Chapter Text
It's a nice night to die, Wilbur decides — looking up at the stars and moon with his tear filled eyes, it makes the stars seem like they're shimmering. Of course, it's ruined.
Rain starts to pour down, instead of making his death all beautiful and poetic under the stars, it's now gloomy and cold. Wilbur closes his eyes and let's his thoughts drift, in some attempt to distract him from the dull throbbing in his head and the stab wound in his side that's currently leaking blood onto the ground of the alleyway.
How did he even get here again? Oh, that's right. He was walking home from work — the gas station just before the motorway that leads to Snowchester and Las Nevedas, when some guy pulled him into the alley, demanding that he give him his money. Wilbur didn't have any. Even if he did, he didn't think he'd hand it over.
He wasn't scared of death or dying. Hell, if anything, death seemed better than living. His brother was dead. He'd meet him again. They'd be a family again. Wilbur's heart ached just thinking about it.
Soon, he hopes. Soon, he'll join Tommy. He just wishes it didn't take so goddamn long to bleed out.
He wonders how long it'll take anyone to realise he's missing. His roommate, Charlie, will probably notice pretty quickly. Wilbur will miss him. He's one of his only friends, other than his colleague, Shelby. She probably won't notice for a while.
He's imagined his death a lot. He'd never imagined himself going out this way, but it doesn't matter. At the end of the day, he's still Wilbur Soot, the sad missing foster child who ran away. A nobody. He'd tried to be somebody, he was a musician — he wrote songs and played them but they never got him anywhere.
Tommy always liked his music, even if he had still been learning to play the guitar when Tommy was still alive — but that was the reason he hadn't quit. Tommy would love his music, he was certain of it.
A sudden wave of tiredness washes over Wilbur. He lifts a bloodstained hand up to his face, wiping a mix of tears and rain from his face — probably staining his face with some blood in the process but he doesn't care. He opens his eyes for one last look at the stars and is rather surprised to see the shadow of someone approaching out of the corner of his eye.
They haven't noticed him yet. Poor fucker. He hopes they just leave him to die.
There's an awkward bit of shuffling. He hears more people passing and the sound of a car. That's odd. The streets were normally empty around this time, the streets were rough as was the rest of this area of the city — thanks to the heroes neglect of Pogtopia.
The rain above him suddenly stops. He groans quietly, opening his eyes once again. All he wants to do is die in peace, is that so much to ask for? Apparently so.
When he opens his eyes, he's met with electric blue ones, filled with worry and blonde hair. For a second, he thinks it's Tommy but even without his glasses, he realises this man is too old to be Tommy.
His clothes look familiar too. Black and green dramatic robes, black wings are shielding the rain from them and a crow's skull mask hands from a belt on his hips.
Oh. Maybe he's the angel of death. Not that Zephyrus guy. After all, what would he be doing in Pogtopia?
The man is saying something but Wilbur can't quite make any words out. He doesn't think he cares that much either. He let's his eyes close once more and he slips into unconsciousness, comforted by the thought he'll be with Tommy once again.
—
The last thing Phil expected to find when running from some police after his wing got skinned by a bullet was a teenager bleeding out in an alleyway.
He's glad he found the boy either way. The boy is shivering, his abdomen and head both bleeding. He briefly wonders how long he'd been out here for, bleeding out in the rain.
"Mate? Stay with me, c'mon, stay awake," he says, trying to keep a calm tone — it's hard. He's panicking internally. He's risking a lot to save the child but he won't let him die on his watch. He has nothing with him to help with what appears to be a stab wound.
He decides to say fuck it and bring him home. If Kristin or Technoblade have an issue with it, they can take it up with him.
He carefully picks the boy up, praying that they don't get stopped. It'd be a bit hard to explain why he, Zephyrus, was carrying a half dead child back to his base.
He glances at his wings and decides to risk flying home. It'll be faster and holds less risk of being stopped. He adjusts his hold on the boy and takes off.
He doesn't even have to think about the way home. It's pure muscle memory at this point.
The boy in his arms groans again, seeming to wake up for a mere second before passing out once again. Phil's not exactly surprised. He's honestly more surprised the boy isn't dead yet from how much blood is on him and had been on the ground.
Soon enough, he lands by the ever so familiar house (more like mansion. He never understood why they needed such a big one. There's only three of them.) and dashes inside.
Techno greets him. He's dressed in rather ridiculous pig themed pajamas, hair in a messily tied bun. "Wha' the fuck, Phil?" He asks, words slurring slightly. He looks half asleep, Phil almost laughs.
"Found him in an alleyway. He needs help, Tech. Now c'mon, mate, get the medkit," he responds swiftly before carrying the boy to the room that doubled as their little med—room. They'd only had to use it once when Ignis, one of the cities heroes, had burned Techno pretty badly. He laid the boy down on the bed, carefully before leaving to grab the medical supplies.
He returns to the boys side after a few minutes and got to work, hoping that he didn't die. He didn't know what he'd do then.
He was a lot of things. Child—killer was not one of them.
Part of him also wanted to get to know the boy. What the hell was he doing out at this hour, bleeding out in an alleyway? Where were his parents, if he even had any? Something in him told him the boy didn't. For now, he pushes those questions and thoughts from his head and gets to work on saving his life.