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When he was little, Wilbur had this friend.
He lived next door and had two older siblings, and he wanted to be a mapmaker when he grew up. He’d always sound the word out, every single syllable: car-tog-ra-pher. That was when they were little, though. By the time they were ten, he could say the word without a problem.
He’d draw maps of the brook behind their neighborhood and all the features of it – Wilbur’s tree house, the tire swing, Mrs. Hadley’s berry bushes, the painted rock path, the fairy ring. He’d complain, the same summer that they were ten, about how he’d have to redraw so many things, because the stupid new neighbors, the triplets who just moved down the road and were, like, six, built a fort in the bend where the fairy ring was, because they had no respect for all the work he did, nor for the fairies, who wouldn’t be happy about their ring being disturbed.
Once, when they were eight, Wilbur had asked where his name came from. It was a weird one, he’d never heard it before, and his friend had explained that it was an old name, passed down through so many generations. His siblings had old names, too, which was why they were legally called things like Morgana and Finnian, but his name was special, because somewhere along the line, there was a misspelling. If some ancient record-keeper, like, six hundred years ago had spelled Eric right, he’d probably be called that, instead. It was his great-granddad’s name, he’d said, and it was his great granddad’s great-granddad’s name, too. It meant ruler – at least, Eric meant ruler – which Wilbur always found funny. The Kings had a whole book full of name meanings; finding out Wilbur’s only meant wild boar was one of the biggest letdowns of the month.
Finding out that his friend’s name meant ruler, however, was a major boon to their games. It was autumn, which meant it was the perfect time to run around in the woods and pretend like they didn’t have homework, and knowing that Wilbur’s best friend in the whole world’s name meant ruler meant that he obviously had to be the prince, and Wilbur obviously had to be his knight.
Wilbur’s tree house was the castle, a big stick they found was his sword. His friend would give him quests, would tell him to fetch the mystical stones and blackberries from the hag’s garden and bring them back here right away, while he worked on his maps and battle plans. They’d have to defeat the evil usurper prince and the scary witch who lived in the woods, and they’d need the strongest tactics to be able to do it. At least, until it got too dark to see, and then Wilbur would have to lead them home with the big flashlight his dad got him.
They spent a lot of time together the year they turned eleven. That was the year Wilbur’s dad got remarried, and his new stepbrother got to be the ring-bearer, and all Wilbur got to do was sit and watch. He was at the age where he could call Kristin by her first name, but her son was four, so he called Wilbur’s dad dad, too, and Wilbur hated that. Way easier to spend time after school with the Kings, with Meg and Finn and his friend and their parents than trying to deal with a whole new toddler running around and ruining his stuff.
The Kings moved away when Wilbur was thirteen, the summer between seventh and eighth grade.
His friend gave him his email and asked him to write. Maybe they could exchange phone numbers once he got a phone, too. He had become more and more withdrawn in the last year and was worried about making friends. He’d started painting his nails, too. They’d been navy blue, that day. Wilbur watched the car pull away, and declared to his father, stepmother, and stepbrother that night that he’d never be happy again.
They exchanged emails a few times. For the first week, they emailed each other constantly. And then they started to peter off when school started. Wilbur’s dad encouraged him to join clubs, to stay in choir, to try theater, maybe. Then high school started, which was an entirely different beast of being ridiculously busy.
They never did exchange phone numbers.
The week before Wilbur leaves for university, his little brother, who is now eleven himself and thinks Wilbur’s old tree house is the coolest thing in the world, finds a map in the cabinet, sealed in a plastic bag inside a waterproof binder. It’s drawn in crayon and has wildly inconsistent measurement markings and is signed by Prince E. K. & Sir W. C.
“Who’s E. K?” Tommy asks. Wilbur snatches the map from him. It’s dated back to the summer when they were nine.
“An old friend. He moved when you were little. None of your business,” Wilbur says all at once, perhaps a little too quickly. Tommy just snorts and goes to bother his own best friend, who lives across the street. Oh, to be eleven and carefree. Meanwhile, Wilbur has to pack, which is a fucking travesty. He does take a picture of the map, though. For old time’s sake.
His dad drives him to uni and helps him move in. His roommate seems fine, some guy he’ll never talk to, but at least he’s got some cool posters up, so maybe it won’t suck. While they’re in the dining hall for lunch, something gets his dad’s attention while Wilbur is way too busy trying figure out what he’s going to eat over all the noise. All he hears is “Oh my gosh, Mr. Craft?” and then more chatter, because that’s all there is in this damn place. He’s going to need earplugs.
When his dad asks if he saw Meg, Wilbur has no idea what he’s talking about, and falls asleep not five minutes after he drives away.
Two exhausting days later, Wilbur is packing up his things at the end of his first media studies class when someone approaches him.
“One second,” he says over his shoulder. He zips up his bag, turns around, and is met with a face he almost wants to call familiar.
The person is a little shorter than him and has brown, curly hair that reaches their shoulders. They’re dressed in a blouse and long, flowery skirt, and have a small pair of tinted glasses perched on their nose. They’re carrying a messenger bag and have a pair of heart-shaped earrings dangling from their ears.
“Um,” Wilbur says, very intelligently. “Hello?”
“Hi,” the person replies, almost anxious. They fidget for a second, tucking hair behind their ear. “Wilbur, right? Wilbur Craft?”
“Yeah?” He raises an eyebrow. Did they think some point he said was interesting? Did he even catch their name? He’d fully missed their introduction. Oh, god, he’s bad at this meeting new people thing. Maybe they’re interested in his major? He is planning on studying music, so maybe– Wait. He didn’t even introduce himself with his last name. “How did y–”
“It’s me. Um–” They rub the back of their neck, laughing awkwardly as they look away. “Eret? It’s Eret. King.”
Wilbur blinks a few times, trying to process that statement. The person standing in front of him is Eret. There’s another class coming into the room. He spent every day at their house, once upon a time. His heart is caught somewhere in his throat.
“We should. Step outside,” he croaks. The person – Eret nods, shouldering their (his? her??) bag and leading the way outside. It isn’t until they’ve both fully exited the building that Eret speaks again.
“I–” They cut themself off with another sheepish laugh. “It’s– It’s been a while! And some things have changed. And I– I know I don’t really look, um. The same, but– it’s good to s–”
Without thinking, Wilbur hugs them. In his mind’s eye, he can still see the withdrawn, anxious kid who lived next door, waving at him sadly as his car drives away. His nails had been painted navy blue.
“It’s so fucking good to see you,” he finishes for them, and they immediately hug him back.