Chapter Text
Uncle Donald worked hard to keep them afloat. Huey understood that. Just like he understood that they were poor and that their uncle was stretched thin.
Huey had to understand these things. He was the oldest. By three seconds- sure- but Louie and Dewey didn’t understand their financial state the way he did. Not that they weren’t aware, of course, but it was different for them.
Louie felt how poor they were. He felt how pained Donald was whenever he couldn’t treat them. He felt how little opportunities they had and how people eyed them on the street when his hoodie was a sown-together mess. He dreamt of having more than the bare essentials and whatever money he found, he kept. He didn’t know how expensive it was to keep the lights on. He didn’t see how Donald’s continued firing would set them back. He didn’t hear the rattle of the too-old washing machine. But Louie did feel those consequences.
And Huey knew it hurt him.
Dewey, on the other hand, dealt with it. He knew they were poor but he didn’t let it define him. Or at least: He didn’t want to let it define him. Dewey always kept his eyes ahead, chasing the freedom of ideal individuality. If that even existed. He suffered a never-ending fight with the parts of himself he couldn’t control. Huey wondered when Dewey would be faced with the reality of their lives. Eventually, the middle triplet would have to accept that he wasn’t made of willpower, but of flesh and feathers; Circumstances and DNA.
Huey did whatever he could to keep that far in the future. He even hoped to be wrong. Sometimes- in the most guilty of hours when everything was warped by the long shadow of night-time, Huey wished to be as resistant to their reality as Dewey was. Then he’d beat himself over backwards for being ungrateful and naive.
He was the oldest. He loved his family and if that meant he had to understand these things, he would. He’d even make sure no one else had to.
When Huey was seven he noticed that Donald wasn’t the best at numbers or rules. Late at night, he’d be sat at the dining table, head in his hands and coffee growing cold. The stack of papers would be scattered across the table in a way that made Huey anxious.
When he was eight, he’d taught himself everything he needed to know. He’d kept track of their average spending, read up on the tax laws of Duckburg, and calculated Donald’s earnings as well as his severance pay.
Like the Junior Woodchuck Guidebook stated: The more you prepare, the better you will fare.
So while Donald was off working an evening shift, Huey found the drawer. He collected all the files and spreadsheets and dropped them on the table to be sorted. He stood on his chair to get the best overview.
“What are you doing there, child?” their babysitter asked, looking up from her knitting. She sat at the table opposite Huey, glancing back to the couch where Louie was watching TV and Dewey was kicking him. "Don't kick your brother!" she called. She was met with an "Oompf!" and a sing-song "Whoopsie!"
She sighed and returned to her needles.
Huey didn’t see a reason to lie to the tired-eyed bird: “Finances. Tomorrow we have to pay for our spot in the marina, so we’ve got to figure out how we’ll afford it and also get through next month.” As he talked, he sorted the papers into their appropriate piles. He exhaled his relief. It had been gnawing at him- knowing of the mess inside the drawer- but he’d forbidden himself from touching the papers until he had an appropriate understanding of what they meant. Now that it was all neat and tidied, it felt as though the houseboat had finally stopped its worried rocking.
Huey settled down in his chair to get to work as the old lady hummed. She hooked around some yarn and asked: “Don’t you think you should leave that to your uncle?”
“He doesn’t like to do it and I do. It’s like a big puzzle and I’m good at puzzles.”
"Dewey- get off, I'm trying to-"
"What? I can't hear you..."
"Boys! Stop rough-housing!"
"Yeah, Louie!"
"I'm not even-"
"Just keep it down," the babysitter exhausted, quieting the room again. Huey knew it wouldn't last long, but he didn't mind the noise; It was the best way of knowing his brothers were alright.
He picked up the pile of bills and started adding them up, only to be interrupted by: “Just because you can do something, doesn’t mean you should.”
Huey knew that. It was a rule in the JWG, but even so: “I see what you mean, but that doesn’t really apply here. The finances need to get done either way so it’s more of a question of who does them- not if.”
A little chuckle grated Huey, forcing his attention away from the important documents. The lady’s eyes were crinkled with amusement. “And that should be you?”
The scuffle from the couch picked up again.
“Yes,” Huey bit out. He’d learned to be patient with his brothers but adults ought to know better. “Uncle Donald gets headaches from doing them and I’m the oldest, so yes. It should be me.”
The amusement softened for some kind of fondness or pity. Huey looked away, returning to his work. The babysitter sighed and tried to soothe: “You’re eight years old, sweetheart. You can’t do the finances.”
Huey’s body went rigid. His thoughts crashed into each other. His gaze sharpened and flinched up to his doubter. “Yeah, I can. Of course I can- Why would you even say that?”
“Uh oh,” sounded from the couch, where the building scuffle had frozen. Huey ignored it, glaring at the woman who didn’t seem to understand how the world worked.
The lady sighed and tilted her head. “Put the papers back, dear. You’ll ruin your uncle’s work.”
“No,” Huey barked. It wasn’t like him to disrespect authority, but there was something sickening hurling through his stomach and he couldn’t control himself. “I’m helping. Uncle Donald doesn’t know what half of these things are, but I do because I have to!”
“No, you don’t,” the lady snapped, slapping her needles onto the table. “You can’t do the finances and you shouldn’t.” She rose and reached for the papers, but Huey yanked them back.
“Will you stop saying ‘should’?! ‘Should’ isn’t how the world works. ‘Should’ is some fairy tale made up by children who don’t want to deal with the truth!”
“You are the child here!”
“Am I?!”
The room stared at him. The old lady’s glare had frozen. Behind her, Louie and Dewey’s heads were popped out over the back of the couch. Dewey was wide-eyed. Louie was drawn, tears welling up.
Huey hadn’t meant it like that.
He only meant to point out that the lady didn’t know as much as an adult would. Of course, Huey was a child. Of course, uncle Donald did everything he could to let them be children. Huey was grateful. He had to be because he understood how little they could’ve had. It would be cruel to imply that he wasn’t a child. It would be ignorant to say Donald didn’t give him that when all Donald did was give and give and give.
Huey just had to be better and everything would be okay. That’s how the world worked.
“Put down the papers and go to your room.”
Huey dragged his eyes from his brothers back to their fuming babysitter. He was alone. No one saw what he could do. What he had to do. He didn't want to be there anymore.
“Fine!” he smashed the papers onto the table. "I'll go to my room." He kicked off his chair, screeching it across the floor. "Because I've misbehaved, right?! Because me doing my job in this family is somehow wrong!" he roared, feeling his face flare and eyes burn. His hands were clenched and his breathing was heavy. The babysitter stared, slightly pale.
She looked worried.
It twisted in Huey. It infuriated him- His frustration, anger, and fear crashed into each other and grew to blaze through his chest. He wanted to punch and bite and claw, but he'd promised himself to be better than that. The shame crept in and it all exploded.
Huey yelled out.
When his lungs were empty, he remembered himself. His skin burnt hot. He was panting. He felt tired. He didn't dare look at anyone, turning and making for his room.
Once the door had smashed shut and he’d crawled into his bed, Huey’s shame washed back in.
He rolled over and curled up, glaring at the wall.
He tried not to hate himself for throwing a tantrum. For scaring his brothers.
For failing.