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Chapter Text

Wilbur settled into his routine. It surprised him how quickly the unfamiliar could become tolerable through sheer repetition. He still woke up groggy in the too-firm motel bed, his limbs stiff and his throat dry from the endlessly circulating air.

He still made the same instant coffee every morning, which tasted vaguely of cardboard and regret. He still sighed every time the microwave beeped at him like it was judging his life choices. And yet, he did it all with the rhythm of habit.

Work, writing, and wondering—that was the shape of his life now.

Every evening, He peeled off his polyester McDonald’s uniform like a medieval knight removing armor after a particularly uninspiring battle and returned to the motel. He would shower, sit on the edge of the lumpy bed, and open his notebook. The pages were already filled with scribbled verses, half-formed ideas, ramblings, long-winded metaphors, and, above all, letters to Sally.

Each letter was dramatic. He poured his entire soul into them, calling her his muse, his lighthouse in the fog, his morning sun and midnight star. He once compared her voice to “freshly churned butter, humming on the windowsill of a summer cottage.” That line in particular made him blush when he reread it—but he didn’t cross it out. No, that would be cowardice.

When finished, he folded the letter carefully, sealed it with all the solemnity of a man protecting state secrets, and walked it to the post box with a proud, almost priestly stride. He once nearly got hit by a bike while dramatically pacing into the street holding a letter aloft like a sacrament. The cyclist screamed something profane. Wilbur merely bowed in apology and kept walking.

Work was still a strange affair. McDonald’s was a realm of chaos. Once, a child threw a McFlurry at him. Not to him. At him. When he asked what he had done to deserve this frozen assault, the child screamed, “YOU TOOK TOO LONG” as if it were a declaration of war. His manager didn’t even flinch. That child was worst than Tommy.

Wilbur had also been scolded for trying to name the burgers. He called one “The Melancholy Beef Stack” in a brief, unauthorized marketing stunt. It did not go over well.

Then there was the time he tried to upsell a meal with the line, “Might I interest you in a golden side of salted joy?” The woman blinked. “Do you mean fries?” she asked. “Yes” he replied. “But better.”

She didn’t order them.

And yet, Wilbur learned. He learned not to use poetry. He learned not to recite Hamlet when handing out apple pies. He even learned how to refill the ketchup dispenser without getting it on his shoes—eventually. (After ruining his socks three times.)

London itself remained a marvel and a horror in equal measure. It was like a living creature, always moving, always groaning, always demanding. One morning, Wilbur watched a man eat an entire pizza while rollerblading. That same day, he saw a woman walk a ferret on a leash through the streets.

He once tried to politely help an elderly woman across a street and she screamed, “I’M NOT OLD, JUST SLOW” and chased him off with her purse.

Another day, he asked someone at the grocery store where he might find the “yeast of artisanal substance”—he meant bread. The clerk stared at him for a solid thirty seconds before saying, “Mate… that’s aisle five.”

Still, despite the strangeness and the struggle, Sundays were different.

Sundays, he rose before dawn. Not because of work, but because of faith.

He would dress with deliberate care, smoothing out the creases in his cleanest shirt, brushing his hair until it sat just right. He lit a candle, cheap wax, vanilla-scented, flickering and stuttering in the dim motel room. He cleared a spot on the floor and T-posed, Prime book on his desk, heart steady.

It was quiet, save for the hum of a distant car engine and the occasional creak of the building. And in that stillness, he felt a kind of peace. Here, in this odd new world, he could still belong to something greater.

He felt a warmth rise in his chest. Not from the candle. From within.

Prime was not a weird culty religion. Prime was the embodiment of destiny, fate, and justice. That was what Phil had always told him. And even here, a thousand miles from the altar where he had first learned the prayers, Wilbur believed.

He whispered the tenets under his breath.

“Work with pride. Listen with fairness. Forgive.”

They grounded him. Gave shape to the shapelessness of the city.

Before him, in the flickering light, he imagined the golden symbol—the almost childlike face, sketched in a perfect circle, with a crown just above and the five sacred letters below.

PRIME.

It wasn’t a grand cathedral. There was no choir, no organ, no pews. Just Wilbur,T-posing on worn carpet, beside a wobbly bedside table. But still, it was worship. Still, it was real.

Still, it was home.

He stayed like that for a long time. Praying. Breathing. Feeling the weight of the world loosen from his shoulders, if only for a little while. He wasn’t sure if anyone else in this strange, sprawling city had ever heard the name of Prime. But that didn’t matter. Faith didn’t need an audience.

And when he finally rose, blowing out the candle with a soft breath, he smiled.

Because even in London, even in the noise and the blur and the dust, he wasn’t alone.

Not really.

– – –

On Tuesday, Wilbur decided he would try grocery shopping again. He had survived his first few culinary experiments, mainly by surrendering entirely to microwaveable meals

But he longed to cook something more substantial. Something he could stir in a pan and pretend had “notes” of something. He wrote out a list: eggs, bread, butter, cheese, vegetables, some sort of herb to sprinkle dramatically. And water. The one in the motel tasted funny.

He wandered into the nearest Tesco, clutching a little basket like it might bite him. The lights were far too bright. Everything was packaged within an inch of its life. He had only just passed the automatic doors when a machine said, “Welcome to Tesco!” in a cheerful tone that made him jump so hard he knocked over a pyramid of carrots. He apologized to the carrots. Loudly.

Navigating the aisles took effort. In the vegetable section, he stared at the cucumbers for a good two minutes trying to work out why they were wrapped in plastic. At one point he held up a can of.. Something.

He fared better in the bread section, at least until he realized most of the loaves had sell-by dates terrifyingly far from the present day. Back home, bread was homemade every 4 day. What were they putting in the farm loaves—poison?

But the real trouble came in the drinks aisle.

He stopped in front of the bottled water section and blinked.

“Still water.” “Sparkling water.” “Spring water.” “Mineral water.” “Tap, but in a bottle?” And then, simply… “Smart water.”

Wilbur read the labels with increasing suspicion.

He muttered to himself: “Isn’t still water just… water that isn’t moving?” He picked up a bottle and shook it. It sloshed audibly. “Well, it’s not still now.”

He grabbed a “Smart Water” next and narrowed his eyes. “What does this mean? Does it know something I don’t? Is it going to correct my grammar?”

Another label read: ‘Purified through vapour distillation for a clean, crisp taste.’

“Why,” he asked the bottle aloud, “must you be distilled through vapour? What ever happened to a nice cup from the kitchen sink?”

He turned to a young man walking by with a basket full of energy drinks and prawn cocktail crisps. “Excuse me, friend. I am trying to buy… water. Simple, honest, Prime-blessed water. But the shelves seem to have evolved.”

The man looked him up and down. “Mate… just get the Tesco Still. It’s like… normal.”

“Normal,” Wilbur echoed hollowly. “Right.”

He picked up a bottle of Tesco Still Water and clutched it as though he’d just survived a spiritual trial. Which, arguably, he had.

The checkout was another ordeal. The machine demanded he place his items in the bagging area, then yelled that he had placed an “unexpected item in the bagging area.” Wilbur, furious, pointed at the machine. “You just told me to put it there!”

A cashier eventually came over. She had a nametag that said Cheryl and the tired look of someone who had seen a man fight a receipt printer and lose. She smiled with the dullness of a thousand past interactions and scanned his things manually.

“Need a bag?”

“No” Wilbur said, puffing out his chest. “I shall carry my bounty like a shepherd returning from the fields.”

She blinked, then handed him his receipt.

Outside, arms full of groceries, Wilbur stared up at the gray London sky and muttered, “Normal, they say. There is nothing normal about that water.”

–

It had been two full weeks since Wilbur had arrived in London, and he had managed to avoid one particular horror of city life thus far: public transport.

He had walked everywhere. Miles and miles, through back alleys and main streets, up hills and across bridges, guided only by instinct, general direction, and occasionally Mark yelling at him over the phone to “just look at Google Maps for once, I beg you.” But today was different. Today, Wilbur had to be across the city to see the music shop, where he hoped to inquire about something they called “los campesinos”

He stood at the edge of the road, staring up at a bus stop sign like it might give him divine instructions.

“Bus 42 to Clerkenwell Green,” it read.

He frowned. “But how do you summon it?”

A small crowd waited beside him, all seemingly calm, all looking at their phones or earbuds or the sky. No one made any gestures. No one chanted. The bus did not seem to be approaching.

Wilbur stepped a bit closer to a woman and asked gently, “Forgive me, but must I... signal the bus? Or is it like a horse, does it simply arrive when summoned by your need?”

The woman blinked. “Uh... no, it’ll stop if you’re at the stop.”

“Ah,” Wilbur said gravely. “So it knows.”

The bus eventually appeared—massive, red, and vaguely threatening. Wilbur stepped forward hesitantly, clutching a crumpled ten-pound note in one hand like a charm against evil. As the doors whooshed open, he stepped aboard and immediately froze in front of the driver.

“I am in need of passage,” he declared. “To the… um. The guitar place.”

The driver just stared at him. “Do you have an Oyster?”

“I am, indeed, a lover of the sea,” Wilbur said, utterly confused.

“No,” the driver said flatly. “An Oyster card. You need one to pay. Or a contactless card.”

“I see,” Wilbur nodded, though he clearly did not. “And where would I obtain this… mollusk of destiny?”

The driver sighed. “You can’t pay with cash, mate. Just tap a card.”

“Tap… a card,” Wilbur repeated slowly. “You mean… violently smack my wallet against that glowing cube there?”

“Just lightly tap it,” the driver said through gritted teeth.

Wilbur slowly pulled out the debit card Mark had helped him set up. He held it like it might combust, then gently, reverently tapped it against the glowing reader.

It beeped. and lit up green.

“Oh my God,” Wilbur whispered. “It accepted me.”

He moved down the aisle like a man who had just been knighted. The bus was crowded, all jostling elbows and loud music from tinny headphones. He tried to sit but missed the motion of the bus and fell dramatically onto a seat, limbs akimbo.

Across from him, a toddler stared. Wilbur nodded solemnly at the child. “Never lose your awe, young one.”

The child sneezed.

They rode for ten minutes before Wilbur realized he had no idea when to get off. The stop names displayed on a scrolling marquee meant nothing to him. He saw “Rosebery Avenue” and wondered if it was a person or a flower shop.

He turned to an older man beside him and asked, “Good sir, how does one exit the bus? Must I petition the driver? Ring a bell? Is there a lever I must pull to announce my disembarkment?”

The man grunted. “Press the button, mate.”

Wilbur looked around. There were small red buttons along the poles. He jabbed one dramatically.

A soft “ding” sounded.

“That was… anticlimactic,” Wilbur murmured.

When the bus finally halted, he practically leapt off it, clutching his coat like he’d been through a hurricane. He turned back to stare at the vehicle as it rolled away.

“I have ridden the serpent” he said aloud. “And I have survived.”

He ended up walking the rest of the way. He made it to the music shop. He was twenty minutes late. He blamed the mollusk.

Chapter Text

Wilbur woke to silence.

No orders shouted. No fryers hissing like angry geese. No plastic crinkling, no cash registers clunking, no toddlers screaming about missing Happy Meal toys.

For the first time in two weeks, the sun was not dragging him out of bed with greasy urgency. Instead, it streamed politely through the mottled blinds, golden and soft. It was the first day off he’d had since arriving in London, and for a brief, blessed moment, he lay there and did absolutely nothing.

He blinked up at the ceiling, his mind strangely blank, save for one startling realization.

He didn’t have to work today.

No polyester uniform. No mayonnaise disasters. No getting called “bro” by grown men wearing backwards caps and dipping chicken nuggets into milkshakes like war criminals. Just the day. Just time.

He rolled onto his back and sighed. Back home, days off meant something. They were slow, sacred. There were traditions to be followed, rhythms that hummed in his bones.

He would wake to the distant crow of one of Tommy’s aggressively disobedient roosters. Phil would already be in the fields, probably humming some old Prime hymn. Techno might be sitting on the porch, sharpening something. Always sharpening something.

Wilbur’s own day off rituals were gentler. He would put on his oldest, most disgraceful jumper, the one with the elbow holes and the mysterious flour stains, and wander down to the orchard with a notebook and a sandwich.

He’d sit under the same tree each time—the one with the warped bark that looked like it had a face—and write. Poetry, mostly. Sometimes letters. Sometimes odes to the wind that sounded far more dramatic than the wind deserved.

He would go see Sally when the sun reached its peak. Not formally, not with purpose—just to be near her. She might be kneading dough, or experimenting with horrifying new flavoured pastries. Once, she had made a onion tart. He had eaten the whole thing out of loyalty and nearly wept.

Now, here he was. Day off. City. Silence.

And he had no idea what to do.

The motel, somehow, felt smaller when he had time to notice it. The walls were thin—he could hear someone coughing in the next room, someone else watching a television show that featured far too much laughter.

He got up slowly, pulled on something that was not his McDonald’s uniform (a welcome novelty), and stood in front of the mirror. His reflection looked confused, like a man who had misplaced his purpose.

He made himself tea. It was the only thing in the little kitchenette he knew how to use with confidence. The water took forever to boil. The mug was chipped. He stirred it with the reverence of a priest preparing incense. When he sipped it, it was awful.

He spent a few minutes writing a poem about how awful it was.

Then he remembered something. A whisper of purpose from the past: laundry.

The moment he opened the plastic bag he’d been stuffing clothes into, he recoiled. The stench was biblical. He made the sign of Prime instinctively.

“Right,” he muttered. “Laundry.”

He knew the procedure now—thanks to Mark and the generous, slightly horrified lady at the laundromat. He gathered his clothes, coins, and courage, and left the motel.

London, he realized, looked different when you weren’t racing through it in a half-sprint, dodging pigeons and screaming babies. It was still loud, still vaguely smelly in ways he couldn’t define, but the pace was slower on a Sunday. Or maybe it was just that he wasn’t in a rush.

The laundromat was quieter than outside. No screaming children. No one visibly having a breakdown over coffee. He loaded his clothes, inserted the correct number of coins with a flourish, and stood back to watch the machine rumble to life.

It was, if nothing else, soothing. A metal ballet of rotation and froth.

He sat down and tried to write something about it. An ode to laundry. A soliloquy to detergent. He was halfway through a stanza comparing the dryer to the eternal spin of fate when someone sat next to him with a heavy sigh.

An old man, wearing socks with sandals, holding a cup of black coffee. He didn’t look at Wilbur, just stared at the dryer like it had personally wronged him.

They sat like that for a while. No words. Just two men, separated by decades and united by the universal experience of waiting for underwear to dry.

When Wilbur’s laundry was finished, he folded it meticulously. It didn’t help that he only owned three shirts and one of them had a ketchup stain shaped like the continent of Australia. Still, he folded them with the tenderness of a man folding tiny dreams.

Back at the motel, he felt proud. Small victories, he thought. A day off well spent.

He made himself a bowl of stew from what remained in the little fridge. It was not particularly warm. Or fresh. Or edible, really. But it was food, and he ate it with the exaggerated elegance of a man in a tuxedo at a five-star restaurant.

After lunch, Wilbur decided to take a walk. The sky had the soft kind of gray that meant it wouldn’t rain, probably, and the breeze was gentle, the sort that tugged at his shirt like an affectionate dog. His legs ached from standing all week, but the air smelled like grass and car exhaust in that oddly comforting London way. It was, in a word, nice. And he hadn’t had very many “nice” moments in the city yet.

He found a park, the kind with actual trees, not just decorative ones in big cement boxes. They arched like gentle green shoulders, rustling quietly over footpaths, their leaves filtering sunlight onto benches and walkers and dogs. Wilbur’s steps slowed. He saw a patch of shade under an oak that looked just the right amount of lonely.

So he sat. Pulled his guitar from its soft case like it was a secret he’d been aching to share. And without thinking too hard about it, he began to play. Simple chords, nothing fancy. The kind of song that sounded like the end of a long day. People passed by, some nodded, some ignored him. That was fine. He didn’t need applause. He just needed the music.

A few minutes in, a voice beside him said, “Hey, you’re pretty good.”

Wilbur looked up, startled. A young man stood there, scruffy, grinning, with a guitar of his own slung over his back. He had a guitar bag with stickers peeling off it.

“Mind if I join?” he asked.

Wilbur blinked, then nodded. “By all means.”

They played a little. Wilbur strummed, the stranger picked. The harmonies clicked like puzzle pieces. By the end of the second song, they were both grinning like idiots.

“I’m Joe” the guy said, shaking Wilbur’s hand with enthusiasm.

“Wilbur.”

“I’ve been wanting to start a band,” Joe said, dropping onto the grass. “Something real. Not like the crap they play at school. A proper band. You down?”

Wilbur, still holding the neck of his guitar like it might float away, nodded slowly. Then more quickly. “Yes. Absolutely. Yes.”

Joe lit up. “Hell yeah.”

And just like that, Wilbur had said yes to something he hadn’t even dared to dream about since coming to London. A band. A real one. The kind with long rehearsals and crap gigs and maybe—if they were lucky—magic.

They decided to head to a nearby Smash Burger. The smell of sizzling patties and the sharp scent of fries hit them as soon as they walked in. Wilbur’s stomach rumbled—he hadn’t realized how hungry he was until the warmth of the burger joint surrounded him. Joe led the way to an empty booth, grinning as he plopped down.

It was getting late already, the sun dipping below the horizon.

“So, you’re sure?” Joe asked, the excitement still buzzing in his voice.

“Absolutely,” Wilbur replied without hesitation, almost grinning like a fool. “This is... this is amazing. I didn’t think I’d find something like this.”

Joe chuckled, grabbing the menu and flipping through it. “Yeah, man. So here’s the thing. We need more people. A bassist, definitely. Maybe a drummer, too.”

Wilbur nodded eagerly. “Right. We can’t really have a band with just... two guitars.”

“Exactly,” Joe said, his eyes lighting up with the possibilities. “We need that full sound. Some depth.”

Wilbur laughed as he took the seat across from him. “That’s all I do. High-pitched emotional nonsense.”

“Exactly. We need someone to ground us. Someone who goes doooom-doom-doom,” Joe added, miming a thudding bassline on the tabletop.

They ordered fries and greasy burgers, and continued their impromptu planning session with the fervor of two kids building a spaceship out of cardboard. They talked band names. Potential sounds. Covers versus originals.

Joe wanted to do punk. Wilbur wanted something “with a bit of drama, a bit of soul” and somehow they ended up agreeing on “Indie rock” which neither of them could define, but both nodded sagely at as if it were the only real genre that mattered.

And then, the door jingled. A new figure walked in. Quiet, unassuming. Tall. A bass guitar slung across their back, the strap weathered, well-loved. Wilbur didn’t even clock them at first, too caught up in explaining to Joe how bridges in songs were like soliloquies for introverts.

But Joe, ever the hawk, paused mid-fry.

“Dude. Dude. Look. Bass.”

Wilbur turned, squinting. The guy didn’t look like he was in a hurry. He moved with the calm, heavy-footed certainty of someone who did not care what the world thought of him. He had dark hair, an undercut faded into a mess of thick waves, and he wore headphones around his neck. The bass on his back gleamed under the overhead lights.

Joe stood. Wilbur nearly choked on his Sprite.

“Hey! Hey! Bass guy!”

The stranger turned, brow raised.

“You play?” Joe asked, pointing unnecessarily to the bass.

The guy nodded once, slow.

“We’re starting a band. You in?” Joe said, grinning like it was the most normal thing to do in a fast-food restaurant.

The guy didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he pulled out his phone. For a brief moment, Wilbur thought he was being ignored, maybe even mocked. Then, the guy tapped a few things on his screen. A robotic voice—calm, clear, American-accented—came from his phone speaker.

“I’m Ash.”

Joe blinked. Wilbur straightened. Something in him tingled. Ash, like the burnt end of something. A cool name. A mysterious name.

Ash tapped again.

“I play bass. I’m good.”

There was a pause. The phone made another little noise. Ash raised one finger, as if asking them to wait, then typed again. A few seconds later:

“If I join your band, I want the corner seat when we get famous.”

Joe clapped his hands like a game show buzzer had gone off. “Done! You can have all the corners!”

Wilbur’s grin grew stupidly wide. “Yes. Please. Join us. Absolutely. One hundred percent yes.”

Ash gave a small shrug, then nodded once. He sat down at the next table, bass still across his back like a knight refusing to set down his sword.

Joe leaned across the table to Wilbur. “This is insane. We have a bassist.”

Wilbur leaned back, arms folded, unable to keep from beaming. “It’s fate.”

Ash, scrolling on his phone, glanced up for a second and smiled slightly. Then he typed again.

“Cool.”

Joe was rambling about how Ash gave off “low-frequency wizard energy,” and Ash was calmly sipping a shake through a straw, completely unfazed by the chaos he had just been adopted into. Wilbur’s thoughts were moving fast—too fast, like a train derailed in his skull—and suddenly, out of the flurry, a name floated to the surface.

“What about ‘Hang the DJ’?”

Joe blinked at him. “What?”

“‘Hang the DJ.’ From that song. ‘Panic,’ by The Smiths.” Wilbur looked between them, eyes wide, half-expecting rejection. “It’s dramatic. It’s angry. It’s… It’s kind of hilarious.”

Joe sat back slowly, a wicked little grin creeping onto his face. “It’s extremely dramatic. I love it.”

Ash pulled out his phone and typed for a moment. His speaker clicked on:

“Does it mean we hate DJs?”

Wilbur laughed. “Not necessarily. More like… we hate whatever dull music they’re playing.”

Ash considered this, then nodded. He tapped again.

“Fine. But if anyone asks, we’re also available for weddings.”

That sealed it.

They had a name.

They had a purpose.

They had fries.

Joe’s leg was bouncing like he’d had three too many sodas. “We need to rehearse. Like, later. Do you guys have a space?”

Wilbur hesitated. “I… have a motel room.”

Joe tilted his head, intrigued.

“It’s… small” Wilbur added quickly, “and slightly damp. But the walls are suspiciously thick. Like, no one’s complained about the sounds of me weeping or playing guitar at 3 a.m.. so I think we’re in the clear.”

“Perfect,” Joe said without a shred of irony. “Motel it is.”

Ash typed:

“I can be quiet. Kind of.”

Wilbur chuckled, a little overwhelmed by how quickly things were falling into place, but too swept up to care. “Then it’s settled. We rehearse tomorrow. Motel Room 214.”

Joe saluted. “Hang the DJ rides at dawn.”

Ash gave a thumbs-up.

And just like that, the band had a name, a lineup, and a place to rehearse. It wasn’t glamorous, it wasn’t even clean, but it was theirs. And in that grimy little corner of London, something had started. Something loud. Something real.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 16: A Modest Rehearsal

Wilbur awoke with purpose.

It was a rare thing, in London, to wake with anything but dread or vague confusion. But today was different. Today, his motel room—Room 214, nestled between a perpetually dripping ice machine and what he assumed was some sort of long-term pigeon infestation—was to become a studio.

A cradle of artistic birth.

A sacred ground.

Or, at the very least, a place where three young men could make a lot of noise and pretend it mattered.

He leapt from his stiff, squeaky bed with more enthusiasm than he’d had since stepping off the coach two weeks prior. The room, still slightly damp in the corners and mysteriously perfumed with what he had come to call “Motel Scent No. 5,” needed preparation. Not decoration—he had nothing to decorate with—but preparation. Cleaning. Arranging. Ritual.

Wilbur blinked down at the cluttered floor, the half-unpacked suitcase, the crumpled clothes, the two socks that had never spoken to each other before. He frowned. "This simply won’t do."

He straightened what he could. Folded a blanket over the end of the bed. Nudged the cracked kettle into a place of honor on the plastic side table. He washed the three motel mugs in the sink, using his dish soap and the tiniest amount of prayer. And then he stopped.

"What are the customs" he whispered aloud, "for welcoming guests in London?"

He sat on the bed, furrowed his brow. Did one serve stew? No. No, no, stew was too sacred. Too intimate. Serving stew to a brand new band was like reading someone your poetry in a bathtub. He needed something neutral, something civilized.

Tea.

Wilbur boiled the kettle with reverence.

When Joe arrived, guitar slung over his shoulder, he greeted Wilbur with a “Yo!” and a slight trip over the doorframe. Ash appeared ten minutes later, hoodie up, expression unreadable, bass case in one hand, phone already out in the other.

“Come in” Wilbur gestured solemnly, like a host at an ancient temple. “I’ve made tea.”

Joe brightened. “Oh, sick.”

Ash tapped at his phone.

“You made tea? You’re posh.”

Wilbur blinked. “No, I’m not.”

“Posh.”

“I’m not—”

Ash wrote another message before Wilbur could respond.

“Posh.”

Joe laughed so hard he nearly dropped his guitar. Wilbur, affronted but delighted, handed out mugs and watched his band settle in.

And then, they played.

It wasn’t perfect.

Joe missed chords. Ash was occasionally a few notes behind. Wilbur’s voice cracked once when he tried to hit a note too ambitious for the cramped room. They were too loud, then too quiet, then beautifully in sync for about four magical seconds before collapsing in laughter.

But it was good.

Good like a loaf of bread you made yourself, a little lopsided and burnt on one side, but warm and proud and yours.

They tried a cover or two—Wilbur crooning, Joe strumming wild and loose, Ash keeping them grounded with deep, easy notes that wrapped around everything like a hum. Then Wilbur tried out one of his own songs, shaky and unsure, and by the second chorus, Joe was harmonizing and Ash was nodding along like they’d known it forever.

The motel didn’t complain. No one banged on the walls or shouted through the thin door. Somehow, the noise just lived there, comfortably, like it belonged.

Afterward, they slouched against the walls, sipping the last of their tea, breathless and grinning.

Joe raised his mug. “This was brilliant, mate. Thanks for the tea. And the… atmosphere.”

Ash’s phone clicked.

“Good tea. Weird room. Great vibes.”

Wilbur, flushed with pride and sweat and some distant feeling he couldn’t name, simply beamed. “Thank you for coming.”

This was it. It had begun.

--

Suddenly—a knock at the door.

Wilbur flinched. All three of them froze, guitars in hand, bass slung over Ash’s knee, the last wisps of a chord still hanging in the motel air. The knock came again, louder this time, impatient. Ash’s eyes narrowed. Joe whispered, “You expecting someone?”

“No” Wilbur muttered, standing slowly like a man expecting to face an angry landlord, or worse, the manager of the motel.

He opened the door cautiously.

“WILL!”

Mark burst into the room like a concerned older brother and a human energy drink all at once. His windbreaker flared out dramatically, and in his hands, he held a pizza box like it was an offering to the gods.

“You weren’t replying to my texts” he said, walking in uninvited. “I thought you’d died. Or gotten recruited by a street magician. Or mugged. ”

“I—Mark—” Wilbur flailed slightly, caught between panic and pride. “I was rehearsing.”

“Rehearsing?” Mark blinked as he took in the room. “With people? Plural?”

Joe raised a hand, grinning. “Hi.”

Ash, seated cross-legged on the floor, lifted his phone.

“Hi.”

Mark looked from one to the other. Then at the instruments. Then at Wilbur. “I left you for one day, Will. One. And you’ve acquired a cult.”

“It’s not a cult” Wilbur said quickly. “It’s a band.”

“Which is just a socially acceptable cult with a setlist.”

“I-”

Mark set the pizza down and pointed accusingly at Wilbur. “I literally just taught you how to use the laundromat, and now you’ve got groupies. What is this timeline. The author is shit!”

“They’re not groupies!” Wilbur said. “They’re my bandmates. This is Joe, and that’s Ash. Ash doesn’t speak. He uses—well, he uses his phone.”

Ash helpfully held up the phone, which now read:

“Hi again. Not in a cult. Probably.”

Mark squinted. “...Alright.”

Joe leaned forward, casual as ever. “Hey, actually—we need a drummer. You know any?”

Mark opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at the drumsticks tattooed on his own forearm. “I mean…”

Wilbur’s eyes widened. “Wait. Mark. You play?”

Mark shrugged with theatrical modesty. “A little.”

“You play?” Joe’s voice practically squeaked.

Ash didn’t even wait for a response—he just typed and held up:

“Recruit him.”

Wilbur stared at Mark, hands clasped in front of him like a pleading Victorian schoolboy. “Mark. You don’t have to, but-”

“Yes” Mark interrupted, already walking toward the pizza box and claiming a slice. “I’m in. But only if we’re doing a cover of ‘Knee deep at ATP’ at some point. That’s non-negotiable.”

And just like that, they had a drummer. Mark, chewing thoughtfully on a slice of greasy pepperoni pizza, leaned against the motel wall and looked at the group of them—their instruments cluttered around the tiny room, half-drunk mugs of tea balanced precariously on the desk, Ash quietly bopping his head to some beat only he could hear, Joe tuning his guitar with a dreamy sort of focus.

“So,” Mark said, wiping his fingers on his jeans, “what’s the name of this band of yours?”

Wilbur, clearly brimming with self-satisfaction, puffed his chest and declared, “Hang the DJ.”

There was a moment of silence. A long, judgmental silence.

Mark blinked. “That’s terrible.”

“What?” Wilbur gasped, scandalized. “It’s a tribute! The Smiths! Panic! It’s iconic!”

Joe gave a little shrug. “I mean, I thought it was alright.”

Ash slowly lifted his phone.

“Hang the DJ is memorable”

“No, Mark is right” Wilbur replied, "it's not original"

Mark raised a hand, a slice of pizza dangling from his fingers. “Okay, okay. Look. I’ve got a better one. Way cleaner. Simpler. Sounds like it could be… y’know, a real band and not just a Morrissey fever dream.”

Wilbur narrowed his eyes. “Go on.”

Mark grinned. “Lovejoy.”

Another pause.

Joe said, “Ooh, that’s… kind of nice.”

Ash held up:

“Vibey.”

Wilbur stared, visibly grappling with the fact that his dramatic, angst-ridden musical vision was being upstaged by a one-word name that sounded suspiciously like a wine label.

“…Fine” he said with great reluctance. “Fine. We’ll be Lovejoy. But I get naming rights for the songs.”

“Deal” Mark said, reaching for another slice.

Wilbur, eyes glittering now with a sudden bolt of inspiration, stood up dramatically, nearly knocking over a cup of tea. “Mark. What did you say when you walked in here? Earlier. When you barged in.”

Mark blinked. “Uh… I said a lot of things?”

“No, no—before the pizza. Something about time.”

Mark tilted his head. “I said, ‘I left you for one day, Will.’”

Wilbur’s eyes shone. He pointed a dramatic finger toward the ceiling as though conducting fate itself.

“That is the name of our first song!”

Joe clapped once in delight.

Ash held up his phone.

“Capital letters. ONE. DAY.”

Mark rolled his eyes but smiled all the same. “You’re all absolutely unhinged.”

But Wilbur was already scribbling in his notebook, humming under his breath, and in the back of the tiny motel room, a band was officially born.

Wilbur read the final line aloud, voice trembling with that strange, electric mix of pride and vulnerability only an artist feels when they bare something real. The last echo of “Oh baby, isn’t life so fucking inconsistent?” lingered in the air like smoke in a closed room.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then..

“Okay,” Mark said, slowly setting his slice of pizza back in the box. “Damn.”

“Yeah,” Joe breathed. “Yeah, that’s… heavy.”

Ash didn’t speak, just nodded and typed something into his phone. A second later, the robotic voice on his text-to-speech app echoed:

“I love it.”

Wilbur smiled like he had just been knighted. “I wrote it last week after… well, after I tried using the Tube for the first time. And then I found a flyer with a cat on it—someone had lost theirs. It was... you know. One of those days.”

Mark leaned back, propping himself up with one arm. “That explains the cat line. And the toilet imagery. Is that like… symbolic?”

Wilbur straightened his spine, already in lecture mode. “Yes. Of course. Everything is. The whole song is about grief—about clinging to something that’s gone. Wanting to move on but being chained to the past. You know the line—‘One day I’ll focus on the future’? It’s not just about forward momentum. It’s about surviving long enough to even want to think forward again.

Because when something ends—when someone leaves—you keep replaying it, over and over. You lose Tuesdays to memory.”

Ash played the chorus again from his phone in a soft robotic whisper:

“One day, I know that you will be there…”

Mark blinked at the ceiling. “Okay. We’re learning this. All of it.”

Joe nodded.

Mark added “And next time, we practice at my place. It’s got slightly less mystery mildew.”

“I’ve got drums and amps. And more pizza. No offense to your tea, Will, it was lovely. But… next time, less motel, more music.”

Wilbur beamed. His heart felt huge, thudding in his chest like the first beat of a concert. He looked around at the band—his band—and said with full sincerity, “This is the beginning. I can feel it.”

Joe raised his drink. “To Lovejoy.”

They all echoed it. Even Ash’s phone said it. And just like that, One Day had a home.

Chapter Text

The day of the gig began with an ominous sky and Wilbur nearly setting his alarm clock on fire. Not on purpose, of course. He’d only meant to unplug the kettle. In his defense, the motel’s electrical system was not labeled in any intelligible way, and it wasn’t his fault that boiling water now required a full reenactment of Prometheus stealing fire from the gods.

Still. He was awake. He was upright. He had a show to play.

He stood in front of the mirror for a full ten minutes, holding two shirts up in succession and then tossing both aside. What did one wear to a grand musical debut in the back room of a dodgy pub? He settled on his “coolest” jacket—corduroy, of course, because he liked the way it whispered dignity. Joe texted him three times: “u up?” “you better be up” and then simply, “showtime babyyyyy.”

Mark, ever the professional, had arranged for them to use the upstairs room of the pub, known mostly for hosting trivia nights and “haunted doll auctions.” Joe said that added to the vibe. Ash sent them all a thumbs-up in the group chat, followed by a text-to-speech message that announced in its chipper robotic monotone: “This is the beginning of the end. In a good way.”

They gathered at Mark’s flat to load up. Mark’s drum kit was disassembled into several padded cases, which he insisted were “precision gear transport modules” and not just old laundry bags with duct tape. Ash had his bass slung across his back like a soldier heading to war, and Joe showed up late with his guitar and three bags of crisps he claimed were “for morale.”

Wilbur tried to stay calm. He sat on the edge of Mark’s coffee table, holding his guitar with both hands, like it was an anchor. Or maybe a lifeboat. He tuned and re-tuned each string. He ran through the lyrics in his head. His stomach flipped. His heart bounced around in his chest like a moth trapped in a lampshade.

“You alright, Will?” Joe asked, mouth full of salt and vinegar.

“I am exactly alright,” Wilbur said. “Which is to say, I am completely, utterly not alright at all.”

“That’s the spirit,” Mark grinned. “That’s how you know you’re about to do something that matters.”

They packed into Mark’s car like sardines with dreams. Instruments in the boot, amps in their laps, Ash squashed in the backseat sending out an ominous robotic “initiate protocol: gig mode.” Wilbur gazed out the window as they drove. The grey of London blurred past, streetlamps flickering on as evening began to settle in. His fingers tapped out the rhythm of “One Day” against his jeans. He hummed under his breath, eyes shining.

Tonight. Tonight was it.

They weren’t just some guys playing music anymore.

They were a band.

Wilbur adjusted the strap of his guitar for the fiftieth time that evening, fingers restless against the strings as he stood backstage at a dimly lit bar, waiting. It wasn’t the kind of stage he’d imagined when he was younger, lost in a daydream of grandeur, but it was something.

The lights were warm, and the low murmur of a small but lively crowd filled the air. The scent of beer and cheap cologne mingled with the faintest trace of cigarettes—a far cry from the fresh air of home, but tonight, he didn’t mind.

Joe clapped him on the shoulder, grinning as always. “Ready to make history?”

Wilbur scoffed, the nervous energy in his chest making his words sharper than he intended. “History? You’re overselling this, Joe.”

“Am I? First gig, first real audience. This is it, mate.” Joe spun his drumsticks between his fingers with a practiced ease that made Wilbur a little jealous. “And we’re starting with your song.”

That was true. One Day—Wilbur’s creation, a song he had written half out of longing, half out of frustration, and entirely from the depths of his overdramatic soul. He had played it for himself many times, humming it under his breath as he walked through the city, but now? Now it was something else. Now it was for them.

Ash, as always, said nothing, only offering a small thumbs-up before adjusting his bass. He communicated mostly through sign language, which Wilbur was still struggling to properly learn. He had picked up the basics—hello, good, bad, shut up—but anything beyond that still left him guessing.

Mark, on the other hand, was talking far too much, hyping them up with grand proclamations about how this would be the night everything changed. Wilbur didn’t have the heart to tell him that the crowd was mostly made up of disinterested bar patrons and a handful of people who had come specifically to see Joe, who, despite his eccentricity, had something of a reputation in local music circles.

The moment arrived. They stepped onto the tiny stage, greeted by a few scattered claps and a couple of curious glances. Wilbur adjusted the mic stand, swallowing down his nerves. Then, without another word, he began to play.

The first chord rang out, and everything else melted away. The background noise, the uncertain murmurs, even the bar itself seemed to fade. There was only the music. His fingers moved almost on their own, and when he opened his mouth to sing, his voice was steady. Strong.

The set went better than expected. A few people actually paid attention. Some even nodded along to the music. When they finished, there were genuine cheers—not a roar, not yet, but enough to light something in Wilbur’s chest. Joe whooped, throwing his drumsticks in the air, while Ash, characteristically, simply gave a small approving nod.

Afterward, they sat at a table near the back of the bar, riding the high of their first real performance. That’s when she approached.

“You guys were actually good,” she said, leaning against the table with a grin. She had long blonde hair and an easy confidence that made Wilbur instinctively straighten his posture. “Not just ‘for a bar band’ good. Good good.”

Joe grinned back. “See, Wilbur? I told you.”

Wilbur cleared his throat. “Thanks. Glad someone listened.”

The woman chuckled. “Name’s Nathalia.”

Later that night, back in his small rented room, Wilbur wrote a letter. Not just any letter—one for Phil. One for home.

‘Phil, I am alright. I miss your stew. I played in a band tonight. The world is bigger than I thought, and yet, it is smaller than I imagined. I hope you are well. Tell Techno he was wrong—I can, in fact, function in modern society (mostly). Tell Tubbo and Tommy to write if they aren’t too busy running amok. I will visit soon. I think I am learning to be happy. Yours, Wilbur.’

Then, another letter. This one was longer, heavier, as his words spilled onto the page. For Sally.

‘My dearest Sally,

The city is relentless, and yet I find myself captivated by it. It is a beast, moving and breathing with a rhythm all its own, and though it does not love me, I am learning to navigate its winding veins. There are people here—strange, wonderful people. I have joined a band, of all things. It is no grand orchestra, no symphony, but rather a cacophony of voices and strings, trying to carve out something beautiful amidst the noise.

I will not lie to you—I have struggled. The lights are too bright, the nights too long, and I have been pushed in ways I never expected. And yet, I have found joy in the oddest places. In music. In the laughter of friends. In the realization that, despite everything, I am still me.

My heart, however, remains tethered to you. You are my constant, my unwavering star amidst the chaos. No matter where I go, I find myself thinking of home, of you. I hope you are well. I hope you are happy. I hope you have not grown tired of my letters.

Yours, always, Wilbur.’

He set down his pen, staring at the words for a long moment. Then, carefully, he folded the letters, tucking them away to be sent in the morning.

The night was still young outside his window, the city buzzing with life, but Wilbur simply lay back in his bed, letting exhaustion claim him.

Tomorrow, there would be more music. More letters. More London. But for tonight, he allowed himself a moment of peace.

—

Wilbur continued to work at McDonald's, though each shift felt more and more like an elaborate performance. The headset, the beeping machines, the impersonal exchange of greasy food—it was a far cry from the golden fields and warm hearth of home. He wondered if Prime wept for him, for the loss of tradition, for the way he scrubbed the floors of a place that reeked of frying oil instead of kneeling in prayer on cool wooden pews.

The others at work found him peculiar. He spoke in long, winding sentences, enunciating with care as if each word were a line in a play. Customers would stare as he greeted them with a dramatic flourish, offering their meals as if he were a courtly servant presenting a feast. His coworkers often exchanged amused looks, calling him "Shakespeare" behind his back—or sometimes to his face.

"You know, Wilbur," one of the managers, Lucy, said one afternoon as they cleaned the milkshake machine, "you're the only person I know who makes a burger assembly line sound like a Shakespearean tragedy."

"Well, Lucy, perhaps it is one," Wilbur sighed, wiping his hands on his apron. "This, after all, is the great clash between man and machine, between the artisan’s touch and the unfeeling march of modernity."

Lucy rolled her eyes but chuckled, handing him the next tray. "Yeah, well, keep waxing poetic, and you’ll be on bathroom cleaning duty."

Outside of work, Wilbur's routine had settled into something almost normal—if normal meant oscillating between the greasy glow of McDonald’s and the dim, candle-lit corners where he muttered prayers to Prime. Every Sunday, he sat in his motel room, the single candle flickering as he whispered his devotion, reading from his Prime book.

"It ain't exactly a church, but Prime listens where Prime is called," he told himself. Still, he missed the quiet reverence of home, the communal voices rising in unison. The city never stopped moving, never stopped speaking, even when he tried to carve out a sacred space within it.

His bandmates had not yet learned the depth of his peculiarities. To them, Wilbur was a curious relic, a country boy washed ashore in London, hopelessly out of step with the world. They laughed at his dramatic letters home, the way he refused to eat certain "processed" foods, his awe at things they considered mundane.

"You're like someone who's been plucked straight out of a novel," Mark had said, watching Wilbur study the self-checkout machine at a Tesco as though it were a cryptic artifact.

"A novel, or perhaps an ancient myth," Joe had added, smirking. "The Farm Boy Who Came to London."

Wilbur had scoffed but couldn't entirely deny it. He wrote to Phil with careful, restrained words, assuring him that he was "alright," though he longed for the warmth of Phil’s kitchen, the smell of stew thick in the air. His letters to Sally, on the other hand, were flooded with ardent prose, dramatic retellings of his daily life, and endless declarations of devotion. He described London with the poetic lens of a man caught between awe and exile, spinning tales of its harsh wonders and soulless beauty.

"My love, my heart wanders as I do, seeking home in places that do not know the meaning of the word. The city moves like a great machine, unfeeling, unknowing, but within its cogs, I find music, I find meaning. And still, I find myself yearning for the fields, for the cool air that carries the scent of fresh earth, for the sound of your laughter."

It made him laugh. It made him ache. It made him realize, more and more, that he was still Wilbur of the farm, Wilbur of Prime’s quiet halls, Wilbur of Sally’s patient, knowing smiles.

And yet, here he was, the odd man in the middle of London, between his past and whatever future he was trying to shape.

Chapter Text

It was bitter out.

Wilbur’s breath came in puffs of fog, rising like smoke into the night as he trudged down the pavement, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat. The sky above London was a thick, lightless grey, like the city had forgotten stars existed. Rain misted down in that infuriatingly British way—never quite falling, never quite stopping, just lingering in the air like a bad feeling.

His shift had ended an hour late. Some fryer catastrophe. Grease where it should never be. A manager who barked orders like someone had told them McDonald’s was a battleship. His feet ached. His back ached. His soul ached. And now, he was walking.

London was different in the cold. It was louder, somehow. Meaner. The cars roared by, the people didn’t make eye contact, and the streets were wet with something that might have been rain but also might have been a health hazard.

He pulled his coat tighter and walked faster.

And he thought of home.

Not the motel. Not the job. The real home. The farm.

He could see it so clearly it hurt. The way the fields outside the house would be frosted over in silver, and the animals would snort steam through their noses.

He remembered the way Techno’s scarf was always too long, dragging in the snow while he pretended not to be cold. Tommy, bouncing off the walls, begging to open just one gift early. Phil, calmly sipping hot tea and saying, “Only if you can find the Prime coin, mate,” like it was all part of a sacred tradition.

They would stay in for most of the winter. Just the four of them, bundled in blankets, surrounded by firelight and the smell of cinnamon and roasted potatoes.

Only venturing into town when they needed gifts or extra butter or a last-minute roll of brown paper, to wrap with. And Phil—Phil made dinner like it was a ceremony. The roast, the pies, the strange jelly stuff no one liked but no one would dare suggest not making.

Primemas.

The word alone made Wilbur’s heart squeeze. He wouldn’t be home this year. He wouldn’t be there for the Prime prayers, the slow dinner, the quiet laughter, or the music Phil played on that ancient radio that only got two stations.

The ache hit him so hard he stopped walking. Just for a second. Let the wind slap him in the face. Let the memory weigh down his chest.

He was alone in a city of millions.

And it was Primemas season.

And he missed them.

He missed them like a limb, like air, like a note that never resolves.

He sniffed hard, tilted his head back, and blinked away whatever was gathering in his eyes.

The wind didn’t stop. The rain didn’t stop. But he kept walking.

There was still music to make.

And maybe, just maybe, they’d hear it back home.

Wilbur stepped through the motel’s glass doors, wincing as the warm, stale air rushed to meet his freezing face. The lobby smelled faintly of instant coffee and the kind of lemon-scented cleaner that tried too hard. The night manager—a man with more beard than face and the personality of a sleepy cat—barely looked up from his crossword.

But something was different.

On the little counter, in the dim yellow light, sat a package. And beside it—a stack of letters, tied together with a bit of red string. Not just envelopes. Not bills or advertisements. These were letters. His name on each one. Familiar handwriting. Ink smudges. Bent corners.

His chest lurched.

“Oh” he breathed.

He reached for them like they might disappear if he took too long. The package was light, wrapped in brown paper with tape hastily folded down the sides. One letter had a smudge of what looked like flour. Another was sealed with a wax stamp in the shape of a potato (undoubtedly Techno’s doing).

Wilbur grinned—small, crooked, grateful.

“Good night, mate,” the manager muttered without looking up.

Wilbur didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He was already halfway up the stairs, clutching the package and the letters like sacred treasure.

His boots thudded softly on the hallway carpet. Room 207. He fumbled with the key, and the door creaked open.

Same stained curtains. Same crooked lamp. Same hum of the mini fridge that he swore got louder at night. But now—letters. A bundle of home, warm in his freezing hands.

He shut the door behind him.

The city was still cold. Still loud.

But for the first time that day, Wilbur smiled.

He had letters from home.

Wilbur settled onto the edge of his bed, fingers trembling slightly as he undid the red string around the bundle of letters. He knew this handwriting better than his own—it was neat, a little stiff in the curves, and pressed just a bit too hard with the pen. It always had been. The return address, stamped in the corner, made his heart ache.

He opened Phil’s letter first.

"Wilbur,

It’s getting cold here, lad. Real cold. The kind that gets into your bones and doesn’t let go. Tommy’s already pretending it’s snowing and stomping around in his boots like he’s on some expedition to the North Pole. Techno says winter’s coming late this year. I told him that sounds ominous, but he just shrugged and went back to peeling potatoes.

We can’t leave the barn this year—not with the weather, and not with everything going on around here—but I wanted to make sure you got your Primemas things anyway. They’re in the package. Don’t open ‘til the day, yeah? Or I’ll know. I will know.

I saw the poster you sent from your gig. “Lovejoy.” You always did have a flair for drama. I’m proud of you, Will. I know it’s hard out there. I know the city’s loud, and the people are strange, and McDonald’s isn’t quite the same as working the fields or herding sheep—but I see you trying. I see the way you keep moving forward, even when it’s hard. That’s Prime working in you. Never doubt that.

We miss you like hell. The table feels too big without you. Tommy’s been sitting in your chair during dinner and pretending to be you—“Pass me the bread, dear father, for I am perishing.” Every time he does it I laugh, but I also want to cry. You’d laugh too, though. I hope you’re laughing. Even just a little.

Anyway. Hurry up and get famous so you can come home and eat stew with us like a normal person. We’ll keep your chair warm.

Love you, son. Always.

-Phil."

Wilbur folded the letter with shaking hands, then pressed it to his chest.

Wilbur carefully set Phil’s letter aside, smoothing out the edges like it was a precious artifact. His hands moved instinctively to the next envelope, thinner paper, scrawled in fast, slanting letters—George’s. He already felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth before he even unfolded it.

"Wilbur,

Alright, rockstar, now that you’ve officially performed for a real crowd and didn’t combust from stage fright (proud of you, by the way), you need to start thinking ahead. Have you looked into getting a record company to sign you yet? I mean, come on—Lovejoy deserves to be heard by more than the three drunk guys at the back of the pub and your friend Mark’s mum.

Speaking of which: Lovejoy is a fantastic band name. It sounds like the kind of name that already has a Wikipedia page. It’s classy, a little weird, vaguely threatening. Perfect.

Dream says hi, by the way, and also that he’s dying.

He’s not.

He has a cold.

But you’d think it was the plague by the way he’s sprawled dramatically across the sofa with a blanket over his face moaning things like “Tell George I loved him,” while I’m just trying to read. He keeps calling it “The Winter Plague” like he’s in some 1800s novel. It’s unbearable.

Anyway, if I don’t strangle him first, we’ll both be cheering for you from here when you drop your first EP. I’m serious about the record label, though—do some digging. Or busk more. Or, I don’t know, start haunting indie cafes and whispering lyrics into the ears of cool people in beanies. You’ve got something, Will. Don’t let it go to waste.

Also, try Nando’s. You still haven’t, have you?

Write me back if you need money (or if you just want to rub it in my face that you’re becoming a musical prodigy while I’m still stuck down here with Lord Overdramatic).

Keep making noise.

—George"

Wilbur barked out a laugh, startling even himself. The motel room was dim, cold, still reeking faintly of instant noodles and laundry detergent—but with the letter in his hand, it felt brighter somehow.

He glanced out the window. The city stretched endlessly beyond it.

He had people in his corner.

He could do this.

Wilbur cracked open the next letter, instantly recognizing the precision of Techno’s handwriting—blocky, all-caps, like it had been carved into the page. There was no greeting, no warm-up, just:

"YES. GOOD NAME. GOOD IDEAS.

Anyway:

Autumn harvest concluded last week. 7.2% increase in yield over last year. I rotated the east and south fields—turns out, alternating root and legume crops does improve nitrogen retention. C4 was a little stunted (late frost hit harder than expected), but the west field potatoes? Chef’s kiss.

Phil says I’m not allowed to say “chef’s kiss” anymore but he can’t stop me. The purple varieties you liked grew well. I kept a few in the root cellar. I dried a sample of the yellow skins too—sealed in the Primemas box. If they arrive crushed, I will launch a formal complaint against the Royal Postal Service and probably start a war.

Started early mulching this year. Seems to help with both soil warmth and water retention. Might add shredded newspaper into the mix next spring. Tommy suggested glitter. Tommy has been banned from suggesting things.

Speaking of which, he’s been getting into guerilla snowball combat. Keeps using the good potatoes for slingshot ammunition. I told him the golden spuds are not for warfare. He said he needs them for “tactical dominance.” I countered with a lecture on tuber preservation and resource scarcity. He walked away pretending to snore.

Revenue from the market stand dipped, the folks apparently don’t understand the value of heritage spuds. But quality was way up, so I’m counting it as a win. Phil’s thinking of trying his hand at pickling again, says it might preserve more stock for winter. We still have jars from his last experiment. They’re glowing. Possibly sentient.

The barn’s snowed in now, of course. Can’t really leave. Which is fine. More time to plan. Spring’s going to be big. I’ve drawn up a planting map, color-coded by yield probability. There’s a key. You will study it. I am attaching it for you. Expect a quiz.

Phil keeps talking about how proud he is. Says he saw your gig poster. I didn’t look. (I did look.) It looked cool. Your hair is weird now. Keep that up, it’s working for you, I guess.

Anyway.

YOU BETTER COME HOME TO START THE HARVEST NEXT YEAR. I HAVE GREAT PLANS.

And bring that drummer. I need someone to test soil density and he seems strong. We can pay him in hash browns.

—T."

Wilbur laughed, holding the letter to his chest for a second. Only Techno could make potatoes feel like a war effort. And yet—he already couldn’t wait for spring.

He picked up Tommy's letter next.

"WILLLLLLLLBUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR

Hi. Hello. Greetings from the ice wasteland of the barn, where the snow is at LEAST seven feet tall (okay it’s probably more like 3 feet but I nearly died trying to get to the chicken coop, so it felt like seven).

Anyway.

I MISS YOU. I wish you were here for Primemas. It’s so weird without you! Phil’s making stew every night like it’s his entire personality and Techno keeps muttering about “strategic snowfall” like the flakes are planning a military operation. I bet London doesn’t even HAVE snow. Or stew. Or good cows. Or warmth.

I hope you’re having, like, a METRIC TON of concerts. Like people are just throwing themselves at your feet screaming “PLEASE WILBUR SING TO ME!” That better be happening. Or I will come to the city myself and drag you back and make you listen to Tubbo do his whale impression until your ears fall off.

Also! You need to know that George has been TAUNTING Dream, and I mean taunting with a capital T. You know how Dream gets in the winter—he's all sniffly and pathetic and convinced he’s dying of "Plague.” And George walks around behind him whispering “this is the end” and “I’m going to have to go on without you, Dream.” It’s the most dramatic thing I’ve ever seen and I LIVE WITH PHILZA.

OH! And I named a spider. His name is Shroud. He lives in my sock drawer. Do NOT ask me how he got there. He’s friendly and only a little venomous probably.

Tubbo and Ranboo have officially entered the “gross domestic phase” of their friendship. They keep calling each other “husband and husband” like it’s totally normal and not the WEIRDEST THING IN THE ENTIRE WORLD. They even had a fake wedding in the sheep field and made me be the flower girl. I didn’t have a choice. There are pictures. You will never see them.

Anyway, things are okay here, I guess. Boring without you. Techno says that’s not a real complaint because “boredom is a gift.” He also said “snow is a metaphor,” but then wouldn’t explain what it was a metaphor for, so. That’s my life right now.

Write back SOON or I will assume you’ve been eaten by a city pigeon. You KNOW how I feel about those freaky birds.

Love (in a manly brotherly way), TOMMY

P.S. I might’ve borrowed your scarf. I looked dashing. You're welcome."

Wilbur laughed at Tommy's letter, picking up the final letter

"My Dearest Wilbur,

I love you. That’s the first thing I want you to read, and the last thing I hope you remember after you’ve set this letter down. I love you, and I miss you—terribly, like a limb left behind or a song stuck on the tip of the tongue.

The bakery’s been cold in the mornings, the kind of cold that seeps into your knuckles and makes kneading dough feel like trying to shape snow. But I’ve kept at it, of course. The ovens warm the place soon enough, and by mid-morning it’s all heat and flour dust, the smell of butter and rising bread. Your hat still hangs by the back door, and sometimes I wear it when I run deliveries. It still smells faintly of that strange aftershave you used to borrow from Phil.

I made your favourite rye last week—twice, actually. The first loaf didn’t rise right; I got distracted watching the snow out the window and left it too long. The second one turned out perfect. I stood there in the kitchen with it warm in my hands and thought, “He’d be stealing the end piece right about now.”

I considered sending it, truly I did, but I feared it might arrive more like a brick than a loaf. So instead, I’ve sent something special. You’ll know it when you see it.

Everyone here is asking about you. Mr. Bell says he saw you in a music magazine (I think he’s mistaken; it was just a man with long hair and a dramatic coat, but I didn’t correct him). Mrs. Mullins insists the weather’s been worse since you left—“Too quiet,” she says. “He kept the wind in check.” Even the cat sits on your windowsill some days, like it’s waiting.

I hope the city hasn’t made you too tired, my love. I hope you still find small pieces of beauty—those little things you used to point out that no one else noticed. A crooked sign, a good cloud, the way a song sounded through a stairwell. I hope the world is still a poem to you.

I’m so proud of you. Not for anything you’ve done, though I know it’s plenty—but for who you are. Exactly as you’ve always been. I’ll see you when I see you, my starry-eyed songbird.

With all the love I have,

-Sally"

Wilbur held the letter close to his chest for a moment, the smile curling on his face unbidden, warm, and deep. He could already feel the corners of his eyes crinkling with that familiar mixture of longing and love.

Chapter Text

Wilbur arrived at Mark’s flat just as the clouds threatened to pour. He slipped inside, guitar case slung over his shoulder, scarf slightly damp, heart thumping—not from nerves this time, but from a growing sense of something real. Something becoming.

Mark’s flat was a far cry from the motel. Bigger, warmer, louder. A set of drums took up one corner, a few amps hummed low, and cables snaked across the carpet like vines. Ash was already tuned and seated on the floor, legs crossed, bass in hand, phone propped up beside him—his robotic voice box ready to go. Joe sat on the arm of the couch, strumming gently and nodding along to some rhythm only he could hear.

“Will!” Mark called, waving a slice of toast like a flag. “You made it. We were about to form a search party. Ash voted to send out a flare.”

“I had to stop and—never mind,” Wilbur said with a grin. “Good to see you all. I brought something.”

He held up a worn notebook, the kind with bent corners and coffee stains. He opened it carefully, like a priest revealing scripture. “I’ve written a new song. It’s called Taunt.”

Mark raised a brow. “Ooh, spicy. That’s got potential.”

“It’s… sharp,” Wilbur said, flipping to the right page. “About attraction and resentment and everything in between. You know. Classic material.”

Joe gave a dramatic strum. “That sounds incredible. Lay it on us.”

Before Wilbur could begin, Mark leaned back against the wall and added, “Well, you’re not the only one with new material. I’ve written two songs, too. Wanna hear the titles?”

Wilbur narrowed his eyes, suspicious of the gleam in Mark’s. “Go on.”

“Sex Sells” Mark said, with a little flourish.

Wilbur blinked. “Bold.”

“And Cause for Concern,” he added, smirking. “Bit less sexy, but more existential. I thought it balanced out.”

Ash tapped his phone, and the voice box crackled: “That is the most Mark thing I’ve ever heard.”

Joe burst out laughing, nearly dropping his guitar. “He’s right, though.”

Wilbur sat down, still smiling. “Alright. Then I suppose we’ve got a setlist to build.”

And just like that, the spark of something brilliant flickered to life. Songs, chords, ideas—all sprawled out between them like a patchwork quilt. A band. A sound. A voice.

It was messy. It was loud. It was real.

Wilbur leaned back on the beat-up couch, notebook balanced on his knee, the warm hum of a half-used amp buzzing at his feet. “Oh—forgot to mention,” he said, voice casual, like it wasn’t a life-altering moment. “I stopped by a record company on my way here.”

Mark immediately sat forward. “You what?”

Joe nearly dropped his mug of lukewarm tea.

Wilbur shrugged, but the grin tugging at his mouth was impossible to hide. “Just to talk, really. Nothing official yet. But they said we could start uploading stuff. Get some eyes—er, ears—on our songs. Digital distribution and all that.”

Ash tapped away at his phone. “We’re becoming real.”

Mark let out a breath that was part disbelief, part pride. “You’re telling me you wrote a song and secured our musical destiny in the same day?”

Wilbur gave a dramatic little bow from the couch. “I try my best.”

They went back to fiddling with chord progressions for Taunt, but soon the strings slowed, the excitement mellowed, and the warmth of the room thickened with something quieter—comfort, maybe. Or nostalgia.

Wilbur glanced up. “What’s everyone doing for Primemas?”

The room blinked at him.

“…For what?” Joe asked, setting down his guitar.

“Primemas" Wilbur repeated, as if that would clarify anything. “You know. The winter holiday? Celebrating the arrival of fate, destiny, justice? Candlelit roast? T-posing in reverence before the Prime symbol?”

Ash stared. Joe furrowed his brows. Mark looked vaguely alarmed.

Wilbur leaned back, sighing. “You all are heathens.”

Mark scratched the back of his head. “Is that, like… a barn thing?”

“Very much a barn thing.”

Joe tilted his head. “We just do, like, a tree and presents. Socks. There’s usually a roast.”

Ash typed. “I once got four toasters.”

Wilbur chuckled. “Alright, alright. I suppose I’ll just celebrate quietly, alone, while T-posing in the corner.”

Mark held up a hand. “No way. We’re a band now. Bands do holidays together. It’s the law.”

“I read that” Joe added solemnly.

Just as Wilbur was about to declare a group Primemas celebration, a knock rattled the door. Everyone paused, like something cosmic had intervened.

Mark stood and peeked through the peephole. “Oh. It’s Nathalia.”

“Nathalia?” Wilbur repeated, heart jumping a bit, he hadn't planned on seeing her again. She was far too.. city like.

“Nathalia” Mark confirmed, unlocking the door. “From the gig. I invited her.”

Nathalia stepped inside, cheeks pink from the cold, guitar case over one shoulder. “Hey, guys.”

“Hey,” the band chorused, a little stunned.

“We were just talking about how to take over the world,” Joe offered, grinning.

Nathalia raised a brow. “Good. Because I have concert ideas.”

Everyone straightened up.

The universe had knocked. And it had excellent timing.

Wilbur blinked. “You mean like… beyond the one pub gig?”

“Exactly.” She nodded. “There’s a few small venues that do open mic nights. You could sign up for those. Build an audience. And you’ve got enough for an EP, right?”

Mark sat up straighter. “We’ve got, like… four songs?”

“Still about a cat” Ash texted, then made the text-to-speech voice read it aloud in a monotone. The whole room cracked up.

Nathalia continued, “Put that together, record it decent, upload it as your first EP. Maybe do a cover to pull in more ears.”

Mark’s eyes lit up. “OH. OH. LET’S DO KNEE DEEP AT ATP.”

Wilbur blinked. “You—Mark, that song’s iconic.”

“All the more reason,” Mark grinned. “I already know all the drum parts. I was born for that song.”

Nathalia laughed. “It’d be a crowd-pleaser. You could do it acoustic if needed.”

Wilbur was already grabbing his guitar. “We’ll need to practice fast if we want to get it done before the end of the week.”

“I have a mic and my laptop,” Mark said, leaping to his feet. “This room is basically a studio if you squint hard enough.”

“Or stop caring,” Ash typed, then played a bass riff in total agreement.

Joe strummed out the first few chords, nodding. “Let’s do it.”

And just like that, the room burst into motion—Wilbur humming harmonies, Mark assembling his travel drum pad, Nathalia offering vocal notes, Ash laying down a low, steady rhythm while texting instructions to his speech app, and Joe fine-tuning his amp.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was good.

By the time the impromptu motel recording of Knee Deep at ATP was finished, they were out of tea, someone had knocked over a lamp, and Wilbur’s voice was hoarse from singing. But the audio? Crisp. Real. Alive.

And for the first time, Lovejoy sounded like a band that belonged to the world.

Chapter Text

Wilbur sat cross-legged on his motel floor, still in his pajamas—striped, soft, and well-worn—his hair sticking up at all angles. The little radiator chugged along in the corner, trying its very best to fend off the morning chill.

He reached for the box.

It was wrapped in simple brown paper, tied up with twine. The handwriting on the tag was unmistakable: Phil’s neat cursive. Beneath it, a note in Tommy’s chaotic scrawl had been squished in:

“DO NOT OPEN UNTIL PRIMEMAS, YOU BLOODY CHEATER – T”

He grinned and gently pulled the twine loose.

Inside, the box was packed with care: layers of tissue, old newspaper, and a faint smell of home—barn dust and cinnamon and something warm and indescribable.

At the top, a card:

"Wilbur,

Happy Primemas, son. We miss you more than words, and we’re proud of everything you’re doing out there. You better be taking care of yourself—and your guitar. I packed a few gifts. Sally helped wrap them. Techno says this counts as "an inefficient delivery method" but he can shove it. We'll stay warm here at the barn, don’t worry—though it’s not quite the same without you.

Hurry up and get famous so you can come home.

Love always,

Phil."

Wilbur exhaled slowly. That warmth that had been missing for weeks flickered to life in his chest.

Beneath the letter, the gifts were carefully labeled.

From Techno: a new guitar capo, and a simple handkerchief embroidered with his initials

From Tommy: a hand-painted T-shirt that said “PRIME CHAMPION” in crooked yellow letters.

From Phil: a worn secondhand book of folk songs annotated in the margins in Phil’s tidy handwriting. And a candle blessed by Sam.

And, wrapped tightly in wax paper, something from Sally:

A golden pendant, a seashell, marked only: “For when London is too much.”

He stared at the pile in front of him.

A candle, its wax a pale gold, rested on top of a bundle of letters. It had been blessed by Sam, Phil had written in careful script. “For your prayers. So Prime doesn’t forget you, even out there in all that gray.” Wilbur chuckled under his breath. Prime never forgot, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel distant from divinity these days. London was vast, and bright, and cold, and strange. He missed the quiet holiness of the farm, where the wind carried whispers of something ancient and kind.

His room still smelled like motel and radiator dust. The walls were still thin. The radiator still whined. But the space suddenly felt warmer. Quieter. Held.

And for the first time since he’d arrived in London, Wilbur felt like he was exactly where he was meant to be—even if just for a minute.

It was the 25th of December, and Wilbur had the day off. As per his one and only request to management—and several very pointed comments about spiritual observance and worker rights—they’d finally let him have it. Thank Prime.

He rolled out of bed and stretched, staring up at the ceiling of the motel room with bleary eyes and a heart that beat a little warmer than usual. Primemas.

He didn’t dress fancy. No glittering jumpers or ironic red hats. No. For Primemas, you wore your normal clothes, at least while you cooked.

He buttoned his shirt slowly, carefully, the same way Phil used to—tucking in the front, rolling the sleeves back up to his elbows. He lit a candle. Whispered a quiet prayer to Prime under his breath, one he hadn’t spoken aloud in months.

And then—he began to cook.

There was no oven in the motel, of course. But he’d planned ahead. The roast would be done at Mark’s place, where the kitchen was real and had actual countertops instead of “the top of the microwave.” But here? Here, he made the spiced vegetables.

They were the dish he knew best. Parsnips, carrots, red onions, and little cubes of sweet potato, marinated with cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves, drizzled with honey and a pinch of salt. He cooked them slowly on the stovetop, stirring every few minutes, letting the smell fill the little room with the warmth of home.

As he worked, he hummed a bit—something between a hymn and the chorus of “One Day.” The vegetables sizzled in the pan like they were applauding him.

Wilbur didn’t cry, exactly. But his eyes did sting.

He imagined Techno peeling potatoes back home, muttering about starch ratios. He imagined Tommy setting the table poorly, loudly insisting that knives could go on the left if you felt like it.

He imagined Phil at the stove, quiet and warm, humming an old Prime carol that no one else remembered. And Sally. Beautiful Sally, carrying the loaf of sourdough she had baked that morning with butter, warmth, and far too much pride.

He stirred the pan.

“This is going to be the best goddamn Primemas anyone’s ever had in a motel,” he declared softly.

Wilbur got into his best clothes now—not his work uniform, not the coat he wore to bus stops—but his real best. The pressed white shirt, the one Phil had sewn the cuffs on; the charcoal trousers with the slightly frayed hem; the brown overcoat Phil had given him when he’d left for London, with the inside pocket big enough to hide a whole letter’s worth of homesickness. He did up each button like it was a blessing. Adjusted his collar. Straightened his hair in the mirror.

And then he walked.

The city was quiet. Just for once. Christmas—or Primemas, in his heart—had managed to do what nothing else could: hush the constant thrum of London. The cold nipped at his cheeks, but it was the good kind of cold. The kind that felt like winter—not misery.

Mark’s place was warm before he even opened the door.

Ash was already there, holding a fresh loaf of bread like it was treasure. His phone chirped and a robotic voice said:

"I baked this myself. Behold. Carb art."

Mark, in a ridiculous red apron with “DRUMSTICKS AND GRAVY” printed on it, was carving a perfectly roasted hunk of meat. It smelled incredible.

“Will!” Mark beamed, waving a knife with dangerous enthusiasm. “Look at this masterpiece! I mean. You could worship this roast.”

“I do worship,” Wilbur said, stepping in with a laugh. “And I’m considering switching to Roastism.”

Joe was next to arrive, in a coat that looked three sizes too big and with cheeks flushed pink from the cold. He held something in both gloved hands like it was holy.

“A Christmas Special,” he declared.

It was a pudding. Possibly stolen from a bakery. Possibly homemade. Possibly cursed. But it was round and glossy and soaked in brandy, and that’s what mattered.

Then—Nathalia. Dressed like a magazine page. She strolled in holding a bottle of champagne with a grin.

“I didn’t know if you lot drank” she said, “so I figured I’d make you.”

They laughed. They gathered around the mismatched table, chairs borrowed from three different apartments, cushions stuffed under legs for height. Ash set the bread down with a triumphant "Holiday carbohydrate contribution complete."

Wilbur placed his pan of perfectly cooked spiced vegetables in the center like it was an offering.

Then, with music softly playing and candlelight flickering from Mark’s half-burned advent setup, they began to feast.

The glasses clinked. Once. Twice. Again and again. The cheap champagne had started off tasting like bubbles and regret, but by the third glass, Wilbur was starting to understand the appeal. He sipped slowly, cheeks pink, warm all over—not just from the alcohol, but from the laughter echoing around the table.

Joe, on the other hand, had absolutely lost all concept of moderation. He was halfway through a rambling story about accidentally busking outside a courthouse (“And then this pigeon—swear to God—nodded at me.”) when he reached for his sixth drink. Mark tried to stop him and only succeeded in knocking over his own glass.

Ash, ever composed, had consumed exactly three drinks and no more. His phone buzzed occasionally with flat, neutral commentary.

"This champagne has notes of regret and warm carpet."

Nathalia was well and truly pissed. Legs curled up on her chair, coat half-off, hair in her face. “You know what,” she declared, pointing a wobbly finger around the table, “I love bands. Like not just the music. The drama. The secrets. The hidden crushes.”

Mark, who had just poured himself another glass, looked up with a goofy grin. “Nathalia, you’re a vibe tonight.”

Joe leaned across the table, squinting through the fuzz in his brain. “The only reason Mark keeps inviting Nathalia is ’cause he’s got a massive crush on her.”

Mark froze. Fork halfway to his mouth.

Nathalia blinked.

Then, slowly, she turned to Mark and squinted at him like he was a math problem. “Mark? Nooo. Nahhh. I mean— you’re sweet and all. But I like Wilbur.”

Wilbur choked on his drink.

Joe howled with laughter.

Mark dropped his fork.

Ash, from his corner, typed calmly:

"That escalated emotionally."

Wilbur, blinking rapidly, wiped his mouth on a napkin. “Me? You like me?”

Nathalia shrugged and took another sip. “Yeah. You’re weird and poetic and probably write sad songs about soup. I like that.”

Wilbur opened his mouth. Then closed it again.

Joe leaned over and whispered, loudly, “Write a song about that, frontman.”

The night had thinned out to a quiet hum. Plates stacked, glasses emptied, candles burned low. The warmth of food and wine still lingered in the room like a memory. Joe was dozing off in his chair, slurring something about making a New Year’s EP. Mark, flushed and smiling, gave Ash a thumbs-up as he helped Joe to his feet.

Ash slung Joe’s arm over his shoulder like it was routine—like this wasn’t the first time he’d had to carry him home from something. With a little nod to the rest of them, Ash typed on his phone and let the robotic voice say:

"Happy Primemas. Thanks for the bread talk."

Then the door shut behind them, and silence crept in.

Wilbur pulled his coat on. “Alright. I should head back.”

“Wait,” Nathalia said.

He turned, hand still on the doorknob.

She was standing just a few steps away, glassy-eyed and glowing pink from the wine and the lights and something else he couldn’t name. “I just—tonight was nice. You’re… nice.”

And then—before he could stop it, before he could even think—she leaned in.

A kiss. Light, soft, sudden.

Wilbur’s eyes widened. His brain didn’t catch up until after. When he flinched back, lips parted, stunned.

“I—uh—I can’t.”

The words stumbled out of him like panicked birds. He stepped back, heart pounding, hands shaking slightly.

Nathalia blinked. “Oh.”

“I just—I’m sorry. I—someone else.”

And then he was out the door. Onto the cold pavement. Into the night that had suddenly turned sharper, louder, wrong.

The city swallowed him whole, its lights flickering, its people moving too fast, too unaware. Wilbur barely noticed any of it. He walked with purpose, his breath sharp, his heart pounding against his ribs. He felt unclean. Not physically, but deep in his soul, something had been tainted. It wasn’t his fault, was it? But it had happened. Prime had seen.

He barely realized where his feet were taking him until he reached the motel. His hands were shaking as he fumbled with his key, pushing into the small room and slamming the door behind him. He didn’t bother with the lights. Instead, he went straight for the small candle Phil had sent him, the one that had been blessed, the one that reminded him of home.

His hands trembled as he struck a match, watching as the small flame flickered to life. He sat before it, kneeling on the floor, gripping his prime book so tightly his knuckles turned white.

“Prime,” he whispered, voice raw, desperate. “I have sinned. Not by choice, not by want, but I have. I do not know what to do. I beg of you. Bring me guidance”

The candle flickered, the wax pooling slowly at its base. Wilbur closed his eyes and prayed harder, hoping, begging, pleading for some kind of guidance.

He needed to make it right. He had to.Wilbur went to sleep with the candle still flickering low, its golden glow casting long shadows against the walls. He turned the words over in his mind—his own words, Nathalia’s words, the silence that followed. He had been too stunned to answer her, too caught between confusion and his own rigid sense of devotion to even formulate a response. And now, with the warmth of his bed surrounding him, he felt like a fool.

Sleep took him like a slow tide, drawing him into a dreamscape of shifting colors and soft winds. He stood in a vast field, the grass impossibly green, the sky an endless stretch of golden hues. And then she was there—Kristen, the goddess of Prime, her presence both comforting and overwhelming. She looked at him with a kind, knowing smile.

“It wasn’t your fault, Wilbur,” she said, her voice like a hymn in the wind.

Wilbur fell to his knees before her, pressing his palms together in a desperate attempt to steady himself. “But I should have stopped her. I—I should have said something.”

Kristen knelt with him, her hand cool against his forehead. “You must set it right. You must tell her the truth—your heart does not belong to her. You must put it into words, the way you always do.”

Wilbur swallowed. “A letter?”

“A song.”

The weight of her words settled in his chest, heavy and inevitable.

“And, Wilbur,” Kristen continued, her eyes twinkling with something almost mischievous, “tell Phil I unstuck the couch.”

He opened his mouth to ask, but before he could, the dream dissolved, and Wilbur woke with a sharp inhale, his candle a mere stub, the flame barely clinging to life.

The message was clear. He had work to do.

Wilbur sat at his small desk, the candle flickering low beside him, the air thick with the weight of his thoughts. Kristen’s words echoed in his head, her voice a divine whisper of reassurance and command. It wasn’t his fault. But he still had to set things right.

His fingers trembled as they hovered over the paper. He had never been good at sleeping with guilt gnawing at his bones, and tonight was no different. The ink spilled onto the page in hurried strokes as he poured himself into his songs, trying to shape his feelings into melody and verse. The words came in waves—sorrowful, frustrated, longing. He wrote of mistakes, of misunderstandings, of the heavy heart that came with knowing you had strayed from the path you swore to walk.

One song led to another, the lyrics forming a collection of regret and self-discovery. It was a catharsis, an attempt to purge himself of the guilt he carried. The candle burned lower, its light barely illuminating his work by the time he finally leaned back, exhausted but unwilling to stop. There was still one more thing to write.

Taking another sheet of paper, he dipped his quill into the ink and began a letter to Phil. He wrote of London, of the band, of the strangeness of this modern world he had found himself in. But most importantly, he confessed his sin. He told Phil what had happened with Nathalia, how she had kissed him, how he had faltered in the moment, and how Kristen herself had visited his dreams to guide him back to where he belonged.

He ended the letter with a final message, dictated by the goddess herself: "I unstuck the couch."

Wilbur stared at the words, their mystery as great to him as they would be to Phil, but he knew better than to question a message from Kristen. It was not his place to understand, only to deliver.

Sealing the letter, he placed it with the others to be sent home. Then, at last, he let the candle burn out and laid his head down, his mind still spinning with melodies, lyrics, and the weight of the truth he had finally put to paper.

Chapter Text

It was raw, unpolished, something scraped together from the deepest parts of his soul. When the sun rose and light streamed through the window, Wilbur looked at the mess of papers before him, at the notes and scribbles and the half-legible scrawls of a man who had been losing himself to his own thoughts for hours.

The album had taken shape.

He didn’t hesitate. He gathered the papers, the lyrics, the melodies, shoved them into his bag and made his way to the others.

The band sat in Mark’s tiny living room, the scent of old coffee and something vaguely metallic in the air. Joe plucked at his bass absentmindedly, Mark tapped a restless rhythm against his knee, and Ash, as always, sat still, watching Wilbur with careful eyes. Nathalia was there too, though she kept her distance, sensing the shift in Wilbur’s demeanour.

"I have something to show you," Wilbur said, breathless, nervous. "Songs."

They listened. They listened as he sang about guilt and repentance, about love and faith, about the city swallowing him whole, about home and the taste of stew, about things he barely understood himself but felt down to his bones. They listened, and by the time the last note faded into silence, they all knew.

Joe was the first to speak. "Wilbur… This is it."

"We need to record this," Mark added, eyes wide.

Ash just nodded, fingers moving rapidly in signs—brilliant, real, honest.

Even Nathalia smiled, though there was something unreadable in her gaze.

The album was recorded in a cramped studio that smelled of dust and old amplifiers. They played until their fingers blistered, until their voices cracked, until Wilbur thought he might pass out from exhaustion. And then, when it was done, they released it.

It spread like wildfire.

The internet devoured it, the songs resonating with strangers across the world. Wilbur watched in a sort of dazed disbelief as the numbers rose, as comments poured in, as people quoted his lyrics and tattooed his words onto their skin. He felt distant from it, as though it had happened to someone else, some other boy who wasn’t still just Wilbur Soot, the farm boy who prayed to Prime and got lost on buses and wrote long letters home.

A letter arrived not long after.

The envelope was thick, filled to bursting, the handwriting on the front achingly familiar. Wilbur tore it open with shaking hands, eyes scanning the page before him.

"Wilbur, my boy—

Kristen did speak to you. She did, because the sofa was unstuck when I woke up this morning, and you and I both know there was no earthly force strong enough to do that.

I do not always understand you, Wilbur. You dream bigger than this place, and I think maybe you always have. But I am proud of you. Even when you stumble, even when you doubt. I am proud. And the stew is waiting for you, whenever you decide to come home.

Phil."

Wilbur exhaled shakily, pressing the letter to his chest. He let himself hold onto it for a moment, grounding himself in those words.

Another letter was inside the package, this one in a much neater script.

Sally.

She had sent him a poem, soft and short and delicate, woven with love and faith.

She still didn’t know.

Wilbur set the letters beside his candle, watching the flame flicker in the dim light. He would have to tell her soon. But for now, he would let himself breathe. He would let himself be proud.

The album had spoken for him. And somewhere, deep in his heart, he hoped Prime had been listening.

Wilbur could barely believe how much had changed in so little time. It felt as if he had only just arrived in London, wide-eyed and overwhelmed, yet here he was—no longer flipping burgers at McDonald's, no longer lost in the rush of the city, no longer just a boy from the countryside trying to fit in. He was on tour. With his band. A real tour, real music, real people singing back the words he had written, the melodies they had created together. It was everything he had never known to dream of.

The tour was relentless—early mornings, late nights, cramped vans, and packed-out bars. They started small, playing in little pubs where the only people listening were those already drinking. But then something happened. A song would take off online, another bar would be full, another, and another. Soon, they weren’t just in London anymore; they were moving through England, hopping from town to town, playing anywhere that would have them. Then, somehow, they were in Europe—Amsterdam, Paris, Berlin, Madrid. Wilbur’s head spun with the sheer speed of it all.

Every night, he performed his heart out, singing words that bled out of him when he needed them most. The album, inspired by his mistakes and regrets, was resonating with more people than he could fathom. They screamed the lyrics back at him, and for the first time, he realized how much his words could mean to others. But every night, once the music was over, once the adrenaline had faded, he would sit alone with his thoughts.

He had not told Sally yet.

The guilt gnawed at him every time he picked up a pen to write to her. It had been easy at first—long, dramatic letters about the wonders of London, about the oddities of city life, the strange way people lived, the overwhelming noise and motion of it all. Then, when he had been kissed by Nathalia, his letters had grown shorter. More restrained. Less filled with the grand poetic musings he had once delighted in. He had been a coward. He had not told her, though every night, when he prayed by his single candle, he felt Prime watching, waiting for him to make things right.

Then Kristen came to him again. He had not dreamed of her since that night, when she had told him to write his truth, to right his wrongs. But now, after their biggest show yet, after a night where thousands had sung his own words back to him, he collapsed into a restless sleep and found himself standing before her once more.

“You’ve done well,” she said, her voice warm like the sun rising over the hills of home. “You have walked a long road, Wilbur.”

“I—I have,” Wilbur admitted, suddenly feeling like the small boy who once prayed every night by the riverbank, hoping for guidance. “But I—”

Kristen held up a hand, her expression soft but firm. “You still carry the weight of a secret. It is time.”

Wilbur swallowed hard. “What if she hates me?”

Kristen smiled, a knowing , gentle thing. “She loves you, Wilbur. But love cannot grow in the dark. Trust her with the truth.”

And so, when he woke the next morning, still exhausted, still heavy with the weight of what he had to do, he picked up his pen and wrote to Sally. He told her everything. Not just about Nathalia, not just about the mistake, but about his fears, his doubts, his longing for home. He told her of Kristen, of how she had spoken to him, of how he was trying to be better, to be worthy. He let his heart spill onto the page the way it once had in poetry and song. And when he was done, he sealed the letter, praying that it would not be his last to her.

Two weeks passed before the reply came.

Wilbur held the envelope in shaking hands, retreating to a quiet corner of their tour bus before daring to open it. The first thing he saw was a poem, written in Sally’s looping script, short but careful:

“The wind carries whispers of fields left behind, Of letters unread, of songs undefined. But home is no prison, nor shackles, nor chain, It waits, it endures, through heartache and rain.”

Wilbur ran his fingers over the words, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Then, below it, in her own voice, she had written:

"I do not hate you, Wilbur. But I need time. Write to me again. Tell me everything."

He closed his eyes, pressing the letter to his chest. Kristen had been right. He had done what was needed. And no matter what happened next, he would keep writing.

Chapter Text

Their albums had been hit after hit. The internet loved them. Local papers couldn’t shut up about them. Even Phil had written back to say that a teenager from the neighbouring town had biked over just to tell him “Lovejoy saved my GCSEs.”

But now… nothing.

It had been three weeks—twenty-one long, itchy, tea-stained, argument-laced, creatively barren days—since any of them had managed to write a good song. Or even a decent one.

Writing their first album had felt like catching fire in a bottle. Everything had tumbled out of Wilbur in a feverish blur—raw, angry, hopeful, haunted. The lyrics had been honest and confessional, and the music just fit, like they had all known each other for lifetimes instead of a handful of chaotic weeks.

Now, as they sat in their slightly-cramped but very charming rented flat, the energy had shifted.

Guitars leaned against the wall, untouched. Mark sat on the floor, spinning a drumstick between his fingers, not quite pouting, but definitely entering pout-adjacent territory. Ash was curled on the windowsill, their bass on their lap, plucking out bored little nonsense melodies. Joe had been silent for an hour and was currently staring at a blank page like it had personally insulted his mother.

And Wilbur?

Wilbur was on the couch, in a position that defied human anatomy, legs half over the backrest, notebook on his chest, pencil dangling from his lips. He hadn’t written a single line he liked in four days. Everything felt stale. Overwrought. Like he was trying too hard to write something that sounded like Lovejoy, instead of just being Lovejoy.

“Maybe we used up all our trauma,” Joe said suddenly, breaking the silence.

Ash let out a slow robotic “ha ha” through their text-to-speech app.

Mark groaned. “Do we need to go through something again? Do we need to, like, get dumped? Or sued? Or chased by geese?”

Wilbur sighed. “No one’s writing their best work while being chased by geese.”

“Speak for yourself,” Joe muttered.

Wilbur let his pencil fall to the floor. “What if we’re done?”

Everyone looked up.

“Like, what if… what if we were only good when it was new and messy and emotional and we had something to prove? And now it’s just… coffee cups and ring lights and interviews and silence?”

No one answered right away.

The silence clung to them like dust in sunlight—still, suspended, tired. The kind of silence that made you wonder if everyone else was thinking the same thing, or nothing at all.

Then Mark sat forward, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe we just need to… go somewhere. Somewhere new. Somewhere that actually means something.”

Joe leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on the coffee table, pushing aside a mug half-full of cold tea. “Somewhere we can disconnect,” he said. “No phones, no pressure. No bloody TikToks. Just us and the songs.”

Ash raised one eyebrow, the corner of their mouth twitching up like they were trying not to smile. They reached for their phone and typed:

“Somewhere with people. Weird people. People who say things that stick in your head for weeks.”

That made Wilbur laugh, properly laugh, for the first time in hours. He sat up, notebook sliding off his chest, and stared out the window like he was trying to summon something.

“I know a place” he said quietly.

Three heads turned toward him.

“I know exactly the place,” Wilbur repeated, now with that wide-eyed look of someone halfway between divine inspiration and mild insanity. “It’s small. Out of the way. But odd. Full of meaning. Kind of ancient, kind of brilliant. You’ll love it.”

Mark narrowed his eyes. “Where?”

Wilbur didn’t answer.

Instead, he stood up, strode to the tiny desk in the corner, opened the laptop, and began typing furiously.

Joe peeked over his shoulder. “Wait, are you actually looking up flights?”

Wilbur grinned. “Tickets are cheap this time of year.”

Ash, already on their phone, typed:

“This isn’t some cult village is it?”

“No” Wilbur said with a laugh. “But it is the place where I learned what a family dinner tastes like. Where the stars still shine. Where the neighbours gossip and the air smells like grass and woodsmoke.”

Mark blinked. “Are you saying…”

Wilbur turned his laptop around. On the screen was a flight listing—one-way, London to St george regional airport near the edge of nowhere.

Joe leaned closer. “That’s… near your home, right?”

Wilbur just smiled, bright and sudden and a little misty-eyed. “Boys. We’re going to L'manberg.”

Mark stared at the screen, his face unreadable for a long moment. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and muttered, “You’re telling me… after all the chaos of dragging you into the city, after watching you have a meltdown over self-checkouts and electric stoves… now you want to drag us back into the middle of bloody nowhere?”

Ash shrugged, calm as ever. They tapped out a short message on their phone and let it speak for them:

“Could be fun.”

Joe leaned back, hands behind his head, grinning wide. “Honestly? Sounds perfect. Detox. Cleanse the city filth from our souls. Get back to the roots. Maybe milk a cow or something.”

Wilbur, meanwhile, was practically vibrating with excitement. He looked like a kid on Primemas Eve, glowing, already halfway out the door. “You’re going to love it. There’s fields and forests and—oh, you haven’t lived until you’ve tasted Phil’s stew—”

Before he could spiral into a full tourism advertisement, the door creaked open.

Nathalia stood there, bundled in a scarf, holding a takeaway coffee. “Hey, losers.”

Mark lit up immediately, stepping forward with open arms. “Nathalia!”

She shifted sideways, expertly dodging his hug. Mark stood there, arms awkwardly outstretched, blinking.

Joe, oblivious, jumped in. “Guess what! We’re going on a trip! L’manberg!”

Nathalia frowned. “Where? Sounds weird.”

Wilbur, still glowing, turned toward her. “It’s my hometown.”

Something changed in Nathalia’s face instantly. Her nose wrinkled in curiosity, and she tilted her head, giving Wilbur a new kind of look—a look of intrigue. “Your hometown?” she echoed, stepping further into the room. “Huh. Maybe I will come along.”

Mark slowly lowered his arms, looking like he might physically implode.

Wilbur gave Nathalia a long, skeptical look, head tilted slightly, mouth pulled into a thin line. "Really... you?" he said, not even trying to hide his doubt.

Mark, hands shoved in his pockets, glanced between them and snorted. "I mean," he said, dryly, "Nathalia, you can’t even survive without Instagram. You lost WiFi for two hours last month and nearly had a breakdown."

Nathalia just smirked, brushing past him to sit on the arm of the couch, twirling her coffee cup between her fingers. "Ohh yeah," she drawled, "but clearly I want to."

Mark looked at her, looked at Wilbur, then stared off into the middle distance like he was re-evaluating every choice that had led him to this moment. "Damnit," he muttered under his breath.

Ash, meanwhile, just sent a text-to-speech through their phone that simply said:

“This will be chaos.”

And Wilbur, still a little stunned, sat down heavily on the couch, trying to decide if this was the best idea he’d ever had… or the worst.

The conversation at the flat shifted quickly once Nathalia wandered off to excitedly ramble about photo ops.

Wilbur, Joe, Ash, and Mark leaned in around the scratched-up coffee table, papers and phones scattered everywhere.

"Okay," Mark said, tapping his pen against his notebook, "we need to figure out the logistics. Uploads, scheduling posts, video stuff—"

"—so people don’t think we fell off the planet," Joe chimed in, stretching back in his chair, "even if we kinda are."

Ash's text-to-speech chimed from their phone:

"Pre-schedule everything."

"Right," Wilbur agreed, pulling out his own battered laptop. "We can record a few acoustic versions. Maybe film a little something at the airport too."

They all nodded, and the energy shifted — that same chaotic but productive buzz they always seemed to summon when they really cared about something.

After a long search full of bickering over luggage allowances and the inevitable loss of one passport, they finally booked their plane tickets. Joe threw his arms up triumphantly. "We’re actually doing this!"

But then came the train tickets.

Mark squinted at the site on his phone, then shook it like it was broken. "You—you can’t book it in advance?" he said, scandalized.

Wilbur, grinning, just shrugged. "Welcome to L’manberg travel, mate. First come, first served. Hope you can fight off a sheep for a seat."

Mark just let his head fall into his hands.

Eventually, they wrapped up. Wilbur packed the laptop away and grabbed his jacket, slinging it over his shoulder. As he slipped out the door, he caught a few words floating back from Nathalia, who was loudly describing her plans for "golden-hour selfies" and "#PastoralAesthetic."

Wilbur sighed long and deep into the chilly night air.

He walked home through the narrow streets, boots thudding against the wet pavement, past shuttered shops and old brick buildings. When he finally pushed open the door to the room, it creaked with a familiar, tired sound.

The air inside smelled faintly of mold and laundry detergent. Wilbur set his things down, rubbed his face with his hands, and allowed himself a small, nervous smile.

Wilbur sat at his small desk, a mug of cold tea forgotten at his elbow, and pulled out a clean sheet of paper. The dim lamp lit the page as he dipped his pen and started to write.

"Dear Phil,

I hope this letter finds you and everyone at the barn doing well.

I miss you all more than I can say.

I have some news—and it’s the kind I want to surprise everyone with, so if you could keep it quiet for now, I’d appreciate it.

We’re coming home.

Not just me.

I’m bringing my bandmates—Mark, Joe, and Ash. They’re good people, Phil. I think you’ll like them. They’re loud and weird and absolutely nothing like the town’s used to, but... well, neither was I once, and you took me in anyway.

Also, uh... there’s one more.

Her name's Nathalia. She’s sort of... tagging along. Long story.

Could you make sure there’s enough room for all of us?

Honestly, after the city, sleeping in the barn would feel like heaven.

I can’t wait to see you, Phil.

Please give my love to Techno, Tommy, George, and Sally.

(And tell Shroud to behave.)

Yours always,

Wilbur"

He folded the letter carefully, slipping it into an envelope and sealing it shut. For a moment he just sat there, thumb tracing the edge of the paper, heart thrumming with anticipation.

Soon, he thought again, this time with a real smile.

Soon I'll be home.

–

The morning air in London was brittle and grey, the kind of cold that slipped down the collar of your coat and made a permanent home there. Wilbur didn’t mind it so much today. He pulled his scarf tighter, slipping the neatly folded letter to Phil into his jacket pocket. His boots clacked softly against the wet pavement as he made his way toward the post office, weaving through slow morning crowds and the occasional honking car.

He posted the letter first. It was a little thing, really—a small, almost laughable gesture compared to the journey ahead—but as he slid it into the mailbox and heard the dull clunk of it landing inside, he felt lighter. As if with it, he’d already sent a piece of himself home.

He lingered a moment, hand on the red-painted metal, before turning back to the street.

Right,

he thought.
Gifts.

He wasn't sure why he wanted to bring something back for everyone. Maybe it was guilt for being away so long. Maybe it was just that he missed them more than he could say. Either way, it felt important—essential, even—that he not show up empty-handed.

He started at the market on the corner, the one he passed by every day on the way to the tube. There, tucked between a stall selling mismatched socks and another selling battered paperbacks, was a table covered in rocks. Polished, rough, some glittering in the weak sunlight, some dull and plain.

Wilbur smiled to himself.

Tommy would love this. He crouched down, picking through the pile until he found a stone just right—not too shiny, but not boring either. It was a rough grey stone, flecked with little chips of quartz that caught the light when it turned. It was just the sort of thing Tommy would pocket and treasure and probably name.

He paid the vendor a few coins, tucked the rock safely into his jacket, and continued on.

Next was George. That one was easy. He passed a tiny shop that sold nothing but sunglasses—rows and rows of them lined the walls, absurd and colorful and ridiculous. He could practically hear George’s dry voice complaining about the sun—or the lack of it—and the necessity of good sunglasses for a vampire’s delicate eyes.

He picked a pair of absurdly large white sunglasses. Perfect.

The shopkeeper, a tired-looking woman, didn’t even blink when he bought them, just rang him up and handed him a thin paper bag.

Two down.

Now Techno.

Wilbur wandered for a while, unsure of what he could possibly get his brother that would feel right. It wasn’t until he cut through a more touristy part of the city—bright shops full of Union Jack T-shirts and cheap snow globes—that he found it.

A crown.

It was gold, with jewels glinting along the rim. Completely ridiculous. Completely perfect. He picked it up and twirled it in his hands, imagining Techno wearing it with all the unbothered dignity he could muster.

He bought it without a second thought, cradling it carefully in his arms as he left the shop, already picturing Techno solemnly putting it on before tending to the pigs.

He chuckled under his breath.

Now Phil.

Phil deserved something better than a silly tourist trinket. He walked longer this time, scanning shop windows and kiosks, ignoring the hollow ache in his stomach from skipping breakfast. He was halfway across the city before he found it: a small jewelry booth tucked into the back of an open-air market.

Most of it was gaudy, glittery necklaces and chunky rings, but there, almost hidden in a dusty corner, was a bracelet.

Simple. Worn brown leather, with a small red heart charm pressed into the center.

Wilbur picked it up delicately. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t expensive. But it felt real, like the kind of thing Phil would wear every day without even thinking about it.

He paid the vendor and slipped the bracelet into his pocket, feeling suddenly very full—of what, he wasn’t sure. Gratitude, maybe. Or hope.

Finally, Tubbo.

And Tommy, again. (He figured Tommy wouldn’t mind two gifts.)

He was passing a toy store when he spotted them: walkie-talkies.

Old-fashioned ones, clunky and a little scratched. The kind you had to press a button on and yell into, the kind with static crackling at the edges of every word.

He grinned so hard his cheeks hurt.

Tommy and Tubbo would love these. They would wreak absolute havoc with them.

He bought the set and cradled the box under his arm, the day’s haul starting to feel pleasantly heavy.

-

He took the long way home, letting his feet wander through familiar streets he would soon leave behind.

He crossed the bridge where he and Mark had once leaned over the railing and debated the meaning of life (Mark insisted it was “vibes”). He passed the alley where he and Joe had once gotten hopelessly lost and ended up at a concert they hadn't even known was happening. He even passed the park where Ash had taught him a trick for tuning a guitar by ear, sitting cross-legged under a crooked tree.

The city had taken him in. It had changed him. But it had never quite kept him.

He belonged somewhere else.

When he finally reached the flat, he was tired but happy.

He set the backpack down carefully by the door, pulled off his scarf, and stared out the window at the distant lights of the city.

Soon,

he thought again.

Soon he would be back where the stars were brighter, where the nights were quieter, where the air smelled like grass and firewood instead of car exhaust.

Soon he would be home.

And he couldn't wait to see the looks on their faces.

He took the gifts out of their bags and arranged them carefully on the table, smiling at the strange collection:

A rock for Tommy.

sunglasses for George.

A crown for Techno.

A leather bracelet with a heart for Phil.

Walkie-talkies for Tommy and Tubbo.

They looked ridiculous all spread out like that.

They looked perfect.

Chapter Text

Today was the day.

Wilbur had woken up long before the sun rose, the grey light of early morning creeping through the motel’s battered curtains. His room, once a cluttered collection of souvenirs from his life in London, now stood almost sterile: just his duffel bag, stuffed to the brim, sitting by the door.

He moved through the motions without thinking much. Pulling on his jacket. Lacing his boots. Checking, double-checking, that he hadn't left anything behind. The guitar case slung over his back felt heavier than it had when he'd first arrived in the city, and he smiled faintly at that. Maybe it wasn’t the weight of the guitar itself. Maybe it was everything else it carried now—songs, memories, mistakes, new beginnings.

He grabbed his bag and headed downstairs.

The motel lobby smelled faintly of cleaning solution and old carpet. The woman at the front desk barely looked up when he slid the key across the counter.

"Checking out?" she asked.

"Yeah," Wilbur said. "Thanks for everything."

She just nodded, and with that, he stepped out into the morning air.

It was cold and a little wet, like it always seemed to be, but Wilbur didn’t mind. His breath came in little clouds as he walked, the duffel banging against his hip with every step. He felt light. Ready.

He could almost hear the distant noise of the train station already, the clatter and buzz of the city he was about to leave behind.

As he moved through the streets, he found himself taking slower steps. He wasn't in a hurry, not yet.

He had planned it that way.

One final detour.

The park wasn’t even on the way to Mark’s place, not really, but Wilbur turned toward it anyway. He shoved his free hand into his pocket, ducking his head against the bite of the wind, and made his way through the winding side streets until the trees came into view.

It was a small park, barely a patch of green stitched into the city’s concrete skin. But it had meant something to him.

This was the place where he had sat under that crooked tree and played his guitar for the first time in the city.

Where he had met Joe, and later Ash.

Where he had first thought—maybe this could work. Maybe I could make something here.

Wilbur stood at the entrance for a moment, just watching.

The trees were bare now, stripped of their leaves by the winter winds. The grass was brown, the benches damp with mist. The little playground in the corner sat empty, a forgotten memory in the cold.

And still, it was beautiful.

He wandered in, boots squelching faintly against the muddy path, and made his way to the old tree at the centre. It looked even more crooked now than it had before, like it had aged a hundred years while he wasn’t looking.

He dropped his duffel at its roots and sat down, back against the rough bark.

For a moment, he closed his eyes and just breathed.

The city rumbled distantly—cars honking, someone shouting at a cab, the constant hum of life—but here, in this little pocket, it was quiet enough to think.

He thought about everything that had happened here.

The music.

The loneliness.

The nights spent wondering if he'd made the biggest mistake of his life.

And he thought about what was waiting for him.

Home.

Real home.

Wilbur opened his eyes and smiled, the kind of smile you didn't have to fake.

"See you around," he murmured to the park, pushing himself up and brushing off the damp from his jeans.

He grabbed his duffel, adjusted his guitar case, and headed back to the street.

The city buzzed around him, uncaring and busy as ever. But Wilbur felt removed from it now, like a ghost moving through a place that no longer held him captive.

He passed the little café where he'd sat drinking coffee and scribbling half-finished lyrics.

He passed the newsstand where he'd once bought a tourist map, lost and confused his first week here.

And then he turned the final corner and saw Mark’s place.

Already, he could spot Joe leaning against the railing outside, a battered backpack slung over his shoulder. Ash was there too, bundled in a jacket that looked about three sizes too big for him, shifting from foot to foot to stay warm.

Mark, of course, was pacing, checking his phone like a man obsessed.

Wilbur smiled, a sudden burst of affection filling him up.

These idiots. His idiots.

He picked up his pace, jogging the last few steps, duffel bumping against his side.

"Alright, alright," he called out. "No need to look so miserable. We're going home."

Joe grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. "Took you long enough, man."

"Had to make a pit stop," Wilbur said, glancing back once, just once, at the park down the street.

Mark looked up from his phone. "You ready?"

Wilbur tightened the strap of his guitar case and nodded, feeling the weight of everything he'd packed, everything he'd been carrying, and for the first time in a long time, it didn't feel heavy.

"Born ready," he said.

The others laughed, and together, they turned toward the tube station, dragging their bags behind them.

Ahead was the airport, the plane, and after that...

L’manberg.

Home.

Finally.

They met up with Nathalia at the airport, where she was waiting by the entrance with a huge suitcase that looked about half her size.

"Finally!" she chirped when she spotted them. "I thought you'd all chickened out."

Mark laughed under his breath, and Wilbur exchanged a look with Joe that said not for lack of trying.

"Come on," Mark said, hoisting his bag higher onto his shoulder. "Security's gonna take forever."

The airport was packed — families wrangling suitcases, businesspeople power-walking in sharp suits, children shrieking as they were dragged toward gates. Wilbur stuck close to his bandmates, weaving through the crowd like a school of nervous fish.

Security was exactly the hellscape they'd expected.

First, Ash got flagged for having too many guitar strings in his bag ("They're literally strings!" he protested to the very unimpressed agent), then Joe had to do the awkward spread-eagle pose because he forgot to take off his belt. Nathalia, of course, sailed through without a hitch, tossing her hair and flashing a blinding smile at the staff.

Wilbur sighed, shoving his boots back on after the scanner.

"Next time," he muttered, "I'm mailing myself in a box."

"You'd still get flagged for suspicious behaviour" Mark said, elbowing him lightly.

Once they were all put back together, they made their way to the airport food court. None of them had eaten properly that morning — nerves, excitement, chaos — and now the smell of sandwiches and coffee was enough to make Wilbur’s stomach growl loudly.

They ended up at a little deli stand.

Wilbur got a turkey and cranberry sandwich, Ash grabbed a veggie wrap, Joe somehow ended up with a full footlong sub, and Mark and Nathalia split a fancy chicken panini.

They perched awkwardly at a too-small table, suitcases piled around them like a barricade, scarfing down their food.

"This bread tastes like sadness," Ash texted after a bite.

"It's airport food," Wilbur said through a mouthful of turkey. "You're lucky it doesn't taste like jet fuel."

"Not even airborne yet and already suffering" Joe said dramatically, tossing his napkin onto the tray.

Soon, the loudspeaker crackled to life, calling their flight. The excitement buzzed through them again, a current they couldn't suppress.

At the gate, boarding was another mess of elbowing and awkward shuffling, but eventually, they found their seats.

Mark and Nathalia ended up together, seated by the window and middle seat respectively.

Nathalia was already chattering at Mark about how amazing her photo ops were going to be, flipping through her phone to show him "aesthetic inspo."

Wilbur, meanwhile, found himself in the middle seat a few rows back, squashed between Ash and Joe.

Ash was on the aisle, flipping through the safety card like he was cramming for a test.

Joe had his forehead pressed dramatically against the window, muttering something about "this tin can defying God."

Wilbur leaned back, letting the hum of the cabin wash over him.

He couldn't help it. He grinned.

They were going home.

The flight, mercifully, went smoothly. Wilbur dozed off somewhere over the Atlantic, waking only when Ash nudged him for the complimentary drinks cart. Joe managed to survive without launching into a full existential meltdown, and Nathalia only poked fun at Mark’s airplane movie choices three times.

By the time they landed at St. George Regional Airport in Utah, they were bleary-eyed but buzzing with excitement.

The wet heat of spring hit them like a slap the moment they stepped off the plane. It wasn’t unbearable, but it was a sharp contrast to the grey, misty chill they'd left behind in London.

"Alright, lads," Joe said, dramatically shielding his eyes from the sun, "I think I've perished. This is the afterlife. And the afterlife... has a suspiciously American accent."

Ash chuckled, stretching his arms over his head.

"Could be worse. At least it's not snowing."

Mark groaned, adjusting the strap on his duffel bag.

"Where’s the Starbucks? The McDonald's? Anything? I feel like we’ve landed in a parallel universe."

"Welcome to the real world," Wilbur said, grinning. His heart was hammering, in a good way. Familiarity lurked at the edges of everything—the dusty smell of the air, the distant hills rolling under the huge blue sky, even the way the airport only had two baggage carousels.

Nathalia, meanwhile, had already whipped out her phone and was snapping pictures like she was documenting a world wonder.

“Oh my god, the lighting here is insane!” she squealed, zooming in on a cactus planted outside the terminal.

Joe leaned over to Wilbur, muttering, "She’s gonna fill the plane ride back with cacti and dust pictures, isn’t she?"

Wilbur just laughed.

They gathered their things and caught the shuttle bus into town, bumping along roads that twisted between red-rock hills and scrubby desert flats. Nathalia kept pressing her face against the window, angling for the best photo shots.

Mark scowled every time they passed a sign for a local diner or gas station he didn't recognize.

"I need at least one corporate chain," he grumbled. "A beacon of civilization."

"You’re not in London anymore," Wilbur said, amused. His chest felt weirdly tight. Every curve in the road looked familiar now—the way the fences were built, the sag of the power lines, the scattered farmhouses off in the distance.

He was home. Not quite to L'manberg yet, but close enough that it buzzed under his skin.

Joe was slumped against his seat, periodically groaning whenever someone spoke in what Wilbur guessed was just a regular Utah accent.

"I can’t believe people actually talk like that," he whispered dramatically. "I thought it was a joke."

Ash just shrugged, headphones halfway in, quietly nodding along to some music.

Wilbur caught a glimpse of a distant rocky plateau he remembered climbing once as a kid, and the nostalgia almost bowled him over.

He pressed his forehead lightly against the window, hiding a smile.

Just a little longer now.

The bus pulled to a dusty stop in the middle of what looked like—at least to the city-raised members of Lovejoy—absolutely nowhere. A single sign swung lightly in the breeze: St. George Station.

The building was small, rustic, and tucked between a pair of sandstone ridges. The platform looked like it hadn't seen fresh paint in decades. There were only two sets of tracks.

"This is it?" Joe said, adjusting his guitar case awkwardly.

Wilbur just grinned.

"This is it."

Inside, it was even smaller—a little ticket booth, a couple of wooden benches, and a corkboard cluttered with flyers advertising farm equipment, dance nights, and lost goats.

Wilbur went up to the old lady at the ticket counter and ordered five one-way tickets to L'manberg. The woman behind the counter squinted at him for a second—then broke into a broad, toothy smile.

"Well, I'll be damned" she said. "Little Wilbur Soot, back from the city!"

Wilbur laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks flushing pink.

"Yeah, ma’am. Back for a while."

She printed the tickets on a loud, clunky machine, the paper warm and slightly damp when she handed them over.

"Y'all enjoy the ride now. L'manberg’s still there waitin' for ya."

He pocketed the tickets and turned back to the others—only to realize they were attracting a lot of stares. Old men in boots and cowboy hats, women in denim skirts and sun hats, a group of kids gnawing on jerky sticks—they were all looking.

Mark shifted uncomfortably, clutching his duffel bag a little closer.

"Wil, mate... why is everyone staring?"

Wilbur glanced down. Right. They still looked like a rock band from London. Tight jeans, big jackets, Doc Martens, piercings, funky hairstyles.

He sighed, reached into his bag, and pulled out the bundle he'd kept ready for this moment: his old country clothes. A soft button-up shirt, worn jeans, sturdy brown boots, and a battered leather jacket.

He disappeared into the bathroom and changed quickly. When he stepped back out, he could feel the difference.

The stares softened. People nodded at him. A few even tipped their hats.

Joe stared at him, wide-eyed.

"Bloody hell, man. You look like a... like a rancher."

"Good," Wilbur said, adjusting his jacket with a small, private smile. "I'm home."

The sound of a loud chug-chug echoed from down the tracks.

They turned to see the train arriving—and it looked straight out of an old western movie. It was small, painted deep green, the windows rounded and the cars clanking like they were built before the invention of electricity.

"YOOOO," Joe shouted, grabbing his phone. "This is sick!"

Ash and Mark were gawking, too. Even Nathalia, ever the photographer, was frantically snapping pictures of the locomotive, the steam hissing out from under it in billows.

They piled onto the train, clattering up the metal steps. Inside, it smelled faintly of oil and wood polish. The seats were worn leather, the windows had curtains you had to tie back, and there were luggage racks made of real iron.

Joe dropped into a seat and kicked his boots up on the opposite bench.

"This is amazing. It’s like the Hogwarts Express... but, y’know, country."

Wilbur laughed and tucked their tickets into the slot above their seats.

Then, with a groan of metal and a slow, painful jerk, the train started moving.

At about five miles an hour.

"Is it broken?" Nathalia asked after a full minute.

Mark leaned out the window, stared at the barely moving scenery, and slumped dramatically into his seat.

"This is so slow. I could walk faster."

Joe cracked up.

"I think I actually aged a year already."

Ash just shrugged.

"At least we can enjoy the view?"

Wilbur, meanwhile, was practically shaking with excitement. His hands trembled where he gripped the seat. His knees bounced. His whole body felt like it was vibrating with anticipation.

Every turn of the wheels was taking him closer. Closer to home. Closer to the barn. Closer to the memories stitched into the fields and the dusty roads and the wide, starlit skies.

He pressed his forehead to the cool glass window, grinning like an idiot.

"Just wait" he whispered, mostly to himself. "Just wait until you see it."

And so the train rumbled on, slow and steady, carrying Wilbur and his bandmates toward a town the rest of the world had long forgotten—but Wilbur never had.

He was almost there.

Almost home.

The train screeched to a slow, aching stop.

The conductor—a man who looked like he’d been glued to that seat since the late 1800s—gave them a friendly wave before coughing into his handkerchief and pulling away again, leaving a trail of steam behind.

Wilbur slung his duffel over his shoulder and stepped down onto the platform.

If you could call it that.

It was a single, cracked slab of concrete surrounded by fields that stretched out in every direction, the snow melting in thick, dirty patches. Mud squelched underfoot. In the distance, cows mooed lazily, standing knee-deep in what was unmistakably... well, let's just call it "organic material."

Joe was the first to speak.

"Oh my god" he whispered, staring at the endless horizon of sludge. "Oh my actual god."

Wilbur gave him a look, before muttering "we don't say god roun' here"

Mark stepped onto the platform, looked down at his once-white sneakers sinking into the mud, and made a sound like a dying animal.

"This is hell. We've died. We’ve died and this is hell."

Ash stepped off more cautiously. He took one long, stunned look at the landscape—the cracked dirt roads, the crooked fences, the brown snow—and then, very calmly, pulled a small notebook and a pen from his coat pocket.

He scribbled something quickly and held it up.

“no.”

Joe bent over laughing.

Nathalia hopped down last, managing to land on a dry patch, but the moment she looked around, her nose wrinkled like she'd just walked into a sewer.

"This is..." she tried, adjusting her designer coat. "This is not what I pictured."

Wilbur, meanwhile, could not have looked prouder.

He marched forward, boots stomping confidently through the muck, a broad grin on his face.

"Welcome to L'manberg!" he announced, arms spread wide. "My hometown!"

Behind him, the others huddled together like soldiers preparing to march into battle.

Joe tried—and failed—to get signal on his phone.

Mark was staring at his phone, walking in slow, confused circles, holding it up as though he might catch a signal if he just pointed it in the right direction. “No WiFi? No cell service? How do people live?” wilbur began grinning internally.. These fools had no idea.. Besides maybe mark who he called looking for fire-

Mark checked the public restroom building, which had a hand-painted "OUT OF ORDER" sign dangling off the door.

"No running water either" he muttered.

Ash wrote a new sign.

"this was a mistake"

And the worst part was the smell.

It was a rich, pungent blend of wet hay, livestock, woodsmoke, and mud. It hit them like a wall.

Joe yanked his shirt up over his nose.

"I'm going to die here."

Wilbur only chuckled, trudging ahead, leading his miserable bandmates off the platform and onto the muddy road.

He didn't look back once.

The old fields rolled on around them, the fences bowed and splintered, the occasional weather-worn barn visible in the distance. Horses grazed in the pastures, raising their heads lazily as the strangers passed by.

No cars.

No shops.

No crowds.

Just the wide, heavy silence of a town forgotten by the world.

Mark trudged along, mud coating the cuffs of his jeans, grumbling the whole way.

"I left my apartment for this," he muttered. "I had a microwave, Wilbur."

Joe slipped and nearly ate dirt, saved only by grabbing onto Ash’s arm—who looked ready to fling him into the mud out of pure spite.

Wilbur smiled up at the gray sky, feeling lighter than he had in months.

The city noise, the constant demands, the endless neon—all of it melted away with every step into the heart of the countryside.

He breathed in deep.

It smelled like home.

He looked back at his miserable friends, their expensive coats splattered with mud, their faces a portrait of betrayal, and grinned even wider.

"Come on," he called cheerfully.

"It's just a little further."

Joe turned, trying to head back toward the platform, but Ash grabbed the back of his jacket and shoved him forward.

"Traitors," Joe muttered.

Nathalia had given up on photos for now and was delicately picking her way along the road like she thought the mud might bite her.

They moved slowly, feet heavy with grime, until the roofs of L'manberg finally began to appear on the horizon.

Small houses, many of them wooden, stood scattered across the landscape, smoke curling from a few chimneys. A church bell tolled faintly in the wind.

Joe stared.

"That's it?"

"That's it," Wilbur said proudly.

No lights.

No paved streets.

No Starbucks.

Just L'manberg, exactly as Wilbur remembered it.

“This is insane,” Joe muttered, yanking his coat tighter around him. “Where’s the road? The actual road?”

“You’re standing on it,” Wilbur said with a smirk, watching Joe’s expression twist in horror. The thin path of compacted dirt, riddled with pebbles and patches of ice, was a far cry from the paved streets they were used to.

“Mate, where are the cars?” Mark chimed in, rubbing his gloved hands together for warmth. “I’ve not seen a single car since we got off the train.”

Wilbur shrugged. “L’Manberg doesn’t really have cars.”

“Then how do people get around?” Nathalia asked, tucking her golden hair into the scarf she’d wrapped around herself.

“They walk” Techno’s voice came from up ahead. He had been waiting for them, leaning casually against an old wooden fence that separated the path from an empty field. His presence had gone unnoticed in the shadow of the trees, but as soon as he spoke, the band all startled, taking an instinctive step back.

“Jesus Christ,” Joe exhaled. “Do you always sneak up on people like that?”

“Yep.” Techno gave a nod to Wilbur. “Took you long enough.”

Wilbur grinned. “Had to drag these city folk through the wilderness.”

The band exchanged glances but trudged forward, boots sinking slightly in the mud. As they neared Phil’s barn, the scent of woodsmoke thickened in the air. The warmth of it, the familiarity of it, sent a deep ache through Wilbur’s chest. He had missed this.

Then, the barn door swung open, and Phil stood there, arms crossed, eyes sharp as they landed on his son. There was a pause—just long enough to make Wilbur’s throat tighten—before Phil broke into a wide grin.

“Wil” he breathed, stepping forward and pulling Wilbur into a tight hug. The band watched, slightly stunned, as the older man held Wilbur like he thought he might disappear.

“You lot look ridiculous” Phil muttered into his shoulder. “Those clothes… city boys.”

Wilbur laughed, voice shaky with emotion. “Good to see you too, Dad.”

When Phil finally pulled back, his gaze flicked to the others. He studied them, one by one, eyes sharp yet not unkind. The band straightened under his scrutiny.

“These your friends?”

Wilbur nodded. “Yeah. This is Mark, Joe, Ash, and Nathalia.”

Phil’s lips twitched. “Well, you lot better come inside before you freeze.”

The moment they stepped through the door, everything changed. The city-dwellers were hit with the reality of L’Manberg life.

The first offense: the lack of electricity. The single candle burning in the corner, the dim firelight casting flickering shadows across the wooden walls—it was all too much.

“What the—?” Mark whispered, eyes scanning the room. “Where are the lights?”

“Right there,” Wilbur said, gesturing to the oil lamp hanging near the fireplace. Joe let out a strangled noise.

The second offense: the lack of running water. Mark had barely set his bags down before asking where the bathroom was, only to nearly faint when Wilbur gestured toward the back door.

“You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

Nathalia, meanwhile, was circling the room, staring at everything like she had stepped into a historical reenactment. “I… I don’t understand. Where’s the—like, the appliances? The microwave? The fridge?”

Wilbur smirked. “You think Philza Minecraft needs a microwave?”

Phil, overhearing, chuckled. “I can make better food over a fire than you ever could with some fancy machine.”

Chapter Text

The comforting smell of stew drifted through the cool afternoon air, thick and rich with spices and vegetables, as Phil stood over the old iron pot suspended above the open fire pit. He gave it a few slow stirs, the wood of the ladle worn smooth from years of use.

He wiped his hands on his apron and nodded toward the house.

“Call Tommy in, would ya? Dinner’s almost ready.”

Wilbur’s heart swelled in his chest as he jogged toward the barn where a familiar racket echoed from within.

Before he could even get a full shout out, Tommy exploded from the doorway at top speed.

“WILBURRRR—!”

Wilbur barely had time to brace before Tommy practically tackled him, throwing his arms around his waist and knocking him back a step into the mud.

Wilbur laughed, stumbling but managing to stay upright, ruffling Tommy’s messy hair roughly.

“Alright, alright, calm down ya gremlin—!” he said, trying to peel him off.

Tommy clung for a second longer before letting go and whipping around to face the strangers behind him.

Mark, Joe, Ash, and Nathalia all stood frozen in various states of exhausted horror.

Tommy squinted at them, then crossed his arms with an expression of great offense.

“I told you to bring me gifts back" he announced loudly. “Not slaves.”

Mark made a noise somewhere between a choke and a gasp.

Joe doubled over laughing.

Ash just wrote on a page of his notebook: "technically not wrong" and held it up without a word.

Wilbur facepalmed.

“No, Tommy, these are my bandmates. And Nathalia.”

Tommy looked unimpressed.

He squinted closer at them like he was inspecting livestock.

"Don't look very impressive," he muttered, sticking his finger toward Joe like he was picking out a particularly weak chicken.

"This one looks like he'd die if he touched a cow."

"He's not wrong," Joe said solemnly.

"Oi, leave 'em alone," Wilbur said, cuffing Tommy lightly on the back of the head.

"They’re guests."

Tommy rolled his eyes dramatically but started walking toward the fire anyway, dragging his boots through the mud as if to protest the very idea of manners.

Wilbur shook his head and motioned for the others to follow.

As they neared the house, the golden light from the windows spilled onto the muddy yard, and the smell of cooking stew and fresh bread only grew stronger. Phil stood by the fire, grinning as they approached, one hand steadying the heavy pot.

“C’mon in, lads—and lady,” he added with a respectful tip of his head to Nathalia, who tried—and failed—to avoid sinking deeper into the mud in her expensive boots.

Joe leaned in to Ash and whispered, “If I die here, tell my parents it was mud-related.”

Ash nodded gravely.

Wilbur couldn’t stop smiling.

He was home.

The long wooden table creaked under the weight of the meal Phil had prepared. The centerpiece, naturally, was a massive iron pot filled to the brim with thick, steaming stew. Chunks of potato, carrot, onion, and tender meat bobbed just beneath the surface of the rich, brown broth. Beside it were baskets of rough, hand-torn bread, a crock of butter, and a scattering of pickled vegetables in glass jars. The windows steamed up with the sheer warmth and smell of it all, snow still dripping off boots by the door.

Wilbur breathed it in with a smile that hurt his cheeks.

This was home. This was real food. This was the life he'd missed more than he even realized.

Phil stood at the head of the table, ladle in hand, and gestured broadly. "Alright! Everyone grab a seat."

Mark, Joe, Ash, and Nathalia exchanged wide-eyed glances, moving like they were approaching a guillotine instead of a dinner table. Mud was still crusted on the hems of their jeans from the walk across the fields. Joe's shoelaces had simply snapped somewhere along the way. Ash had stopped talking entirely after they'd disembarked the train, communicating solely through scribbled notes on scrap paper like a traumatized war survivor.

Tommy flopped into his chair dramatically, immediately kicking his muddy boots up onto the edge of the table.

"Get your damn boots off the table," Phil grunted, smacking Tommy lightly on the back of the head with the ladle. Tommy cackled and did not move his boots.

Techno dropped into his seat with a thump, a massive book tucked under one arm. He set it aside carefully before leaning forward, sniffing the stew. His nose twitched approvingly.

"Smells good," he muttered.

Phil beamed, ladling stew into thick, wooden bowls and passing them down the line. When he reached the newcomers, he hesitated slightly.

Joe leaned over. "Is that blood in it?" he hissed.

Wilbur shrugged cheerfully. "Maybe!"

Before they could properly panic, Phil set full bowls in front of each of them. Then he stepped back from the table, cleared his throat, and raised his arms horizontally at his sides — perfectly, solemnly.

The room immediately fell silent. Tommy, Techno, and Wilbur mirrored the pose automatically, faces serious. Phil closed his eyes.

Mark, Joe, Ash, and Nathalia stared.

"We pray to Prime," Phil intoned.

"We pray to Prime," the others echoed.

"We thank Him for food, for family, for fate!" Phil declared, voice rising as if giving a speech to a grand cathedral. "May we work with pride, listen with fairness, and forgive without faltering. Pogchamp"

"Pogchamp" said Tommy, making a small T-pose again for good measure.

"Pogchamp" murmured Techno, already reaching for the bread.

Mark was halfway between copying the T-pose and pretending to scratch his head, his face frozen in polite horror. Joe looked like he had seen God — and regretted it. Ash scribbled frantically on a piece of paper under the table: what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck.

Nathalia was smiling nervously, snapping a discreet photo of the T-posing ceremony on her phone under the tablecloth.

Phil clapped his hands together and sat down. "Alright! Eat!"

Mark hesitated. So did Joe. And Ash. And Nathalia.

Phil looked at them.

They smiled awkwardly.

“What is that?” Joe asked, peering into the bowl as if it might bite him.

“Stew,” Wilbur said proudly. “Phil’s specialty.”

Ash signed something quickly. Wilbur translated. “He says it smells… unique.”

“You’ll love it,” Phil assured

Joe poked at his with a spoon. “What’s in it?”

Phil shrugged. “Whatever we had.”

The band stared at their bowls.

"We're, uh... fine, thanks," Mark said weakly, nudging his bowl an imperceptible inch away from him.

Phil's smile vanished. He did not say anything. He merely… stared at them. The fire crackled behind him. Outside, a crow cawed.

Techno slurped loudly from his bowl, filling the silence.

Phil continued to stare.

"You’re gonna eat," Phil said, very quietly.

Joe laughed nervously. "Hah, well, y'know, we had sandwiches at the airport, so we’re actually pretty—"

"Eat."

This time it wasn't a suggestion.

It was a Prime-commanded decree.

Mark, Ash, Nathalia, and Joe, synchronized like professional swimmers, picked up their spoons and began to eat.

Joe coughed. Mark’s eyes watered. Nathalia visibly recoiled.

“It’s—um—” Nathalia forced a smile. “So… rustic.”

“It’s an experience,” Mark muttered under his breath.

Phil clapped Wilbur on the back. “Glad someone appreciates real food.”

Joe swallowed, face unreadable. Mark grimaced. Nathalia blinked twice. Ash looked at his bowl like it had personally wronged him.

Phil, satisfied, leaned back in his chair and ripped a hunk of bread in half, handing one piece to Tommy without even looking.

Wilbur was hiding a grin behind his hand, pretending to study his stew very seriously.

"So," Phil said, conversationally. "How long you lot staying?"

Mark coughed politely. "Uh. Couple months. Maybe a little less if we—uh, if our work—"

Phil nodded approvingly. "Good. You'll have time to help with spring planting then."

Mark choked on his stew.

Tommy leaned forward eagerly. "We got horses now! Like, a whole herd! You gotta see 'em."

Techno spoke up from the end of the table, his voice a gravelly rumble. "Also expanded the potato field. You should take a look. Prime-blessed soil. Top quality."

Joe had abandoned his spoon and was now just... poking at the stew with the end of his bread, as if trying to determine if it was still alive.

Wilbur shouveled stew into his mouth with the speed of a man who had lived off Motel microwaves for far too long. It was heaven — rich, hearty, perfectly salted. The potatoes were soft but not mushy, the carrots sweet, the meat tender enough to fall apart on his tongue. Every bite tasted like childhood, like home, like something he thought he'd left behind but found waiting for him again.

He glanced up. His bandmates were clearly struggling.

Mark was chewing slowly, carefully, as if he were afraid of setting off a trap. Joe had a look of resigned determination, his gaze distant. Ash was still writing frantic notes under the table. Nathalia was the only one pretending to enjoy herself, and even she was just taking minuscule sips of broth like it was poison.

Phil watched them all with twinkling eyes, clearly entertained.

Wilbur kicked Joe lightly under the table. "It's good, right?"

Joe gave him a long, betrayed stare.

Tommy snickered, kicking his feet under the table like a child who’d gotten away with something.

Eventually, bowls started to empty. Bread was devoured. Butter smeared across every available surface.

As the evening wore on, the initial culture shock softened. The warmth from the fire, the smell of fresh bread, the sound of the snowstorm outside tapping at the windows — it all built a cocoon around them. An undeniable sense of peace settled in the room. A feeling that maybe, just maybe, this weird, muddy, Prime-worshipping little village was exactly what they needed after all.

Wilbur leaned back in his chair, full and content, listening to Tommy ramble about naming every spider on the farm, Techno describing in excessive detail his latest irrigation improvements, and Phil complaining about a neighbouring farm trying to steal their goats.

He watched Mark relax a little. Watched Ash finally scribble ok food actually on a scrap of paper. Watched Joe lean back and close his eyes with a groan that meant "I hate this" but sounded suspiciously like "this isn't so bad."

Even Nathalia, now curled up in her chair like a cat, finally put her phone away and just... existed.

Wilbur smiled.

He was home.

As the last spoonful of stew disappeared and everyone slumped in their chairs in various stages of full, horrified, or resigned, Wilbur wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and turned to Phil.

"Hey, uh," he said, voice dipping a little softer, "where's Sally?"

Phil, who was in the middle of buttering another piece of bread for himself, nodded toward the back door. "Probably out in the fields behind the house. She took a liking to that old clover patch, remember?"

Wilbur practically launched out of his chair.

The legs of his chair scraped loudly against the wooden floor as he stood so fast his duffel bag thudded to the ground. His heart beat faster with a kind of wild anticipation he couldn’t quite explain. Without another word — not even looking back at the stunned faces of Mark, Joe, Ash, and Nathalia still awkwardly stuck at the table with Phil — he threw open the back door and disappeared into the crisp evening air.

Phil chuckled, low and fond. "He missed her more than he admits," he said, mostly to himself, as he spread butter thickly onto his bread.

The band, trapped now fully in Phil’s domain, exchanged wary glances.

"Right," Phil said, setting down his bread with finality. "Guess it's time to find you lot something decent to wear. Can't have you looking like lost city folk — you'll scare the horses."

Without further explanation, he stood and started rummaging through an old oak trunk by the wall, tossing shirts, vests, boots, and pants into a growing pile on the floor.

Phil, with the energy of a man absolutely determined to see things his way, had overturned two trunks and one ancient wardrobe onto the living room floor. Clothes were everywhere — piles of faded linen shirts, thick wool trousers, sturdy boots, bonnets, aprons, corsets, and the odd tablier (a heavy linen half-apron that tied at the waist). Dust floated lazily in the golden light from the windows, giving everything a hazy, chaotic look.

Mark stood there, holding what could only be described as... pantaloons. He stared at them like they might bite.

"You're joking," he said flatly.

"Nope," Phil said cheerfully, tossing him a rough-spun shirt with laces up the chest. "Get changed. We can't have you looking like a bunch of city rats, not in my house."

Ash had already resigned himself to death. He was pulling a plain white shirt over his head, paired with brown trousers that tied at the waist with a string instead of buttons or a zipper.

Joe, however, was putting up more of a fight.

"Mate," he said, holding up what looked like a homespun vest, "I feel like I'm about to get drafted into a production of Les Misérables."

Phil just laughed and shoved a wide-brimmed hat onto Joe's head.

"You'll live," Phil said. "Besides, you'll thank me. These clothes are made for real living. Not that flimsy nonsense you lot wear."

Joe gave him a withering look but started changing anyway, muttering curses under his breath the whole time.

Nathalia, however, had drawn the shortest straw.

Phil, grinning with all the mischief of a father torturing his children with dad jokes, had plucked a corset and tablier out of the pile and held them up to her like a prize.

"Here. You'll need these."

Nathalia looked at them. Looked at Phil. Looked back at the corset.

"No," she said flatly.

"C'mon, it'll look nice! You’ll fit right in!"

"I am not," she declared, crossing her arms tightly across her chest, "wearing a corset and a frilly apron to trudge through mud and horse shit."

Mark, now struggling to lace up the heavy boots Phil had thrown at him, couldn't help but bark out a laugh. "Nathalia, you can’t even survive without Instagram, and you’re worried about the corset?"

She shot him a murderous glare.

Ash, dressed like an extra in a Victorian farming documentary, slowly scribbled something down on the notepad he’d started carrying instead of speaking:

Death would be preferable to this outfit.

Joe, meanwhile, was attempting to get the trousers to sit properly on his hips and failing miserably. Every time he bent over to fix one end, the other side would sag.

"These trousers have a vendetta against me," he hissed.

"You'll get used to 'em," Phil said, utterly unconcerned. He was tying an old red kerchief around Ash’s neck now, nodding approvingly. "See? Look at that. Proper farmhands, all of ya."

Mark, somehow managing to look the least uncomfortable, adjusted the suspenders holding up his trousers. "I feel like I should be churning butter or something."

"You will," Phil said. "If you stick around long enough."

There was a long pause as the band processed that.

Nathalia yanked on the tablier with pure, murderous rage in her movements, muttering under her breath about the "hellhole" Wilbur had dragged them to.

Joe finally gave up on the trousers and just stood stiffly, arms awkwardly at his sides, looking like he might snap at any moment.

Mark ran a hand down his face, his own clothes making him look like a particularly miserable blacksmith's apprentice.

Ash wrote another note and held it up:

Our tombstones will read: 'Died of rustic shame.'

Ash just flipped the page of his notebook and started doodling a noose.

Phil, who had dealt with teenagers and farmhands all his life, merely smirked and turned toward the kitchen to check on the stew.

"You'll thank me later!" he called.

The four of them, now thoroughly humiliated, stood in silence in the middle of the cluttered living room, dressed like unwilling extras in some 1800s period drama gone wrong.

Mark muttered under his breath, "Wilbur is dead to me."

Joe nodded grimly. "Dead."

Ash held up another note:

Executed at dawn.

Nathalia tugged at her corset, grumbling. "I don't care how much he smiles at me — he’s paying for this."

They all stood there, broken and defeated, as Phil's cheery whistling echoed from the kitchen.

And somewhere outside, Wilbur — blissfully unaware of the disaster unfolding inside — was running across the fields, heart full, face bright with anticipation, heading straight for Sally.

The night air was thick with the scent of damp earth and melting frost, the crispness of early spring making Wilbur’s breath visible as he strode through the fields. The moon hung low, a silver coin pressed into the deep blue velvet of the sky, casting long, stretched shadows across the land he knew as home. Every step felt like peeling back the layers of time, every inhalation filled his lungs with a sense of something deeply, intrinsically his.

And there—just beyond the last gate, where the land stretched into gentle sloping hills—was Sally.

She stood with her back to him, her long coat barely concealing the shiver that rippled through her form. The field beyond her was quiet, save for the distant sound of an owl hooting somewhere in the trees. Wilbur stopped. For a moment, he just looked at her. Absorbed her. Memorized every detail. The gentle way the wind tugged at a stray lock of her hair, the rise and fall of her breath, the way her hands curled into fists inside her sleeves.

(i wrote this with merry go round of life playing in the background…consume this as intended) (play the song)

He was not a religious man—he had always said he was devoted to Prime, that he prayed, that he believed in the grand orchestration of things—but what he felt in that moment was something deeper, something carved into his very bones.

She turned, as if sensing him, and for one breathless second, they simply stared at each other. Then, her expression cracked wide open, and before Wilbur could react, she was running.

He barely had time to brace himself before she collided with him, arms wrapping tight around his torso, face buried in his chest. He stumbled back, but he did not care, because she was here and she was real and she was in his arms.

“Wilbur,” she whispered, voice muffled by his coat. “You’re home.”

And Wilbur, who had spent the past year convincing himself that he was chasing a dream—that music and travel and freedom were enough—felt something inside him shift into place.

“Yes,” he whispered. “I am.”

He pulled back just enough to see her face, to cup her cheeks in his hands, to trace the familiar angles with his thumbs. And then, without thinking, without hesitating, he kissed her.

The world shrank. It condensed into the pressure of her lips against his, the warmth of her breath, the way her fingers tangled desperately in the fabric of his coat. He kissed her as if the world was ending, as if everything he had ever been looking for had been waiting for him in this very field. And maybe it had.

Maybe it had always been Sally.

When they finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers, breathless. She was looking at him like she had never seen him before, like she had always known he would come back but had never quite believed it.

“Marry me,” Wilbur whispered, his voice hoarse, raw with certainty.

Sally let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. “What?”

“Marry me,” he repeated, firmer now. “Sally, I—” He exhaled sharply, pulling her closer. “I have spent the past year trying to convince myself that I could live without you. That I could find happiness in crowded bars and unfamiliar cities, in the applause of strangers and the thrill of music. And I did, for a time. I convinced myself that I was whole.”

Sally blinked up at him, wide-eyed, breath still coming in shallow bursts.

“But I was wrong,” Wilbur continued, voice trembling. “I was—Prime, I was so wrong. I have kissed someone else, I have loved no one else, I have thought of no one else but you. And now, standing here, in the place where I grew up, in the place where I was always meant to return, I see it clearer than I have ever seen anything in my life.”

He swallowed, gripping her hands tightly. “I don’t want to chase happiness anymore, Sally. I don’t want to wander through the world looking for something that has been waiting for me all along. I love you. I love you with everything I am, with every word I have ever written, with every note I have ever sung. And I want to spend the rest of my life proving it to you.”

Sally’s lips parted, a tremor passing through her fingers as they clutched his own. Her eyes shimmered, caught between laughter and tears. “Wilbur—”

“I’ll build us a house,” he barreled on, desperation laced in his voice. “I’ll travel the world declaring my undying love for you! I’ll wake up every morning before the sun rises just so I can make you tea the way you like it. I’ll write you love letters even when we’re old, even when we’ve spent years together, even when we’ve memorized every part of each other’s souls. I’ll never stop trying, Sally. I’ll never stop choosing you.”

A strangled sound left her throat, something between a sob and a laugh. “You’re such an idiot,” she whispered.

Wilbur grinned. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot.”

She exhaled sharply, and then—then she was nodding, then she was throwing her arms around his neck, then she was kissing him again, laughing against his lips as she whispered, “Yes, you absolute fool. Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.”

Wilbur let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He held her tighter, lifted her off the ground, spun her in a circle just to hear the sound of her laughter echo across the fields.

He was home. He was whole. And he would never leave again.

The barn was dimly lit, the soft glow of lanterns casting long shadows across the wooden walls. The scent of hay, old wood, and the lingering aroma of Phil’s stew filled the air. Wilbur stepped inside, his hand still clasping Sally’s as the door creaked shut behind them. The moment he entered, all eyes were on him.

Ash, Joe, Mark, and Nathalia sat huddled around the table, their expressions ranging from mildly disgruntled to outright despairing. Mark was fiddling with his dead phone, pressing buttons in vain, while Ash drummed his fingers against the table, looking uncharacteristically agitated. Joe had his arms folded, staring at nothing in particular, while Nathalia let out an exaggerated sigh and slumped back against the wooden chair.

“It’s official,” Mark muttered. “We’re in hell.”

Ash signed something rapidly, and Joe, rolling his eyes, translated. “Ash says, and I quote, ‘This is barbaric.’”

Wilbur snorted, stepping forward with Sally at his side. “You lot are acting like you’ve been deprived of water for days. It’s just electricity.”

Nathalia groaned. “Just electricity? Wilbur, I have an online presence. My followers will think I’ve died.”

Joe scoffed. “Maybe that’s for the best.”

Wilbur ignored them, his gaze flickering to Phil, who leaned against the counter, watching the group with barely concealed amusement. Techno, as always, stood silently in the corner, sipping a steaming mug of something dark and unidentifiable.

Clearing his throat, Wilbur tightened his grip on Sally’s hand. “I have an announcement.”

The group barely reacted. Joe continued staring at the ceiling. Mark kept pressing his unresponsive screen. Ash signed something that Joe didn’t bother translating. Nathalia, at least, tilted her head toward him in vague interest.

Wilbur rolled his eyes. “I’m getting married.”

That got their attention.

Mark’s head snapped up. Ash’s hands froze mid-sign. Joe blinked twice, slow and deliberate. Nathalia sat up so fast she nearly knocked over her chair.

“What?” Mark choked.

Wilbur grinned. “Sally and I are engaged.”

Silence. Then—

“No offense, mate, but didn’t you just get back?” Joe asked, frowning. “Like, today?”

Sally, who had been watching the scene with a mix of amusement and nervous anticipation, tightened her grip on Wilbur’s arm. “We’ve known each other since we were children,” she said. “We always knew we’d end up together.”

Nathalia blinked. “You’re serious.”

“Very.”

Ash signed something, and this time, Wilbur responded without Joe’s translation. “No, Ash, this isn’t a fever dream.”

Mark ran a hand down his face. “Mate. That’s—that’s mental.”

Wilbur chuckled. “Well, what did you expect? I never intended to stay in the city forever. This—” he gestured around the barn, at the rustic charm of it all, the warmth, the familiarity, “—this is home. I’ll tour and record with you, but my heart will stay here”

Nathalia let out a long, slow breath. “Well, damn.”

Phil, who had remained quiet during the exchange, finally pushed off from the counter and approached. “Congratulations, mate.” His voice was softer now, tinged with something warm and fatherly. “Sally, you know you’ll always be welcome here.”

Sally smiled. “Thank you, Phil.”

The tension in the room seemed to dissipate slightly. Techno, still silent, raised his mug in a quiet toast. Wilbur gave him an appreciative nod.

“Alright,” Phil clapped his hands together. “It’s late. I reckon you all should get some rest.”

Joe let out a groan. “Where?”

Phil raised an eyebrow. “You think this place comes with a five-star hotel?”

Nathalia, who had finally come to terms with their unfortunate lack of modern conveniences, sighed. “Please tell me we don’t have to sleep on hay.”

Wilbur laughed. “No, no hay. We’ve got proper beds. Well—somewhat.”

Joe looked suspicious. “Define ‘somewhat.’”

Wilbur turned toward the loft where the beds were. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

The group begrudgingly followed him, dragging their feet as though they were marching to their doom. Phil watched them go, shaking his head with amusement.

The attic was cozy, if a little cramped. There were two large beds pressed against opposite walls, a small sofa in the corner, and a rickety wooden ladder leading up to it. Where george had slept all those years ago. “This,” Wilbur gestured to one of the beds, “is where Ash, Joe, and Mark will be sleeping.”

Joe narrowed his eyes. “All of us? Together?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely not.”

Mark crossed his arms. “You expect three grown men to fit in that?”

“Yes.”

Joe muttered something under his breath about Wilbur being insufferable. Ash just sighed in silent defeat.

Nathalia, who had been eyeing the other bed, perked up. “What about me?”

Wilbur pointed to the sofa. “You get that.”

Nathalia scowled. “I hate you.”

Wilbur beamed. “I know.”

Sally, still holding onto his hand, looked up at him expectantly. “And us?”

Wilbur led her to the bed—a simple, well-worn thing in the corner, “This is ours.”

Sally gave him a small smile. “Home.”

“Home,” Wilbur echoed.

As the group finally settled in for the night, the barn creaked with the familiar sounds of L’Manberg. Outside, the wind howled softly against the wooden walls, the scent of the stew still clinging to the air. Mark, Joe, and Ash grumbled as they tried to fit themselves into the too-small bed. Nathalia curled up on the sofa with a disgruntled sigh. Wilbur and Sally, tucked beneath the quilt, lay facing each other, the warmth of their bodies melting away the last of the night’s chill.

As he drifted off, Wilbur thought—yes, this was home. And it always would be.

Chapter Text

The morning sun barely crested the hills, casting long gold and silver fingers across the misty fields of L’manberg. Inside Phil’s house, it was much less serene.

"Up! Come on, up, all of you!" Phil’s voice bellowed down the narrow, creaking hallway like the call of a war general rousing his soldiers.

Wilbur was already awake, sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of black coffee, grinning like a man who had been waiting years for this moment. His hair was messy, his sleeves rolled up.

He took a leisurely sip as he heard the groaning of the damned begin upstairs.

"Mark, if you don’t move, I’m getting the bucket!" Phil called.

"Noooooo," Mark whined faintly from somewhere in the depths of the guest room.

Nathalia’s voice followed, sharp and furious. "I swear to God if someone throws water on my hair—"

"Then move faster!" Phil barked back, utterly unsympathetic.

Footsteps thudded, doors slammed, curses were muttered under breath. One by one, the sorry, half-dead shapes of the band stumbled into the kitchen. All of them had been forcibly stuffed into what Phil declared their Sunday Best.

Mark shuffled in first, wearing a white collared shirt tucked into brown suspenders and scratchy wool trousers that itched just looking at them. He looked like he was on his way to a funeral. His own.

Ash followed, somehow even worse off: starched shirt, black waistcoat, and a neat little cravat tied at his throat. He moved like someone in mourning.

Joe appeared next, dragging his boots across the wooden floor, wearing a jacket that was three sizes too big and trousers that ended halfway up his calves. His shirt still had a faint rip near the elbow from yesterday’s battle with a barbed wire fence.

Nathalia was last, and she looked ready to kill. She had been shoved into a long skirt, stiff white blouse, and a blue shawl. Her hair had been pinned up loosely in a style more appropriate for 1890 than 2025. Her entire expression could be summed up in three words: I am seething.

Wilbur set down his mug and gave them all a look of polite admiration.

"You all look absolutely miserable," he said brightly.

"Good," Nathalia snapped, tugging at her sleeves.

Ash scribbled something on his ever-present notepad and held it up.

Call an ambulance. But not for him.

Phil paid no mind to the murderous glares being sent his way. Instead, he was happily bustling around the kitchen, handing out steaming bowls of porridge with the energy of a man who thought this was all perfectly normal.

"Breakfast, then church!" he said cheerfully, slapping a wooden spoon into the pot.

Mark took his bowl with a heavy sigh and dropped into a chair. "Why are we dressed like Victorian peasants going to a funeral?"

"It’s church" Wilbur said, still smiling smugly. "You dress up."

"But this—" Mark gestured vaguely to himself and the others, "—this isn’t dressing up. This is suffering."

Joe poked the thick, lumpy porridge with his spoon like it might be alive. "Is this even food?"

Phil gave him a look. "That porridge kept me alive for fifty winters, mate. You’ll be fine."

Ash sniffed his bowl once and promptly wrote:

I will simply perish.

Nathalia was still tugging at her collar, gritting her teeth. "I feel like I’m about to churn butter and then be married off to the neighbour’s eldest son for three cows."

Wilbur snickered into his coffee.

"Eat up!" Phil barked again, clapping his hands like a drill sergeant. "Big day ahead!"

Slowly, reluctantly, they all started eating. The porridge was bland, heavy, and stuck to the spoon like cement, but somehow, in some strange masochistic way, it was kind of...warming.

Ash was the first to crack, taking a second spoonful with a slight look of resignation. Then Mark, then Joe.

Nathalia held out the longest, poking and prodding and muttering until finally, Phil gave her a look so sharp she visibly flinched — and she shoved a spoonful into her mouth with the air of someone taking poison.

"This," she said thickly around the mouthful, "is a human rights violation."

Phil just beamed. "Good, means it's workin'."

Outside, the cold morning air pressed against the windows, promising a brisk walk to the church just over the ridge — a squat stone building with a crooked steeple and a bell that only rang when someone physically yanked the rope.

Inside, the little kitchen buzzed with tension.

Ash wrote another note and passed it around:

Escape plan: 1. Fake sudden illness 2. Hide in barn 3. Start new life as farm animals.

Joe nodded solemnly. "I'd make a great cow."

Mark sighed. "I'm pretty sure I'm halfway there already."

Wilbur, meanwhile, was thriving. He leaned back in his chair, rocking it onto two legs, looking like the smug hometown boy who had dragged his city friends out to see how real people lived.

"You lot" he said fondly, "are the softest, most spoiled group of people I’ve ever met."

"And you," Nathalia shot back, shoving her bowl away, "are a sadist."

Phil chuckled, completely immune to their suffering. "It builds character."

Mark muttered under his breath, "I'd rather build a time machine and go home."

Ash just flipped his notebook to a fresh page and drew a stick figure dramatically throwing themselves into a well.

Eventually, though — through sheer force of Phil’s will — the porridge was eaten, the dishes stacked, and the band, still grumbling and cursing, were herded toward the front door.

Phil pulled on his heavy coat and looked them all over, nodding like a general inspecting his troops.

"Good," he said, entirely serious. "You look presentable now."

Joe shoved his hands into his too-small jacket pockets. "I look like a Dickensian orphan."

"Character-building!" Phil barked again.

Wilbur couldn’t help himself — he let out a snort of laughter that he tried and failed to hide behind his hand.

Outside, the wind whipped across the fields, carrying the smell of damp earth and woodsmoke. The sun was higher now, gilding everything in soft, cold light. Snow still lingered in the shadows, stubborn patches of white against the awakening ground.

Phil grabbed the old leather-bound Bible from the side table by the door, tucked it under his arm, and gave a sharp whistle.

"Let’s go!"

One by one, like condemned men walking to the gallows, the band trudged out into the morning.

Wilbur followed at the back, smiling softly, breathing in the air, feeling more at home than he had in months.

And so, the most unwillingly dressed group of musicians to ever walk a muddy farm lane set off toward the old stone church, Phil at the front, whistling a hymn, Wilbur laughing quietly behind, and the rest muttering dark oaths under their breath, already planning their revenge.

The church sat nestled at the top of the ridge like an old, forgotten jewel — small, crooked, weathered by years of storms and sunlight. Its stone walls were half-covered in moss, the wooden door leaning slightly on its hinges. A modest iron bell hung in the little steeple above, swaying slightly in the breeze, letting out the occasional soft clank without ever truly ringing.

Wilbur’s heart leapt just seeing it. Home.

The others, less so.

Mark muttered, "I thought churches were supposed to be... bigger."

"More structurally sound," Joe added under his breath.

Ash only wrote a simple note and showed it to Wilbur:

Haunted.

Nathalia was already trying to sneak back down the hill when Phil turned and barked, "Oi! Inside, all of you!"

They grumbled and shuffled in, boots kicking up mud as they crossed the threshold. The inside was even smaller than expected — a single wide room, wooden pews polished by generations of hands, a stone floor worn smooth. It smelled like smoke, old paper, and the faint metallic scent of the cold air slipping in through the cracked windows.

"This is so... rustic," Nathalia said carefully, wringing her fingers.

Mark leaned over to Joe. "I think I just caught tetanus by looking at the walls."

Before any of them could make a break for it, Phil ushered them firmly toward the front — to his usual bench, the long, slightly warped one closest to the modest pulpit.

"This seems aggressive" Joe whispered.

Ash just sat down and immediately wrote:

We are hostages.

Wilbur was already busy waving — because now, the people of the town were flooding in, boots clomping, voices rising, arms outstretched.

An older woman with a broad hat threw her arms around Wilbur immediately, pressing him into a hug that left him coughing and laughing.

"Wilbur, my boy!" she cried. "Look at you! Thin as ever!"

Another man clapped him on the back so hard he nearly tipped forward. "Back for good, then, eh lad?"

"Finally got sick of that city nonsense?" someone else shouted.

The band sat there frozen, surrounded by muddy boots and hearty laughter and warm, calloused hands reaching out to shake Wilbur's, to clap his shoulders, to ruffle his hair as if he were still sixteen.

Joe leaned close to Ash and hissed, "Are they — are they touching him?!"

"They're all touching him," Mark whispered back in horror.

"Do you think it’s like a ritual?" Joe said. "You have to like... baptize yourself in hugs to stay here?"

Ash scrawled:

Wilbur’s been brainwashed. We’re next.

Nathalia, sandwiched between two particularly large farmers, looked like she might scream.

More and more people trickled in, and it wasn’t long before a whole crowd had formed around their bench. Wilbur was glowing, introducing everyone left and right.

"That's Mark, Ash, Joe, Nathalia," he said, pointing each of them out with a proud grin. "My mates from the city."

A small woman with long brown hair bounded up next — practically knocking into Joe's legs.

"Tubbo!" she shouted, grabbing a boy beside her by the shoulders. "Go say hi!"

Tubbo, probably around twelve, stepped forward with the confident grin of someone who had just eaten an entire bowl of sugar for breakfast. "You look weird," he said to Joe.

Joe blinked. "Uh. Thanks?"

"Tubbo!" the woman laughed. "Be nice!"

"I am nice," Tubbo argued, kicking the bench lightly with the heel of his muddy boot.

Wilbur laughed and ruffled Tubbo’s hair. "That’s Puffy," he explained, gesturing to the woman. "And her son, Tubbo. You’ll love 'em."

Before anyone could recover from Tubbo’s verbal assault, two more figures stepped into view.

"Hello" said a very, very tall boy with shaggy black hair, standing awkwardly behind a girl with pink tips to her blonde hair. She had a warm, open smile that made her seem like the most normal person in the room by default.

"Ranboo" Wilbur said, reaching up to give the boy a quick hug (or at least as much of a hug as one could manage at a height disadvantage), "and Niki."

Ash gave them a polite wave.

Ranboo ducked his head. "Sorry in advance for, like, everything," he mumbled.

Niki just grinned. "It’s not so bad here. Once you stop noticing the mud."

Mark looked down at his boots, already covered in a thick layer of brown gunk. He did not look convinced.

And then — as if the crowd wasn’t already overwhelming — another pair approached. Two young men, tall, blond and brown-haired respectively, walking with a swagger that only spelled trouble.

Wilbur straightened immediately.

"George," he said fondly, pulling the brown-haired boy into a brief hug. "And Dream."

Dream shook Wilbur’s hand with a warm clap. "We heard the rumours you were back. The whole town's been buzzing since Friday."

George, meanwhile, just raised an eyebrow at the band. "You brought tourists?"

"No" Nathalia said immediately. "We were kidnapped."

"Willingly," Wilbur corrected brightly. "Willingly kidnapped."

George snorted and shook his head, his necklace reflecting the beams of morning light that filtered through the cracks in the church windows.

Dream smiled lazily at the group. "You'll get used to it. Or you’ll leave. Either way, fun for us."

More greetings were shouted across the room. Someone rang the bell by yanking a long frayed rope with such violence that the whole building shook slightly.

Phil clapped his hands once. "Alright! That’s enough! Get to your seats!"

The townsfolk slowly peeled away, laughing and talking as they found their places on the pews. Some sat side-by-side, others perched awkwardly on the edges, passing around hand-knit shawls and scarves for the chill.

The band sat, stunned and overwhelmed.

Ash held up a new note:

We are in a cult.

Joe stared at the crowd, wide-eyed. "I think... I think they actually like each other here."

Mark shook his head slowly. "That’s not natural."

Nathalia, still rearranging her skirt furiously, muttered, "This place is a fever dream."

Wilbur just leaned back on the worn wooden bench, arms spread lazily along the back of it, a wide, content grin on his face.

Home.

The service hadn't even started yet, and already — the place buzzed with life, with warmth, with the simple, stubborn kind of love that came from knowing everyone in a ten-mile radius by name, birthday, and worst teenage mistake.

The band's phones were already losing battery.

The mud was already drying stiffly on their boots.

The air already smelled like woodsmoke and wildflowers.

And Wilbur wouldn't have traded it for anything.

The last of the church doors were pulled shut, muting the chatter to a low, expectant hum. The sunlight slanted through the warped glass windows, painting strange shapes on the old stone floor.

Then — a figure climbed onto the low wooden stage at the front of the church.

It was Sam. A large, good-natured man with broad shoulders and an equally broad, slightly lopsided grin. He tapped the old microphone perched on a stand (it let out a horrible screech) and then leaned in.

"Mornin', everyone!" he boomed. "Hope you're all well! Let's get started with the announcements."

A few people cheered faintly. Phil gave a polite clap.

"Right," Sam continued, rifling through a few papers he pulled from his jacket pocket. "First thing: rapeseed planting begins Monday. Bring your own seeds, or there’ll be a collection bin by the east fields. If you’ve got old boots or gloves, we could use 'em too."

Joe whispered to Ash, "What's rapeseed?"

Ash scribbled back:

Sounds made up.

"Second," Sam said, and his grin widened, "Wilbur's back!"

A full cheer rang through the church. People stomped their feet, clapped, whistled.

Wilbur, pink-faced, ducked his head and waved a little.

Sam leaned back to the mic with a twinkle in his eye. "And — he's engaged! To Sally!"

An even bigger cheer exploded, full of laughter and a few shouts of, "About time!"

Mark elbowed Joe. "Engaged in, what, four hours?" he hissed.

Joe shook his head, amazed. "Country speedrunning."

Sam waited for the noise to die down. Then he coughed, a little awkwardly, and added:

"Also... he brought some new folks with him. City types."

The enthusiasm in the room dimmed slightly, replaced with a polite but wary sort of murmuring.

Nathalia sat up straighter, pasting a fixed smile on her face. Ash looked ready to bolt.

Joe muttered under his breath, "We’re gonna get eaten."

"Be nice!" Sam warned the crowd with a wag of his finger. "Remember what happened last time someone was mean to newcomers? Prime struck their outhouse with lightning."

Several people laughed, and the tension lightened a bit.

Sam gave a satisfied nod and stuffed his papers away.

"Now" he said, smoothing a hand over his shirt, "onto the sermon."

The band sat up a little, exchanging nervous glances.

Sam's voice changed — softer, almost reverent.

"Be fair. Be kind. Be forgiving," he said, voice rolling over the pews like a warm tide. "Those are the laws to which you must abide. For the powerful god XD and goddess Kristen watch above, and from the moment your name has been written, they have begun looking out for you."

The room had fallen entirely silent, save for the occasional creak of the old wood under shifting bodies.

"To please them," Sam continued, "will grant you their guidance and love. To seek your own desires selfishly would gravely wound them."

Ash scribbled frantically on their paper and showed it to Joe:

Did he just say god XD

Joe scribbled back:

like. lowercase? xD?

lmao

Mark, for his part, looked like he was suppressing laughter purely out of survival instinct.

Sam folded his hands and bowed his head. "May we all remember."

"May we all remember," the congregation echoed solemnly.

And then — chaos.

The words were unmistakable:

"Pogchamp, let there be primes," the choir sang, sweet and earnest.

"Pogchamp, let there be primes."

And all at once, everyone in the building rose from their pews — and T-posed.

Wilbur shot to his feet effortlessly, arms held straight out, eyes closed in peaceful devotion.

Phil stood beside him, arms out like a solemn cross.

Even little Tubbo, now halfway perched on a pew, T-posed with grim determination.

George and Dream, clearly long-accustomed to this nonsense, stood proudly with their arms out.

And around them — the band.

Mark, Joe, Ash, and Nathalia stared around in frozen horror.

Nathalia mouthed, "What the actual f—" before Joe elbowed her sharply.

Ash slowly, awkwardly, raised their arms until they were halfway outstretched, looking like a very confused airplane about to crash.

Mark followed, arms stiff and unsure.

Joe tried to T-pose, but kept laughing under his breath.

"Are we being hazed?" he hissed out of the corner of his mouth. "This is a hazing ritual. It's gotta be."

"Maybe if we don't move, they won't see us," Mark whispered back.

Meanwhile, Phil cracked one eye open from his perfect T-pose and corrected softly, "Arms up, properly! Prime is watching!"

They all jerked their arms fully into place instantly.

The singing continued, echoing weirdly off the stone walls:

"Let there be primes. Pogchamp. Let there be primes."

Ash held up another note, arms trembling slightly:

This is like that one cult documentary.

Joe nodded, eyes wide.

Somewhere in the crowd, someone wept softly — either from joy or religious fervour. Or perhaps because their arms hurt. Hard to say.

Everyone slowly stopped, reverently, lowered their arms again.

Wilbur beamed, cheeks pink with pride.

"Good showing," Phil murmured approvingly to the group. "Prime saw your efforts."

Joe wiped imaginary sweat from his brow. "Oh, thank Prime."

Ash immediately wrote:

I have witnessed horrors.

"This isn't even the weird part yet," Wilbur whispered, grinning.

Mark paled. "What do you mean — the weird part?!"

The crowd was just beginning to settle again, wiping their eyes, when Sam stepped back up to the microphone.

"Now," he said, voice booming, "it’s spring, and you all know what that means!"

A low murmur of excitement rolled through the congregation. Wilbur sat up a little straighter, already smiling in anticipation.

Sam gestured broadly to Phil, who rose from his seat and ambled up onto the little stage. His coat was still dusted with flour from that morning's porridge-making, and he wore it proudly like a badge of honour.

"As per custom," Sam said, clapping a hand to Phil's back, "our good Philza has once again prepared the Spring Stew Potluck!"

The church roared in approval.

Wilbur clapped enthusiastically. George even gave a small whoop.

The band… less so.

Mark leaned toward Ash, eyes wary. "...Potluck stew?"

Ash grimaced. "Those two words should never be together."

Joe just looked like he was preparing himself mentally for death.

Meanwhile, from somewhere backstage, a few stocky teenage boys.. tommy, tubbo and ranboo came trundling out carrying huge ceramic pots. Steam billowed from them in thick, cloudy plumes. The smell hit like a sledgehammer — thick, sour, muddy.

It was not the smell of anything good.

It was the smell of damp fields and boiled sadness.

"Oh god," Nathalia whispered, gagging slightly. "Is that... feet?"

They all watched in slow horror as the pots were carried to the long folding tables that had been set up against the back wall. Ladles were dunked into the slop, and grayish-brown liquid with floating unidentifiable lumps was poured generously into waiting bowls.

"Mmm, hearty!" Tubbo said brightly, grabbing a bowl and already digging in with a battered wooden spoon.

Dream patted George on the back, pushing him toward the tables. "Come on, man. It’s tradition."

"Tradition is about suffering" George muttered grimly, but obeyed.

The band huddled together like hunted animals.

"We're gonna die," Joe said. "This is it. This is where we die. Not with a bang, but with... whatever that smell is."

Phil, having left the stage, wandered over to them with bowls already in hand. He thrust one at each of them with terrifying cheer.

"Eat up!" he said warmly. "Prime loves a grateful heart."

"Does Prime love... food poisoning?" Mark muttered under his breath, but accepted a bowl anyway.

The stew was worse up close.

It was vaguely green in parts, but also somehow a muddy orange elsewhere. Vegetables floated in strange half-shapes — a turnip here, half a sprouting potato there — and there was definitely something that looked suspiciously like a chicken foot sticking out from one ladleful.

Joe poked his stew with his spoon and watched it bounce.

"Is it supposed to jiggle?" he asked in terror.

Ash wrote a note and held it up miserably:

I think it’s sentient.

Still — around them, all the townsfolk were eating happily, chatting between mouthfuls. Children slurped it down by the handful. Puffy and Ranboo clinked spoons together like they were toasting with wine.

Phil gave them all a Look. The Look of a man who expected the stew to be eaten, and who would be disappointed if it wasn’t.

"Eat" he said simply.

"Yes, sir," Mark said with a tight, fake smile, and forced the smallest possible spoonful into his mouth.

It tasted like dirt.

It tasted like betrayal.

It tasted like every bad decision he had ever made, rolled into one bowl.

Across from him, Joe's eyes were watering violently. Ash was holding their nose. Nathalia was just quietly mumbling "mind over matter, mind over matter" as she took a minuscule nibble.

Phil nodded approvingly and wandered off to chat with the locals.

The band suffered in silence.

Meanwhile, Sam was making his rounds, shaking hands and laughing warmly. He reached Wilbur, clapping him hard on the back.

"Wilbur, mate!" he boomed. "Good to have you back. We gotta talk wedding dates, yeah?"

"Of course!" Wilbur grinned, ladling more stew into his mouth without flinching. "Me and Sally were thinking late spring — after the planting's done."

Sam beamed. "Perfect. Prime smiles on a June wedding."

Then Sam turned his sights on the group clustered around their stew bowls.

"And you lot," he said, fixing them with a hearty grin. "You thinking of joining the Church of Prime?"

The band froze like deer in headlights.

Ash scribbled frantically on a notepad:

DON’T SAY YES BY ACCIDENT

Joe coughed. "Uh, I mean, it's very... lovely here. Real nice."

"Blessed" Mark added lamely. "Very blessed."

"But we’re kind of... agnostic," Nathalia said quickly. "Real busy too. Touring. Bands. Cities. Noise."

"Prime accepts all" Sam said, still smiling. "But Prime favours those who listen."

There was a long pause.

"We’ll... definitely listen," Joe promised. "From a respectful distance."

Sam laughed, hearty and booming. "Fair enough! Fair enough!" He slapped Mark on the back so hard he nearly dropped his stew. "You’re still welcome at the potlucks!"

The band nodded, relieved.

And then had to return their attention to their slowly congealing bowls of doom.

"...I think mine just grew another foot," Joe muttered miserably.

Chapter Text

The old farmhouse was heavy with the scent of woodsmoke and early spring rain. The windows were steamed up from the roaring fire Phil had built, and outside, the muddy fields stretched endlessly under a low silver sky. It was cozy inside, though — an odd kind of cozy, the kind that seeped into your bones if you let it.

Wilbur tuned his battered acoustic guitar by the fire, sitting cross-legged on the rough woven rug. His bandmates lounged nearby — Mark sprawled on an ancient couch that wheezed when he shifted, Ash perched on the windowsill with a notepad in hand, and Joe picking at a loose string on a second guitar. Even Nathalia was there, curled in a chair with her phone shut off for once, pretending to read a book but actually watching them out of the corner of her eye.

And Sally — Sally sat close, cross-legged on the floor near Wilbur, her chin resting in her palm, smiling that quiet, steady smile that always seemed to know more than she said.

Wilbur cleared his throat lightly.

"Alright," he said, glancing around at them all. "I have something to show you. Something I've been working on since we got here."

Ash perked up. "New song?"

"New song," Wilbur confirmed.

The room leaned in, attentive. Even Nathalia set her book down.

Wilbur gave a small smile and began to play.

The first chords were soft but carried weight, simple and sure, the way only a song born in stillness could be. The notes hung thick in the warm air, settling into the cracks of the old wood and ancient furniture like they'd always belonged there.

And then Wilbur sang.

"I never was a fan of the internet

She never felt that safe in her own head

We both hate the news

There for the grace of God goes you

Smiling when I ask if she's bored yet..."

His voice was low, rough around the edges from the early morning, but steady. Full of something raw and real.

The band sat frozen.

Mark blinked slowly, as if unsure if he was really hearing what he was hearing.

Ash scribbled a frantic "holy shit" in their notebook and underlined it five times.

Joe had gone very still, his hand slack on the second guitar.

Nathalia tilted her head slightly, visibly intrigued despite herself.

Wilbur played on, his hair falling into his eyes, one foot tapping gently on the old rug to keep time.

"We wonder if we took it too far

Both taste confused

Darling, what am I to do?..."

The melody swelled — quiet, aching, beautiful — like it belonged to the fields outside, the muddy roads, the creaking wooden pews of the tiny church they'd sat in only hours before.

When the final chord rang out and faded into the warm hum of the fire, Wilbur lifted his head, breathless but smiling.

Silence.

Then—

"Bro," Joe breathed, "that's the one."

"It's so good" Ash said immediately, hopping off the windowsill. "That's the single. That's it. That's the one."

Mark let out a long, slow whistle. "Mate, where the hell have you been hiding this?"

Wilbur shrugged bashfully, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just... needed to be home, I guess."

Sally smiled at him — not wide, not showy, but so full of pride it made Wilbur's heart stutter a little in his chest.

"It's beautiful," she said softly. "It sounds like you."

That meant more to him than all the band's praise combined.

Ash flipped open their notebook. "Okay, okay, so: we need to work on harmonies, maybe a soft backing beat — like not a full drum kit, more like a tambourine thing —"

Joe strummed a few tentative chords on his guitar, trying to find the harmony. "What about a second guitar layer? Something clean and sparkly under it?"

"Maybe a bass line that's just thudding along like a heartbeat," Mark added. "Subtle but it keeps it moving."

They were off, building it out, tossing ideas like sparks in a bonfire, everyone talking at once —

Wilbur just sat back, watching them, his heart full to bursting.

This — this was what he'd wanted.

Not fame. Not money.

This messy, passionate, ridiculous group of people throwing their whole hearts into something because it mattered.

Because it was theirs.

He looked over at Sally again. She was still smiling, watching him with that same quiet certainty that made him feel like he could lift mountains if he tried.

And for the first time in months — maybe in years — Wilbur felt like he wasn't running anymore.

He was exactly where he was supposed to be.

The laughter and chaos still buzzed in the air when Nathalia leaned back in her chair, a sly smirk curling on her lips. She crossed one leg over the other, arms folding as she gave Wilbur an exaggerated once-over.

"Sooo," she drawled, loud enough to cut through the conversation. "Is this song about me? After I kissed you that night?"

The room went dead silent.

Mark choked on thin air. Ash dropped their notebook. Joe's head snapped up like a meerkat sensing danger.

Wilbur blinked at her, stunned stupid. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

Nathalia batted her lashes, clearly enjoying the uncomfortable silence she'd created. "Come on, Wilbur," she teased. "It’s okay, you can admit it. No need to be shy."

Before Wilbur could even fumble for a response, Sally stood up.

Calm. Steady. Beautiful in that fierce, sun-warm way of hers.

She walked over to Wilbur — who looked like he was about to melt into the floor — took his face in both hands, and kissed him.

Right there. In front of everyone.

It wasn’t a frantic or possessive kiss.

It was confident. Sure. The kind of kiss that says, I know you. I know you belong here.

When she pulled back, she kept her hands lightly on Wilbur’s cheeks, her thumbs brushing his skin. She turned her head, looking at Nathalia — not angry, not even really cold. Just... finished.

"Enough," Sally said simply.

The weight of that word settled over the room like a heavy wool blanket.

Sally looked back at Wilbur and smiled, the same way she always did — like she saw every messy, complicated part of him and loved him anyway.

"I trust Wilbur," she said, loud and clear, her voice strong enough to leave no room for argument. "That’s all that matters."

Wilbur, for his part, had turned a deep, alarming shade of tomato red. His ears, his neck, even the tips of his fingers were blushing furiously.

He let out a strangled noise — something between a wheeze and a squeak —

The entire band burst into chaotic, slightly terrified laughter.

Joe leaned sideways into Ash. "Bro is COOKED," he whispered.

Ash scribbled in their notebook: "wilbur = boiled beet" and held it up for Joe to see, sending him into silent, shaking giggles.

Mark just clapped a hand over his mouth, his shoulders trembling.

Even Nathalia, finally, looked a little sheepish — though she covered it quickly with a huff and a casual, "Whatever. I was just joking."

Sally kissed the top of Wilbur’s head gently and led him back to sit by the fire, as if he wasn’t still visibly steaming.

Wilbur didn’t dare lift his head for another full five minutes.

But honestly?

He didn’t mind.

Because he wasn’t embarrassed.

Not really.

He was loved.

And he was home.

And no amount of teasing or awkwardness or chaos could take that away.

Chapter Text

The morning sun slanted through the old wooden windows, casting honey-coloured stripes across the worn floorboards of Phil’s house. It smelled of woodsmoke and wildflowers, of home and history. And today, of something more.

Today was the day.

Wilbur stood in his tiny room, his best — and only — suit laid out neatly on the bed. It was simple, but freshly pressed; deep navy wool with crisp, clean lines. Beside it sat a small, pale boutonniere Phil had pinned together that morning — a sprig of baby’s breath and a single tiny daisy.

Wilbur sat at the edge of the bed, sock-clad feet tapping restlessly against the wood. His heart was a live thing, fluttering against his ribs like a bird desperate for the sky.

Phil knocked once before letting himself in. He carried a mug of tea in one hand, and a comb in the other, already grinning.

"Big day, huh?" he said, voice rough with the kind of fondness that years couldn’t wear down.

Wilbur laughed shakily. "Yeah. Big day."

Phil set the tea down on the nightstand and tossed the comb onto the bed. "Drink that. Then we make you not look like you’ve been dragged backwards through a hedge."

Wilbur obeyed, taking a few calming sips. Phil crossed his arms, surveying him like a man assessing a prized horse before market.

"Suit first," Phil declared. "Come on, chop chop."

Wilbur carefully tugged the trousers on, then shrugged into the jacket. The wool was heavier than he remembered, but it settled over him like armour. Phil stepped behind him, fussing expertly over his collar and buttons, making tiny adjustments until everything sat just right.

"You’re getting married, mate," Phil said quietly as he worked, voice thick with something heavier than pride. "Proper grown up now, huh?"

Wilbur laughed again, a soft, startled thing. "Yeah. Guess I am."

Phil patted his shoulder, then steered him toward the mirror. "Hair now. You’re not walking down that aisle looking like you just got electrocuted."

He wet the comb with a bit of water and dragged it through Wilbur’s stubborn curls, taming them into some semblance of order. Wilbur grumbled, but didn’t resist — Phil’s hands were steady, the motions familiar. Like when he was a boy, wriggling impatiently while Phil got him ready for Sunday service.

Except today wasn’t Sunday.

Today was the first day of the rest of his life.

When Phil finished, he stepped back and let Wilbur look at himself.

And for the first time that morning, Wilbur really saw himself.

He didn’t look like a kid fumbling through someone else’s ceremony. He didn’t look out of place.

He looked... right.

Like he belonged exactly where he was.

Phil moved closer, resting his hands lightly on Wilbur’s shoulders in the mirror.

"You look good, mate" he said. "Kristen would be proud of you. I’m proud of you."

Wilbur swallowed hard, blinking rapidly. "Thanks, Dad."

Phil pulled him into a fierce, rib-cracking hug. Wilbur held onto him just as tightly.

Outside, they could hear the quiet hum of the town beginning to gather. Voices rose and fell in the crisp spring air, the sound of chairs being set out, Sam barking instructions at someone, laughter bubbling like a stream.

It would be held outside, in the wide clearing just beyond the chapel, where the grass was soft and new and the wildflowers just beginning to wake. Sam had insisted, of course — said it was fitting, a marriage under the open sky where XD and Kristen could watch with clear eyes.

Wilbur stepped back from the hug, adjusting his jacket again out of sheer nerves. Phil clapped him on the back. "Ready to go be a husband, huh?"

Wilbur laughed breathlessly. "Ready as I’ll ever be."

They made their way downstairs, where the band and Nathalia were awkwardly milling around in their assigned "formal" clothes — which, in this town, meant clean boots and shirts without holes. Even Nathalia had grudgingly braided her hair, although she kept tugging at the sleeves of her old-fashioned dress with visible irritation.

Joe gave Wilbur a thumbs up. Ash offered a quiet nod. Mark tried for a smile but mostly looked like he wanted to crawl under a table.

"You look good, Wil," Joe said earnestly. "Like, scary good. Don’t upstage the bride, alright?"

Wilbur grinned, nerves momentarily forgotten. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

The little procession made its way outside. The whole town was already gathered, faces bright and expectant. Puffy was wrangling a squirmy Tubbo into a neat row with Niki and Ranboo. George and Dream leaned against one another near the back, snickering quietly.

At the front of the makeshift aisle, under an arch woven with wildflowers and green branches, stood Sally.

Wilbur’s breath caught painfully in his chest.

She wore a simple white dress, stitched by hand, the skirt swishing around her ankles in the breeze. A crown of tiny daisies sat in her hair, and when she smiled at him, it was like the whole world slowed to a stop.

Phil nudged him gently. "Go on, lad."

Wilbur walked forward, heart hammering in his chest, the voices and faces around him blurring into nothing. There was only Sally. Only the future waiting for him, arms open wide.

He reached her, and she took his hands in hers.

"Hi," she whispered.

"Hi," he whispered back, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt.

Sam stepped forward, clearing his throat. The crowd settled immediately.

"We are gathered here today," Sam said, "in the eyes of XD and Kristen, to bless this union between Wilbur and Sally. Two souls, intertwined by fate, ready to walk the path set before them together."

Wilbur barely heard the words. His whole world was the warmth of Sally’s hands, the shimmer of unshed tears in her eyes, the steady, certain beat of love between them.

This was it.

This was everything.

Then, at last—

“You may now kiss the bride.”

Wilbur barely let the words finish before he surged forward, hands cradling Sally’s face as he kissed her, as if he were sealing a promise with something more tangible than words. She kissed him back, laughing softly against his lips as the church erupted into applause (and a few exaggerated gagging noises from Tommy and Tubbo).

The reception was held in Phil’s barn, strung with lanterns and wildflowers, the wooden tables set with homemade dishes and jars of mead. Wilbur stood at the head of the table, a glass in hand, as he prepared to make his toast.

“Ahem,” Wilbur cleared his throat, tapping the rim of his glass with the back of his spoon. The chatter across the long, rustic tables died down, a few chairs scraping back as everyone turned to face him. “I hope you all have a comfortable seat, because, as you may have predicted, this speech will be insufferably long.”

A wave of groans rolled through the crowd, chased immediately by laughter. Tommy, never one for subtlety, dramatically slumped against Tubbo with a loud thud, earning a few snickers from the back tables. Even Sam, presiding stiffly over the reception like some holy guardian of tradition, allowed himself a small smile.

Wilbur grinned, cheeks pink with warmth — from the cider, the evening sun, and from the overwhelming feeling of home.

“Well,” he said, holding up his glass slightly, “to begin with — thank you. Thank you to everyone who came, who dusted off their Sunday boots, who braved mud, snow, and the ever-looming threat of Phil’s cooking to be here today.”

Phil, from where he was stationed near the stew pot, shook his ladle in mock outrage. Wilbur winked at him.

“Today is...” He paused, glancing briefly over at Sally, sitting radiant and smiling beside him. His chest tightened, in a good way. “Today is the happiest day of my life. And I don’t say that lightly. I’ve had a lot of good days. The day I met my band. The day Techno built his first working potato launcher. The day Tommy realized mud isn’t edible. Big milestones.”

Tommy piped up, “It looked like chocolate!”

The crowd roared with laughter.

“But really,” Wilbur pressed on, laughing along with them, “none of those days — none of anything I’ve done — would mean half as much if it wasn’t for the people I get to share it with. The people who’ve raised me, and put up with me, and dragged me out of more messes than I can even remember.”

He turned slightly, meeting Phil’s proud, teary eyes across the table.

“Phil” Wilbur said, voice softening, “you taught me how to build a home. Not just out of wood and nails, but out of patience. Out of kindness. Out of being there, even when it’s hard.”

Phil pretended to blow his nose on his sleeve. Wilbur grinned at him.

“And to Techno,” he said, tilting his head toward where Techno sat at a slight distance, eating stew with grim determination, “you taught me strategy. And stubbornness. And that love sometimes looks like telling your brother he’s an idiot before he falls into a river.”

A few chuckles rumbled through the room. Techno raised his spoon in silent salute.

“To Tommy,” Wilbur said, voice picking up again, “you taught me chaos. You taught me how to live with no brakes. And somehow, you taught me to be a little more fearless along the way.”

Tommy beamed so brightly it could’ve lit the whole barn.

“And to Tubbo,” Wilbur added, grinning, “you taught me that optimism isn’t about ignoring the mud — it’s about jumping in anyway and seeing who’ll laugh the loudest when you land face first.”

Tubbo punched the air in victory.

“To Mark, Joe and Ash” Wilbur continued, raising his glass a little higher, “I could’ve never done half the things I did in London without you lot. You believed in a guy who didn’t know the first thing about city life, about bands, about anything really. You saw something in me. And you stood by it. Even when I tried to order stew from Domino’s.”

The band cackled at that — Joe loudly thumping the table in agreement.

“You gave me a chance to dream bigger than I ever thought I could,” Wilbur said, voice getting tight with emotion, “and I’ll spend my whole life trying to live up to that trust.”

He set the glass down, suddenly needing both hands to steady himself against the flood of feeling.

“And finally,” he said, turning fully toward Sally, who was watching him with an expression so full of love it almost knocked the wind out of him, “to the most beautiful, stubborn, brave woman I’ve ever met.”

The crowd awwed, but Wilbur barely heard them.

“Sally,” he said, “you are — you’re everything good. You’re spring after a long winter. You’re the sound of music when everything else is silent. You’re the person who makes me want to be better every single day, not because you ask it of me — but because loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

The barn was so still, he could hear the distant cry of a hawk outside.

“Marrying you today,” Wilbur said, voice thick, “is the greatest thing I’ll ever do. And I will spend every day — every day — making sure you know that. That you are loved. That you are home.”

Sally bit her lip, hard, trying not to cry. Tommy sniffled audibly. Even Techno blinked suspiciously fast.

Wilbur drew in a shaky breath, smiling wide and a little wet-eyed.

“So,” he said, regaining some of his cheek, “to all of you here: thank you for raising me, for believing in me, for dragging me kicking and screaming through life when I needed it. Thank you for making today possible. Thank you for making me the man who was lucky enough to marry Sally.”

He picked up his glass again, lifting it high.

“To family. To friends. To finding the place you belong — and never letting go of it.”

Everyone rose, chairs scraping back, lifting whatever glasses, mugs, or ladles they could grab.

“TO FAMILY!” they roared back.

“TO FRIENDS!”

“TO FINDING HOME!”

And for a long, beautiful moment, it felt like all the best parts of life were wrapped up in that little barn, in the hands lifted high, in the hearts beating together in time.

Wilbur sat down heavily, Sally immediately tangling her hand with his under the table, squeezing it hard.

"You did good," she whispered, grinning at him.

Wilbur squeezed back, cheeks aching from smiling.

"We did good," he whispered back.

And then, of course, there was Nathalia.

She approached Sally near the end of the night, her expression unreadable. Wilbur saw it from a distance, the way she leaned in, whispered something against the noise of the crowd. Sally, in response, simply smiled. It was not a kind smile, nor was it an angry one. It was knowing. Certain. Unshaken.

Then, without a word, Sally lifted her hand and slapped Nathalia clean across the face.

"That is for kissing my husband."

The entire barn went silent.

Then—Tommy whooped. Tubbo burst out laughing. Mark and Joe stared, Ash raised an eyebrow. Nathalia stumbled back, stunned, before turning on her heel and storming out.

Sally exhaled, straightened her dress, and walked back to Wilbur as if nothing had happened.

And Wilbur, well—he was utterly, completely in love.

The night stretched on, full of music and dancing, laughter and warmth. And when the last candle burned low, when the guests had all retired to their beds, Wilbur led Sally out onto the quiet porch, his hands laced with hers.

He kissed her slow, gentle. He whispered her name like it was the only prayer he had ever known.

And as the stars shone down upon them, as the fields stretched wide and golden beneath the moon, Wilbur knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt—

This was home.

And he would never leave again.