Archive of Our Own

The middle of August was always the hottest of the season. The sun sat directly above, midday sweltering. There were no clouds, just blue skies for ages, well past the trees, well past the mountains. 

Wilbur could guarantee he’d have a sunburn by the day’s end, having forsaken the creams and potions Phil always insisted on. He stood leagues away from their house, though, having gone out early to find bugs. It hadn’t been this hot then, but then again, the mornings were always cooler. 

He swept his unruly hair back from his face, the annoying strands sticking to his forehead. His socks and shoes were thrown to the wayside, and he danced a bit in the discomfort of the scorching earth. As his companion grumbled beside him, he reached for the hem of his shirt and ripped it over his head, getting lost for a moment in the fabric before throwing it aside. 

“Gonna get my hat fucking wet, Wilbur!” Quackity argued, shucking off his shoes, his own process exceedingly slow. Wilbur crossed his arms impatiently, standing still for a moment before the soles of his feet burned again. 

“You said you wanted to cool off,” Wilbur argued. He gestured to the edge of the cliff, the glistening river below. “Just take the hat off while we swim.” 

“Like hell,” Quackity said, and Wilbur rolled his eyes. Quackity cursed far more than any eleven-year-old had a right to. If Phil heard half the words the guy had taught him, he’d have a conniption. 

“Like hell ,” Wilbur mimicked, tasting the phrasing on his tongue. He played it off mockingly and ignored the amused look his friend gave him. Wilbur rolled his eyes, turning again towards the cliff. He couldn’t let Quackity be the only bad influence of this friendship. “We’re jumping off the damn cliff.” 

Damn . That’s one Phil said a lot. Wilbur was an expert at ‘damn .’

He watched the rapids below, the rocks further down the line. They’d picked this spot deliberately, not for deeper waters, but a flatter landing. They didn’t have to worry about things cushioning their fall. 

Sometimes, Wilbur would watch Phil plummet towards the earth and wonder what that exhilaration tasted like. He’d seen Niki run to her lake after a rainfall, a perfect curve and swan-dive, gravity working with her as it should. 

Being an Avian came with safety features. Annoying safety features. But it did work in their favor today. 

“Come on. It’s hot, Big Q,” he complained, and Quackity snorted. 

“How in the world has Tommy got you saying that too?”

Wilbur shrugged. “It’s got a nice ring to it,” he said, and edged closer to the drop. Quackity’s hands hovered over his hat, having divested himself of his socks and shirt at last. Wilbur gave him a long look, an arched brow that challenged. “Gonna go without you.”

Annoyance crossed Quackity’s face and, at last, he ripped the beanie off his head and stood. He stalked forward, refusing to meet Wilbur’s eye. “Fine fine fine! Let’s go then!” 

Wilbur blinked for a moment. In all Quackity’s reluctance, it hadn’t crossed Wilbur’s mind how he’d never seen him without his hat before. 

He didn’t dwell on it, nodding down at the river. “On three?” he asked, and a relieved look crossed Quackity’s face. 

“Yeah,” he agreed. “One.”

“Two,” Wilbur continued. 

“Three!” they chorused, then jumped. 

It was about as anticlimactic as two slow-falling creatures could make a jump. 

-/-

Wilbur hummed as his eyes raked over overflowing shelves, pushing away the nagging reminder that he’d have to sort them one day . He could find things well enough, with all his unlabeled jars and bottles towards the left, stacks of books and loose-leafed paper to his right, and various chests of materials and ingredients to the center. He had to dig sometimes, but that wasted time was preferable in his mind to the waste of an afternoon organizing . 

It did make it easier for people to steal from him, since he couldn’t quite be sure if a missing item was ever actually there in the first place, but all his most valuable things were stored at home anyway. No one was stealing his diamonds , at least. And he was the one responsible for the loss of his enchanted tools and armor more often than not. The nether was a dangerous place. 

You’d think the undead would be far more adaptable to the nether, but then again, most undead creatures belonged to the night rather than the other dimension. Monster of the night sky, they’d call Phantoms. Wilbur remembered those stories from his childhood. No one really talked about them nowadays, not since he’d changed. 

He was looking for a book today, but after tedious searching, he’d found it wasn’t with the books . This left him scouring the other shelves, digging through chests and pushing aside bottles to reach behind the shelving. He sure hoped the book wasn’t stuck in the cracks back there, but more importantly, he hoped no one had taken it. If someone had taken the book, he’d spend hours interrogating his neighbors for its whereabouts. That’d be such a drain on his day. 

“ Hell ,” he cursed, dropping his face into his hands, sighing deeply. This day wasn’t going the way he’d hoped at all. Wilbur had been hoping to restock, to make more strength and leaping potions, and be off again. He’d needed this book though. The timing for these potions had to be precise, and he was shit at remembering numbers. 

A sudden dinging, however, jarred Willbur from his self-pity, making him jump so far as to fall through the floor. Heart beating fast, his eyes darted around, searching upward and into the main room of his shop. 

He shouldn’t be reacting like this. He knew everyone in the area, was friends with most of his neighbors. There would be no foes in his shop. 

Still, his nerves zinged. A part of him wanted to run away, dart through the earth until he was safely home. That’s why his shop was self-service, wasn’t it? So he could avoid customers. 

Tommy said he shouldn’t avoid people so much. Things had gotten weird though--like the phantom pains in his back and his uneasiness as people took to the server again. The dead got used to isolation, he’d found. Time slipped away, and the living pushed to the edges of his thoughts. 

It made him uncomfortable, knowing he’d so quickly grown accustomed to being alone. He loved people. He loved being with friends. He loved talking, annoying, jumping through walls and screaming ayup . 

Being a Phantom wasn’t supposed to change this much. And at first, it hadn’t, but now he stood on unsteady feet. 

Wilbur took a deep breath and examined the soles of his customer’s feet. His eyes moved to the person’s clothes, unfamiliar, and he tried to examine their face. He couldn’t see the entire room through the floor, however. He’d have to go up. 

Or run , his mind reminded him again. Home sweet home.

Wilbur steeled himself, shook his head. Whatever Phantom instinct this was, or whatever death-coping mental somersaults his brain was dealing, Wilbur wouldn’t let it.  Whoever it was up there, they were just a person . Nothing to be so skittish over. 

Slowly, Wilbur ascended, letting himself phase back into the storage room. He was just in time to hear the bell at the counter. Carefully, he straightened and dusted himself off. When he opened the door, he donned his most welcoming smile. 

“Hello! Welcome to Potions and Just Potions ,” he greeted, eyes locking on the back of the customer’s head. He barely registered the hat when his eyes fixed on the man’s golden wings, wider than his shoulders, long enough to touch the floor. Only a feather or two out of place.

Wilbur froze. An Elytrian , his mind supplied. This isn’t a neighbor.

The man turned, giving a cordial smile of his own, and Wilbur’s eyes locked onto his face. “Hey,” the man said with a casual wave. “How’re you? Nice potion shop you got here.” 

Wilbur opened his mouth, but what froze him was not the face of a stranger, not the pesky anxiety that urged him to flee, to isolate. What froze him was familiarity. 

He waited a beat too long to answer. The man continued on, “I’m not actually looking to buy any potions, but I’d be willing to take one or two off of you. You see, I actually used to live ‘round these parts, and I was looking for some old friends of mine. Think you’d be willing to help?” 

That’s when it hit him, and Wilbur flickered out for a second, just a second. The man chose not to comment, but Wilbur’s brain was too busy to feel grateful. 

Quackity doesn’t recognize me , Wilbur realized, briefly glancing down at his transparent form. Not like this. 

“Sure,” he agreed, voice low, and Wilbur made his way behind the counter. He tried not to think of his glowing eyes, green instead of brown, of his distinct vertebrae, shimmering in and out of sight as his anxiety spiked. He tried not to remember his shedded wings, little bone knubs now hidden under his clothes. Wilbur had stopped wearing Elytrian shirts a long time ago. 

“They’d be Elytrians like me,” Quackity continued. “Though Tommy’s probably still Avian. But Phil’s Elytrian, and Wilbur’s gotta be. Also, if you know a Fragrance Man, he owes me twenty bucks, so point me in that asshole’s direction too.” 

Wilbur couldn’t help himself. He snorted, meeting Quackity’s eyes. “And how in the world does Fragrance Man owe you money?” 

"Smelling endeavors," Quackity boasted vaguely. He placed an elbow on the counter, leaning forward conspiratorially. "Between you and me, Fragrance Man's sniffer isn't what it used to be." 

Wilbur threw his head back, gave a long guffaw at that one. Quackity leaned back, an uncertain smile crossing his face. He looked half surprised, half flattered at the attention. 

"Well, Big Q," Wilbur said, feeling bolder now, "Perhaps I can be of some help." 

Quackity's eyes widened, and then something seemed to click. He scrutinized Wilbur's face only a moment before his mouth dropped. " Wilbur?"  

Wilbur raised his hands, like he was the main act of a magic show. "The one and only." 

"Holy shit. What happened to you?" Quackity asked, and once again Wilbur froze. His arms dropped, eyes casting over his friend’s surprised face. 

Wilbur’s smile was weaker this time, and he folded his arms over the counter, leaning all his weight onto them. "Isn't it obvious?" he asked. "I died." 

Quackity opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He closed it, shook his head, then looked over Wilbur once more–his transparent, wingless form. It was hard to stand there, hard to wait, but he'd learned patience was best for this process. 

"You… died," Quackity said at last, and it sounded like a lie. Disbelief. 

"You act like you've never met a Phantom before," Wilbur said, forcing levity into his voice. 

"I- I mean- I have ," Quackity replied, stumbling through his uncertainty. "But- Well- Wilbur ." 

"Yeah?" 

Quackity raised his arms, some random gesture, then lowered them again. "Holy shit." 

Wilbur shrugged. "Yeah." 

"For how long?" 

"Couple years now," Wilbur replied. "It's not that bad. You get used to it, and I get to scare the shit out of people." 

Quackity laughed, then gestured somewhere behind Wilbur. "What about your wings?" 

Wilbur's smile fell. He stood up and straightened a few papers on the counter. "I can't fly, if that's what you're asking." 

Quackity was silent for a beat. Just a beat, just long enough to look Wilbur up and down once, then shift, sliding hands into pockets. "Of course," he said, casual, but not casual enough. He shook his head then, eyes casting to the floor. "That was a shit question. Sorry about that." 

Wilbur shrugged with one shoulder, setting aside the papers. "No problem. It's been a while, huh?" 

"You're telling me," Quackity said, rolling his shoulders, shrugging off the unease. Wilbur could see traces of guilt in his eyes, but he appreciated the gesture. Even after all these years, Quackity can't stand the heaviness, and he knew Wilbur was the same. 

"You've gotta tell me more about your travels," Wilbur prodded. "And Philza and Tommy'll be excited to see you. We can have dinner or something." 

"Hell yeah," Quackity agreed. "Was I right about Tommy? Is he still a little baby Avian, or did I miss him growing up?" 

Wilbur's smile grew, a glint forming in his eyes. "Kid's a late bloomer," he said. It was something he teased Tommy for often, no matter how the sight of him tumbling through the air tugged at Wilbur's heart. 

Wilbur had been a late bloomer too, on the cusp of wing-growth when it all abruptly stopped. 

"Can't wait to see him," Quackity said. "Can't wait to see everyone. It's good to be back." 

"It's good to have you back," Wilbur said genuinely. "How long are you staying?" 

Anyone else might not have noticed the slip in Quackity's demeanor. Wilbur chose not to comment on it. 

"To be determined, my friend," he said, taking a step back. "Come find me about that dinner, alright? I'm shacking up at that materials place down the road." 

"The pagoda-looking one?" Wilbur asked. 

Quackity jerked his head up. "That's it." 

"Will do," Wilbur agreed, then paused, looking his long-lost friend up and down. "And Q?" 

Quackity paused in the door, brow arched. Wilbur offered some semblance of a half-smile. 

"It's nice to see you," he said at last. 

Quackity's questioning-look relaxed, a bit bittersweet, a bit melancholic. He nodded. 

"You too, Wilbur." 

-/-

The two boys lounged on the grassy embankment of the river, letting the scorching sun bake them dry. Wilbur could feel his cheekbones and nose reddening, his shoulders freckling. He'd be complaining about the burns all night. Phil would say 'I told you so.'

For now, though, Wilbur was looking at the sky. He watched the first sign of clouds move in from behind the mountains, imagining what it might be like to fly in them. 

He'd get sopping wet, he supposed, but it'd be worth it just to touch the clouds. As he flew, the wind would whip every water drop away. He'd dip around a mountain peak, ascend higher and higher where their river met the ocean far below. Then he'd drop. He'd tuck his wings in close, bullet his way down, down, so close to the water before pushing them out again and gliding. 

Wilbur looked at the horizon and imagined the leagues beyond their village, imagined cities and deserts and magical forests. He sighed. 

"When I grow my wings, I'm going to travel," he confessed. 

Quackity sat up. "Travel where?" he asked. 

Wilbur shrugged. "Anywhere," he mused. "Everywhere," he said excitedly. 

Contemplation crossed Quackity's face before he sat back and looked to the sky. "I bet you could go so many places with wings." 

"For sure," Wilbur said, then sat up himself, crossing his legs under him. "Would you go?" 

"Where are we talking?" Quackity asked, quirking a brow. 

Wilbur put his hands up. "Like I said, anywhere you want. Everywhere ." 

"Hmm," Quackity hummed, mulling it over. Then a grin crawled to his face. "Yeah, I think I'd go." 

"We could see everything together," Wilbur enthused. 

"Hey, when was this a 'we' thing? I thought I get to travel wherever I want?" Quackity teased.

"Well, we'd go where you want, and where I want, and everywhere in between," Wilbur rambled, caught in the fantasy. "We'd see it all and do everything, and we'd fly the whole time!" 

"Okay then, Wilbur Soot," Quackity agreed, saying his last name that way he always did- distinctly off but not entirely wrong. "We will travel the world together! As… soon as our wings grow in." 

"As soon as our wings grow in," Wilbur laughed, then laid back again, tucking his arms behind his head. 

He couldn't wait to grow up. 

The future held so many possibilities. 

-/-

“Is that the Philza Minecraft? Man, when did you go goth, Phil?”

Wilbur looked up, a handful of silverware in his grip. Across the room, Quackity stood on the threshold of the Pube, a delighted yet easy-going grin on his face. Phil approached with his own smile, turning away from the table they’d been setting. 

In the center-room of the Pube, they’d dragged out a long table--something they used for neighborhood get-togethers and holiday dinners. They’d decided it was the best place for the evening, given how many people had jumped in when they’d heard Quackity was back. 

“Big Q!” Phil cheered, lifting the tops of his wings in greeting, almost as if he was shrugging. “It’s been a while.”

Quackity chuckled good-naturedly, looking almost embarrassed at the attention. “You and this family with your Big Qs. Is it weird I kinda missed it?” 

Wilbur couldn’t help but watch his friend’s wings--their subtle lift in response to the hello. It was like Quackity didn’t even have to think about it, like the extra weight had always been there. 

Once upon a time, Wilbur had also lifted his wings in greeting. Nowadays, the boney little appendages didn’t even respond. 

“Is that Q?” Another voice joined the fray, and Wilbur looked up just in time to watch his younger brother vault over the edge of the second story, slow-falling his way down. 

Quackity laughed again, that ever-present mirth in his voice when he said, “Tommy! How the hell are you, man?” 

As soon as Tommy touch-downed, he ran to the guy, punching him directly in the shoulder with all his might. Quackity squaked, gripping his shoulder and turning away. 

“What the hell, man?”

“Holy shit, it is you!” Tommy said, unphased by his own destruction. Quackity could only sigh, rolling his arms back and trying not to flinch. Wilbur fought not to laugh. “To be honest, I kinda thought Wilbur was lying when he said you were here.”

“Hey!” Wilbur protested, but Quackity nodded sagely. 

“I wouldn’t trust the guy either. He once stole my entire herd of cows just so he could blackmail me into giving him a new sword. Like, man, make your own!” 

Wilbur rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. The cow-stealing had been more about boredom than wanting a sword though. He put down another set of utensils--a fork, a knife, a spoon. Then he scooted to the next setting. 

They were expecting at least half of the neighborhood. Quackity was a popular guy. 

“Hey, you gotta see my office, Big Q. It’s super important. I’m gonna get so much business, and then I’ll be the richest guy on Spawn Lake.” 

“Wow, that’s something I gotta see.” Quackity’s wings shifted a bit, and Wilbur’s eyes gravitated towards them before remembering himself and looking down. Another fork, another knife, another spoon. “Hey, Wilbur?”

Wilbur froze for a second, embarrassed that he might have been caught. 

He hated when Phil or Tommy caught him staring at their wings, and the same went with Quackity. Because they always knew what he was thinking, was missing. And then they pitied him. 

But when Wilbur looked up, Quackity just pointed at him. His wings continued to shift naturally. He wasn’t hiding them, wasn’t pitying him. “We gotta talk more later, yeah?” 

Wilbur nodded. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be here all night.”

Quackity grinned, then turned to follow Tommy up the ladder. 

It was funny how in some ways, it felt like Quackity hadn’t left at all.

-/-

“Don’t go too far, now. These wings won’t take too long to grow in.”

Quackity rolled his eyes, poking at Wilbur’s side. “At least what you got in height, I got in wings. It’s only fair, Wil. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah, except you’re not getting any taller, Q,” Wilbur teased right back. 

“Fuck you.”

“Take me out to dinner and maybe.”

For a moment, they narrowed their eyes at each other, lapsing into an uncomfortable silence. Whoever broke it first, lost. 

And then, like an old choreographed dance, they broke it simultaneously. A twin pair of grins stretched their faces. Quackity shook his head. Wilbur’s shoulders bounced as he laughed. 

It felt like every day of their childhood, every day of downy Avian wings and jumping off taller and taller structures. It didn’t feel like they were eighteen, like one of them was about to leave--separation for the first time since they’d met. 

It didn’t feel like adulthood. 

Then, Wilbur remembered, and his smile fell. He took a long look at his friend--which Quackity eventually picked up on, his own natural charisma falling, showing the anxiety beneath. 

“Stay safe out there,” Wilbur said at last. His eyes moved to Quackity’s bag, tempted to shuffle through it one last time. There was no need, though. They had packed and repacked that bag twenty times in the past week, intent on making the perfect rucksack for traveling. Quackity was ready to go. No more putting it off. 

“I could stay,” Quackity offered one last time. “I could wait. Like you said, your wings won’t take much longer.” 

Wilbur shook his head. “They haven’t even started extending, Q. It’ll take months to grow, then I’ll still need to learn to use them. No, it’s time. You can always come back for me.” 

Quackity shouldn’t have to wait longer. His own wings were fully grown and had been for a year now. He was bored here, stuck at Spawn Lake, looking towards the skies and waiting for life to begin. 

And Wilbur was waiting too. He wanted to see the world, to spread his wings and take to the air. He wasn’t ready though, not with these wings.  

“I’ll be back in a few months,” Quackity promised. “Can’t pass up the chance to laugh at you falling over shit.” 

Wilbur rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t quite suppress the smirk that lifted his lips. When Quackity’s wings were growing in, Wilbur had taken every moment he could to laugh at the guy’s shit balance, how he wasn’t used to the extra weight. It felt good, knowing Quackity would be there to do the same. Nevertheless, Wilbur had to deny it. 

“Don’t bother. I think Tommy’ll be enough for the both of you.”

“Ohhoho, I will not be missing it. You couldn’t pay me to miss it. I will be here, and I will laugh right alongside Tommy the first time your slow-fall disappears and you fall on your face.” 

Wilbur laughed, wings flapping a beat behind him. Quackity’s no longer mimicked them, too long for the rapid movements. Just another reminder of the past year, how different they had become. 

But Wilbur would get there. He’d be ready to go out, fly alongside his best friend. One of these days. 

“Good luck out there,” he said, knowing this had to end, knowing they had to let go. 

For now. Just for now. 

“Thanks, Wilbur.” Quackity looked towards the sky. Wilbur took a step back. He would need room for this. 

Then, Quackity sent him one last grin. “A few months.”

“A few months,” Wilbur agreed. 

He watched his friend take to the sky, and didn’t turn back until Quackity disappeared into the horizon. 

-/-

Three years later, and Quackity was there, just across the room. 

He was talking adamantly to Fragrance Man, throwing his hands around like he was trying to prove a point. Wilbur remembered the gesture well from all of their arguments in the past, sword-haggling and slow-falling dares and the like. Without hearing a word, Wilbur ventured a guess that Quackity was addressing Fragrance Man about the supposed twenty bucks he owed him.

Dinner had come and gone filled with tales of Quackity’s ventures and various people filling him in on what he’d missed. The table was cleared and pushed aside, so now people filled the room with chatter and terrible dancing they shouldn’t look so proud of. Wilbur had to avert his eyes after watching Jack for too long. 

Instead, he found a window, watching the moonlit night. Stars barely peeked through the clouds, blotted out by the full moon. It was the perfect night for a nocturnal creature like Wilbur. He did sleep, mind you, and it didn’t technically have to be during the day. 

But when the sun burned your skin, the nocturnal lifestyle became more and more appealing. Sometimes, he needed air that wasn’t hidden beneath a tree, that wasn’t between raindrops or window panes. Sometimes, Wilbur wandered around until morning, until the rising sun chased him back home. Then he would close his shop and his windows, and he would sleep the day away. 

Wilbur didn’t want to leave the party, but a step outside wouldn’t hurt anything, surely. He’d be out and back in a second. Just long enough to remember fresh air in lungs that didn’t need it, wind on transparent skin. He knew he wasn’t alive- He knew that, but-

Despite the Pube being open-backed, Wilbur slipped out the side. He wanted a second alone, and he wanted to see the moon. 

And Wilbur knew he wasn’t alive, but as soon as he stepped outside, he felt every muscle in his body relax, felt his lungs open up and his heart give out a sigh. 

He wondered if Shelby forgot as much as he did. He wondered if Phantoms were supposed to feel these missing pieces like they were still there. 

Wilbur took in another deep breath as he walked further out. The Pube tapered off along the side in divots, and Wilbur stepped down one, looking over the edge and into the water. It reminded him of hot August suns and scorching stone earth, of rushing waters in a rough ravine. 

He pressed his lips into a firm line, stepping back up one and sitting down. Wilbur looked up this time, and he waved to the moon. 

“Pssh, what are you doing?” a voice interrupted the serenity, and instinctually, Wilbur went invisible, nearly slipping through the floor. Luckily, though, he caught himself in time. 

As soon as he was physical again, he looked for the source. 

He already knew who it was though. After three years, Wilbur would still know that voice anywhere. He quirked his lips up into a humorless grin. 

“Hello, Quackity.” 

-/-

Wilbur would never admit it, but life was just a bit boring without Quackity around. It was the middle of August, the hottest season of the year, and he was stuck inside, sprawled out on the hardwood floors with nothing to do. His wings ached, some sort of restlessness in his lethargy. They were pressed below him, cramped into the floor, and Wilbur thought to shift, if only he could pull up the energy. 

Two months wasn’t a lot of time, but it felt like years. It felt like centuries . Wilbur felt like he might melt before Q got back. Holy fuck - it was hot. 

“Wil? Oh, you’re home.”

“You sound surprised,” Wilbur said, talking to the ceiling. Phil walked in from the front door, coming over to stand above him. Lazily, Wilbur waved, hand barely leaving the floor. Phil laughed at the gesture. 

“Your windows are closed,” he explained, and Wilbur rolled his eyes. 

“It’s too hot to keep them open. You’d have me burn away, Phil? Is that what you want?” 

“A little sun isn’t going to hurt you, Wil,” Phil said, and as if to prove it, he moved to lift a couple of the shutters. Wilbur grumbled, blinking in the new sunlight. The heat was exhausting. 

But not deadly. (Not yet.)

“Why don’t you have a dip in the lake if you’re so hot?” Phil asked, leaning against the wall and folding his arms. “I’m sure Niki would like the company.” 

“Niki’s deep-diving today.” Wilbur had already asked her, trying to find anyone who wanted to do something. Everyone seemed busy. Or away. Tommy was with his group of friends, trading at the village across the mountain. Jack was working at his shack in the Nether. Scott was focused on a build he’d been doing for half a month--some grand storage building down the hill. 

Up until now, he’d thought Phil was working on something with Techno. Maybe they were done. 

Wilbur perked up at the idea, sitting up to face his father. “You wanna swim?”

“Can’t,” Phil said, and Wilbur fought not to be disappointed by the answer. “Techno and I are still patching the roof.”

Wilbur threw himself back down, trying to seem more like a petulant child than just some sad guy. Despite his slow-falling, he wouldn’t be any help with a roof--not without an easy way to get up like jumping or flying. 

“Are you looking for more slate?” he asked, remembering Phil had been looking for some earlier when Wilbur was up at the Pube. He’d mentioned he had some in storage. “It’s downstairs. Creepy chest that won’t close. Can’t miss it.” 

“Thanks, mate.” Phil moved to the door, then paused, looking back at him. “I think Fundy was looking for something to do. Why don’t you go find him?” 

Wilbur looked over at him, thinking over it for a second. It had been a while since he’d seen Fundy. 

“Yeah. Okay.” 

He went to find the fox shortly after Phil left. Wilbur quickly came to realize he should have asked his father where he’d seen him. 

Wilbur circled the town, peering into the farmhouse and unfinished library. He visited the Ninjology tower, then crested the mountain to get a good view of the lake. He stretched his wings as he looked, trying to crack out the lethargy still weighing them down. He’d been so bored lately that it never seemed to fade.

His eyes settled on the Pube, wondering if Fundy might be there. Then, he realized how very unwilling he was to hike all the way back there. 

“Sorry, Fundy,” he spoke to the air, turning on his heel and leaving town through the forest. “I’ll see you later.” 

To be honest, Wilbur didn’t leave their mountain range all too often these days. He’d done his share of exploring when he was little, curious and eager to know what was out there, what lay beyond. 

As he grew older, it was all familiar. It only reminded him how he couldn’t go further , couldn’t find anything new . 

Somewhere out there, Quackity was finding places that were new. 

After the forest, Wilbur followed the line between the jungle and desert, sand scuffing beneath his shoes. So many times when he was younger he’d burned himself on that sand, dumb enough to take his shoes off where there was no shade. 

Today, he was dumb enough to be out there without longer sleeves, with no protection from the sun’s rays. 

He didn’t mind it so much, though. It was better than being cooped up in the house. 

Eventually, Wilbur recognized the path his feet were taking him, veering off further into the desert and along the cliffs of the badlands. The sand was sturdier out there, formed side-by-side with terracotta and clay. Cacti grew sparser the closer Wilbur got to a familiar ledge. When he looked over the edge, he laughed. 

A great winding river cut through the earth at the bottom. On the opposite shore was the perfect spot for sunbathing, for making promises of traveling and wings. He and Quackity had come here only a handful of times, but the memories were always happy. 

Even once when Quackity was Elytrian and couldn’t slow-fall anymore, he’d glided his way down on newly trained wings, waving to Wilbur from the bottom. 

“Well,” Wilbur contemplated, looking down at the ravine. “It is the hottest day of the year.”

His heart picked up a beat. Wilbur smiled giddily, ripping off his shoes as if he was still a kid. The ground fucking burned . And Wilbur could say that without laughing at his own cursing. 

His socks went along with it, and it was like being thrown back in time, the way he danced through the heat. He puffed out a breath every rock and leap, trying not to yell. It sucked , and Wilbur savored the feeling, the memory. He pulled off his shirt quickly, thinking the faster he did so, the faster he’d be in the cool water below. When he detangled it from his wings, he flapped a quick beat to put some energy back into them. Maybe the water would get them moving. 

But when Wilbur looked over the edge again, he paused, toes curling around the stone. He stopped hopping, and that burned, but with his eyes trained down, right over the drop, apprehension strikes him, tingling through his body and freezing him to the scorching earth. 

Wilbur had never been afraid of heights--not with his gift of slow-falling. But this… it hadn’t always been this high up; had it? 

“ Shit ,” he hissed. Of course nerves would hit him now. 

Slowly, he backed away from the edge. Slowly, he wrapped his aching wings around himself, despite the sweat that dripped down his skin. Slowly, he closed his eyes, listening to his heart rate--a beat too quick. 

Then, Wilbur shook his head, opened his eyes, retracted his wings. 

“Come on, Wil,” he murmured to himself. “It’s just a quick dip.”

Wilbur stepped to the edge once more, looking down while he tilted his head to the side. 

It was a long way, but it was nothing he hadn’t done before. Wilbur huffed a laugh, shaking his head. 

Look at him. An Avian, getting nervous from a little fall. Good thing no one was around to see. He’d never live it down. 

“On three,” he agreed with himself. 

“One.”

 His voice nearly carried away in the empty space, no one to hear it but the rocks and sky.

“Two.”

His toes curled around the edge again. He thought of crow’s feet and raven’s talons.

“Three,” he nearly whispered, stepping off the ledge. 

And for the first time in his life, Wilbur felt what it was like to free-fall.

-/-

“Was wondering where you went,” Quackity said, coming to sit next to Wilbur. “Guess you’d rather talk to the moon than your long-lost buddy, huh?”

Wilbur scoffed. “You are not long-lost. You make it sound like you were Missing in Action.” 

“You never know. I could have gone into the line of duty. A lot can happen in three years.”

Wilbur’s eyes followed the edge of the Pube again. “Yeah. They can.” 

“I-” Quackity started, then hesitated. It wasn’t something you saw from the man often, and Wilbur waited, knowing it was important. “I need to apologize for that. Three years is hardly a few months.” He laughed, but it was flat. Wilbur shook his head. 

“It’s fine. Not like you missed anything. No wing imbalance to laugh at.” Wilbur tried again--to move his wings. Unlike his heart and his lungs, he couldn’t even pretend to make them work. 

“So you… never grew your wings? You, uh-” Quackity hesitated. Wilbur had a feeling what he wanted to say, but let him get the words out himself, in a way he could. Quackity gestured to him. “ This happened before you were Elytrian?”

Looking down at his hands now, Wilbur nodded. “Fall damage.” 

A tense silence surrounded them. Wilbur looked up to find Quackity opening and closing his mouth, trying again and again to find the right words. He looked baffled. 

“But- But- you can’t take fall damage as an Avian!”

“You can. Just gotta hit puberty in all the wrong places,” Wilbur joked, and strangely enough, he felt lighter for it. Quackity, on the other hand, didn’t look very amused. Wilbur wiped the grin off his face, sighing through his nose. “My slow-falling went before my wings ever extended. Shitty bit of luck.” 

Realization lit in his friend’s eyes. “So you didn’t know.”

Wilbur shook his head. “I did not. The only sign was some achey fucking wings. Turns out those were growing pains .” 

“That’s shit!” Quackity exclaimed, and that was a light way of putting it, Wilbur thought. He appreciated it all the same. 

“You’re telling me.” He shrugged, letting out a small laugh. “But anyway, sorry for breaking our pact.” 

This stopped Quackity short, indignation turning to confusion. “What do you mean, breaking our pact?”

Wilbur looked at him. “Traveling together. Seeing the world.” He leaned back, wistfully recalling their promise. “Anywhere. Everywhere.” 

“We can still do that, though. That’s why I came back, Wilbur. For you.” Quackity sat forward, hands on the ground on either side of him. 

“I don’t have wings, Quackity,” Wilbur reminded him, and the words stung. “I never will.” 

“But you don’t need wings to see the world! Elytrians aren’t the only ones who travel, Wilbur.”

Wilbur’s brow furrowed. Where was this coming from? Did Quackity seriously not see why this was a bad idea? 

“I’d slow you down. You couldn’t fly from town-to-town if I was with you. You’d be stuck walking everywhere.”

“Pssh, do you seriously think I fly everywhere, Wilbur? That’s exhausting. No way,” Quackity said, as if the very idea was a joke. “Besides, I’ve traveled with all sorts of people over the years. I once traveled with a Merling. A Phantom will be no problem.”

“A Merling?” Wilbur asked, trying to even imagine how that might go. Carrying around a water bucket couldn’t cut it; could it? Or did they brew a shit-ton of water-breathing potions?

But Quackity nodded like it was no problem. “Hiked along rivers and lakes. Cool guy, by the way. Nautilus Shells were nothing to him. Found shit like that at the bottom of the ocean all the time.” 

Wilbur tried to imagine it--an ocean full of treasures and ship-wrecks. Niki found some cool things at the bottom of their lake, but never a Nautilus Shell. “Wow,” was all he could say. 

“That shit’s out there, Wilbur.” Quackity leaned closer again. “We could see it. Dreams don’t die just because you do, buddy.” 

Wilbur took that in for a second. He imagined cities and deserts and magical forests. He thought of oceans, farther than the eye could see. He looked at the mountain range, surrounding their home, and pondered what lay beyond it, beyond it and everything he’d ever explored. 

And he saw himself, exploring it all, not by air, not soaring above, but on foot--beneath the trees and on scorched stone earth. Wilbur could do it. 

Then, Wilbur burst into laughter. 

Quackity sat back as soon as it hit, as if a shockwave shook the earth. Wilbur bent over, clutching his stomach as it became increasingly harder to catch his breath. Peels of laughter shook him, and wave after wave overtook his still-lungs and still-heart, making a chest that pumped with uncontrollable breaths. 

“I’m serious!” Quackity protested, but Wilbur shook his head. He tried to explain, but each word was snatched away by a new bout of howls. It wasn’t until it slowly became chuckles, until giggles suppressed the cackles one by one, that Wilbur could feel the night air again, could feel the false inhale and exhale of his lungs even. 

Then Wilbur wiped away a tear, and another, and found his cheeks stained with them. He looked up. 

“Dreams don’t die just because you do?” he asked, repeating what Quackity had said. Slowly, realization dawned on the man’s face, and a red tinge accompanied it. He folded his arms and looked away, but Wilbur wasn’t done teasing him just yet. “That is the cheesiest thing I have ever heard.” 

“You try to do better!” Quackity said defensively, but even he had cracked a smile. “God, fuck you, Wilbur Soot. My words are genius.” 

Wilbur leaned his elbows onto his knees, resting his chin on his knuckles. He grinned out onto their town, illuminated dimly to keep mobs away. “Do you really think we could do it?”

“Definitely.”

“You’d be stuck with me,” Wilbur pointed out, and Quackity barked out a laugh. 

“No. You’d be stuck with me .” It sounded like a threat, and it sounded like a promise. 

Wilbur shook his head, nearly disbelieving. But this thing with feathers nestled firmly in his chest, and maybe he couldn’t feel his wings, but he could feel this. He could feel this swell, this growing little balloon, buoyant and hopeful. 

“Okay,” he said before he could stop it. Quackity perked up. With a bit more surety, Wilbur nodded. “Okay, let’s do it.” 

“Yes! Yes, let’s do it!” Quackity exclaimed, clapping him on the shoulder. “Holy shit. Let’s do this, Wilbur!” 

Wilbur rocked back with the motion, and he turned to his friend, trying to share in his cheer. He pushed his nervousness to the wayside, letting it simmer on the backburner while he grinned. “We’re going to do it,” he agreed. “We’re really going to do it.” 

At last, Wilbur would see the world. 

-/-

The winter ended, and the sun got hotter. Clouds dissipated, and the low fog of the lake disappeared. The rain picked up, but it came in spurts. It was difficult to tell when Wilbur could come out during the day. 

Becoming a Phantom had a learning curve. It wasn’t like when an Avian became Elytrian--when your wings extend, and your balance shifts, and you have to preen every other day while longer and longer feathers keep moving in. Becoming an Elytrian was awkward, but it was exciting, and it was funny. You teetered, and you ached, and you slept--like, a lot--but at the end of it all, you get what every Avian dreams of. You get wings. 

Phantoms don’t get wings- don’t even keep their tiny little Avians. Only the bones remain, like tree branches, bare for winter. They didn’t move, and when he held them, pulled on them, stretched the skeletal appendages out and up, he couldn’t feel a thing. Decorative. Like they never were connected, like it’d never been a part of him at all. 

Instead, Wilbur got used to the glow of his eyes, watching the weather closely before going out. He nursed charred sunburns, practiced breathing that did nothing. Worst of all, though, was trying to control his impermanent body--fighting the instinct to disappear when nervous, carefully finding his way through walls and mountains without getting lost. 

But he supposed there was one thing pretty similar to Elytrian growth. Much like growing pains--lethargy that once dragged down his wings--invisibility made him very hungry, and very very tired. 

He hadn’t done much besides sleep during the winter, to be honest. After the August heat had gone, and Wilbur’s memory of the sun faded, it was easy to see himself here. The world died, slept, hibernated. Trees lost their leaves. Wildlife migrated, burrowed, hid away. The living bundled in their furs. The neighborhood gathered in the Pube more often than around the lake. 

And Wilbur? Wilbur closed his windows, and he slept, dreaming of golden wings flying in from the horizon. 

But the daisies grew now, and sheep roamed the borders, and there was a robin’s nest in Wilbur’s gutter. Days like this were exactly like when Quackity had gone. 

He’d promised a few months. 

A terrible part of Wilbur hoped he’d never return. 

Only disappointment remained here. 

-/-

The sun set over the peaks of the mountains, bathing the sky in purple, shadows in blues. The sepia shades of dust cooled into a pleasant evening, filled with the chatter of crickets and the hum of cicadas. Hidden under a short oak, Wilbur finally emerged, gently cupping a firefly into his hands. 

The lines between his fingers pulsed with its glow. It wasn't long until his awaited company crested the hill, throwing his hands to the heavens. "There you are!" 

Wilbur let go, watching the bug's lazy flight for a moment before facing Quackity. "Thought we were heading out at sundown." 

"Yeah, but not sundown sundown. Man, you could've burned out here!" 

"I wanted to catch the sunset." Wilbur shrugged. He'd always thought there was a view unlike any other in Spawn Lake. 

"You're fucking weird, man." 

"Gonna have to get used to it," Wilbur said, hefting his rucksack. "Or this is going to be one hell of a road trip." He had packed and repacked twenty times now. There was no urge to check it again before he left. There was no urge to dwell. 

"Road trip?" Quackity scoffed. "It's a fucking pilgrimage! It's our fucking destiny to get out there." 

He swung an arm around Wilbur's shoulders. Wilbur bent a bit to accommodate it. 

"A pilgrimage? And where's the destination?" he asked, amused. 

"Anywhere," Quackity said, turning to look him in the eye. "Everywhere." 

Wilbur grinned. He turned toward the horizon. 

"Then let's get to it."