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The chimney across the way still billows with smoke. Wilbur finds the cabin having new inhabitants disturbing and comforting in equal measure. At least they deserve to be there. A friend and a son. A widow and a son, Wilbur has learned. He digs his fingernails into the wood of the counter. He hates the feeling, the sound of scraping. He sinks them deeper. Enough to leave a mark.
“Is Tubbo settling well?” Wilbur asks politely. It wasn’t until an hour ago, when he saw Tubbo outside fixing the wheat farm’s redstone with a vaguely familiar zombified piglin hanging around his neck, that Wilbur knew Tubbo lived here now. For a moment, he began to make the steps to say hello. Greet a friend, even one he hadn’t planned on seeing anytime soon. Then he wondered about Boomerville. He wondered if Tubbo’s been back since their little invasion. Perhaps it’s been bombed too. Fucks sake, stop it.
“He and Michael,” Phil says affirmatively as he hands Wilbur a mug of shitty tea. That’s the child, Wilbur supposes. For some reason he remembers a pretty dog in Tubbo’s home, not a child. A son. A son who looks up at his working father, enraptured with someone he knows hung the stars in the sky just for him. Someone he knows will keep him safe. Someone he knows will teach him to navigate this strange world because he knows fathers know everything. Wilbur considers how much Tubbo knows. Far more than Wilbur did when he hung the stars for Fundy, that’s for certain.
Wilbur wraps his hands around the mug and inhales the steam like it will smell like anything but boiling water. The warmth is nice—Wilbur’s windy walk from the Nether portal to the cabin reminded him of just how old his bones are—even if the taste will be lackluster as always. It makes Phil feel better to provide comfort. It makes Wilbur feel better to let Phil think he has. Wilbur lifts his face when his glasses are too steamed to see through.
Phil continues, “He hasn’t complained, anyway, but, well. Tubbo.” He finishes the sentence with an amused tut. Wilbur thinks back to the crater. Tears in Tubbo’s eyes, a rage Wilbur was not familiar with when it came to Tubbo. But the President of Boomerville forgives, even if the President of L’manburg could not.
“He’s gotten better with that I think,” Wilbur says. “He’s been standing up for himself more. Knowing his worth.” The fog clears from his glasses. Phil is nodding.
“Hope so. Especially with Michael, he’s a lot louder about things for Michael’s sake. Or just for the Hell of it. God does that kid love to be obstinate just for the Hell of it,” Phil complains with a heavy sigh. Wilbur smiles. If there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s collecting obstinate little pricks. Phil’s good at it too, even if he gets huffy about it. Fond, though, for the most part.
“Only time will tell, I suppose.” Wilbur takes a sip of his tea. It burns his tongue. Doesn’t matter, really. Nothing to taste anyway. He thinks there may be a hint of mint? But that could just be leftover from brushing his teeth this morning. In a voice that borders on silly to hide that he’s nervous, Wilbur says, “I, uh. Phil, I had a bit of an idea.” Phil automatically responds to the tone with a smile.
In a joking tone of his own, Phil responds, “Yeah? Not another van, I hope?” It’s not an attack, but it hits just as hard. His father loves to joke about the things that hurt them, to make them small enough to live with. Wilbur can understand. It keeps hurting him, though. Wilbur’s fault for refusing to wear armor.
“No. No, not another van. No partners either. My track record’s getting embarrassing,” he says with a little laugh. He sets the mug down on the counter, trying to poise himself. He just ends with his hands awkwardly shoved into his coat pockets as the urge to fiddle with something surges through him, to keep his focus on something during this conversation that isn’t his father, lest he fucking explode. Like a creeper, he is. Get too close to something real and… “I- well, I don’t suppose you’ve talked to Niki recently?”
“I have! She came up the other day with a map, and we went on a little treasure hunt. She said you apologized." He sounds proud. Wilbur wonders if she left out the part about the man they let die, then. Of course, maybe she didn’t. Phil always was an odd duck. Either way, Wilbur soaks up the praise from his father.
“I did! Yes, I did, I’ve- I’ve made almost all my apologies now. Just a couple more to go.” The only one he has left is Quackity’s, and that will be less of an apology and more of an attempt at pissing him off. He’s thought of genuinely apologizing, of putting an olive branch down and letting a tree grow in his absence, but it does not appeal to him to let the fire between them dim even as he extinguishes every other flame. Wilbur’s absence is exactly why he’s at Phil’s now. “Did she tell you anything else?”
“Hm,” Phil thinks, tapping the side of his mug with his talons. Tink. Tink. Tink. It’s a noise that is familiar, though has always driven Wilbur just the slightest bit insane. “She talked about moving out here? If that’s what you mean?” Oh. Wilbur’s annoyance is interrupted. He hadn’t known that. Apparently everyone’s coming to live in the little arctic commune. Once again, he’s a trendsetter, just a little too early. Next thing he knows, Tommy will be in the basement again.
“No! No, she didn’t tell me. I’m glad, though, glad she’ll be by you all. She deserves a nice, solid home.” Not crumbling walls. Not narrow ravines. Something substantial. Something warm.
“Happy to have her,” Phil says, as warm as the home Niki deserves. He nudges Wilbur’s side. “But you, Wil? What’re you here for? Because I’m guessing it’s not about Niki. Not Tubbo, either.” Wilbur huffs a laugh. His hands leave the safety of his pocket, finding the comforting warmth of the mug. He takes another sip. “Don’t stall,” his father chides.
“I’m not stalling!” Wilbur laughs as he says it, like it’s a joke. It might be. A joke, a lie. He just wants the comfort of his father’s shitty tea to push him through this conversation, if he’s honest. Maybe that is silly. Maybe the joke’s on him. “It’s not. About them, I mean. Semi-related, though, I’ve already told them, is all. Told everyone I apologized to so far, and I want to tell you too.”
“We’ve made enough apologies to each other Wil,” Phil says with another nudge. The tea threatens to spill from his mug. Have we? Wilbur wonders.
He says, “I know. So I won’t say that part.” The part where a son begs his father to kill him. The part where a father obliges. The part where a son is risen, a father is sorry, and absolutely nothing changes between them. “I just want to tell you that I’m leaving.” It’s like ripping off a band-aid. Wilbur doesn’t know why. He’s left before, left Phil and a place like home. Phil’s left him before too. Quite a few times, with spread wings, a grin, and a promise to send letters. He always does. They never quite compare to the man’s presence.
Phil tilts his head. “The arctic? You don’t really stay here as it is, mate. Was hoping with Niki here maybe-”
“No, no, I’m leaving the SMP,” Wilbur interrupts to explain. He doesn’t want to listen to his father’s hopes that Wilbur will come around more. He doesn’t know what to do with that. Where to put it. Have their roles swapped, now? Where was Wilbur? Trotting about the outskirts of Las Nevadas like a manic peacock? Killing a friend Phil helped him make? While Phil kept his door open, while Phil had adventures, while Phil gave the people Wilbur loves a place to rest, Niki, Tubbo, Tommy-
Or, well. Technoblade did, anyway. His commune and all. Wilbur realizes he’s holding the mug so tightly it’s starting to hurt his skin. Still hasn’t cooled off. He sets it on the counter just a little too loudly and meets his still-confused father’s eyes. “Going off! Saying goodbye to this bitch of a server once and for all. I’ll be exploring a whole new world!” It’s a lie, but a vital one. As vital as your letters?
“Oh,” Phil sets his mug down too, much more gentle than Wilbur. He faces his son head-on and Wilbur hates it. He hates Phil’s curious eyes, the disappointment in his slight frown. With a hesitation there didn’t used to be between them, Phil says, “Well, I’m sure it’ll be fun.” They’re both wanderers. They love to explore, love to create, love to find. Phil mostly likes to find beautiful things. Wilbur has always been more interested in finding connections. Even the places he’s loved mean something to him more for the people he founded them with.
“Yeah! Yeah, man, I’m excited,” he shoves his hands back in his pockets, posturing like his pride is spilling out of them. It’s mostly nerves. He is excited. Terrified, of course, but rather ready for the next bit. Most of him is ready, anyway. “Got a boat packed, I’ll be off before the month ends.”
“So soon?”
A little quieter, he says, “It’s been a long time coming, Phil.” His father stares at him for a moment. Wilbur thinks he gets it, though. As much as Phil can get it.
“Should I say bye to Tommy, then?” Once again, Phil manages to hit where it hurts, even if he doesn’t mean to. Wilbur isn’t sure if he means to. It’s a question he’s dreaded, though, and has managed to avoid for a while now. Even Tommy hasn’t asked his role in all of this. He just follows along with a smile on his face. Or a scowl. Or tears in his eyes. But he’ll follow, God knows. Tommy has been rather silent on the leaving thing in general, actually. In a perfect world, it would be because Tommy is finally ready to let go of Wilbur. Unfortunately, Wilbur lives a little closer to reality nowadays. Tommy will ignore the problem until it presents itself; he will ignore it until he is certain he can shout it away. Wilbur is steadfast in his decision, though, that Tommy will have no part in the next chapter of his life.
“No,” Wilbur answers. It’s not easy. It will never be easy again. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he says, “But check in on him, yeah?” It’s less a request and more a duty he’s bestowing upon Phil. Wilbur lost sight of his ages ago. Phil’s always been good at taking the helm from his hands. A sword, a brother, what’s the difference?
Like Wilbur knew he would, Phil takes the duty with nothing more than an, “Aw, ‘course I will. You know I like Tommy. Even if he makes me want to tear my hair out sometimes.” He says the last part with the same heavy sigh that accompanied his talk of Tubbo. Wilbur laughs again.
With amusement, he says, “Oh, I’ve lost a few strands myself. He’s just, um,” Wilbur’s voice turns strained against his will. “He’s not good at being alone.”
“Neither are you,” Phil says like he’s reminding Wilbur. It irks him. A childhood filled with beautiful art, beautiful builds, kind strangers, and at its center his father’s letters that never failed to warm him. But it’s difficult for a letter to comfort like a shitty cup of tea.
“Not Tommy’s responsibility.”
“He’s not yours, either, but you’ve kept each other this long.”
“Phil,” Wilbur warns.
“I’m just sayin’, Wil.”
“Do you-” Wilbur sighs, taking a hand from his pockets to run down his face. He wonders, sometimes, what people think of Tommy and Wilbur’s friendship from their own perception. He always imagines it’s harsh. Perhaps not harsh enough. Phil’s is too kind. The sun keeps the moon in orbit around itself, and the moon accepts this without question. But is the sun’s warmth enough to reason the lack of choice? “Phil, you know when- when your life is finally on track, you’re as happy as you’ve ever been, and you have this awful, unbearable urge to just…” he laughs, waving his hand like a shrug. “Ruin it? Completely do it in?”
“No,” Phil answers, a confused laugh tumbling out in response to Wilbur’s. “God no. I- do you?” Wilbur knows there’s something wrong with him, something that isn’t wrong with everyone else, but he thought this was a fairly universal experience. God forbid he feel normal for a second in his life.
“I do,” Wilbur confesses. “I get into these good places, bad places too, and everything good, I-” his fist curls. “I want to squeeze it until it bursts.”
“Why?” Phil looks at him like a particularly confusing puzzle. No, like a piece of puzzle that’s been tossed in the wrong box. A bit of red in the clear, blue skies.
“I…” he trails off as he thinks. “It’s hard to explain.” Who can bear the weight of the sun? Keeping the moon, the stars, the world in orbit? Even if it’s a good weight, the kind that can help you sleep, help you move, help you breathe? It’s all so overwhelming. It’s all so hard to maintain, so hard to look at with the knowledge that Wilbur doesn’t fit there. All the people he’s loved, all the places, he’s ruined them. He is not warmth like his father, he is warmth like the aftermath of an explosion. He is warmth like the sun faced head-on. Tommy, L’manburg, Tubbo, Pogtopia, Niki, and a whole Hell of a lot more, he cannot warm them without burning. Even Limbo, when it gave him a glimmer of warmth, Wilbur burned Tommy on purpose. Made Tommy hate him. Just to make him love Wilbur all over again. “It’s about deserving, I think. Just what I think I should have.”
“You deserve happiness, Wil,” Phil sounds disappointed. It pierces like a sword. “Everyone does.”
“Everyone?” Wilbur says with a little laugh. Phil watches with those sad eyes, but Wilbur hardly thinks of himself now. He thinks of a small room that holds a small man who was once upon a time larger than life. Until a tower overshadowed him. Maybe everyone does deserve happiness. Even Wilbur. Even Dream. But Wilbur hopes Dream never manages to reach it.
“Wil-”
“It’s bad, Phil,” Wilbur says with that same nervous laughter that perverses all of his conversations. It’s not a joke, but it has to be taken lightly, but he’s so tired of it all being brushed under the rug. “The way we are, it’s-” Wilbur struggles to find the words. That frustrates him more. “I’ve squeezed and I’ve squeezed, and everyone else has their limits. Everyone else can walk away. My own fucking son managed to walk away. But Tommy, he- he’s already burst, Phil, a hundred times over, and no matter how many times I squeeze, no matter how many times he bursts, at the end of the day, he’s still there. He’ll follow me to the- to anywhere. He’ll follow me until it kills him and I’ll let him. So I need to go, and he needs to stay.”
Wilbur lets out a heavy breath, looking back out the window as they sit in his confession. He catches sight of Tubbo stepping back out of Ranboo’s cabin, face buried in some sort of gadget in his hands. He looks confused. Wilbur remembers the days Tubbo would come racing after him, talking a mile a minute about things Wilbur didn’t fully understand, using him to bounce his brain, to figure out the broken parts and how to fix them. Tubbo stands alone, confused, muttering to nothing but snow. Phil grips Wilbur’s arm, grounding him to the conversation. Grounding him to the earth. Wilbur appreciates it.
“I’ll check on him,” Phil accepts his duty with a more somber tone now. The knowledge of what it means weighs on him. Weighs on them both, really. “Just- when you settle in, send me your server address? We’ll write again. A little more truthfully this time.” He looks at Wilbur with faux-intensity and Wilbur laughs through his half-closed throat.
“Yeah,” he doesn’t know if he’s lying. He doesn’t know if he’ll want to be found for a little while. “Yeah, that’ll be nice.” Wilbur takes another sip of his shitty tea. It’s cooled enough to be lukewarm water now. Phil puts his arm around Wilbur’s shoulder and gives him a half-hug. He holds him there and Wilbur sinks into it with the knowledge that it will be the last comfort he gets from his father for a very long time.
Out the window, Tubbo continues to fiddle, shouting half-heard words into the gadget. Suddenly, a flash of red and white tackles him to the ground. Wilbur hears Tubbo’s shouts of, “broke it!” and “insurance!” and “fucking prick!”. He hears Tommy’s a lot clearer, a full, angry sentence, “No hug, not even a hello? I come to the middle of the fuckin’ arctic, freezing every bit off, and there you are, just screaming and anger and mimimimimi I’m Tubbo I love building and hate my best friend in the whole wide-” Wilbur does not quite see what happens, but considering Tommy’s blood curdling scream, he assumes Tubbo has gained the upperhand.
“You want something for the road? Still got plenty of cookies,” his father offers. Months ago, Wilbur could hardly stand to accept. Even now, Wilbur wants to refuse his father’s kindness and make it on his own. To prove to himself that he can. But Phil’s worry is palpable, and Wilbur can almost pretend it’s the normal worry of a father for his son going off on his own. Not the worry of a man who did that once before and found someone he could hardly recognize.
“I’ll take a stack,” Wilbur says. Phil gives him one last quick, loving squeeze before letting go to rifle through his chests. Out the window, Wilbur catches a glimpse of Tommy leaning over Tubbo’s shoulder, trying to grab at the device in Tubbo’s hands to no avail. Tubbo looks about ready to kill him. But it’s all fondness at the end of the day. Squeezing and comfort alike.
Tommy has Tubbo. Tommy has Phil. Wilbur’s even willing to bet Tommy has Technoblade, if he were to ask. He doesn’t need Wilbur. And with time, Wilbur’s sure the opposite will be true too. He ignores the fact that if he thought that were true, maybe he’d make a proper apology to Tommy after all. Maybe he’d let Tommy go in a way that didn’t leave Tommy still waiting at the other end for Wilbur’s next idea. Leaving without his shadow, though, is the right choice. Not just for Tommy’s sake. For his own too.