a mistake, but it won't happen again.  He’ll probably be fine.  Fundy repeats the phrase a couple of times to reassure himself.  

He sucks in a deep breath and slowly eases open the doorknob with practiced hands.  

He’ll probably be-

Fundy’s heart drops.

Yellow light spills open from the door.  It’s still less blinding than the glare of the very much awake man sitting on the couch.

“Did you finally decide to come back from your date?” Wilbur asks.

Chapter Text

Fundy’s heart stops in his chest.

His father sits on their couch, legs crossed, palms folded, eyes steely and cold.  His voice is calm, but it’s barely restrained calm like the last, frayed thread holding a rope.

He’s sober and furious.  For Wilbur, that’s a dangerous combo.

Fundy opens his mouth, dry and aching.  Nothing comes out.  He closes it again.  He can feel his heartbeat in his throat.  

Wilbur’s glare could freeze hell over.  The look in his eye says he’ll do it, and drag Fundy there too.

It stings.  

The adrenaline of running stings.  The bright light of the room, a sudden adjustment from the night’s darkness, stings.  His father’s look stings.  His eyes are tight with anger, mouth hardened into a firm line but he seems like he’s about to cry regardless.  A look that speaks more rage than Wilbur could ever do to harm him, and more disappointment than a word Wilbur could ever utter.

The silence stretches on, seconds and seconds that take eons to complete, yawning and growing until the absence is deafening.

“You were with Dream.” Wilbur finally says, simply.  It’s a statement, not a question, but he pauses anyway.  For Fundy to explain or refute him with some dying shrivel of hope, perhaps.  But there’s nothing else that can be said.  Fundy can't get himself out of this one.

Fundy tucks his chin to the ground, gaze burning a hole into the wooden planks.  “Yes, I was,” he mutters quietly.  

Don’t confront Wilbur, don’t disagree with Wilbur, don’t do anything to piss off Wilbur.  That’s how he knows how to live his life.

Wilbur inhales sharply.  Fundy braces himself for yelling, but instead he begins to laugh.  A poor, bitter imitation of a chuckle that makes Fundy’s hair stand on end. “Do you have anything to say for yourself, child?”

“How’d you find out?” Fundy blurts out against his better judgment.

Wilbur’s lips curl up into a cruel sneer.  “You’re so fucking stupid.”

Tears burn the corners of Fundy’s eyelids.  Wilbur is, by all means, a shitty father.  He's a drunk, and neglectful, and definitely doesn’t treat Fundy like the adult he is.  But to outright berate him–that’s new.  This time can’t be explained away by alcohol.  He’s just being cruel.  Fundy has spent his entire life trying to be smart, to be cordial, to be a good soldier and son and leader and absolutely nothing of himself.  For those words to come out of Wilbur's mouth so easily–it’s never been worth it, has it?  

He was never going to be good enough for him.

Wilbur stands slowly, shoulders straightening.  He stares Fundy down, as the fox desperately tries to avoid eye contact.

“This is still my country, after all.  And you were with that… bastard within our borders–hallowed grounds for that devilspawn–our guards were bound to see the two of you… together.  Did you think I wouldn’t know, Icarus?”

The boy who flew too close to the sun and died, Fundy thinks automatically.  Too many ancient history lessons with Wilbur, in attempts to learn from the past that Wilbur never truly learned from.  Maybe he did get too overconfident with Dream.  Not only that they were caught, but that he’s been with their political enemy in the first place. 

No, Fundy can’t find it in himself to regret any part regardless.  But, who built me those wax wings, father? he wants to ask.  You could fuel my destruction and still blame the sun.

“You're a traitor-” Wilbur continues to rant.

Traitor.  The word scrapes down Fundy’s brain in a discordant tune, like nails on a chalkboard, and buzzes in his skull.  His spine snaps forward, claws flexing at his sides, fur bristling.  

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Fundy snarls.  He tilts his head up, fearlessly staring at Wilbur eye to eye.  For once in his life, he doesn’t want to just stand here and take Wilbur’s shit.

To his credit, his father flinches in surprise, nearly taking a step back.  For the first time in his life, the noble, intelligent politician-soldier looks weak.

“Are you yelling at me-” Wilbur says in disbelief.

“Don’t you dare call me a traitor.  You don’t know me,” Fundy continues, voice raspy with growing volume.  He’s not used to yelling, either.  But the words spill out like a broken dam, unstoppable from years of fortitude.  

Wilbur laughs incredulously, but even that seems weak and defensive to Fundy.  “Yeah I thought I knew you, I’ve raised you.” His smile slowly drops, seemingly regaining his confidence. “And you are no longer the son I raised–you were with our ENEMY.”

Fundy resists the urge to flinch at the heat behind Wilbur’s words, to take the verbal beating wordlessly.  He breathes in, slow and deep.  “I still want independence for L’manburg.”  Fundy says, stone-cold and trying his best to sound reasonable.  “I have fought for our freedom for my entire life, no one can refute that.  I am still a soldier of this country, and I will continue to do so. Whoever I chose to be in a relationship with changes nothing about my alliances and my own personal beliefs.”

“You can't say that and fraternize with our greatest enemy,” Wilbur sputters out.  “You’re a godsdamned backstabber.  If you loved this country–if you loved me –you would know better.”

“How fucking narcissistic are you?” Fundy scoffs, nearly rolling his eyes.  That was a nice try attempting to have a civil conversation with someone who literally doesn’t listen.  

“L’manburg isn’t just you, Wilbur,” he rants. “L’manburg is Tommy, and Tubbo, and Niki, and Jack, and Eret.  L’manburg is a creation, a home, people who genuinely treat me with love and respect.  It's supposed to be a safe haven, not a dictatorship.  Didn’t you create this place to be greater than you?  You’re caught up in your own ideas and you literally won’t listen to anyone else– you are Icarus. You’ve lost your way.”

He's screaming now, the words are reverberating off the walls and he’s so lost in it–he’s angry.  He’s terrifying.  He’s abusive.  He looks like a monster.  Fundy looks like his father.  

No one deserves this.

Fundy has so much more to say from a lifetime of grief of trauma.  He could be here forever, yelling and screaming and tearing words from his throat sliced through with fangs, but he manages to choke down the last of it.  Fundy tries not to cry but it begins anyway and won’t stop.  The liquid pooling in the corner of his eyelids turns to streams that pour down his cheeks with reckless abandon.  His chest heaves with sobs, tears clouding his vision.  This is… fucking embarrassing.

Yelling doesn't come naturally to him, not like laughter and whispers and friendly banter.  Fundy doesn't like loud noises.  He doesn’t like the way his throat hurts.  He doesn’t like the ways this feels.

And he expects yelling, retribution, maybe a slap across the face for his outburst that would honestly be deserved.  But as they sit in the silence of their own creation until the last of the echoes fade to nothing, Wilbur makes no attempt to hurt him.

And then, he does something unexpected.

He looks at Fundy with more love and adoration and care than he’s ever seen and says “Oh, Fundy .”

And all of a sudden he’s not Wilbur anymore, a pissed-off politician, and Fundy isn’t Fundy, a soldier poised for a fight glowering back. “Come here,” Wilbur offers so kindly, spreading his arms open.

For a second, they’re just a dad and a little kid again.  And against his better judgment, Fundy falls into the embrace.

“I understand this is hard for you,” his dad murmurs softly as Fundy curls into him.  “I should’ve been more present for you.  I’m sorry I haven’t focused on you as much as I should have.” 

He wraps the fox tightly and securely into his arms, the way Fundy has always loved to be hugged.  His throat is so clouded with emotion he can’t speak, but Fundy hums back an acknowledgment.

“I believe you.  You are our greatest soldier, and… I'm proud of you.  I've never doubted that.”

Fundy sobs into his chest, and his dad strokes his hair.  This is the apology he’s needed his entire life.  It's not enough, it’s not nearly enough for a lifetime of pain, but Fundy crumbles into his embrace anyway.  Wilbur, the godsdamned writer and wordsmith, knows exactly what he wants to hear and feeds into it.

Beneath everything, Fundy just wants to be loved.  It's all he’s ever wanted.

“I should’ve expected this.  I’m sorry I reacted so harshly,” Wilbur continues to whisper reassuringly, rubbing circles into Fundy’s back. “Of course, you had to act out at some point, every kid does.  Of course, you were dating him to hurt me!  But you don’t have to do this anymore.  I’m here, baby.”

Fundy pulls back slowly, shaking off Wilbur’s arms.  Words slowly breach the surface, sinking in like needles to skin and he can barely accept it.  He’d rather be hit, slapped into the ground by his own father, and taste blood in his mouth.  He’d rather be yelled at, berated, called a backstabber and traitor and worthless scum.

“Did you listen to… anything I just said?” he says slowly.

“Of course, kid,” Wilbur shushes.  His dark brown eyes are kind and loving, but the spark behind them barely hides a smug look.  “C’mere, you’ve had a long day, let me take care of you.  Let’s wash all the dirt off from your… forest excursion with that bastard, and get you to bed, huh?”

“Do you honestly think this is all about you?”  Fundy asks, outraged.  He rubs the last remnants of tears from his face and steps back, putting space between the two of them.

“Well, what else could it be?” Wilbur scoffs. He leans closer to fundy, stretching a hand out to his shoulder.

“I-” Fundy scrambles back from his touch.

“Surely you must have a reason? ” Wilbur says, growing impatient.

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why are you acting like this?  TELL ME.”

“I love Dream.”

Fuck.

Well… those are words that he can’t take back, words that he’s never said and meant to another living creature.  He’s never said it to Dream before.  But now that it's out there , in the world he knows it’s irrefutably true.  He is in love .

Wilbur’s gaze hardens, scraping off the last remnants of his parental affection.  “I cannot believe you, child.  You are fucking insane and you have desecrated everything I and this nation have ever stood for.  If you truly loved me you wouldn’t ‘date’ him.”

Fundy’s control, his desire not to become the same monster as his father, begins to wane.  “Hey! Maybe this isn't about you!  Maybe for once in your narrow, shallow fucking point of view, this isn’t about you.  Maybe this is about me for once, someone you’ve never allowed me to be. Maybe for once in your life, be happy for someone who isn't you,” Fundy grounds out.

“You're just dating him to hurt me-” Wilbur repeats and shakes his head, thoughts on loop.  Fundy watches him in his own shell of denial and thinks he’s really never learned how to change, has he?   

“I wouldn’t lie about this, alright?  He makes me happy and he respects me and all of my beliefs.  I actually love Dream!” Fundy insists.  And yeah, it actually sounds right coming out of his mouth this time.  The words click well in his throat, pour out of his mouth with ease, and he savors the taste.  This is natural for him, not like the way screaming feels.  Fundy just hopes he can say it to Dream himself someday.  

“Maybe you don’t know what that feels like,” Fundy continues on, emboldened by the feeling and not thinking before he speaks. “Maybe you haven’t ever been in love or… happy.”

Fundy regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth.  He’s crossed some sort of line.

Wilbur’s deadly quiet. “You don't even remember why your mother left, do you?” Wilbur seethes at him. 

Fundy’s stomach fills with black-tar dread.  He feels so, so heavy.  Those words scratch deeper, miles below the surface of walls he’s built up to protect himself for years.  All of a sudden, he realizes he doesn’t know why Sally left.  And he can’t.  With shocking, unexplainable certainty, Fundy's sure finding out would kill him.

He laughs it off.

He tries to laugh it off.

The sound catches in his throat in a bastardized form of its true meaning, a sickening croak of audible desperation, and Fundy pushes down the feeling until he chokes.  “Yeah, because you’re an alcoholic asshole that cared more about your country than your own family?” Fundy deflects, snarling at Wilbur. It's not entirely wrong, after all.

“That's not all, you know that.”

“Well then I don't know,” Fundy snaps.  They’re toeing the edge of a cliff Fundy does not want to be dangling over.  His heart is thrumming in his chest, hummingbird flutter crashing with bone.  He should leave.  Wilbur opens his mouth again and Fundy can almost count down the seconds until his life is irreparably shattered.

I need to go I need to go I NEED TO GO

“Your mother-”

“I don’t know,” Fundy repeats, cutting him off with a sudden rush of inexplicable terror. “And I don’t care.”

He wants to keep talking, to prevent Wilbur from saying anything more but the other man is silent in the rush of his wake.  Fundy laughs bitterly.  “It’s really funny.  You’re still alive and I live with you, and somehow I have two absent parents.  I fucking hate you.”

Wilbur shatters into a mosaic of emotion: rage and disappointment and fear and melancholy and heartbreak and pain and pain and pain.  Endless and unforgiving and broken and it may just be the cruelest thing Fundy has ever done or will do.

“Kid, you don’t mean that…” their unbreakable leader’s voice wavers and cracks.  

With more conviction than anything he’s said in his life, Fundy says “I do”. 

“You will always be my baby,” Wilbur says quietly, pathetically.  He's… no, he’s really crying.

If he stays for a second longer, Fundy’s gonna apologize to Wilbur and beg for forgiveness… or hurt him.  He should leave.  He needs to leave.  The urge is scratching beneath his skin, blinding his vision.

“That doesn’t make you my family.  I have to choose that for myself."  Fundy inhales, exhales.  "I’m… I think it’d be best for me to leave,” he manages, beginning to draw back.

Fundy thuds to the door, swinging it open silently, and then man he once called his father makes no attempt to stop him.  

“And it's Fundy, not kid,” he adds bitterly.  “And the name of the man I love is Dream.  I’m a fucking adult now, which I don’t think you’ve ever realized.  You have no claim to me anymore.” 

He stands in the gateway as yellow light spills into the darkness outside, and hesitantly takes a final look at the man who raised him.  Who tried, and failed, who was reckless and stupid and thoughtless and loved him, or thought he did, who never believed him, who was never proud of him, who blamed him, who trained him and taught him and raised him and hurt him and hurt him and hurt him.

Words rise to his throat, solid in their finality.

“Goodbye, Wilbur,” Fundy says.

Fundy steps out of the threshold, slams the wooden door closed, and the weight of the world cascades down his shoulders.  For the first time in his life, he has nowhere to go.  For the first time in his life, he’s free.

It must’ve rained recently.  The grass is damp, and the soil gives a little as Fundy’s paws dig into the ground.  The air smells fresh, like the last trace of old ends and the overwhelming promise of new beginnings.

Fundy takes another step forward.  Right now, he doesn’t have a destination, just a goal to leave.  But it’s a step in the right direction, regardless.

He doesn’t look back.

Chapter Text

Tommy, gods bless his soul, helps him get his shit out of the house when Wilbur’s at work.

“Should I ask why you know how to do that?” Fundy asks, raising an eyebrow.  His nervously eyes dart around the woody area that surrounds his old house, but there's no one nearby to be seen.

Tommy grins, using some metal pick tool to tinker with the doorknob.  “Absolutely not.”

A couple more seconds of fiddling, a strong push, and the door finally swings open.  Tommy shoots him a wink.  "Told you I could do it.

Fundy breathes a sigh of relief. “Thanks, I owe you one.”

Tommy mock-salutes. “Anything for you, big man.”

The kid crosses into the house easily.  “You coming?" He offers, glancing back at the fox.  Fundy hesitates for a second.  He hasn’t been back in this house since… since…

Well, this will be the last time he’ll be in here ever, that’s for sure.

He peers past the door.  A quick scan of the house reveals that it’s empty.  Not that he thought Wilbur would be here anyway, since he knows his schedule pretty well, but it’s a relieving discovery regardless.  Fundy sucks in a deep breath for courage, attempting to keep it quiet, and then steps through the threshold.  Huh.  Not as scary as he thought it’d be.

Impatiently, Tommy is already gesturing for him to keep up, so he follows and they make their way to Fundy’s bedroom.  It's unchanged from the last time he was there: his posters still hanging from the walls, same carpet, same unmade bedspread.  Loose clothes are still strewn all over his mattress.  It’s clear that Wilbur probably hasn’t set foot in here since he’s left.  He probably won’t even notice anything missing, later.  Fundy doesn't know what he was expecting, but it feels eerie anyway.

Tommy pulls out a collection of bags, scanning the room. “So, where do you want to start?”

Fundy hums in thought.  There’s a lot in here that stirs painful memories to the surface.  Old books from his studies with Wilbur, old gifts from Sally.  These used to be the familiar sights and decorations of his life but… he’s not welcome here anymore.  Not just because he was kicked out, but because he left.  

This part of his life always held him down.  These material objects feel too much like tethers to memories that don’t belong to him, that never did. 

Fundy realizes suddenly doesn’t want them anymore, doesn’t want the reminders of his past life.  He wants to cut himself free.

“I don’t think I want to keep much,” Fundy offers.  “Mostly just the clothes, I guess.”

Tommy is good about not asking questions.  Fundy thinks he probably wouldn’t want to hear a dramatic speech about tethers and material connections and burning remnants to start the growth of his life from scratch, anyway.  He just nods in approval, and gets to work.  Good.

“So, I heard you’re defecting to the Greater Dream SMP,” he says lightly, tossing Fundy his own satchel.

“I'm not-” Fundy sighs, grabbing the bag.  At least there’s no judgment in his tone.  “I’ll move to a neutral territory, probably.  But I’m still on L’manburg’s side.”

“Alright,” Tommy shrugs, carelessly.  He makes his way to a neatly folded pile of papers on his desk before Fundy has a chance to stop him.

“Adorable,” he smirks, scanning the words. “Are these love poems?”

Fundy snatches the collection of poems back and shoves them in his bag, face burning. “Yes,” he mutters sullenly.

Tommy’s eyebrows raise high enough to scrape the ceiling.  “No way .  I heard from Tubbo you got ‘caught’ but I was like… no fucking shot.”  He pauses, reveling in the drama.  “Is it true you’re fucking Dream?

“ Hey ,” Fundy retaliates, rapping the boy on the head and blushing orange slightly.  “That's none of your business.”

“And It’s a relationship , kid,” he thinks to add, after a pause.

Tommy scowls at him, rubbing the spot on his forehead furiously.  “I’m literally older than you, kid .  Stupid fox-hybrid genes.  Relationship, then.  Are you two really together?”

“Yeah,” Fundy admits.  “We are.” He feels more than a little sheepish saying it, but ridiculously proud at the same time.

“Wild.” Tommy whistles.  “That’s why you got kicked out?” He adds without a second thought.

The kid, clearly, has never had a filter.

Fundy swallows, but his mouth is uncomfortably dry.  “Yeah,” he repeats.  “That’s why.”

And somehow, as painful as the sting of the admission is, he feels the urge to let Tommy know what really happened.  Before Wilbur can form a string of excuses and turn the rest of Lmanburg on him with honey-sweet lies.  Or before rumors, distorted in every retelling, pour down the grapevine like they always do.  He wants the truth to be known, for once.

“I uh… I really like him.  Dream, I mean,” he offers awkwardly.  Love , Fundy corrects himself silently.  Oh gods, now that he knows , he wants to be able to say it directly to his lover for once.

“He’s really good to me.  And y’know, obviously, we’re really different but we just don’t let the political shit get in the way.  Like, we never even talk about work when we’re alone," Fundy explains.  Even now, he struggles to contain a smile when he talks about Dream. "And then… I don't know what I was expecting but Wilbur isn't cool with it.  When he found out, he thought I was dating Dream just to hurt him even though I kept saying I was still loyal to L’manburg.  And he just wouldn't treat me like an adult or like I actually, independently, knew what I was doing.  So he didn’t kick me out, in the end.  I left.”

“Just thought you guys might like to know the real reason,” Fundy adds after a slight pause.

Tommy pauses for a second, absorbing the words.  He’s never been good with the sappy shit, never been good with emotions.  But Fundy already knows that, and knows how good Tommy is at staying unbiased, too.  The kid is never judgemental, and he appreciates it.

Tommy clicks his tongue, and then finally shrugs carelessly.  “Y'know what, do what makes you happy,” he says, and the words feel surprisingly wise and comforting coming from him.  “And invite me to your wedding,” he adds after a beat.  

Fundy grins, relieved.  “That's the plan!  The first thing, not the second one.”  He grimaces.  “It’s way too early for a wedding, big man.”

“Whatever.  I wanna be a flower boy, don't you dare give the job to Tubbo.” Tommy makes a face. “Or George. ”

Fundy chuckles.  That’s the Tommy he’s always known.  He turns back to folding blankets into a new pack and they work in comfortable silence, until a sudden creak sounds at the door.

They freeze at the sound of someone new coming in.  Fundy’s heart drops to his ass. 

But it's just Niki, balancing a basket on her hip, as she enters Fundy’s room.

He swears loudly.  “You scared me,” Fundy wheezes out breathlessly, like he’s asthmatic.

She looks a little amused. “Sorry to terrify you!  I figured you two would be here, once I couldn't find Tommy, so I decided I’d check the house just in case.”

“How'd you get in?” Tommy says, staring at her suspiciously.

Niki waves her hand at the two boys, shiny metal dangling in between her fingers.  

“Man.  How did you get a key to the house before I did?” Tommy complains.

Fundy snorts.  “I second that motion.  Even I don’t have my own key.  

She shrugs, smug.  “I’m trustworthy, I guess.”

“And I'm not?” Tommy whines petulantly.

Fundy stares at him. “You just picked a lock and broke in-”

“Whatever.”

Niki turns her attention back to Fundy, looking him over with an analytical gaze.

“Are you eating well?” She fusses, running a hand through his curls.  “You look thin!”

Fundy rolls his eyes, as much as he appreciates the attention.  “I'm alright.  I'm not exactly living in a ditch.”

“Where are you staying, though?” Niki asks, cocking her head.

“I found one of our old abandoned warehouses from the last battle,” Fundy explains. “It’s still stocked full of food preservatives, weapons, and supplies, so I’m doing alright.  It should be a temporary situation, anyway.”

Niki clicks her tongue sympathetically.  “I would've taken you into my house,” she offers. “But, y’know.  You know how Wilbur is.”

Fundy, in fact, does know how Wilbur is.

He winces at the name.  “How… is he?” Fundy manages to ask.

Niki shoots him an indecipherable look.

Tommy says, “He’s uh…” before Niki subtly shoots him a similar look and he goes quiet.

Fundy sniffs the air clouding the house in the resounding silence.  He’s been so focused on getting his shit and getting out that he hasn’t really examined his surroundings.  The house smells bitter, faintly of smoke and alcohol.  It’s a stronger scent than what he’s used to-

Wilbur stumbles around the bedroom, drunk .  Wordlessly, the same as the three other days that week, Fundy manages to tuck him into bed.

“I don't know what I'd do without you, kid!” Wilbur mumbles out appreciatively, slurring his words. “Probably be dead by now,” he laughs darkly.  

He drunkenly sings out, “You're my baby, you'll always be my babyyy-”

“Not excellent ,” Tommy finishes, grimacing.

Fundy blinks, hard , forcing himself not to stumble under the weight of the memory.  The last figments quickly crumble around him to dust.

“He’s been better,” Niki clarifies softly. “He hasn’t been the same since… well you know.”

“Since I left,” Fundy says bluntly.  They've been dancing around the topic.

Niki breathes.  “Since you left,” she confirms. “It’s a rough patch, but he’ll be alright.  I promise.  I’m looking after him, he’s not gonna do anything too stupid on my watch, okay?”

Fundy tries not to tear up.  “You guys uh… you guys must not like me.  I fucked up pretty badly.”

Niki smiles at him gently, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.  “Fundy, what makes you think-”

“Are you fucking kidding? ” Tommy chimes in. “We’re here right now, aren’t we?  I broke into Wilbur’s fucking house because you asked me to!”

The fight to hold back his tears gets harder.  He’s drowning in the liquid, guilt tugging up his feet and ankles in dark tendrils.  Fundy doesn’t want to beg for their reassurance when there's no way in Prime’s name he deserves it.  The words, “But, why ?” make their way out of his mouth, anyway.

“I know you, Fundy.” Niki reassures him, words calm and sweet. You have never given up on us.  Even now you still fight for us, when you have no reason to.  Gods know you’ve been hurt by Wilbur’s actions enough to leave all of us behind permanently.”

Guilt fills up to his throat, heavy as tar and bitter to the taste.  “Did you know?” Fundy chokes out.  

Niki looks so, so tired when she looks at him.  “I don’t know everything, and that’s your own business to share.  But I have watched him raise you from afar for many years, and it has… not been kind.  This was coming to him.”

“No, he doesn’t deserve to suffer ,” Fundy forces out, shaking his head numbly.  “I’ve hurt Wilbur really badly, haven’t I?  How can I live with that?”  

Fundy doesn’t mean to, but he glares as Niki fumbles out a weak reassurance.  “You can’t deny it, he’s upset and it’s my fault-”

“Listen.” Tommy says, cutting in strongly.  Fundy has no choice but to look up at him.  “Wilbur is… he can be…” he pauses, searching for an eloquent word.  “A bitch , sometimes.”

Niki nods solemnly in agreement.  “He is a bitch.”

“And like, I work with him and he’s my friend and I’m his second-in-command and I’m loyal to L’manburg and all,” Tommy continues.  “But Wilbur can be a fucking bitch .  And that’s not your fault.  If he gets hurt in the process of being an idiot, that’s on him.  You shouldn’t blame yourself for it.  You were literally just living your life without trying to hurt anyone else.  You can’t control how other people think about that or react to it.  And if they can’t deal with that, that is on them , alright?”

Fundy sniffles.  The words finally sink in, burning through his self-created reservoir of misery.  Slowly, he’s starting to breathe past the remorse.  

“Thank you,” Fundy says, words pouring out of his throat in gratitude, in the ease of the abating waves of guilt.  “That means a lot to me.  Truly.”  Niki smiles encouragingly, and he feels warm, and loved, and-

“Like, if Tubbo pushes me into the water but I refuse to come up for air-” Tommy continues, apparently tone-deaf to the situation.  “Then it’s my fault if I drown.  Okay, nah that’s more like if I tie super heavy weights–or like a whole ass anvil –to myself and then start chilling by the docks and then Tubbo pushes me in… No wait, let me think of a better one-”

“I didn’t need the analogy,” Fundy cuts in.  “But uh, thank you anyway,” he adds awkwardly.

Niki represses a grin.  “Sometimes you keep going when you should’ve stopped a good several sentences ago.”

Tommy rolls his eyes.

Niki gently places a hand on Fundy’s shoulder. “Even if you no longer consider this your home,” she says kindly.  “There will always be a place for you here, and among our people.”

Fundy nods simply, throat swelling with too much emotion for words. Despite himself, a tear spills past his defenses.  Niki wipes it away instantly, pressing a light kiss to his temples.  Tommy is remarkably silent as Fundy starts to cry.  Even the guy who’s never been good with feelings leans into his other side at the display of emotion, and wordlessly wraps him in a hug.  The kid, who’s always been obnoxiously tall, rests his chin on top of Fundy’s head securely.  

Fundy feels safe.  

Fundy feels loved.

Fundy feels warm.

He relies so much on other people and the network they’ve built for him.  But for the first time, that doesn’t seem like a setback.

He’d lay down his life for anyone in L’manburg, Fundy thinks quietly. They have his back.  He is so loved by them.

Later, with the three of them, the packing is finished quickly.  Niki forces some pastries into his hands before they leave and Fundy makes promises to visit and get together with all of them outside of L’manburg.  He would, anyway, but Niki’s insistent glare really cements those plans into place.

It's not a goodbye, but something still feels different… and new.  And exactly like home has always felt, at the same time. 

Chapter Text

Fundy knows he can’t live in an abandoned bomb shelter forever, as nice as the collection of canned peach preservatives is.  He might love avoiding his problems… but this is avoiding his problems.

He and Dream don't usually talk about these things, politics and jobs and families or anyone but the two of them.  But Fundy figures this is the kind of "major life development" that deserves a passing mention.

It's either a good thing or a bad thing that gossip and rumors spread so quickly.  Because Dream definitely already knows what’s happened to him.  Besides, it's a small server and this is the kind of hot gossip that spreads faster than a fire in deadwood.  Everyone knows L’manburg’s leader got in some big fight with his son and kicked him out.  At least he doesn’t need to explain everything from scratch.

And to be expected, Dream is outraged.

They meet in the forest and Dream wraps Fundy into a wordless hug immediately, lifting his feet clean off the ground.

“I want to fuck Wilbur up,” Dream murmurs into their embrace, deadly serious.  “As if I didn’t have a reason too already.  Oh Fundy, I’m so sorry.  I heard what happened.”

Fundy half-laughs, half-sobs into his shoulder.  He revels in the comfort of his warmth.  “I don’t want vengeance,” Fundy whispers back insistently.  “How much better would that make me?”

Dream swallows, a tortured look clouding his face.  “No one should be allowed to talk to you like that.  No one should ever scream at you.  You don’t deserve that.”

“I know.”  Fundy’s eyes flutter shut.  He knows better than anyone, actually.  “But I just want to move on.”

Dream sets Fundy down to the ground gently, and stares softly into his warm eyes.  “Okay,” he says, simply.  Dream presses his lips quietly to Fundy’s forehead.  “I can do that.”

Dream is good at destruction.  But he’s also good at rebuilding, too.  That’s why Fundy fell in love with him.

They meander through the trees silently, hand in hand, until Fundy’s ready to talk again.  He recounts his fight with Wilbur, the events of the past week, and his fears for the future.  He still manages to surprise himself, like he does every time, with how easy it is to talk to Dream.

“I'm glad I was able to move out,” Fundy admits.  “I think it was good for me.  But I'm a little worried, too.  I don’t really have anywhere to be right now, and I’ve never lived by myself before.” 

“What if you weren’t alone?” Dream says hesitantly.  “What if someone was there… too?”

"What do you mean?" Fundy asks, confused. 

Dream chuckles.  “Okay, do you want me to spell it out for you?  What if I moved in with you?  Would you want that?”

Fundy stares at him, eyes glimmering with emotion.

“But you have a place in the Greater Dream SMP!” He protests weakly.  “I can't take that away from you.”

“You had a place in L'manburg, too,” Dream reminds him.

“Will this even work?” Fundy asks, hesitant.  A million questions, ifs and ors and buts, fill his mind. “With how different we are, and our different views?”

“We’ll live here. Just the two of us,” the other man insists, unmoving conviction lacing his words.  He takes Fundy’s paw in between his two hands, a warm lifeline of stability.  “And we'll go to work.  And come back, and not speak of it.  Same as it's always been with us.  I'll go away, and always come back to you.”

He’s already made up his mind, and it’s starting to convince Fundy too.

“Dream.  Is this too soon?”

“I don't care.”  And by the look in Dream’s eyes, he wholly means it.

“Hey.” Fundy swallows, mouth dry, and pauses in his step to face Dream. If he doesn’t get the balls to say it now, after everything Dream has sacrificed and devoted to him, he never will.  “I love you,” he says finally.  For the first time, ever.

“Are you serious?” Dream blurts out.

“Yeah!  And I haven’t been able to say it yet, but gods have I wanted to.  I love you.”

A silence stretches between them, for a couple moments too long.

“Dream… you’re scaring me,” Fundy says, chuckling awkwardly.  Dream stares at him with some unreadable emotion.  “Are you alright?  You don't need to say it back-”

“I love you too,” Dream says in one solid rush.  “I love you so fucking much.  I've been in love with you for the longest time.”

Fundy smacks him lightly upside the head.  “Gods, why’d you have to keep me waiting like that!” He grounds out.

Dream picks him up and spins him around, giggling.

Maybe they're jumping the gun.  Maybe it's too early.  But honestly, Fundy has nowhere else to go.

So Dream builds him a little house out in the woods, a cabin right next to the spot where their first date was.  

Dream has always been good with his hands.

George and Sapnap help to build the house and George side-eyes him the whole time.  Fundy doesn't blame him.  He would be suspicious of himself, too.  It makes sense that no one else really gets what they're doing.  Fundy hardly understands it himself.

When the cabin is finished, they throw a housewarming party and invite their friends from all over the server.

The entirety of Lmanberg’s cabinet greets Fundy with a crushing hug as soon as they arrive.

“I brought you freshly baked bread and salt!” Niki announces, greeting him with a peck on the cheek.  “So that you may never be hungry and your life will always be full of flavor.”

Fundy accepts the gift gratefully, cradling the wonderfully-smelling bag that Niki shoves into his arms.

Tommy clears his throat behind them, and awkwardly tucks a glass vase of beautiful flowers into his full arms.

“I picked these from L’manburg,” he explains.  “So that you may always remember where you’ve come from,” Tommy adds on dramatically.

Tubbo snorts beside him.  “You made that up on the spot to copy Niki, didn’t you?” he scoffs.

The taller boy elbows him.  “Shut up.”

Fundy smiles, watching them bicker.  He’s missed this.

Tubbo gingerly sets what appears to be a miniature grandfather clock onto their currently empty dining table. Dream had carved it by hand from oak wood.  “I made you this clock, just ‘cause it looks cool,” Tubbo says, rolling his eyes pointedly at Tommy.

The rest of the gang continues to offer gifts, to Fundy’s increasing amazement and gratitude.

Jack brings candles, which he’s just started getting into making.  He explains the different scents of citrus, lavender, and chestnut to Fundy.  “So you may always be warm,” he says, winking at Niki.

She rolls her eyes.  “Okay, now you’re all just copying me.  I’m being mocked.”

Eret brings a little throw rug for the living room, in their signature regal colors of red and gold.  As charismatic as they’ve always been, they’re the only one that directly talks to Dream.  The rest of L’manburg skirts around him awkwardly.

It's a pleasant occasion all-in-all, but the Greater Dream SMP side and the L’manburg side tend to avoid each other and keep to themselves.  Fundy chuckles a little bit watching them skirt around each other.  It reminds him of all their diplomatic meetings.  They’ve come full circle in a way, because that's how he and Dream fell in love.

(They all know who's absent from the festivities, but none of them say it.) 

Afterwards, Dream and Fundy sit together on their couch, quietly pulling apart the loaf of bread Niki baked them.

“This is really good bread!” Dream announces, mouth stuffed to the brim.

“I know, right?” Fundy exclaims, gulping down a large bite.

Dream feeds another piece to Fundy and he giggles, nipping playfully at his lover’s fingers.  His tail tries to wag, pulled tightly around himself.  Fundy’s almost painfully happy.  He’s never been used to feeling this good.

Dream sets the rest of the loaf down onto their newly sculpted side table, and his gaze lingers.

Fundy turns his head to see the other man gazing wistfully at the photos decorating their table.  There’s a grinning photo of Dream in between George and Sapnap at a beach—it must’ve been taken recently.  And next to it, an old, framed photograph of a baby Fundy and the older woman holding him.

“That’s me and my grandma Kristin,” Fundy explains, smiling fondly at the picture.

“Yknow, you never talk about your grandfather,” Dream notes curiously.

Fundy sighs.  He rarely talks about his family, but he supposes it wouldn’t hurt to share this part of him with Dream.  He’s already shared most of his life.  

“His name was Philza,” Fundy says, letting out a breath.  “In many ways I think he made Wilbur into the man he is now, and Wilbur tried to carry that down to me.  Philza… ran Wilbur hard.  He was an architect, a builder.  And he always wanted Wilbur to build something greater than himself, too.  I think that he was the burning fire behind Wilbur’s passion in L’manburg, until that fire burned itself out and gave way to ashes.”

Fundy swallows thickly.  “Wilbur eventually moved away from him, though.  He couldn't stand it anymore, I suppose.  They both had a passion in their bones that laid the way to mass destruction.” Fundy’s eyes flutter shut at the weight of his own words.

Dream absorbs everything without a word.  “And your grandma?” He asks gently.

“A mystery. They say she’s tied to the underworld, an ‘angel of death’ if you can believe that.  Grandma Kristin was never around for long, and she always knew when someone was about to die.  So it sort of makes sense?  None of us were worried when she passed, we knew she was just gearing up for her next adventure.”  

Fundy stares at the grinning, dark-haired woman in the photo.  “She’s the reason I’m not afraid of death,” Fundy admits quietly. “Because I know someone is waiting to guide me on the other side.  The actual dying part of it, the pain, is what holds me back.”

“I never knew you were religious!”  Dream says admirably, with no hint of sarcasm in his voice.

“I mean… sort of?  Tommy definitely is.  He actually prays to Prime and all that.  I just like the idea that there’s something watching over me, something out there greater than myself.  What about you?”

“I don't know,” Dream shrugs. “I don’t frown on anyone else for believing, I guess I've just given up on those thoughts myself.”

He laces his fingers together with Fundy’s.  With his other hand, he affectionately thumbs the frame of his picture with George and Sapnap.

“Thank you for telling me about your family.  This is mine,” Dream offers. “To me, family has always been my friends and those I love.  To me, family is created.”

Fundy nods along in agreement.  “I’d like for my family to be a choice,” he admits.

Dream smiles back softly, and rests his head on Fundy’s shoulder.  He’s quiet for a moment, thinking.

“In the future, would you ever want a kid?” Dream asks softly.

“Honestly?  I don’t know,” Fundy sighs.  “I wouldn’t want to fuck them up in the same way I’ve been fucked up.”

Dream shrugs.  “I think knowing you’re gonna fuck up is a good first step.  At least you’re aware.”  He leans over and kisses Fundy on the cheek.  “I also think it’s very noble to not want to hurt others.”

Fundy hums happily.  “I gotta say, the way you’re asking to start a family with me is very smooth, though,” he adds with a snort.

Dream laughs.

“But we can do that now, y’know?  Us, together,”  Dream says passionately, eyes lit on fire.  “It doesn’t need to be a monument, and it doesn’t need to be a country, and it doesn’t need to be the entire afterworld.” He brushes his thumb affectionately over Fundy’s knuckles. “It can just start with us, and we can become our own creation.  I do want the two of us to be a family—because I love you.”  Dream lifts Fundy’s hands to his lips with a gentle kiss, and that means I love you in its own way, too.

“You know what?”  Fundy looks at Dream with more affection than the world can hold.  “That's what it is.  It runs in the blood of my family.  That desire, that passion.  For something greater than ourselves.  For my papa, it was about what he could build.  For my dad, it was about his country.  For me, it's wrapped up in you.”   

Dream stares back at him, eyes damp.  He squeezes Fundy’s hand firmly.

“This is something greater than us,” he murmurs.  “I’m sure of it.”

Chapter Text

-CRASH-

His eyes snap open at the noise.  He hears voices just beyond the door of his room.

It’s still dark.

The world is fuzzy-gray.  His blanket is heavy and seems to smother him, drawing him back to bed.

One voice high and angry… one voice deep and low… 

This part is… familiar.  Oddly familiar.  Anxiety claws at him.  He tries to reach for his doorknob, towards the two yelling figures he knows are beyond it.

Fundy wrestles himself out of his sheets and blankets, wheezing breathlessly with the effort.  His bed fades behind him, shattering into static, and then to nothingness.

Fundy inches towards the door by instinct, to the yellow light that spills out from under it.  It’s as if weights are tied around his ankles, each step heavier than the one before it.  He feels like the titan Atlas, holding the weight of the world onto his shoulders.

As he wraps his hands around the doorknob, the rest of his surroundings fade to static behind him.

Two shadowy figures stand alone in a blank hallway, nothing more than formless black shapes in a four-walled corridor.  Fundy tries to look closer.  Their mouths are constantly shifting static, indecipherable angry tones but entirely wordless.

This must be his mother and father, he thinks faintly.  They don’t even look like humans right now, in this broken fragment of a dreamscape.

Hopefully, it’s the last time he’s here.  Fundy knows it hasn’t been the first.

He tries, despite the weights on his ankles and the muffled voices, to hear.

“She… [ ] … family …” a high-pitched, distorted voice says.  The words come out of a rough imitation of a mouth.  The shorter shifting, shadowy figure, is speaking.  His mother?  Sally?   The words he can’t hear are a scrambled sound and barely recognizable as human speech.

The voice repeats itself, in the exact same angry, emotional tone.  Fundy inches forward in an attempt to hear her better.

The staticy figure morphs into a slightly clearer, if still shadowy, form of a woman the closer he gets.

“She … tearing … family apart,” the figure of Sally says.  Her mouth consolidates from an inhuman, unhinged hole in the static into a normal human mouth.  Her lips are red.  She always used to wear lipstick.

Fundy edges closer and closer.  A falling object, seemingly coming out of nowhere, lets out a crashing boom and makes him flinch.  As it touches the ground, it shatters into static against the nondescript floor.

“She is tearing this family apart,” his mother utters clearly.

Sally snaps toward him, eyes glaring red past the blistering gray static of her face.

“SHE IS TEARING THIS FAMILY APART,” Sally screams in his face, voice screeching and high-pitched.

Fundy forcefully stumbles back in the memory, trying to regain his footing.  This part isn’t real.  It can’t be.

His mother—what should’ve been his mother—jerks apart from the static, jaw unhinging from the sparking gray noise and teeth sharpening.  

She is tearing this family apart, Sally's voice repeats like a broken record.  She stares at Fundy blankly.  She is tearing this family apartShe is tearing this family apartShe is tearing–

“This isn’t real,” Fundy whispers to himself, eyes fluttering shut.  He clutches his hands at his sides as his heart pounds.  There has to be a reason his sleeping brain keeps coming back to this hell of a nightmare. There’s something here that he needs to understand.

“What do you mean?” Fundy wants to scream back.

Fundy, a new voice says.  It booms through the static-walls of his childhood home.  The ground shakes.

That’s… his name.  It’s so hard to remember his own name.

Fundy, the voice repeats.   Fundy.

His mother’s words sound distant, murky in comparison.  He chooses to focus on the new voice.

“ FUNDY.  Are you alright-”

Fundy’s eyes fly open.  He sucks open a breath, chest heaving in panic.

“Fundy,” the voice says again.  It’s familiar, warm… concerned?  “Are you alright?” he repeats tenderly.

Fundy turns over to see Dream, gently shaking his shoulder.  His eyebrows are furrowed, lips roughly set into a frown.  He can barely see Dream in the dark—it must still be the middle of the night—but the hand against him is warm.  “Are you okay, dear?” his sweetheart asks quietly, gently. “You were shaking.”

Fundy swallows, mouth dry.  Words don’t come to him, so he nods slightly instead.  Fundy sucks in another shaky breath.

Dream is well accustomed to this.  The nightmares, his incomprehensible flashbacks, the moments of panic where he can’t force a single sound to pass through his throat, and the moments where nothing around him feels real.  Maybe he’s an idiot but… Fundy thought it would go away once he moved in with Dream.  He thought it would get better once he got better.  But his fear has remained regardless.  

Sometimes, he thinks it's worse than ever.  

Living with a soft-mannered man makes him flinch more at the slightest of noises than his parents’ screams ever did.  Living safely away from his abuser has made him more terrified than ever before.  He’s swallowed down every bad memory for years, and now he can’t anymore.  Fundy’s starting to remember, for better or worse.

“Were you having a nightmare?” Dream asks softly.

His voice is always quiet, non-threatening, words spelled out clearly and simply but in no way condescending.  Fuck, he loves this man.

Fundy slumps over into Dream’s chest and lets his lover hold onto him tightly, solidly, until he feels safe again.  He nods wordlessly against him.

“It’s okay, baby,” Dream whispers.

Fundy wants to sob.  He lets Dream hold him regardless.

Seconds or hours later, pressed into his boyfriend’s arms, Fundy falls back into an uneasy, dreamless sleep.

Before his eyes open, Fundy can feel that something is wrong.

Today is gonna be a bad day, he thinks to himself quietly.

He wakes up alone in bed.  When he claws at the sheets beside him, the other side is already cold.

Fundy can already taste bitter threads of panic in his mouth.  It sews his throat shut, threading anxiety throughout his mind.

The faint scent of caffeine trails forth from the kitchen.  The traces of it twist Fundy’s mind, spiraling inside of him and making him cough and gag.  He’s been awake for less than a minute and he already has a fucking headache.

Fundy sneaks a glance at the window over their bed.  The sky is slowly lightening, but the sun hasn’t risen yet.  It's gray outside.

It still feels like a dream.

Thoughts are coming to him like broken shrapnel.  Quick and sharp and incomplete.  It hurts.

He tries to shake it off and slowly pads his way to their living room.  Dream is a dark shadow of a figure at the window, against the faintest trails of rising light.  His back is turned away.

“Are you drinking… coffee?” Fundy asks him tentatively, throat raw and sleepy.

His lover slowly gets up from his seat and turns around.  Fundy almost expects a distorted face to emerge from the shadow in his unease.  He expects static.  But… it’s just Dream.  His Dream.  A clear, human face that he’s seen a million times over and yet still could never get sick of.  Dream, with his golden-brown hair messed up from sleep and a tired, easy smile on his face and dimples across freckled skin.

He yawns lazily.  “I was just exhausted from last night,” Dream explains, taking another sip from his ceramic mug. “You don't mind, do you?” He greets Fundy with a hug, placing a kiss onto his forehead.  The sickening scent of caffeine lingers on his fur, and his heart pounds hard.  Fundy resists the impulse to claw at his skin.  He chokes on his own breath.

“Are you okay?” Dream asks, head tilted and eyes suddenly wary.  

“Are you okay, dear?” Dream had asked last night.

Fundy wants to forget the crippling heaviness of his nightmare.  He wants to forget the panic in his lover’s voice.  But his brain isn’t letting him forget anymore.

Fundy feels like he’s floating out of his skin.  He shuts his eyes.  He can’t speak.

“Yeah,” a voice that’s not Fundy, that sounds like Fundy, says. “I’m fine.  I promise.”

His arm, that’s not his arm, reaches up and grabs Dream’s hand.  Fundy’s walking.  Fundy lets Dream guide him to the couch on autopilot, and takes a seat.  But he feels like he’s frozen, still standing feet behind his physical body.

“I'll be in the next room if you need me,” Dream’s voice says, already distant.  “Just call out for me, alright?”

Fundy forces himself, beyond a throat that’s already starting to close up, to hum back at him in acknowledgment.

This isn’t real.  None of this feels real.

Coffee.  Coffee.  What a weird smell to get so up in arms about.  Something deep inside of him, the part of him that’s still functioning, snorts at how much he’s overreacting right now.  Is he dissociating?  Over a caffeinated beverage?  This is a new one, and quite possibly the oddest trigger he’s yet discovered.  What an embarrassing thing to have a panic attack over.

Think, Fundy.  He forces his brain to run over the memory, claws digging into the couch under him. What's the problem?  What’s triggering you right now?  When have you last smelled coffee?

The cafe in the Dream SMP, he thinks automatically.  On his third date with Dream, when they did puzzles together and he smelled coffee, and he was so tense for no fucking reason.

Push back further and… nothing.

It must’ve been a while ago.  Because, at least in L’manburg, coffee is no one's drink of choice.  Niki prefers tea and the gods know Tommy is already way too hyper on his own.  And since Wilbur has started drinking to cope, coffee has become obsolete.

Wait.  Fundy’s eyes flicker shut in realization.  Wilbur started drinking to cope after Sally left.

Godsdamnit.  So this must’ve happened before Sally left.  Or… around that time.

Those are the memories Fundy can barely remember.  Maybe… there’s a reason why.

That fight—the night he’d yelled at Wilbur and cursed his name and left their house forever.  “You don't even remember why your mother left, do you?” Wilbur had asked.

And it wasn’t just because he was an absent father and husband or a politics-obsessed maniac.  There was another reason.  Wilbur was trying to hurt him in that moment, and those words would have undoubtedly damaged Fundy beyond repair.

Fundy had known then, even if he didn’t, that he needed to protect himself with barriers just like the walls Wilbur had built around L’manburg.  For safety, they’d both swear.  In some fucked-up sense of self-preservation, he’d prevented Wilbur from telling him the truth that night and fled.   

“That’s not all, you know that,” Wilbur had said.

He’d tried not to remember.  But there’s no stopping it now.

The memory hits Fundy like twenty stacks of iron at once.

The first cup of coffee Wilbur had drunk in a while was around a week after Sally left.

For a while, Wilbur tried really hard to pretend everything was fine.

“Where did mama go?” Fundy—the Fundy in the memory—asks.  

His voice is higher than he’s used to.  His body is smaller than Fundy can ever remember being. 

“Your mama is on a conference,” Wilbur explains, eyes red from a combination of tears and a lack of sleep.  “She had to swim downstream to… visit all of her friends and relatives.  She’s very busy right now.”

Fundy nods sagely in understanding.  “Is she gonna come back?” he asks lightly.

It looks like Wilbur’s heart shatters in the time it takes for him to answer.  

He swallows and pauses for a long, long time.  “I’m sure she will,” his dad chokes out eventually. “What kind of mama would leave behind her baby?”

That’s all the reassurance he needs as a little kid. “Okay,” Fundy murmurs. “I love you!”

His dad’s breath is shaky on his next exhale. “I love you, too.  I always will.  My baby, come here.” 

Fundy curls into his lap, humming happily.  Eventually, he starts to drift off.  They’re both tired.  Wilbur takes another gulp of coffee from his mug, filling the air with the bitter smell.

“Fuck it, you won’t remember this,” Wilbur chuckles hoarsely, throat raw.  “I hope I’m good enough at lying that you’ll never know why Sally’s really gone.”  He combs his hands through the rough ends of Fundy’s homemade haircut, lulling him to sleep.  But Fundy isn’t completely unconscious yet, and his father will never know that.

“Your mama doesn't love you anymore,” he whispers. “And I don’t know who to blame.  May the gods forgive me.”

Sally used to drink a lot of coffee too, Fundy thinks suddenly, shaking off the remnants of the last flashback like the traces of sleep.  Like the broken rush of a dam, water spirals past sharp metal fragments, and pours out more and more and more, unstoppable in its course.  Before the weight of the last flashback can even reach him, he’s sucked into the next.  Before she left, she used to have a cup every morning.

Dream had kissed his forehead earlier, smelling like coffee.

Sally kisses his forehead, ruffling the fur on his head with the scent of coffee.

She helps Fundy get dressed in the morning’s light, pulling a shirt over his head.

“You keep dressing like a boy lately,” she remarks, sipping from a mug.

Fundy hums, and nods enthusiastically.

She swallows the coffee, mouth downturned. Her lipstick was red.  It stains the cups red.

“Do you want to try this skirt I made for you?” His mama holds up green cloth with a hopeful smile. “Clementine my love, look at how pretty it is!”

Fundy shakes his head furiously.  “No skirt.  I wanna be a boy.”

Static covers Sally’s lipstick-red mouth in the next rush of a flashback, lips shifting between red and sparks of gray. 

“... [ ] ... because you remind me of a …” the voice, his mother’s voice, says sweetly.

Think, Fundy.  He screws his eyes shut, brain aching.  When did he last remember those words?

On his second date with Dream.  The hike, and the ocean breeze was running through Fundy’s fur, and they had a beautiful view over the cliff, and Dream had offered him a tangerine—and that stupid nickname had forced a flashback—

That’s right.  His mother had once called him Clementine.

“I gave you your name… because you remind me of a clementine!” Sally says sweetly, pinching his cheeks.

Her hair seems to float as the sea breeze wafts through her red curls.  There are smile lines against dark skin, under her green eyes. 

“Because you’re so pretty and sweet!”  Sally ruffles his long hair, drawing the young fox closer to her.  

Fundy doesn’t remember his hair ever being that long.  

“Here Clementine, come eat the fruit I cut up for you.”

Fundy, the young version of himself, shrinks a little at the words.  He’s uncomfortable.

“What if I want to be named something… different?” He asks hesitantly. “Mama, I like oranges but what about another name?”

Sally frowns, clearly disturbed at the very thought.  “Why don’t you want something that I gave you?” she snaps. “Your name is a special gift from your mama.  I’m doing this for you, baby, I only want the best for you!”

Fundy draws a breath from the present day, eyes thudding open before he’s sucked back under the crashing waves into a new memory.

“You look so cute right now.”

Sally straightens out the dress.  “Come, look in the mirror with me,” she goads.

Fundy shakes his head insistently, pressing his paws to his face to hide hiccuping sobs.

His younger self had tried to hide the body from his own eyes.  

But Fundy catches a glimpse of curled hair that reached his mid-back, of a chest just beginning to develop.  The body, an inanimate, disconnected phrase because it doesn’t even feel like it belongs to him.  To either of them.

He’s growing up.  He can’t fucking stand it—can’t live through it.

“I promise you look beautiful, princess!”  Sally insists. “What's wrong?”

She asks, but she’ll never pay attention to his answer.

“I don't wanna,” he manages between tears.  “I don’t wanna wear this.”

And again, and again, and again.  Fundy lets the memories drag him under without a struggle.  He swallows the salt and water without complaint.

“I left everything behind to live on land with you and your father.  I wanted a little daughter!” Sally smiles, recounting a story as she tucks Fundy into bed. “To have a baby just like me, and live the life of my dreams.  And I was gifted with you, Clem!”

He shakes his head insistently.  “I don’t… wanna be a daughter,” Fundy confesses.  His voice is hesitant but he’s firm in words.

Sally frowns, seemingly deflating from his words.  “You don’t want to be my daughter.” She shuts her eyes tightly.

Now, Fundy recognizes that he always closes his eyes in the same way when he wants to shut out the world.  He’s gotten the worst parts of himself from her.

“I’ve tried everything,” Sally murmurs, defeated. 

“I love you,” she murmurs.  She ruffles Fundy’s long, beautiful, shoulder-length hair.

The length was a compromise.  He wanted to shave it all off.  Plus, his curls are still thick enough in this haircut to cover the bald patches, from pulling hair out while sobbing.  Fundy hums happily and curls into his mother's side, innocently unaware of the disaster coming for him.

“I love you, too,” he whispers wholeheartedly, like it's a secret.  That’s all the love he’s ever known.  Sally holds his chin up, holding his gaze eye to eye.  Fundy has deep, warm brown eyes that fringe on gold in the sunlight.  

Wilbur says that trait is from his genes.  He has his dad’s eyes.  Every part, every building block of his body, from his eyes to his smile to his hair, is owed to people Fundy now hates.

“I wanna do what’s best for you,” Sally says quietly.  Her grip against him is gentle, but unbreakably firm.  “That’s my duty as a parent. You know that right?

Fundy giggles, like they’re playing a game.  “Mmm-hmm!”

“And you trust me?

“I trust you!” He responds sincerely.

“So… do you still wanna be a boy?”

Fundy’s tail wags, thumping against the ground.  “Yes!” He says enthusiastically.

Sally slumps back against the wall of Fundy’s childhood bedroom, frustrated. “You’re so selfish,” she mutters, exhausted.

Fundy frowns.  He doesn’t wanna make his mother upset.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.  “Sorry, mama.”

She shakes her head, waving him off.  Her mouth parts slightly before closing again, clearly swallowing something hard to say.  Sally closes her eyes again.  “I’ve tried everything,” she whispers bitterly.  It’s almost too quiet to hear.

This time, when Fundy curls in closer to her side, she doesn’t run her hands through his hair.  She doesn’t touch him at all.

He’s edging closer to the end, to the answer behind the questions he’s wondered his whole life.

Fundy claws himself forward.  The crashing waves of memories slowly abate—for the first time, the shore is within sight.

“We both know it, she is tearing this family apart.  How can you let her do that?”

Sally’s voice utters, somewhere in between a scream and a whisper.  Fundy knows those words, that phrase that has haunted him relentlessly like a living nightmare for weeks on end.

He understands he’s closer to the truth than he ever has been before.  He takes a deep breath, and pushes back the last barrier in his mind.

This time, the memory continues in fragments.

“Because you love her more than me,” Sally had once said, in an argument with his father—that Fundy can’t stop remembering and dreaming about.

“But you don't love me enough,” she had whispered under her breath to Wilbur.  “You can’t.  You can’t love me more. ”

His memories spiral, playing on repeat and repeat and repeat.

They replay like a broken disc, scratched to hell and back, singing in a discordant, grating tune.

Dream and reality, past and present collide, warping into one singular nightmare.  Fragments shatter and warp inside of him, forming into a horrific mosaic of his worst, most unspeakable memories.

Nothing feels real anymore.  He doesn’t feel real.

The room spins.  There's a loud crash.

That's me, Fundy realizes numbly.

He’s lying on the floor.  The floor is cold.  He is cold.

A shout, from somewhere in the distance.  It sounds panicked, Fundy notes.

Hands, on his back, under his legs, on his cheek.  They feel gentle.  They feel warm.

A shadowy figure in front of him sinks to its knees.

“I- I can’t,” Fundy manages to say, through words that stick to his throat.  He can’t speak.  Can’t breathe.  His mouth is heavy.  He’s heavy.  He’s choking, something akin to blood or black tar fills his mouth and weighs him down until he can’t think can’t breathe.

The man holds onto him, his only tether to the real world. 

“I’m here,” he says, over and over and over again, until Fundy can start to believe it.

She is tearing this family apart, Fundy thinks suddenly.

He’s heard that phrase repeated what seems like a thousand times over, but he hasn’t truly understood it until now.

She didn't mean Niki, like he thought it’d be.  Fundy was right to be confused—there was absolutely no reason or cause as to why Niki would've torn his family apart.  Sally wasn’t referring to how close Wilbur was with Niki, or how Niki was associated with his obsessive work with L’Manburg or anything like that.  

She… meant Fundy.  

Fundy, when he was a little girl.  

The version of himself Fundy hates to remember, that he constantly forgets he once was.  The version of him that desperately wanted to fucking die.  The version of himself before he was alive, the fox with no memories.  

And… no.  His memories, those blurred, shattered ones from his childhood are always out of order, disjointed.  All of a sudden Fundy realizes:

Fundy has no memories of living as a boy while his mother was still with them.

Sally had left them by the time he’d started transitioning.

Sally had left them by the time he’d officially come out as trans.

Sally had left them… because he came out as trans.

“She is tearing this family apart,” Fundy breathes at the realization, barely loud enough for his own ears to hear.  His hands scramble at the hardwood floor for purchase.  His head spins.  “Means… I was tearing our family apart.”

The figure’s gaze snaps towards him, cradling Fundy’s body in shaking hands.  “Did you say something, baby?” The words are quiet, cautious.

His mouth fills again, heavy with dread and clawing acid up his throat.  He can’t fucking breathe.  Fundy leans to the side, and vomits.

“Fuck,” a voice says behind him.  Somehow, Fundy feels more fear from the voice than anger.  He’s not mad at him, right?  The figure is back in a second, periodically dabbing at his mouth with some sort of cloth and pounding at his back, until Fundy empties the remaining contents of his stomach.

All this time, he’d assumed from their fights that she’d left because of Wilbur’s work habits and his neglect.  Fundy was wrong.  Sally left because of him.

“You need to breathe,” says the figure.  He sounds panicked.  Fundy tries to suck in a breath for him because he sounds nice.  In and out, in and out, in and-

It’s his fault.  It’s his fault.  IT’S HIS FAULT-

“It's my fault,” he whispers, out loud this time.  He tries to look the other person in the eye, but his vision swims and he can’t quite find him.  

“Breathe,” the figure repeats.  He tries.  It’s harder than it looks.  

“It was always my fault.  That's the reason mama left, that's the reason dad is the way he is,” Fundy says breathlessly. “She just… wanted a baby girl.  But I couldn’t… I didn’t want to–”

“Nothing is your fault,” something insists from a distance away.

“You didn't do anything wrong,” the man— Dream—says, voice scratchy and warbled as if coming from underwater.  Huh, are we underwater? Fundy wonders, amused.  Nah, that must just be me.  

He holds on tightly to Dream, hands searching and pulling onto the soft material of a shirt or jacket.  Dream is cradling him close, hands firm against his back.  He’s on his knees, whispering and reassuring and begging in a constant stream of words.

Fundy still can’t see properly but he recognizes every scar and callus on those warm, large hands.  The feel of his skin, rough from hard work and yet gentle regardless.  The woody smell of him, like tree bark and river water and wildflowers.  The deep, comforting tone and timbre of his voice, like the crackle of a flame.  Fundy doesn’t know where he is.  He doesn’t know what’s going on, exactly.  He can’t tell how long this panic attack has been going on, or how bad it is.

But he knows Dream.  He would know that feeling, that smell, that sound, anywhere.  Deaf or blind or dumb, he could always find his way back to this man.

“You were just existing, ” Dream pleads to him.  He tilts Fundy’s head, trying to pour as much water down his throat as Fundy can handle.  Slowly, his voice is beginning to sound clearer.  “Fundy, you were just a child.”

Suddenly, he’s reminded of something Tommy once told him.  After he’d fought with Wilbur and left home Tommy had said that he wasn’t at fault, and not to blame himself.  Fundy was just… living his life without trying to hurt anyone else.  More than ever, those words ring true for his younger self.

You can’t control how other people think about that or react to it, the blonde firecracker of a boy had once said. And if they can’t deal with it, that is on them, alright?

“Your mother was stuck in her own ways,” Dream says, voice growing heated. “If she couldn’t accept that you were a boy.”

“I was too weak… for my family,” Fundy coughs up, caught in his own head.

“You are not too weak,” Dream says resolutely. “You never have been.  They weren't strong enough for you.”

Dream reaches for Fundy, like every part of him has always been reaching for him.  He finds his lover with ease, and cradles Fundy’s cheek within the warmth of his hand.

“Drink,” he offers gently.  Fundy takes the cup from him and downs it.

“Please believe me.  Come back to me,” he keeps whispering, as Fundy slowly recovers from his waking nightmare with every new breath.

“My sweetheart,” Dream breathes. “My love.  My tangerine.  Come back to me.  Please.”

Fundy whimpers.  “I’m here,” he manages.  

“I love you,” Dream says insistently, like he’s never before been as sure of his own words as he is right now.  “I love you.”

Fundy raises a shaking paw to Dream’s face, pressing his hand to Dream’s cheek.  He wipes off a tear he hadn’t even witnessed the fall of.

“I know you do,” Fundy laughs weakly at his incessant repetition.  He offers Dream a gentle smile.  “I know you love me.”

Dream laughs quietly in return, the timbre of his laugh vibrating through Fundy’s skin.

“I know you do, too.  But I need you to know I love you,” he pleads.  “I need you to hear me right now.”

Fundy nods slightly.  “I’m listening.”

“I love you,” Dream repeats, like he can't get enough of those words.  “I love you as you are.   I don’t care that you’re different from me—I never have.  I don’t give a shit about your past, or who your family is, or who you were born as, or that you’re from a different country than me, or that you believe in different things than me.  I don’t care about the shit you’ve been through, or that you still struggle with those memories.  If you’ve never witnessed a happy relationship before… I don’t mind.  We can be the first.”

Something inside Fundy’s chest grows warm.  There’s a pulsing fire within his ribcage at the heat of Dream’s words.

“I love you, too,” he replies.  Fundy will never get sick of saying it.  Dream is the first person he’s said I love you to, and meant it.  His love for the other man could be written into the very code of the universe.  He is resolute in that undeniable fact.  

Fundy chuckles weakly. “I don’t have a speech prepared for you, though.”

Dream kisses him on the forehead.  This time, Fundy finds he doesn’t mind the faint smell of caffeine.  “I’ve never needed one,” Dream says sweetly.

Fundy pauses, and then sighs gently.  It’s barely more than an exhale.  Dream was right, he hasn’t witnessed a happy relationship before.  “Is it… weird to say I still miss him?” Fundy asks quietly.

Wilbur, he means.  The words go unspoken.

It’s been nearly two months since he’s last seen the man he once called his father.  But a few days ago, he’d received an unexpected letter.

It was left on the step of their front porch in the middle of the night.  Scrawled letters, messy on parchment paper and stained with what Fundy thinks might be the drop of a tear were the words:

Niki told me that sometimes you have to grow apart to grow together.  I don't know if that’ll ever happen, but I would like for you to have your space from me.

I’ve fucked up, but please learn from me.  You were right.  Maybe I’ve never had someone who’s loved me unconditionally, no matter what.  You have someone who truly loves you, so don’t waste it.  Fight for him.  Be brave in the ways that I was not.

- Wilbur

He’d signed it “Wilbur”.  Not dad, not president.  Just Wilbur, with no labels attached.  This is… new.  Fundy has never met an unlabelled, unattached, free Wilbur.  One day, he’d like to.  What is the man, the enigma, underneath all of these layers?

Fundy appreciates the letter.  He knows he's not ready yet.  He doesn't know if he'll ever be ready.  But right now, he appreciates the apology.  The space.  The distance.  And hopefully, the growth.

Dream smiles gently.  “I don’t know if you’ll ever stop missing him,” he admits.  “But it’s a very human emotion to feel.”

Fundy lets out a laugh.  “I think I’ve been feeling a lot of human emotions recently.  Even as a fox.”

The first glimmers of the sun begin to rise.  They pour in through the windows with golden beams, and illuminate the face of the man Fundy loves.

“I know what you mean now,” Fundy whispers.

“Hm?”

“You once told me ‘I see you’,” Fundy explains. “And now, I see you too.”

Fundy sees his scars, the quirks of his smile, the look in his eyes.  It feels like a promise, like growth, like a new day.

“There’s something on your mind,” he announces, teasing.

Dream laughs, eyelashes fluttering in the soft morning light.  He rolls his eyes.  “Is it that obvious?”  Fundy smirks at him, and nods.

“What's wrong?  Can I ask you that?” Dream finally says, hesitant.  He knows about the flashbacks, to some extent.  Fundy wakes up screaming in their bed every couple of nights, after all.  That’d be impossible to hide.  “This one seemed… pretty bad.  You mentioned your mother?  You never really talk about her.”

Fundy hesitates, chewing on his words.  “I don't know if I'm ready to talk about my past,” he admits. “I'm sorry.”

“I know I'm not either.” Dream shakes his head insistently. “You don't ever have to be sorry.  I've… done things I'm not proud of.  You would hate me if you knew.”

“I never could.” Fundy dismisses the very notion on impulse, shaking his head adamantly.  He pauses.  “There are things you’ve hidden from me,” he says simply.  It's neither a question nor a statement.

“There are things you should never know,” Dream sighs. “You don’t really know me .”

“I’d like to think that I do,” he protests. “I know a version of you.  The best version of you.” 

For the first time, Fundy looks at him and sees more than he ever has before.  And accepts that although he loves Dream wholly he will never know him in his entirety.

“You know the part of me that I really, really want to be,” Dream breathes. “The me that I wish that I was.”

“That’s who you are, then.  I wish I could show you that you’re already real.”

“I’ll be real.  For you,” Dream smiles, covering Fundy’s hand with his own.

It's a promise Fundy wants to believe in.

The two of them will never end up as perfect.  But they can be enough for each other.

“Let's just exist for now,” Dream offers, spreading his arms grandly. “We have no past, no future. Let's just enjoy the present for once.”

Fundy hums in agreement.  They haven’t been able to enjoy the present nearly enough recently. “Can this last forever?” he asks quietly.

For a second, Fundy expects a meaningless answering, sweet nothings of reassurance.  He expects Dream to say that he loves him and he’s going to be here forever and ever and he’s going to hold on to Fundy and never let go.  He surprises himself by suddenly realizing that's not what he wants to hear.

If Fundy has this baggage, this weight, to him that he can’t even talk about to the man he loves—and if Dream has this hidden past of violence and secrecy, a side of him that must permanently remain hidden even to the man he loves—can this last forever?  This fragile peace between their two nations?  This home that they’ve built together?  Their love?

“I don't know,” Dream admits.  “But we'll take it as far as it can go.”

“Then, let's just lie here for the rest of time,” Fundy breathes.

Today is today.  They need nothing past that.

A moment is no less meaningful in its impermanence.

The sun rises on a new day.  Hues of pink and orange and gold decorate the horizon, lighting the sky.  Arcs of sunlight pour onto the dewy grass and reflect onto the boughs of the highest trees.  And on top of them, the birds sing an ode to the promise of sunshine, to indestructible light, to hope.

Fundy feels alive.

He feels every breath of oxygen.  That movement of air feels the same inside his lungs as it is everywhere else in the world.

Fundy knows the passage of time well.  He knows it hasn’t been kind to him.

He’s seen the dips in sunlight, stars in the sky, the sun against the horizon of nighttime.  It is not always linear.  It is not always real.  It is not always painless. 

Fundy has lived in the past for so long, in shrouds of his own memories, and he’s finally free.  He wants to think of nothing more than the present now.  He has never truly been awake for a dawn.  This is not bound to last, just as the sun moves across the horizon and clocks tick steadily forward.

But in this moment—it’s lovely.

He’s wrapped solidly in the arms of the man he loves, as the sunlight of a rising dawn pours onto the both of them.

And for the rest of today, that’s all that matters.