Chapter Text
Wilbur first hears about the new person while he’s visiting Techno.
He’s inside, anxiously trying to help Phil cook a pumpkin pie— a gift specifically for Niki, who had taken a liking to them— when there’s a pounding at the door. Wilbur just about trips over his feet twice in his haste to get to it, flour coating up his elbows and the knees of his jeans.
Ignoring Phil’s stifled laughter from behind him, Wilbur opens the door, leaning against it and narrowing his eyes. Jack’s standing in the doorway, looking far more excited than he’d seen the Blazeborne in a long time; truthfully, the look on the guy’s face was beginning to make him anxious.
Jack typically only looked this happy if he was fixing to pull some shit on him, but he’d long since learned his lesson from pulling any sort of pranks on Wilbur of all people. (All it took was to appear randomly in the guy’s house at three am, move some stuff around and break a vase, to get him to back off. Sure, it nearly got him thrown into a lava pit, but it was very worth it).
“Jack,” Wilbur greets, raising an eyebrow at the way Jack claps his hands together. He’s starting to wonder if it was a good idea to open this door in the first place. “Can I help you with something?”
“There’s a new person,” Jack blurts out immediately, which causes Wilbur to blink a few times in surprise. That definitely wasn’t what he’d expected.
A new person… they hadn’t had one of those in quite a while. Truthfully, the last ‘new person’ had actually been Techno himself, and that had to have been around two years or so ago. Since then, he’d grown to think of the stranger as his friend, as a brother even, although that tended to irritate the guy every time he said it out loud. (Which, in turn, made it funnier).
“Are you joking?” Wilbur asks with a frown, even though he’s… maybe seventy percent sure that this isn’t one of the man’s pranks. He seems far too excited, hands pressing together and embers that press to his cheeks glowing with a slight intensity. Distantly, Wilbur worries for Techno’s front porch. Hopefully Jack won’t burn a hole into it again.
“I’m not joking,” Jack defends, lifting his hands a tad. “Tubbo told me about them. Apparently they arrived early this morning, like, just at dawn. Tubbo found them in his flower field, sitting in the middle of sunflowers.”
Now that was interesting. A new person, and the first place they’d gone was into Tubbo’s flower garden of all places. Not just that, but Tubbo hadn’t killed them for it? The last time Wilbur had stepped foot into the kid’s garden, he’d been chased away by nearly a thousand bees, resulting in him having to hide in an underground cave for about a week until they calmed.
“Really?” Wilbur muses, leaning against the doorframe and blowing a curl that had fallen into his eyes out of the way. The more he thinks about it, the less he’s starting to believe Jack. He had been minorly convinced at first, but the more he listens, the more it feels like some pawn to get him to walk into Tubbo’s garden all over again.
He really wasn’t in the mood to scavenge around caves for a week again, no matter how pretty the amethyst cavern he’d found was.
“I don’t know how much I believe that,” he hums, giving Jack a look that he hopes reads of get the fuck off of the lawn before I make you.
The Blazeborne flinches a tad, but he stands still, although he fidgets now.
“I’m not lying to you, Wilbur,” he grumbles, refusing to meet the man’s eyes. “It’s up to you whether or not you believe me, but, uh…I just wanted to let you know. I know how much your dad likes…” Jack waves his hand around dramatically, eyes rolling, “Whatever he does. I don’t know.”
Wilbur suppresses a laugh. Not many people knew what Phil really did, despite him being one of the eldest here— not just in age, but also in how long he’d been on this soil in the first place. Wilbur’s almost certain he was the first here, no matter how many times he denies it.
The truth was that Phil simply ‘visited’ new people. It’d be a lie if Wilbur said the visits were done with good intentions. Sure, part of it was to welcome the new person, whatever— but it was mostly to get a judge of character. If there was anyone other than Wilbur himself that was good when it came to understanding a person’s thoughts, feelings, and emotions, it was Phil.
A group they were when paired with Techno of all people, who was the complete opposite when it came to the whole emotions thing.
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Wilbur hums, grabbing onto the side of the heavy oak door, fully prepared to slam it in Jack’s face. “Thanks for the heads up.”
Jack huffs, irritated, “Yeah, no pro—”
The door slams shut.
—
A week or so passes before Wilbur hears of the new person again. He’s long since forgotten about it, already passing it off as some prank that Jack was trying to pull on him again. Irritating, really, but that was just Jack. The Blazeborne was a friend of his, albeit not close, but he was naturally the joking type.
Whatever; he didn’t care. No new person, no one that he had to deal with his father’s rambling about every night over their communicators.
He’s certain that it’s just a topic that won’t be brought up again until at maybe five in the morning, when he’s bustling around the kitchen to fix himself dinner— oh, and how Techno loved to laugh about his food schedule being different, the fuckin’ prick— he gets a knock at the door.
Strange, but whatever. Not many people were awake at this time, and the few who were he considered friends. That being literally only Scott, Ranboo, and occasionally Sneeg, who Wilbur had grown convinced rarely slept at all.
When he opens the door, the last person that he expects to be staring back at him is Jack Manifold.
“Uh,” he begins, trying to pass by the cloud of confusion now encircling his head. He glances at the sky, taking note that the evening blue has only just started to interchange into a lighter colour, an indication the sun should rise in an hour or so. Clearing his throat, he shifts his weight, still particularly cut off guard.
He wasn’t certain of Jack’s sleep schedule, but he never saw the guy out and about during the hours that he was actually awake. Maybe the Blazeborne was just in the Nether during those hours, although Wilbur highly doubted it. As much as Jack had been born there, he was almost certain he hated his birthplace. (It was one of very few things that the two could shake hands on).
“Can I help you with something?” He questions, stomach pooling with slight unease at the tension in Jack’s form. He looks ruffled, as though he’d been running around for a couple hours, looking for something.
“It’s the new kid,” he says, words coming out in a breathless way. “He’s missing. We can’t— Tubbo and I— can’t find him, and we’ve been looking for hours. Literally. It’s like the fucker just disappeared into thin air!”
Wilbur frowns at this.
A new kid?
Then it clicks, and the memory from a week ago reforms. Instantly, Wilbur’s muscles relax and he lets out a relieved laugh, shaking his head.
“You’re kidding, right?” He asks, grinning with sharp teeth at the guy. When Jack doesn’t make any move to go, ‘Oh no! You caught me, it was all a prank!’ Wilbur continues, motioning with his hand, “You seriously got up at like, five in the morning, came all the way over to my house, just to continue this stupid bit from a week ago?”
With a click of his tongue, Wilbur whistles a low thing, much like a bird call (although he wasn’t really much of a bird anymore, as sad as the thought was).
“That takes some commitment. I’m impressed,” he tells him, and Jack’s face flickers with signs of irritation. It’s far more ample than it had been the day he’d shut the door in the Blazeborne’s face, that’s for sure, but he still isn’t buying it.
“I’m not— this isn’t a fucking prank, Wilbur,” Jack hisses, taking a step closer, but not too close. He’d long since learned his lesson than to get too close to Wilbur. The phantom didn’t hurt anyone without purpose, and being annoyed was a purpose.
“The kid’s genuinely missing. I just want—” Jack pinches the space between his eyes, right above the wire frame of his orange and red tinted glasses. “Look. Did you see a kid come by here or not? His name’s Tommy, he’s like, one-hundred and forty-nine centimeters— got golden hair, looks like a toddler, but he’s not one. We’d say he’s like, fourteen, give or take. Have you seen him?”
Wilbur huffs, letting his shoulders unwind a tad. It feels like a genuine question, a real concern, so he gives in. (Plus, who would go to that extreme of lengths to even think up a name just for the prank? Jack might, but Wilbur wasn’t too certain).
“No, I haven’t seen him,” Wilbur mutters, tapping the tip of his shoe against the floorboards. “But if I do, I’ll let you know.”
Jack almost looks like he wants to argue, but he hisses lowly, taking a step away from the front door.
“Thanks,” he grumbles, shifting his shoulders so that his hoodie sits more comfortably, “Bye, Wilbur.”
Wilbur blinks, vaguely surprised he’d won that battle so quickly. Oh well, though. More time for him to eat before he slept, then.
“Bye, Jack.”
—
The first time he sees the supposed child— yes, literally sees them— is when he’s sitting on his back porch, catching the ‘night rays,’ this just meaning the moon at its highest peak.
He’s halfway between charting Ursa Major from Heracles when there’s a scampering nearby. A twig cracks and he cranes his neck, raising an eyebrow. Wilbur didn’t fear anything anymore, minus the obvious (the sun’s heat). As much as random noises would’ve terrified him back when he was still alive, a living and breathing Avian, they only served to irritate him now.
Chances were, if he heard a noise, he’d have to investigate. Investigating only led to having to deal with something and he’d long since learned his lesson when it came to the expression of ‘curiosity killed the cat.’
So, he huffs, leaning further into the lounge chair, legs stretched in front of him. He lifts his ankles, crossing them over the other, tilting his head back to resume his stargazing.
A moment passes, then another, and a twig snaps again. Wilbur wouldn’t have thought anything of it if there wasn’t a sharp hissing and a low, ‘Fuck!’ that followed close behind it.
The voice isn’t familiar.
Immediately, he’s on edge, sitting up straight in the chair and eyeing the direction the sound had come from. He’s half tempted to call out for who it could be, but a part of him whispers of danger; another, though, whispers of something different. Stranger, but not an unkind one.
Wilbur allows for the rather pregnant pause to continue, only to nearly fall off of his fucking chair when someone appears in the midst of the night. Not just someone— a child, from their stature, maybe even a fucking toddler.
“What the fuck?” He whispers out loud, not even thinking to cover his curse words in front of this potential six year old.
The child’s head snaps in his direction and just barely, under the moonlight, Wilbur can see the strange look in their eyes. Then, their nose wrinkles, and they point at him.
“Are you a ghost?” They ask, voice much brighter and loud now, echoing through the woods and against Wilbur’s skull. They do sound a bit like a child, but not as much as he’d expected with their height. Maybe in the ten, around eleven range.
However, their question— albeit slightly— takes Wilbur off guard.
“Uh,” he begins, pressing his fingertips together. He’d never seen this child before; should he alert someone? Maybe try and return them to their parents? The new onslaught of emotions was carving something whole in his throat, nestled against his spine right in between where his wings once were. He shudders at the reminder. “Kind of, I guess? Who— uh, who exactly are you?”
Ignoring him, the kid walks up the patio (guess they weren’t exactly wary of strangers, Wilbur realizes with a strange pang).
In the vague candlelight that comes from inside his windows, Wilbur can see the frown on the child’s face and that they are, in fact, just that. A child, underneath all that dirt and grime.
They tilt their head to the right, matted blonde curls following the incline of their head, and they frown.
“No, no, you are definitely a ghost,” they declare, and then a smile breaks out on their face. It’s a complete one-eighty from their previous expression. This one, instead of making them almost look like a disgruntled cat, forms with something bright torn into the edges, as though sunlight clings to the corners.
Wilbur nearly snorts at the metaphor. Here he was, someone who couldn’t even go into the sunlight, comparing a child’s smile to it. He couldn’t tell if he was unintentionally insulting them or not.
“I said I wasn’t quite a ghost,” Wilbur corrects, shifting so his chin rests on his palm. He uses his free hand to point at the kid, hoping to press some sort of buttons, “You’ve got some mud on you.”
The kid’s smile only seems to widen. What the fuck?
“I know, right?” They begin excitedly, rocking back and forth on their heels, “I love the dirt.”
Huh. Well, typical child behaviour, Wilbur supposed.
“Uh, right… so, what’re you doing in my backyard again?” He questions, watching the kid move around his chair and look inside of his home. Clearly he sees something, as his eyebrows are pulled together in a disgruntled expression, cheeks puffed out just barely. He looks like an angry cat. It’s hilarious, really, and Wilbur would laugh if he knew who the hell they were.
When they do respond, it’s the exact opposite of what Wilbur had been expecting.
“Your house is so lonely,” they declare, and oh, if that wasn’t a smack cam and a half to the face, Wilbur isn’t sure what could be. Before he can even rebuttal to defend himself, the child continues, hands shaking at his sides as if he’s trying to produce something with them. “Why’s it so empty? Where’s all the pizzazz, the flowers, the… stuff?”
Wilbur huffs, unsure if he should feel offended or not. On one hand, his house was being insulted. On the other hand, this was a child. Most children were rude, if he could remember correctly (see: Tubbo).
“My house is not lonely,” he defends irritably, standing from his chair and walking up to the child. It was hilarious just how much he’d been right—standing up next to them, he’s practically a foot and a half taller. It’s difficult to resist the urge to snort, and then it clicks.
Jack had mentioned something about a missing child, which just so happened to be the same one that was the supposed ‘new person’ from a week or so ago. This child also happened to be the kid who’d sat in Tubbo’s flower garden and didn’t end up covered in stings or pummeled into the dirt by the bee hybrid’s fists themselves.
The thought nearly has Wilbur taking a step back. He wasn’t afraid, of course not, just in shock. Definitely. Yep.
What was it their name had been again? Something that started with A ‘T,’ he was pretty sure. Had a little bit of an ‘eee’ noise that dragged it out.
As he watches the kid lean his forehead against the window— and he’s certain that’s a violation of some sort of law somewhere— it hits him.
“Is your name Tommy, by any chance?” He blurts out hoarsely, tilting his head to the left a little, watching the way the kid tenses up. It’s not by much, but just enough to tell Wilbur that they’re afraid, if only a little bit.
“No,” they say, or, well, lie. It’s pretty evident that they’re not used to lying very much, as their voice wavers, shoulders winding up. “My name’s… it’s—”
“Look,” Wilbur holds his hand up. As much as he is nocturnal, he’s already feeling the exhaustion that comes with the sun rising to its highest point in the sky. “I don’t really care whether or not you’re Tommy, just… some of my friends are looking for a kid named Tommy, and you’re the closest description.”
Immediately, the child perks up, spinning on his heel with a bright grin that resembles the very candlelight grazing his face.
“You’re friends with Tubbo and Jack?” He asks excitedly, looking just about ready to fling his arms around Wilbur’s neck. Instinctively, the phantom takes a step back to ensure that does not, in fact, happen.
“Yep,” he gives the child a small smile, hoping that it might calm him a little. “My name’s Wilbur.”
Here, there’s a pause as recognition crosses the kid’s face, and the boy nods enthusiastically.
“Wilbur, I know you,” he exclaims, the grin not leaving his expression, “Jack told me about you! He said that you’re like, a hermit or something. You only leave your house at night. What a loser.”
Of course he had. Jack would rather die than say anything nice about him.
“You’re here at night,” Wilbur points out before he can stop himself, and Tommy puffs his chest out. If this child was an Avian, Wilbur thinks that their wings would be fluffed up in pride. The thought nearly makes him laugh, but he suppresses it.
“That’s because I’m a big man,” Tommy declares, standing tall with his head in the air. “I can go out whenever I want to.”
“Really?” Wilbur furrows his eyebrows.
Now that he was thinking about it, did he actually know Tommy’s hybridity? Honestly, he didn’t even know that the child really existed until now, the constant thought that Jack had been lying or pulling a prank on him pulling him into ignorance. To be fair with himself, though, Jack had done this sort of thing often.
As he looks at him, he really can’t see any sort of hybrid nature. Sure, he’s short, but he’s not Sneeg short. There are no wings accompanying him, no antennae like Tubbo’s, and no ears similar to Techno’s. He’s not a Blazeborne, either, as he would be one thousand percent certain Jack would be stumbling over his feet to tell Wilbur about that valuable information.
Maybe he isn’t even a hybrid, just a normal human. That would be interesting, he figures. They didn’t have any humans here. (There was that one time, though, when they’d all been convinced Techno was a human because he kept his ears hidden underneath a farmer’s hat and wore pants and boots on a daily basis. It took one time where they’d found him braiding his hair to realize, oh shit, he’s a rabbit.)
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Tommy’s voice interrupts his thoughts, and he blinks a couple of times. The kid’s watching him from where he’d been standing, still not quite moving, form leaning against the windowsill where he used to keep pots of flowers.
“Like what?” Wilbur questions, because he really can’t help himself.
“Like… I don’t know,” Tommy motions with his hands a little, trying to get a read on Wilbur’s expression. “Like you’re tryna figure me out.”
Huffing, Wilbur taps the top of his shoe against the wood flooring.
So, it was obvious.
“Maybe I am trying to figure you out,” he says, “I mean, we haven’t had a new person here in such a long time, and definitely not a human—”
Here, Tommy laughs.
“Wait,” he holds his hand up, using his other to try and stifle the giggles pouring from his mouth, “You think that I’m a human?”
Wilbur blinks, and then he begins to stumble.
“Uh, well,” he stammers, blinking wildly and moving his hands around to enunciate his words further, “I— shit— I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to assume or something, I just figured that you may be because you didn’t have any hybrid features or anything—”
His rambling is slightly cut off as Tommy’s laughter grows even louder, to the point he’s nearly doubling over, an arm clenched around his midsection. Shame greets Wilbur like an old friend, and he taps his index against his forefinger anxiously.
Well, fuck. There goes his chances with potentially being friends with this child, although he wasn’t so sure he wanted to be in the first place (especially with how they’d called his house lonely. It wasn’t lonely, it was spacious).
Then, Tommy raises his head, curls falling into his eyes and grin so radiant Wilbur has to squint for a second.
“I’m not mad at you, big man,” he reassures, coughing into his fist as he tries to overcome the after effects of laughing that hard. (Wilbur grimaces slightly at the noise. Maybe he could invite the kid in for tea—? No, no. He wasn’t Philza, he wasn’t just going to take in children from off the street). “But, for the record, I’m not a human. I’m a glowberry!”
Silence.
A what?
“A glowberry,” Tommy repeats, because oh shit, Wilbur had accidentally said that out loud. Of course he had.
They stare at one another for a moment, Wilbur’s eyes blown wide open, and Tommy just watching him with slight amusement.
“Hellooooo?” The child drawls, waving his hand this way and that, even though he’s nowhere close to Wilbur’s face. It’s funny, and slightly endearing. “You with me, ghost boy?”
Wilbur frowns, snapping out of it for just a moment, “Ghost boy?”
“Yeah, ‘s what you are, innit?” Tommy taps his heel against the floorboards, motioning with a hand to Wilbur’s form. It was weird— he wasn’t even that translucent now, as he didn’t have to be at night. He was only slightly see-through, but even that was difficult to see with it being pitch black.
“I am, I guess…” he frowns, “But how can you tell? It’s dark outside.”
Tommy huffs, pointing a finger to his hair, and Wilbur squints at it a little.
“I’m a walking and talking glowstick,” Tommy deadpans. Huh, so that’s where the light had been coming from. Wilbur had been certain he hadn’t lit candles, but apparently his brain had told him he had with the light emanating from the child in front of him.
“Right,” Wilbur nods slowly, still in the midst of processing this whole ‘glowberry’ thing. In truth, it made zero sense whatsoever.
The possibilities of a plant hybrid, of any form really, had to be impossible, right? It felt impossible, seemed that way, too, except for the fact that one of them was standing right in front of him, watching curiously.
“So, uh…” Wilbur gnaws on his cheek. How does one come out and politely say, ‘Hey! I know that I pretended you didn’t exist for a week, insulted you, and am very confused by your hybridity, but I would like to be friends!’ without phrasing it so poorly?
There’s an awkward pause, and neither speak.
When the wind blows past, Tommy shudders a bit. It’s enough to snap Wilbur out of his mental turmoil.
Make it quick— rip it off like a bandaid, he tells himself, before clearing his throat.
“Would you like to come inside for tea?”
—
For the first time in a month or so, Wilbur’s house inhabits two people.
He normally didn’t like people coming inside and seeing how barren the place still was despite living here a good two years, only to find out he kept most of his things upstairs. Or, maybe, he just didn’t want anyone over in general. People, it appeared, didn’t like him much, and he didn’t like them in return.
He still had no clue why he’d invited Tommy into his house in the first place, grumbling slightly to himself as he shuffled around the kitchen, grabbing saucers and tea cups from the cabinets. Behind him, he can hear the familiar squeaking of metal as Tommy whirls in one of his barstools. (He had four of them, all positioned at the countertop, but he only ever used one. Two, if he had a multitude of books and not enough counter space to leave them on).
“You really need to invest in some greenery, big man,” Tommy jeers from his spot behind him, causing Wilbur to nearly knock the kettle of tea off the burner. He knew that the kid was here, but that didn’t make it any less terrifying to hear another person’s voice in his own home.
So, he just hums, deciding to play into the child’s little game as he removes the kettle from the stove.
“Wouldn’t that be a bit biased coming from you, though?” He questions, shooting the kid a look over his shoulder. The corner of his mouth twitches, barely suppressing a smirk at the way Tommy’s face just drops at that.
“Well– I– look, bitch, just because I’m a plant hybrid doesn’t mean shit!” The boy huffs, and Wilbur just shrugs, turning to the tea cups again. Slowly, he tilts the kettle over one of the cups and pours.
“Sounds like you’re deflecting, child,” Wilbur teases, moving the kettle to the left a little to aim it over the empty teacup.
He can feel a swirl of pride in his gut when the kid starts to bristle immediately at the insult.
“I’m not a child!” He hisses, the swiveling noise stopping and replaced by repeated hollow noises that are definitely not the child kicking his feet against the back of the counter. Wilbur suppresses the urge to fling the entire teacup, saucer and boiling hot contents, at the boy. “And, and— even if I wasn’t a plant hybrid, I’d still tell you that you need greenery in your house. Basic human rights, I think. In the law book somewhere or some shit.”
Wilbur snorts, picking up the cups of tea and turning to face Tommy, who’s tapping eagerly on the countertop.
“Law book?” He repeats, setting Tommy’s cup down and pushing it towards him. “We don’t have one of those here, you’ve been in the city too long— also, milk, sugar? Any of that?”
Humming slowly, Tommy presses his cheek into the palm of his hand.
Here, in the minimal lighting from the moon, is where Wilbur can really see how the kid’s hair glows. Radiating at the edges, light captured into curls, as though someone had put the very sunlight onto Earth and made it just slightly dimmer.
It was still a strange concept to think about; a glowberry hybrid, of all things. Wilbur knew all about the strange plant kept in the deepest (but prettiest) of caves.
He’d never eaten it, of course, strictly believing that it was poisonous because of its unnatural glow, despite how many times Phil had told him (between laughs, the prick) that it was perfectly safe.
He’d never even heard of a plant hybrid before. It just didn’t seem possible— how was it that someone could be a plant? Was it genetic, or was it experimental? The very thought hurt his head, so he shoved it to the back of his mind for things to think about later between the times seven and nine am.
Across from him, the boy’s eyebrows furrow, as though thinking something over as well.
“There’s really no law book?” Tommy muses, and Wilbur purses his lips, setting the tea cup down and pushing it towards the boy in vague irritation.
He’d never answered his milk and sugar question, so he’s just going to assume that he didn’t want any. (And if he did want milk or sugar, he’d have to get it himself, the actual child.)
It doesn’t seem like Tommy wants it, though, picking up the cup and taking a very small sip. Wilbur almost laughs at how childlike it is, especially with how Tommy wipes his mouth with the back of his arm, definitely getting some tea onto the sleeve of his shirt.
“No law book,” Wilbur simply confirms, leaning against the countertop near the stove, his own cup of tea in the palm of his hand. Normally, he took milk and sugar if he wanted to stay awake, but he couldn’t really feel the pulls of sleep that he normally did.
Maybe being around Tommy was some sort of energy multiplier; or maybe, that was how it was around any child. He wasn’t Philza, he didn’t have the title of ‘adopting children on the spot,’ and he didn’t exactly like children, either. (They were usually afraid of him, or just blatantly hated him).
“How do you… do anything, then?” Tommy asks, setting his tea cup down onto the countertop so that he can play with the saucer that came with it. Silently, Wilbur bids adieu to one of his favourite tea saucers— may it rest in peace. “Isn’t having laws how you’re supposed to… I dunno, work n’ shit?”
“Not exactly?” Wilbur shrugs, tapping his nail against his tea cup, “We’re all pretty civilized here. No, uh, weird shit. Basic humanity things, I suppose. We’ve never exactly needed a law book to begin with, and hopefully—” he glances up at Tommy as he emphasizes this, eyebrows slightly raised, “we won’t be needing one anytime soon.”
Innocently, Tommy just shrugs, but the corner of his mouth twitching gives him away.
“Whatever you say, big man,” he begins, nodding so enthusiastically that his curls move over his eyes. To further dramatise his point, he puts a hand to his chest, and Wilbur holds back a snort. “I, the great TommyInnit, will ensure that you guys never get a law book.”
“How heroic of you,” Wilbur teases, and Tommy positively beams. If he were an Avian, Wilbur figures he’d be preening.
“I am, aren’t I?” He waves a hand near the underside of his jaw, as if flicking his hair in dramatization. “I’m very heroic. Like Spiderman.”
Wilbur snorts, “Spiderman? Who’s that?”
“A hero, obviously, dumbass,” Tommy defends, crossing his arms over his chest and using his feet to spin himself in the barstool again. “Probably the most poggers hero of all time, actually.”
“I’ve never heard of him,” Wilbur suppresses the urge to laugh at the look of betrayal on Tommy’s face at this.
It was true, though, he’d never heard of a Spiderman or anything; there weren’t necessarily ‘heroes’ in their society. He supposes that’s yet another thing to add to the list of things Tommy went through, right underneath ‘Law book, question mark?’
“Never heard of Spiderman…” Tommy’s rambling, shaking his head and puffing his cheeks out. Wilbur supposes this is one of his things; always looking like a disgruntled goldfish whenever something doesn’t go his way particularly. “Didn’t you know that you could die?”
Wilbur bursts out laughing, the type of shocked laughter that has never come out of him before. Not many people could make him laugh like this; hell, he was certain he hadn’t laughed this way since the accident. It’s… nice.
When he looks back up, still trying to catch his breath, Tommy’s beam is far more bright, as though prideful that he’d made someone laugh that hard.
Inspired— and slightly intrigued— Wilbur clears his throat enough to ask, finger twirling his teacup around by the handle, “So, are you gonna tell me about him or not?”
The look on Tommy’s face could rival the sun’s light, he thinks. Ironic how that is- he hates the sun.
—
Wilbur sees Tommy a lot more frequently after their first meeting.
He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t strange to have someone keeping him company nowadays when he usually preferred being alone most of the time.
Really, the only reason he was living near the edge of the woods— just enough into the thicket for his comfort, but still close enough to reach the Pub within ten minutes flat— was because of his father’s influence.
Phil had always been a worrier, but Wilbur just didn’t like people. Whenever he saw them (all of them, really, except for Techno), all he saw was the pity that reflected in their eyes as they looked at his translucent skin.
Tommy, however, was new. He didn’t know about the accident, and he hadn’t even cared that much to see him as a ghost. His passing comment made that all the more apparent, really.
Still, it’s strange to go out onto the back porch with intentions to stargaze in complete silence (with exception to the locust and frogs), only to be met with glowing hair coming around the side of his house.
Tommy, as it appears, is nocturnal just like him.
Well, maybe.
He’s always tired when he comes, but it’d be hard to tell if you didn’t look carefully enough for it.
The kid always comes at night, during the moon’s highest hour, the same childish grin on his face as he practically bounces up Wilbur’s back porch steps.
As the days drag by, Wilbur grows progressively more used to having the company.
One cup of tea on the table by his patio chair becomes two, and eventually he even brings out an extra chair from his dining area after. (If it was from having to listen to Tommy’s excessive complaining about how uncomfortable it was sitting on the floor, he would never admit it).
By the eighth day, Wilbur’s learned quite a few things about the kid that he’d once assumed to be fake; from the fact that he can photosynthesize if he wanted to, to how bright he could make his hair glow (and that, Wilbur had believed, had to be one of the craziest things he’d ever seen), it was overall pretty damn interesting.
The one thing that he still couldn’t figure out— and that Tommy hadn’t told him— was if glowberry hybrids were created, or natural. He supposed, though, the time would come when Tommy might tell him.
Even if he didn’t, Wilbur wouldn’t mind. That was the kid’s business, after all, and who cared? He certainly didn’t, even if he was slightly curious.
More days pass, and their conversations seem to last longer and longer each time. It’s not even important things all the time, either, from Tommy having to explain in complete detail what the word ‘poggers’ meant, to Wilbur nearly falling out of his chair when the kid says he doesn’t know what shampoo is.
It’s always a simple back and forth with Tommy. The kid, as it seems, has an answer for everything, even though some make Wilbur’s brows furrow. He’d only known him for so long; he had no clue why he was getting concerned this quickly, or this easily. Tommy wasn’t his child, wasn’t someone that he was supposed to look after, but he couldn’t help it.
(The thought of Phil rubbing off on him made his stomach turn).
The days continue to go by, and soon, it’s been nearing two weeks since Tommy first showed up near the edge of the woods by his house. It’s only then, surprisingly, when something hits him square in the chest.
“Where do you live?” He asks— or, rather, blurts out like an idiot— and Tommy practically flinches.
“Uh,” the kid visibly blinks, sitting up straight from where he’d been previously reclining in his chair. A soft clink-clink tells Wilbur he’s nervous, nail clicking against the side of the teacup in his hands. “It’s not really anywhere you’d know.”
Wilbur hums, trying not to share his concern through the way his mouth downturns.
“Well, uh, if you ever want me to take you home or anything, I can,” he suggests. When he sees the way Tommy’s jaw sets at that, he quickly adds, “I’m not trying to overstep, I know that we only met like two weeks ago, but if it’d help you feel safer—”
“No, that’s fine,” Tommy sets the teacup onto the table, and Wilbur blinks when the kid gives him a reassuring smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m perfectly capable of walking myself home, y’know. I’m a big man, I don’t need you escorting me.”
“I know, I was just saying—”
“It’s okay,” Tommy defends again, the smile not disappearing. “I’ll be okay. Trust me, Wil! I don’t die. I’m perfectly good at defending myself!”
To emphasise his point, Tommy raises his clenched fists, moving them around a bit as if preparing to box Wilbur.
“See?” He goads, twisting his body and punching the man lightly in the arm, “I am perfectly fine. Stop worrying so much. You’re not my dad, you know.”
Wilbur snorts, taking this opportunity to do a little bit of what Slimecicle taught him to do a couple months ago. A completely good, totally not horrible manipulation tactic that he calls gaslighting.
“I could be, though,” he points out, and Tommy’s face falls a little. “You said it yourself— you don’t know where your parents are. I could be your dad and you just don’t know it yet.”
Tommy gapes at him, then bristles slightly.
“No– no, no, no, you are not my fuckin’ father. No way,” he hisses, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “No fucking way. You’re not even a plant hybrid, you prick. You’re a ghost.”
“Who’s to say I didn’t date a plant hybrid, though?” Wilbur teases, raising his eyebrows a little. “I mean, I’ve told you how much I love orchids.”
He has to press his lips together at the horrified expression on Tommy’s face.
“No,” Tommy whispers, horrified, face as white as a sheet. “You’re taking the piss out of me. You are literally— oh my gods. Stop. No. You are not my father—”
Suddenly, Wilbur gasps, pressing a hand to his chest dramatically. He leans forwards in his chair, eyebrows pinched as he looks at Tommy’s face and whispers, all reverently and everything, “Son?”
The pure and absolute terror on Tommy’s face is enough to make him break the role, tilting his head back and cackling.
Over his laughter, he can hear Tommy’s angry shouts in protest, and the boy smacks his arm multiple times.
“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you—!” He’s shouting, and Wilbur lets out a choked laugh, leaning back so that he can see him. The poor kid’s face is twisted in anger, body language clearly indicating a preparation for a full on fight.
He raises his hands a little, still coughing even as he shoots him what he hopes to be a vaguely reassuring grin.
“Sorry, Toms,” he says, and the boy’s shoulders lose some of their tension. “I’m not your dad.”
A moment passes, and Tommy huffs, sitting back in his chair again.
“I know you’re not, you dick,” he grumbles, shifting so that the legs of the chair scrape against the floorboards as he inches it a few centimeters away from Wilbur’s. “I was just messing with you.”
Wilbur smiles again, but finds that it is slightly sad this time.
“I’m still sorry, though.”
Tommy shrugs, but his face relaxes minutely.
“‘S alright, big man.”
—
Wilbur frowns a little from where he’s laid out on the sofa, fingers occupied with plucking random guitar strings. He hasn’t played in a long, long time— when Tommy pulled her randomly from out of his closet in the midst of trying to find a sweater (because of course he had forgotten one from wherever he stayed at on the coldest night this month), he was a little shocked that he hadn’t thrown her out yet.
Well, not particularly. The guitar was once his mother’s, before it was passed down to him when she… passed on. (Death, really, wasn’t the best word for it, but that’s what it felt like).
Tommy had insisted that he play, even though he was rusty, and he gave in. Not to the idea of playing an actual song like the kid had begged him to, but just a few chords to allow himself to get ‘back into the groove,’ as he’d called it.
Across the living room from him, perched on the armchair nobody ever uses but Wilbur himself, Tommy is weaving chains of daisies together. He’d called whatever he was making a flower crown, but Wilbur just thought of it as another way for the gremlin child to get his house dirty.
Dozens of the flowers that he was using— daisies, Wilbur had identified, only because Tommy had told him with a look of disgust on his face when the man didn’t know— were scattered on the floorboards beside the armchair. It took everything in Wilbur’s power not to get up and immediately sweep them into a trash can.
He was thoroughly convinced that Tommy had, at some point, made it his goal in life to ruin the sanctuary of Wilbur’s very clean, very tidy house with his smelly child hands.
It’s here, as he’s strumming absentmindedly and watching the child with glowing hair manoeuvre stems of daisies into a chain, that he realizes something he had never asked.
How he hadn’t was a mystery; maybe he’d gotten so immersed into the whole ‘Oh yeah, I’m a glowberry hybrid’ thing that this concept had been lost, filed away into the back of his brain.
“Tommy,” he calls, and the kid doesn’t even look up, merely making a low hmm sound. “How exactly did you end up in Tubbo’s sunflower field?”
Tommy shrugs, “I just did, I guess. Was wandering one day, found a pretty sunflower garden, and decided to just sit in there. The sun was at just the right spot where it didn’t burn my face to look at, and ohohoho, you know I like my flowers, Wilbur Soot.”
Huffing, Wilbur places his guitar on the floor beside him, leaning the base of it up against the coffee table.
“I meant like, how did Tubbo not kill you?” He sits up straight, wrapping his arms around himself and watching Tommy curiously. It is a little fascinating, he supposes, to see how quickly his fingers move while he’s making the flower crown, as if he was born to create them.
“I dunno, he just didn’t? He actually seemed pretty chill other than the fact that he was staring at me like I was an alien,” Tommy shrugs again, as if it’s that simple.
When Wilbur doesn’t respond, he looks up finally, fingers pausing in where he’d been carefully bending another daisy stem.
“What?” He frowns, tilting his head. “Does he normally kill people or something? Because if so, I’m glad I got away from him when I did. Not really looking forward to being dead. It’s boring... I think.”
Wilbur just nods, exhaling a gust of air that blows a curl out of his eyes.
“He’s never actually killed someone, but he’s come pretty close to it before,” he shudders at the memory of having to remain in the caves underground for a week. Eugh.
Tommy just snorts, lowering his head to return to the flower crown.
“You totally got chased by him, didn’t you?” He teases, the grin on his face sharp in the lighting emanating from his hair. (The light was enhanced thirty minutes ago so that he could properly see the flowers until Wilbur had offered to light a fire in the fireplace instead).
“So what if I did?” Wilbur defends, plucking at a loose thread on his sweater. “It’s not my fault Tubbo’s taken a weird favouritism approach to you.”
Then, it clicks, and he gasps, shooting up straight so fast that Tommy flinches.
“Holy fucking shit,” he whispers, jabbing his pointer finger at the kid, “He’s a bee hybrid, and you’re a fucking plant. Gods, I should’ve known! Of course he’d take a liking to you, you’re what he fuckin’ eats.”
At this, Tommy gives him a wide-eyed stare, “He eats plants?”
…
Shit.
Backpedalling, Wilbur quickly reassures, “Yes, he– he does, but he wouldn’t eat you, I don’t think— at least, I hope not? No— fuck, he wouldn’t, don’t give me that look, I know the kid, he’s a bit aggressive but he wouldn’t eat you—”
“You literally just told me that he tries to kill people for going into his garden, what exactly gives you the idea that he wouldn’t eat me—!”
“Well, you’re not exactly a flower, and bees only go for flowers—”
“What the fuck do you think a glowberry is, shit for brains?”
“A berry?” Wilbur shrieks, and Tommy continues to stare at him.
Oh, fuck.
They stare at one another for a moment, and then Tommy grins, something slow and completely mischievous.
“I totally got you, didn’t I?” He whispers, his grin only spreading at whatever expression Wilbur could have on his face. “Oooh, I did get you! Fuck yeah, see? See? Don’t like that shit either, do you, bitch? That’s what happens when you try to manipulate me, dickhead.”
Wilbur’s eyes narrow, grumbling a tad to himself.
“You’re a fucking child,” he hisses, although he knows that he deserves this one. Clearly, Tommy knows too, because he’s still grinning like a kid that’s won an argument with his parents. “A ridiculous child. I should kick you out of my home and never let you come back.”
Gasping in faux hurt, Tommy presses a hand to his chest, careful not to jostle his half-made flower crown.
“You wouldn’t.”
Wilbur presses his lips together, then exhales, rubbing the spot between his eyes. He’s going to start getting gray hairs— he can feel it.
“I wouldn’t,” he affirms, and he can practically see the look of glee on Tommy’s face, despite having his eyes closed.
“Of course you wouldn’t,” Tommy chirps excitedly, “Because we’re like brothers, Wil, didn’t you know? And brothers don’t leave one another behind.”
Instantly, something curls in Wilbur’s chest, a mixture of fondness that reaches all the way up to his eyes. It stings in the corners, and he has to cough a few times to get the mirth out of his throat.
Brothers, Tommy had said. Brothers.
It fits. Perfectly, actually, just in the way it had fit with Techno.
They were brothers, even if not biological. The thought alone nearly has Wilbur on the border of tears.
Instead of confirming or denying it, though, he just hisses out, “Don’t say that. I will cry.”
Even from afar, he can see Tommy smile to himself.
“Cry then, bitch.”
—
One of the funniest parts of being around Tommy— besides the obvious— is Jack.
The poor man has been losing his shit, running around the entire plains in his strife to find the kid. He’s even got half of the other people involved, with Niki checking the underwater caverns and Ranboo looking in different chests when he visits the mines again. (Although the latter always looks on the precipice of kicking Jack’s ass whenever he asks for the twentieth time to please look for Tommy he’s been missing for three weeks now).
Wilbur nearly chokes every time he has to conceal his laughter from the man during his weekly Pub visit; the dude’s fuming in the corner, asking everyone around if they’d seen this blonde haired kid around, and each time, he always gets the same answer: an unfortunate no.
If it were any other person, he’d probably have come clean by now and told them that he’d seen the kid multiple times in the past couple of weeks, that he was okay, all of that. But this? This was a golden opportunity. Jack had messed with him countless times.
Sure, it was a bit cruel, but now Wilbur could get him back. He vows to himself that, by the end of the month, he will come clean about it, just giving himself enough time to snicker in the corner over Jack yelling at innocent people. (Tubbo’s slightly in on it, too, but the kid doesn’t seem as involved as Jack himself is).
On the cusp of the fourth week, there’s a knock at Wilbur’s front door.
It’s nearing noon, with the sun fully in the sky and Wilbur nearly on death’s door of sleep, when it happens.
The only reason he’s not asleep is because of Tommy, who is over for tea as their routine has been for quite some time now.
The kid is perched on the kitchen counter, legs crossed, stirring some sugar and milk into his tea. Ever since Wilbur had introduced him to the bright side of putting that type of stuff into chamomile, Tommy had just about lost his shit. Although it was pretty funny to see him bounce excitedly, it was all the more fucking annoying when Tommy got a sugar high.
Still, though, Wilbur’s found that he can rarely say no to him. Sue him; the kid’s endearing. (He pushes away the thought that he’s slowly realizing what Phil had meant when he’d told him stories of his childhood. He’d always been so confused on how Phil couldn’t ever say no to him. It’d be a long shot to say he fully understood now, though).
There’s a knock on the door, and Tommy shoots up stick straight, head cocked to the side.
Another note Wilbur’s made over the weeks; Tommy was terrified of loud, abrupt noises. He figures that’s why he didn’t like living in caves anymore, despite glowberries originating from them.
“Pretty sure that’s just Jack,” Wilbur reassures from where he’s stood by the kitchen sink, washing a couple dishes.
Drying his hands off on the dish towel, he backs up a couple paces, peeking around the wall blocking his sight from the front door. He frowns, then, at the silhouette of black wings slightly clouded by the blurriness of the windows by his front door.
Without hesitation, he stalks forwards and opens the door, coming face-to-face with his father and Technoblade.
“Hey, Phil,” he greets, leaning against the door. His father looks irritated— not a strange thing, really, the guy got irritated pretty quickly— and Techno? Techno just looks the same. Expressionless, but still, the tension in the air could be cut with a knife. “Uh… what’s up?”
“Jack Manifold,” Phil seethes out, and Wilbur coughs to conceal a laugh. Of course, it doesn’t go over Phil’s head, who just gives him a look before continuing. “Has been on my ass for weeks now about this kid he’s missing. Literally, he’s been to my house over twenty fucking times. Poor dude’s losing his shit over some random child.”
“You say that as if you don’t adopt them off the st— ow,” Techno winces, rubbing the side of his arm where Phil had elbowed him. “You’re silencin’ me, Phil.”
“The point is,” Phil emphasizes, shooting his pseudo son a withering look, “Jack’s being a thorn in my side. Can you please come help us look for the kid? Go underground, do a little investigative work?”
Wilbur raises his eyebrows, widening his eyes a little to try and play up the innocent card.
“Of course I can,” he says, lilting his voice a tad. Techno raises an eyebrow; clearly, he’s not buying it, but all Wilbur needs is for Phil to. “I mean, if Jack’s really on your case about this, I’d be happy to help. Where’s the last place he’d—”
Techno’s eyes flicker over Wilbur’s shoulder.
“Who’s that?” He questions, and Wilbur curses under his breath.
He should’ve known that Tommy would get curious. As smart as the kid was, he still hadn’t quite understood the meaning behind the saying ‘curiosity killed the cat.’
“Who’s what? Where? Hm?” Wilbur turns his head this way and that, as though he has no clue what the guy’s talking about. “Are you seeing shit too, Techno? Maybe it’s a disease, a new influenza taking over the world, maybe we’re entering an apocalypse. Or it could be those carrots you’re always eating, I tried to tell you that those aren’t actually good for rabbits, it’s just a myth—”
“Wilbur,” Phil interrupts, tone hard as he looks over his son’s shoulder. “Stop gaslighting your brother.”
Ah, shit. The cat is definitely out of the bag now, he thinks, and he turns with a large exhale to look behind him.
Sure enough, the tip of Tommy’s boot is sticking out from around the corner. (Well, the pair of boots were Wilbur’s, but Tommy had stolen it just as he’d stolen most of the older’s other clothing after the man learned he didn’t have much else).
“Tommy,” he calls, hitting the crown of his head lightly against the door, “The jig’s up. You can come out now.”
Slowly, the boot moves, and a pair of blue eyes and blonde hair peek around the corner. The eyes widen a fraction when he sees who’s standing in the doorway and he just about trips over his feet in his haste.
Wilbur bites back a laugh; of course, he was mesmerized by Phil. Most people were. He was the last of the Elytrians, after all.
“Holy shit,” Tommy breathes out once he’s close enough (and gods, he’s still short as shit when placed beside both Techno and Phil), his eyes full of stars. “You’re Philza. You’re him— the big man himself, the Angel of Death.”
It’s here that Techno laughs, a short but breathy thing, and he nudges their father.
“I told you that you were famous,” he mutters, and Phil shoots him a very half-hearted glare.
It softens, though, as he returns his gaze to the very excited child in front of him.
Slowly, just like when Wilbur was a child, Phil shifts so that he’s the same height as Tommy, kneeling in front of him. It wasn’t something that his father did very often for other people on the server, and Wilbur shares a knowing look with Techno.
“Hello there,” he greets Tommy, who has slightly positioned himself half behind Wilbur and half beside him. “It seems that you know me, but I’ll introduce myself anyway. I’m Philza, Lord of this Realm. Do you have a name?”
There’s a slight pause, and then Tommy huffs, “My name’s Tommy. What do you mean you’re a lord? Like— the royalty shit? Ohhhhh,” he turns to Wilbur, almost accusingly, a high whine tied into the drawl of his words. “Willl, I thought you said there are no laws here.”
Wilbur snorts, ruffling Tommy’s hair, “Not that kind of lord, kiddo. Phil here’s just a bit of a drama queen, really, there’s no formalities actually needed.”
“So there are no rules still?” Tommy questions while Phil squawks out a ‘Hey! in the background.
The kid even raises an eyebrow, which makes Wilbur purses his lips. He does not like that tone of voice.
“Why, exactly, do you ask?”
Tommy crosses his arms, shooting Phil a slight glare, and the man blinks curiously.
They stare at one another for a moment, and then Tommy turns back to Wilbur, tugging lightly on the elbow of the man’s sleeve.
“Bend down,” he hisses through his teeth, rocking from his heels to his toes, “I need to tell you a secret.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Techno giving him the same look that the two of them usually cast at Phil. It’s the classic McDouble with a side of Please tell me you didn’t adopt another child. Really, it was just a running joke, since Phil had only technically adopted one kid, but still. It was funny.
And now, Wilbur’s the one being given that look. He just glares in return, face softening just as his father’s had as he kneels down to Tommy’s height, low enough that the kid can properly whisper in his ear.
“I want to kick his ass,” he says, and Wilbur snorts. Tommy’s whisper voice is loud enough for both Phil and Techno to hear it, but he’d never tell him. Knowing his father and twin, they wouldn’t dare say a word, either.
“Kick whose ass, Toms?” he questions when Tommy manoeuvres his ear beside the man’s face so that he can whisper in his ear instead.
Tommy purses his lips at this, leaning back a little so that he can glare directly at Phil.
“Yours, prick,” he says, and it’s out loud this time. Beside Phil, Techno coughs to hide a laugh, and Wilbur can see a sparkle of fond amusement in his father’s eye. It’s not something he sees often. “I’m going to kick your ass.”
Phil tilts his head, as though pretending to be a bird examining his prey, but the quirk to the corner of his mouth.
“Really, now?” He muses, and Wilbur holds back a laugh at the way his father pauses, then outstretches his hand, offering it out to the child. “If that’s so, then why don’t we greet one another first? Then, later tonight, when the moon’s at its highest, we can fight? That way, Wilbur here can be outside to see it.”
Tommy pauses, squinting at Phil— clearly reading him for any signs of a trick— before huffing and taking his hand.
“I’m gonna beat you up,” the kid jeers, excitement laced in his words, no matter how much he tries to hide it. Phil chuckles, a bright thing, shaking the child’s hand with something gentle in his eyes.
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” he responds. Beside Phil, he can see Techno’s neck crane in the man’s direction, one eyebrow raised as if to say, ‘please, we can’t handle another family member.’
Wilbur is certain, though, as Phil lets go of Tommy’s hand and shoots him a dark look, that it’s far too late for that. He gulps a little, putting one hand on Tommy’s shoulder and pushing him back behind him more.
“Well, would you look at that,” he begins, grinning with slight unease. “It’s time for my nap. Tommy, why don’t you go on inside and finish making that daisy chain—”
“Daffodil flower crown—”
“—while I go lay down for a nap?” Wilbur finishes, lightly tapping his finger against the kid’s neck, earning a sharp look from him. Hopefully, it sends the message well enough, because the look Phil’s giving him reads very much of ‘I’m going to find a way to revive you just so that I can kill you again.’
Tommy crosses his arm, much like a child would do, puffing his cheeks out in annoyance.
The kid glances at the two standing in the doorway, as if looking for backup. This time, it’s Techno who speaks first, much to Wilbur’s surprise.
“I’d like to see it,” the man says gruffly, shifting on his feet a little. His rabbit ears twitch behind his head, and Wilbur silently thanks him. “The flower crown, I mean. I’d like to see it when you’re finished.”
Slightly surprised, Tommy blinks a few times, then a bright grin breaks out onto his face. Once again, Wilbur’s certain that even the sun wouldn’t be able to rival with it.
“Really?” He questions, practically bouncing on his feet, curls bobbing atop his head. Self aware, he quickly stops himself, clearing his throat and shifting on his feet a little. “I mean— would you actually?”
Unable to suppress it any further, Techno smiles warmly, taking a step inside of the house. Wilbur moves out of the way a little, standing more to the right of his father, who hasn’t said a word.
Just as the other two had before him— and it’s growing to be tradition at this point— Techno kneels down so that he and the child are eye level, tilting his head. His ears twitch, a lock of pink falling out from where it’s pulled back into a loose ponytail.
“I’d love to, kid,” he affirms, and Tommy’s grin widens, showcasing the dimple in his cheek.
“Well, come on then!” Tommy’s hand shoots forwards, grabbing Techno by the forearm and practically dragging the poor guy from the foyeur and into the living space. To Wilbur’s surprise, Techno barely protests, nearly stumbling over his own feet as he’s pulled from one room to the next.
Tommy really does, in these moments, look like a child; almost as though he’s eleven years old. The idea strikes Wilbur in the chest, a bitter thought crossing his mind against its heels. Tommy had claimed to be fourteen once, during the first few days of them having their little tea parties, but he seemed younger. Way younger.
Breaking him from his thoughts, Wilbur hears Phil snort just to his left, and he turns his head.
His father’s watching him, expressing a mixture of knowing and vague irritation.
“So,” he begins, stepping into the house fully and shutting the door behind him. Wilbur grimaces a little at the click. “Care to explain what’s going on here, then?”
Wilbur glances around the wall, watching as Tommy lifts up his unfinished flower crown to show Techno. He hisses through his teeth a little, returning his gaze to his father.
With a wave of his hand, he motions towards the kitchen.
“I’ll tell you over some tea?”
Phil hums, pursing his lips a little.
“Fine,” he finally complies, tapping his finger against his forearm. He follows Wilbur as the man strides across his house, being quick to add, “You better make me Earl Gray though, Wil. None of that weird poison that you fed me last time.”
Wilbur rolls his eyes, standing on his tiptoes as he goes through his cabinets, setting aside other teacups that weren’t his father’s specific one.
Each person in his family had their specific teacup, the one that they always used when they came over to visit. His was the one with his favourite flower painted delicately on the surface; a white and purple orchid. Techno had the one with carrots and thyme, and Phil had the eldest in the set; a black rose with pointed leaves. It was one that had once matched with Kristin’s as well, although that one had long since been stored away in Wil’s closet somewhere, wrapped carefully so that it would not break.
(The only person left without a teacup, as Wilbur had long since known, was Tommy. He had his specific cup from the cabinet, the one that he always drank from when visiting, but that was just one of Wil’s extras. It had a chip in the corner and was painted with a slightly faded blue flower that Tommy had called a forget-me-not.)
(He had sworn to himself he’d go into town when possible to find Tommy a new and far better one, he just hadn’t gotten to it yet).
“You’re such an old man, Phil,” Wilbur grumbles, reaching into the farest corners of the cabinet and producing the one with a black rose on it from there. He huffs, brushing his hair out of his eyes as he sets it on the countertop. With a flourish, he turns, giving his father a frown. “The tea’s not weird or poisonous. It’s chamomile.”
Phil waves his hand, clearly not paying attention, eyes set on the other room. His wings are tucked calmly behind him, hat placed on the countertop to give him a better view of Techno showing Tommy how to make an even more complex chain (before getting immediately shown up. Wilbur shelves that off to laugh at him over later— the best farmer and fighter in town, being shown up by a child).
“Whatever it is, it tastes like shit,” Phil says, turning back to meet Wilbur’s eyes.
A silence falls between the two, the only ambience being the fire crackling beneath the stove and the sound of a tin kettle placed atop of the gathering flames. In the background is Tommy’s occasional laughter and Techno’s deep monotone, but otherwise, it’s quiet as Wilbur works.
The quiet remains even when they wait for the tea to finish, Wilbur’s lower back pressed against the kitchen countertop, his arms crossed in front of him. Phil’s eyes are still on the living room, not even acknowledging him, and Wilbur feels slightly grateful to delay the inevitable, even if for just a little bit longer.
The kettle whistles, and thus ends the quiet.
The stool squeaks as his father leans against the countertop, and Wilbur busies himself with pouring the tea into the respective cups. He takes extra special time putting the milk and sugar in, and he can hear Phil’s cough that practically says ‘We are wasting precious time here.’
He’s such a dad, even if he displays himself as otherwise.
So, with a whirl, Wilbur pushes the teacup towards his father, kicks the refrigerator door closed, and settles the porcelain top back on the sugar container.
“So,” he begins, because if he starts this convo, he might be able to skirt his way around the current irritated look Phil’s giving him. It wasn’t even his fault that Phil was this mad— he should be directing the irritation at Jack for being a prick in the first place, but still. He didn’t mind. It wasn’t like Phil’s punishments were even punishments anyways.
Typically, they were simple things, like grounding them for a day or two or forcing them to socialize. Not the best of things, but Wilbur preferred it over any strict parent punishments.
“So?” Phil goads, barely even touching his tea.
Wilbur clicks his tongue, leaning against the countertop, elbows on either side of his cup of tea.
He glances over Phil’s shoulder, still wanting to delay the inevitable as much as he possibly can. Tommy is kneeling on the floor beside Techno, showing the man how he weaves the flower stems together instead of the other way around. To his slight surprise, his twin brother’s completely fascinated, eyes trained on the child’s hands with a look of wonder.
He turns away, meeting his father’s eyes again and clearing his throat.
This was going to be a hell of a ride to explain, but he figures that Phil won’t be too mad. Jack was being a pain in the ass for him, anyways.
—
Techno’s only known Tommy for so many hours (two), but he figures that he’d already do anything for the kid. Sure, he’d shown him up when it came to making daisy chains, but who was to say that Techno hadn’t let him win that competition? Who was to say? Nobody, as Techno would never admit it out loud, and would probably kill anyone (Wilbur) if they brought it up.
Nevertheless, Techno was intrigued by this random child that Wilbur had somehow forgotten to bring up in their many conversations that they’d had over the comms.
Tommy thought this pretty hilarious, shooting Wilbur a shiteating grin when it was brought up, only to be given a withering stare in return. Techno could see right through his complicated-but-technically-twin-brother, though. He wasn’t stupid; there was obviously the beginnings of an attachment forming, if it hadn’t already.
The only thing that doesn’t quite make sense (against all the other things that obviously don’t add up), is Tommy’s hybridity. He smells of dirt, but Techno had figured that was just his normal child scent or something. He wasn’t around children often, that much was obvious. He actively strayed far, far away from Tubbo’s gardens.
So the only other explanation, he’d figured, was that Tommy had to be human. He had no other hybrid features— no wings, no floppy ears like his (which was only vaguely saddening), no fishlegs, and certainly nothing that indicated him from the Nether like Jack was. He was just normal.
There was something though about him that was off putting, whether that was the unnatural halo of gold that seemed to follow the strands of his hair wherever he went, or just the kid’s overall demeanour. For the life of him, Techno couldn’t figure it out, no matter how hard he squinted.
It’s later that night, though, when he and Wilbur are sitting on the back porch while Tommy runs around the backyard with a great big stick in hand in his chase of Phil (what he’d deemed as ‘kicking his ass,’ apparently), that it clicks.
He leans forwards in his chair so far that he nearly falls out of it, squinting in the vague darkness at the glowing hair that chases after his pseudo (but basically biological) father.
“Wilbur,” he speaks, not removing his eyes from Tommy’s running figure. “Why’s his hair glowin’ like that?”
To his right, Wilbur hums, as though surprised.
“That took you quite a long time,” he says, and Techno huffs in irritation.
“Just tell me.”
His brother clicks his tongue, shifting one leg over the other. In the moonlight, Techno can see the glittering of the silver clasps that hold his twin’s deep purple cape across his chest.
“He’s a glowberry hybrid,” he murmurs, and Techno pauses.
Glowberries; he knew of them from the amount of times Phil would bring him them from the mines. They were one of his favourite snacks other than carrots, which certainly explained that weird scent Tommy was giving off.
But…
“Plant hybrids are impossible,” Techno responds, but it sounds more like a question than anything. Hybridity was a confusing topic, really. There was nobody in the world that knew of every possible hybrid form. Hell, when he’d first seen Scott, he’d nearly killed the poor guy in his fit of confusion.
Starbornes were just as confusing to him as whatever the hell Wilbur was. He didn’t judge, he never would, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be mildly intrigued.
This, however, was different. A plant hybrid was unheard of, not even thought of… but, in some way or another, it makes sense.
If Niki could be a mermaid, and Tubbo a bee, then who was to say someone couldn’t be a plant? Certainly not him— he wasn’t educated enough in this area to understand. Biology, half-humans, blah blah blah.
“That’s what I thought at first, too,” Wilbur shrugs, so nonchalant. “It makes sense, though. I mean, the kid can grow plants from his fingertips, his hair glows—”
“He can grow what from his fingertips?” Techno interrupts, and Wilbur hums.
“That’s what I said, too,” he doesn’t meet Techno’s eyes, watching as Phil grabs Tommy and lifts him into the air, the poor kid kicking and screaming like a shrill child taken away from something they were playing with. The kid flails about, and they hear a sharp Ow! a scuffling, and then some more laughter.
Wilbur clicks his tongue, expression fond in the vague lighting, before continuing.
“It’s true, though. I’ve actually seen him grow literal plants from out of his hands. It’s some creepy ass shit, but it’s pretty cool, if you look past the obvious…” Wilbur waves his hand to the side a little, “weird aspects.”
“Hmm,” Techno just hums, leaning back in his chair. Phil’s captured Tommy again, and he’s spreading his wings, and—
“Phil!” Wilbur shouts, just about knocking over the table sat between the two of them with their teacups, as he quickly hurries off the back porch (Techno hot on his heels), but it’s too late.
Above, they can hear Phil’s victorious laughter against Tommy’s loud shrieking, and Techno has to muster a chuckle at the clear concern on Wilbur’s face.
“He’s not gonna drop him, you know,” Techno comments, nudging his brother in the side. “You’re such a mother hen and you’ve, what? Only known the kid for a week or two?”
Wilbur huffs, feigning irritation despite the way his shoulders relax. Clearly, he knew that Phil wouldn’t drop Tommy from the sky— the man was quite literally the opposite of someone who would endanger children, especially when it comes to the dropping them out of the sky type.
Techno wasn’t an Elytrian himself, but he trusted Phil’s capabilities more than anyone else’s. As it appeared, Wilbur did, too.
“I know, I know. I just worry, I guess. Who knows if the poor kid’s got a fear of heights or something?” Wilbur blows out a gust of air from his mouth, putting his hands in his pants pockets.
“You’re too worried,” Techno comments, nudging him again, but this time in the forearm. He then adds on with a smug smile, “Attached, I’d say.”
“Says you. I saw the way you let Tommy win at the daisy chain thing—”
“You saw wrong,” Techno interjects immediately, crossing his arms over his chest. In the sky, Phil’s doing loops in the air, great wings spread wide enough to cover even the moon itself. Tommy’s no longer screaming, instead whooping in excitement.
There’s a pause as they relish the silence underneath the moon and stars, watching silhouettes of black cascade against the sky.
Only after what feels like ten minutes does Techno grumble, “I didn’t let him win. He won himself.”
Wilbur tsk’s in fond disbelief, not moving his head from how it’s craned upwards, eyes following his father’s wings.
“If you say so.”