Chapter Text
There was only one way out of Utah if you wanted to use a boat.
This fact was drilled into Wilbur’s mind just like the pledge of allegiance and how to fake an English accent.
There was only one way out.
There’d be two if you weren’t a coward.
He shoved that thought out of his mind.
He couldn’t live an entire life as a gas station attendant in Utah (fucking Utah: really mom and dad, what were you thinking?).
He might be able to survive; the pay wasn’t awful and the hours could be worse, but living?
No one in Utah really lived, not that Wilbur had seen at least.
(The Colorado River leads to the ocean.
You could do it.
Do it.
Do it.
DO IT.)
But he couldn’t.
This wasn’t a fairy tale. The story didn’t end when he sailed away into the sunset; the story ended when he sailed too far and lost track of land. The story ended when his boat capsized in a storm, or when he inevitably dehydrated himself in the heat.
The story ended when he died of his own hubris, making his death almost as meaningless as his life.
And yet…
there was only one way out of Utah, and it called to Wilbur from out the gas station window each day and each night.
Every fish in the Colorado River mocked him. Every boat that passed by was painted with taunts in languages he’d never be able to learn— languages that screamed of locations he’d never go to and experiences he’d never have. The horns on the ships fueled the melody of his anger and the bells on the door of the shop only served to continue the ever rising crescendo of his desperation.
When was the last time he had a conversation that didn’t end with him saying “thank you, have a nice day” to yet another customer who couldn’t possibly deserve it less?
Had it been days? Weeks? Months? Years? His whole life?
There was only one way out of Utah.
But there was a way out.
And Wilbur knew how to sail.
It was a brutally hot summer day when he finally gave up.
(Or maybe that was just when he finally stopped giving up. Maybe that was the first time he’d ever really tried. Who could say?)
The air conditioning was broken, his manager was screaming at him, the tag on his uniform was too itchy, his skin felt like it was crawling with bugs, the lights fluorescent were buzzing too loudly, and the sweat on his forehead dropped relentlessly into his eyes.
From behind him he could hear a consistent tick tick tick and every time it repeated it sounded less like a clock and more like a bomb.
The fuse had been lit for years and now it burned faster than ever.
The sound of the bells on the door was what finally caused it to blow.
How dare get another person get to leave this cursed place? Why did they get to live his dream? Didn’t they know he’d do anything to walk out that door, to be free from the hell that was the world’s most miserable Exxon Mobile gas station?
The bell rang and the sound had never before grated on his ears the way it did then.
He walked out from behind the counter.
“Hey, what are you doing?” His manager snapped from where he was restocking shelves across the room.
Wilbur didn’t answer.
He couldn’t.
If he opened his mouth he didn’t know what would come out.
Sobs? Screams? Poetry? Nothing?
He didn’t know. Maybe it was better that way.
This isn’t much of an explosion, now is it, Wilbur? What kind of bomb are you? Or are you just another silent alarm? Doomed to be ignored?
He blocked out the voice in his head and walked towards the door.
Pathetic.
“You can’t just walk out in the middle of your shift!”
He stayed silent, as though speaking would break the dam that was his resolve, and he’d simply collapse to the ground and permanently fall apart.
If he stayed now he knew he’d never leave.
To stay here was to die, Wilbur realized. There was no way he could make it out of Utah alive if he stayed a single moment longer.
“If you walk out that door you’re fired, Soot! You hear me? Fired! And good luck finding anyone else who’ll take your incompetent ass!”
Wilbur walked out that door.
There was only one way out of Utah, and apparently there was only one time too.
What was it his father always used to say to him? Even a broken clock is right twice a day?
Wilbur checked his watch. It was 3:01pm.
He slid it off his wrist and left it in the dirt; he was sure someone would find it and put it to good use.
Where he was going he wouldn’t need a watch though.
If everything went according to plan he wouldn’t need anything at all.
He was freezing and overheating at the same time.
It was so dark it burned his eyes like was looking at the sun. Like the sun was looking at him.
It was like he was back in high school, preforming in a P.G. rendition of Hamilton.
He’d been an extra. The understudy to King George. No one important.
(Secretly he’d always envisioned himself as Hamilton. He should have been far too old for such delusions of heroism, but was somehow far too young to let them go. Didn’t he have more time? Couldn’t he still be a hero? There wasn’t an age limit on adventure, was there?)
(God, could you be more fucking cliché?)
The lights of every opening night he’d ever been a part of burned through his retinas like even the machinery knew he wasn’t worthy of standing under them. Yet, at the same time, it was pitch black, his skin prickling with the lack of anything touching it.
He was claustrophobic in an empty void.
He was choking on air yet not breathing at all and tripping over his own feet without ever taking a step.
He was—
We was lying flat on his back on the shore of a beach he’d never been to before.
He’d never been to any beach before, actually.
(Utah was nothing if not fucking boring.)
He looked down at himself and did a quick self-assessment.
He was dry except for his hair, which made no sense whatsoever. He shook it off. The boat he’d boarded was no where to be found. He patted himself down, grateful he could still feel every body part. To his own surprise, he felt his phone in his pocket.
He pulled it out and— it was not his phone.
What the hell was this?
It looked almost like a phone. Was it possible for an inanimate object to be in uncanny valley? Because this was pretty goddamn close to that.
He jumped when it turned on.
It showed him as having a history of conversations with some people he didn’t recognize the names of, most of which he was sure were nicknames or inside jokes of some sort.
Despite not knowing who these people were, they each stirred up several indistinguishable emotions in his stomach.
(And wasn’t it sad that he felt more emotions looking at names of people he’d never met than he’d felt in all the years he’d spent in Utah combined? Wasn’t it sad that despite the horror of whatever the fuck this was, he was grateful for the numbness to finally wear off just a little? He would say he’d missed this if it wasn’t his first time.)
He didn’t read or respond to any of the messages, and instead slid the device back into his pocket.
The sun is setting, I should get home, he thought, standing up automatically as if to go back to his one bedroom flat in Utah.
Great plan as per usual, Wilbur.
He didn’t know what he’d been thinking when he left; this was a horrible idea. He should go back. Maybe he could beg for his job at the gas station back or simply check himself into a psych ward for awhile.
Going back sounded tolerable.
There was only one problem: his boat was gone and he didn’t know where the fuck he was.
Though, honestly… an empty beach was preferable to a crowded gas station.
I should go home, he thought once again.
He couldn’t, and he didn’t know why his brain wasn’t understanding that.
Not that home.
What did that even mean? What other home was there?
He spun around in a circle, hoping something would catch his interest. He found himself instinctively drawn in a certain direction.
Home, it called to him in a way nowhere ever had before. His own childhood bedroom was just four walls to him, and his current apartment meant even less.
With nothing better to do, he walked in that direction— he walked towards ‘home’ and pretended he knew what the word meant.
He didn’t know how long he spent following his gut, making turns based solely on what felt right, before he arrived at a decently sized cabin.
Home, something in him screamed again.
Sure, why not? He arrived ‘home’ just as the sun was beginning to set.
He made his way up to the front door and paused. Should he knock? This wasn’t actually his house, was it? No, that’d be insane.
(This whole thing is insane. I’m insane. This can’t actually be happening— I have to be hallucinating. What the fuck is going on?)
Even if it was fake, it sure felt real. He might as well treat it as if it was, and worst case scenario he was wrong. Besides, his instinct hadn’t failed him so far, and it was telling him to walk in. He braced himself for the worst and did so.
The house was nice. Cozy. It seemed well lived in, but not messy in the slightest. It felt warm— homely might be the best word for it.
He could hear conversation coming from another room, but it abruptly cut off once he closed the door.
Curious, he edged towards the source of the noise. He found two young-ish looking boys sitting on the couch, staring at him with matching wide eyes.
Love love love love, his gut screamed. He cared for them— he’d do anything for them.
He’d never seen them before.
There was a tense moment of silence.
“Sorry,” one of them said.
The boy had an English accent, and for some godforsaken reason Wilbur mimicked it in his response.
“What for?”
“Uh- I don’t- I just-“
“Tubbo,” the other one cut him off. He was also British, even more dramatically so. “It’s alright. What are you doing here tonight, Wilbur?”
Who the fuck are you and how do you know my name?
Wilbur shrugged. “Same as you I suppose.”
The boy gave him a weird look. “O…kay, whatever you say big man.” He turned and looked back at the other boy, who stared at Wilbur with wide
terrified eyes. “Come on Tubbo, we’ll go upstairs.”
Tubbo? He didn’t think he recognized that name from the most recent contacts on his not-phone. It was a stupid name— a nickname, perhaps?
It didn’t matter right now.
The other boy, Tubbo apparently, nodded, and carefully stood from the couch, nervously glancing at Wilbur once again. He was short. Both boys were significantly shorter than Wilbur, but Tubbo especially.
“Wait—“ he said, a gut feeling overwhelming him once again. They both looked at him expectantly. “Um. I’m feeling rather hungry. You, uh, you in the mood for dinner?“ His English accent somehow held strong.
“You’re gonna make me dinner?” The blonde one asked skeptically.
(’Me?’ Why not ‘us?’)
He added that thought to the list of ones he was ignoring.
“Uh.” Okay, apparently that was out of character for him. (Barely a few minutes in and you’re already making mistakes. The clock is ticking and soon they’ll discover you’re a fraud). It was too late to change his mind though. Tick. “Yeah. Sure. Why not? Do you— we have food?” Tock.
“Are you feeling okay, Big Dubs?”
What did you just call me?
“Yeah, fine. Just— hungry. Yeah. I— that’s all.”
“Sure, whatever. I’ll make something for Tubbo.” Tick.
“Why?”
“Cuz he needs to eat? The fuck is your problem, it’s not like you bought any of the food.”
“No, I just- I meant- I- I thought I was making it for all of us.”
Both boys gave him a weird look. Tock.
“Uh, do-do you have, like, allergies or something?” Tick.
They only looked more confused. Tubbo took a step back. Tock.
Fuck, that’s probably something I should know.
“Sorry, I, uh, my head is all fuzzy tonight,” Wilbur said, as if that wasn’t the understatement of the century. “Uh…”
The taller boy squinted. “No, he doesn’t have allergies, you just— nevermind.” His voice lost its suspicion and became a lot brighter after he cut himself off. “What are you making? I’m expecting the very best.”
“Uh.” What did Wilbur even know how to cook? He’d been living off of microwave ramen for years now. This place did not appear to have a microwave, never mind he didn’t have a clue what ingredients they had. Tick. “What do you want?” He settled on.
“Ooh I didn’t know you were taking requests.”
“Don’t expect it again,” he shot back lightheartedly.
The blonde grinned. He glanced at Tubbo, who stood stiffly, hiding behind Tommy just enough to be noticeable, not looking at him.
“You know? I’m actually not taking your requests,” Wilbur amended. “What do you want, Tubbo?”
Tubbo’s head snapped towards him so quickly it was a wonder he didn’t get whiplash. Tock. “I- what?” he said quietly.
“What’s your favorite food? I’ll try to make it. No promises it comes out well.”
“I—“ the shorter glanced at the taller boy for reassurance. Wilbur was really gonna have to figure out that one’s name at some point.
The blonde just shrugged though. “Tell him your favorite food I guess? I’ll taste test it for poison.”
“I- um, uh, sorry, I— pizza…? Unless you don’t want they then that’s- that’s totally fine, sorry, I don’t mean to—“
“Tubbo,” Wilbur cut him off. He twitched. “Pizza is good. Any favorite toppings?”
Both boys stared at him like he’d grown a second head.
Tick tock, Wilbur. It’s all gonna blow up sooner or later.
“Just cheese is fine,” the blonde one said, squinting as if that would help him make sense of what was wrong with Wilbur.
(If you figure it out make sure to let me know too, okay? Please?)
“Basic,” Wilbur said but didn’t protest further as he began searching the kitchen for materials.
The blonde and him made surprisingly easy conversation while he worked. They spoke like they’d known each other for years without even trying.
Well, maybe they had known him for years, but he couldn’t say the same. Tick. Tock.
He evidently hadn’t made the greatest of impressions on them.
The shyer of the two sat quietly at the table, curled in on himself as if he was afraid to take too much space. Both of the boys seemed surprised any time Wilbur said something remotely nice, especially towards Tubbo.
Periodically Wilbur tried to engage with the shortest amongst them, but to seemingly no avail.
Every time they made eye contact, he wasn’t looking at a boy, he was looking at a deer in headlights. Wilbur was a car, accelerating towards Tubbo at top speed, both their anticipation growing and growing and growing even as the distance between them never shrunk an inch.
It was too late for Wilbur to assure him everything was okay; Tubbo had been bracing for impact since long before he arrived and didn’t seem keen on stopping any time soon.
Still, dinner passed peacefully if quietly, and soon enough Tubbo was silently cleaning up, and Wilbur moved to help him.
He was once again met with disbelieving looks (Tick), but did his best to ignore them (Tock).
Soon, everything but the dishes were finished, and Tubbo seemed pretty dead set on doing those himself.
Wilbur stood awkwardly and let him.
It seemed like he lived here; he’d been drawn to this house from the beach, these boys somehow knew him (and he absurdly felt like he should know them too), and he instinctively found his way around the kitchen.
There were some things he couldn’t rely on gut feelings for though.
What did they normally do after dinner? Did Wilbur have his own room? What the hell was the phone-like thing in his pocket? What was the blonde kid’s name?
“So you… wanna play a game with us?” The nameless one asked.
Tubbo froze.
“That sounds ominous, child,” Wilbur mocked.
“Oui! Fuck you, I’m no child!”
“Mhm, sure you’re not. What kind of game?”
He only glared at Wilbur for a moment longer before relenting. “Board game?”
Wilbur shrugged. “Sure.”
Tubbo put away the last dish, before stepping back towards the stairs. “Have fun,” he said quietly.
“Oh— are you- do you not want to play with us?” Wilbur asked. “We can do something else.”
He looked horribly hopeful happy betrayed sad cautious guilty scared confused. “Are you—“
“He’s sure!” Tommy cut in excitedly. He grabbed Tubbo’s wrist and pulled him back towards the living room.
“Tommy—“ Wilbur barely caught the word before the blonde, Tommy, apparently, cut him off.
At least one of them has a normal name.
“Shut up!” Tommy whispered, not meanly. Just… urgent. (A horn futilely urging the deer to run. The effort, while well-intentioned, is in vain: it doesn’t matter that the car has stopped, because the deer is still frozen in the middle of the road. The car can’t get around the deer and so the deer can’t escape the harsh spotlight it’s been forced into). Wilbur didn’t hear the rest of what he said. He wondered if it mattered.
Shaking his head, he followed them and resigned himself to whatever followed. His mission for however long this lasted was clear; he was going to get Tommy and especially Tubbo to calm the fuck down.
Wilbur wasn’t a threat. He refused to have two literal children look at him as one.
————————
“Shhh, you’re fine,” Tubbo whispered shakily. “Everything’s fine.”
Blood stained the sheets where his friend had accidentally torn his bandages in his sleep.
“You’re fine.”
Tubbo gently poured splash potions of healing over the worst of his wounds, hushing him despite the fact that the tears slipping down his face were silent.
“I’m sorry.”
Sorry wasn’t good enough. Not when his forehead still glistened with sweat from a fever that refused to break.
“Prime, I’m so sorry.”
The boy screwed his eyes shut against the pain as Tubbo few rewrapped his arms in bandages.
“You’re okay.”
Luckily, if nothing else, there was ice in Snowchester. It went over the boy’s forehead in a feeble attempt to cool him down, and over the worst of the injuries on his legs as though that could ever alleviate the pain he had to be in.
“Everything is okay.”
Nothing had been okay in years.
“I love you.”
That much might’ve been true at one point. But the aching in Tubbo’s chest didn’t make up for the harm he’d done to the boy in front of him. If this was love, Tubbo shouldn’t even tolerate anyone ever again.
“Not in a weird way or anything.”
He laughed shakily at his own joke. He wondered if a more conscious version of this pitiful excuse for his friend would have done the same.
“It’s okay, Tommy. You’re gonna be okay.”
Tubbo was never a very good liar.