Archive of Our Own

You wouldn’t describe yourself as the destructive type. 

No, you’d much prefer creation to destruction. To mess with tools and feel things come to life right underneath your very claws. To be able to show it off with a chin held high, declaring “I made this. This is my work and my creation. Isn’t wonderful” (aren’t you proud will never be spoken).

You wouldn’t describe yourself as one to enjoy destruction. Your family, however, well. There’s a reason they say it runs in the family.

You knew Phil through Tommy. Wilbur— Wilbur never spoke of him, but when he did, it was with bitter words and a resentful tone. While Tommy usually had a conflicted face and a voice full of resignation, he also had fun stories about the man you never got to know, and never will when the opportunity finally presents itself.

You learned about how the man you once called grandpa liked fishing and adventures and had the best stories to tell. About the myths surrounding his One Life and rumors of the Angel of Death. You learned about a man who lived for so long and saw so much death yet always made the most beautiful builds full of life. (A replica of what he can never achieve for himself someone once told you).

You will later learn of the destruction the Angel of Death can leave in a flap of a wing. Of cities that scream at the sound of his name and the black beady eyes and calls of crows that forever haunt civilizations.

You always wondered how a man who can make such beautiful builds full of life also be capable of destroying said life. Maybe this is why it isn’t surprising when he shows up not for a family reunion but only to murder and then later destroy under the excuse of things being unavoidable.

Wilbur was known as a peaceful man. Sure chaotic, but not destructive. He was a man who thrived under creation and was driven by ideas of peace.

You remember singing and guitar lessons and campfires beside a hot dog van. You remember a chilly starry sky filled with laughter and loud chatter and the promise of safety.

You heard “my little champion” and “good job kiddo” more often than you heard paranoid mumbles, but soon enough all you can remember late at night is the muttering of false enemies and false promises about staying.

You never thought of the possibility that your dad wouldn’t be there anymore, nor of the possibility that you were the enemy in his eyes.

You never thought your new norm would be begging anyone who shows you kindness to stay, please, just stay.

Sometimes when you close your eyes, you’re back to that day.

There’s dust all over you and the smells of explosions clog your breath and make it hard to breathe. Despite the loud rumble of explosions all around, and beneath all the screaming, you can only pay attention to your dad and grandpa.

But grandpa isn’t grandpa anymore and dad is a man you don’t recognize. 

Before you can think of running to stop whatever is happening the Angel of Death is putting a sword through the man you called family.

You wake up shivering from cold sweat and with a tremble in your breath.

You’re still alone.

You used to pride yourself in creating. It was your joy and passion, and it made you feel connected with your father that sang stories and created nations. 

(You remember faces full of wonder Tommy and Tubbo used to send you. You can’t remember the last time you saw that.)

Now you can only smile as explosions go off around you, some you put yourself to teach a lesson which was never needed.

“Nothing I've done mattered, not a SINGLE THING! Today is gonna matter. Today, if I can't make people smile. . . if I can't make people smile. . . I will make them cry,” you remember saying.

Now you follow your family's legacy as a city’s worth of blood and destruction is on your paws.

Identical to Wilbur before his final moments, not that you would be aware, you wonder where it all went wrong.

Now all you know is a desert; hot days where no trees cover you from the beating heat and contrasting freezing nights where laughter is absent, and a lonely van that houses one man instead of five. 

You have the van but it’s too different from the beginning, yet the same all at once.

You still miss your family.

You still want someone to notice you.

You’re still alone.