Archive of Our Own ^beta

For the longest time, Phil was sure he would never love anyone more than he did his wife. 

He was sure of it — more than anything in the world — that this woman, the one he’s spent the last five years of his life loving, and the one he’d spent the rest of his life loving, she would always be the most important thing in the world to him. 

He thought that for a long time, but that was before winter came. 

Two years into their marriage, his wife fell ill. Very ill, so unlike the warrior to fall sick. In all his time of knowing her, she was undeterred and could withstand so much without falling ill. But as the seasons changed and the trees lost their leaves, she remained bed-ridden. 

It started small — sickness and nausea. She couldn’t eat as well as she used to, and standing took a lot out of her. 

“Leave it, Phil!” She was on the floorboards with her hands covering her face. A tray was splattered against the floor — the remnants of the breakfast staining the floor. “I can do it.” 

“You should be resting.” He kept his voice quiet as to not anger her more. 

“To hell with that!” So much for keeping her calm… She kicked at the tray and tried to get to her feet, and Phil wrapped his arms around her. “I’m so sick of this.” 

“I know,” he said. And how his heart broke more and more watching the woman he holds dear grow sicker with every passing day. “Lay down, dear.” 

“I should be out hunting.” Phil couldn’t help but smile as he pulled the blanket over her. Her eyelids grew heavy, and It was just a matter of time before she fell asleep. “Perfect weather to bring home a nice boar.” 

“There will be next winter,” Phil promised, resting his forehead against her back. “For now, you rest. The doctor will be here soon.” 

“Tell that damn Doctor to fuck off.” 

He bit his lip. “You need help.” 

“I’d rather die than have someone see me like this.” 

Phil sat himself up and pulled his hair out of his face. “You don’t mean that, dear.” She was silent, back turned to him. He released a heavy sigh. “Doctor Vikk will be here in a couple hours. Sleep, for now.” 

He couldn’t tell if she was pissed or fell asleep out of exhaustion, but she finally went silent and still. He picked up the tray and set the spilled bowls back up. 

In the hallway, he was met with the maid’s child. “I can take that for you,” he piped up. Then, as an afterthought, he bowed. “Your majesty.” 

As the blonde headed child ducked his head, he shook his head. “You should be in class, George.”

The boy stood up and shrugged. He was a small child, too young to be off on his own. “No,” he said sheepishly. “I’ve finished my work.” 

“Surely you have chores? I bet your mother is worried where you are.” He was silent, staring past him. It wasn’t hard to guess what was on his mind. 

He kneeled down to meet the child’s height. “She’s doing better.” 

“I haven’t seen the Queen out in the garden for some time now,” he admitted quickly. “I miss her paintings.” 

He misses the sight too. “She’ll be better soon, especially with so many worried for her. Thank you, George.” He ruffled the boy’s hair. “Run along now. Your mother must be worried sick.” 

The boy nodded eagerly, desparate to please the well-loved king. He turned on his heels and scurried down the hallway, and Phil carried on with the trays in his hand. 

As promised, the doctor visited soon after. His wife was upset from the mere prospect of being bed-ridden and being seen as such, so Phil was ordered out of the room. He couldn’t stand to go far, not when his wife was in there. 

After the yell came, he had to burst in. He was expecting bad news, his wife full with rage at her diagnosis, but instead… 

She had tears in her eyes. 

“No…” He made his way over to the bed and grabbed her hands and held it close to his cheek. “What is it? What’s wrong with my--” 

She let out a choked sob. Never in his time of knowing her had he grown accustomed to her crying. It wasn’t her. She was always so stoic, even at the cruelest of acts. She’d lived in the war time, after all. She was more of a soldier than Phil ever was - even wingless. “Phil,” she rasped out. 

“I’m here, dear. Tell me what’s wrong.” 

She laughed, a bubbly sound as she cupped his cheeks. “A baby, Phil. I’m… pregnant.” 

For a very long time, his wife was what mattered most to him. His kingdom and all his subjects, he loved, but her… he would always have a duty to her before anyone else. 

At least, that’s what he always thought. But that was before he heard the heartbeat for the first time. 

She grew weaker as time went on. Her feet got bigger, and walking was harder and harder. She spent most of her time in bed, willing to be out doors, in the woods or on the battlefield. 

“I wish you were the one carrying this shithead.” The comment had caught him off-guard, but she laughed as he spit out the tea. They were in her bedroom today, and the sun was streaming in through the windows. The snow had long since fallen, but the sickness didn’t go away with it. 

“Oh yeah?” 

“Fucker’s heavy,” she grumbled. “Kicks a lot too.” She got a starry-eyed look. “He’s gonna kill so many people, one day. Truly, a great warrior.” 

“Takes after his Mama,” Phil said, joining her by the bed as he set a new flower vase by her bedside. 

“Maybe he gets it from you,” she said, resting her head against his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her and dragged his fingers through her long hair. She stilled, sitting up straighter. “Fucker’s not gonna have wings, is he?” 

“Oh, god, I didn’t even think about that.” She smacked him harshly, and he rubbed his elbow. “I got mine when I was sixteen, but… I don’t know much about hybrids. I don’t think so?” 

“Oh shit,” she cursed. “That’s gonna suck ass if he does. Little fucker will not be hearing the end of it.” 

“Would you quit?” 

Her eyes widened. “Nuh-uh, I get to complain all I want--” 

“No, I know,” he interrupted. “I meant about calling him ‘little fucker.’” 

“He can’t hear me, Phil.” 

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, dear,” he sighed. “I meant… We should start thinking of names.” 

“Oh, I already know.” 

He raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Oh, you do now?” 

“Yeah,” she huffed. “I’m thinking Rose.” 

He scrunched up his nose. “I don’t like that.” 

She hummed. “Or, Holo? I’ve always liked the name Violet.” 

“How about we give it some thought?” 

She frowned. “Okay, but I’ll be calling him little fucker in the meantime.” 

The months went fast. By now, it was nearing fall, and the leaves were turning orange. 

There was talk of her not making it through. 

She was strong, yes, but she’s lived through so much physical trauma that there were doubts she’d be able to carry to term. She loved her unborn child with the same fierce determination as her will to fight, to defend her kingdom. 

“Whatever happens, you save our child. You hear me? Little fucker’s making it through. No matter what.” 

He loved her. 

Truly. Endlessly. Without consequences. 

It had been a cold day when she took to her feet. She had a better morning - a first of many without nausea. He took her to the garden where she once painted, and there, they sat under the tree and its shade. 

It was peaceful, just them and their peaceful kingdom and a strong heartbeat. 

“Oh, fuck! Phil. Phil!” 

--

When he held that child in his hands, he had decided that he loved this child more than anything or anyone else in the world. 

He loved his wife dearly and would die loving her. 

But this child… was entirely something else, and he knew that from the moment he held him in his arms. 

“I was thinking Willow,” she said, eyes closed as she panted. “For the baby. Please, Phil.” She made a reach with her hands, and he raised an eyebrow. 

“You sure? You’re weak, and--” 

“Hand me my baby or I’ll kill you,” she said. 

“Your son,” he said, admiring the now cleaned face of his son as he handed him over. But once she grabbed him with her tired eyes, her face dropped. “Dear?” 

“What the fuck is wrong with him?” 

Phil, confused, studied the perfectly healthy baby boy. “What do you mean?” 

“He’s… He’s all wrong.” 

After he was born, she spent most of her time crying. He never quite understood why, even as the night passed and she grew weaker. The doctor spent most of his time at her side with a promise that she would get better after the birth. 

But she didn’t get better. 

After the child came, she only got worse. 

The doctor says it’s partly due to her mental state. That for some reason she rejected that child with her whole body that it made her sick. She stayed in bed, and those promises to return to the garden, to the woods to hunt, to the battlefields - they were lost within the falling of the leaves. 

Wilbur, he decided, named after the willow tree his wife had loved and gone into labor under. Willow meant peace, safety, and hope. 

For Phil, he meant all of those. He loved Wilbur. 

Even as he grew, his mother rejected him. He was wrong. She refused to hold the child in her hands. 

“I refuse to believe I gave birth to that creature.” She had lost a lot of weight - skin and bones compared to the strong build she used to carry. Her hair was long and matted. She’d long refused people to touch her, to wash her. 

It killed him. Watching the woman he loved die slowly in that bed. 

He didn’t understand what she saw. She couldn’t explain it to him, even as she lost her sanity. She grew more violent as time went on, and she threw vases, books, trays, anything in her reach. She was murderous at the mention of the child. 

She never called him by name. “I… I made that… that thing. That disgusting creature…” 

“Dear, don’t strain yourself.” His eyes were glazed over, as his heart tore more and more. He loved his wife, and he loved his child. He didn’t understand why she didn’t love him too. “Please…” 

“Kill him,” she cried, lost in her anger. She grabbed at the glass at her bedside and smashed it against the table and it ricocheted and hit her in the eye. Blood was already pooling, but she showed no reaction of pain. “Get him out of here! Get him out!” 

“Nurse!” Phil called, looking to the door where it was cracked open. Little Wilbur, barely even four years old, watching his mother demand his death. With a bloody eye she did to himself. “I’ll go get help.” 

Despite everything, despite the betrayal he felt deep in his stomach, he grabbed his child and closed the door. The child was still as Phil walked him quickly down the hallway. “You should be in bed, Wilbur.” 

“Are you going to kill me, Papa?” Phil tucked the child under his blanket and pressed a kiss to his forehead. 

“No, baby,” he promised. “Sleep now, Wilbur. I’ve got to go now.” 

And it kills him, closing the door behind him, shutting the door on his own child. 

He just doesn’t understand. 

--

They had many doctors from around the kingdom come to visit, but none could do anything for them. None could help her in the way she needed it. 

Her body had grown ill with the hatred she bore for her own kin, and it would be what killed her. She rejected that boy as if he was evil. 

But he never thought Wilbur as anything but good. He didn’t see him the same way she did. 

“You really can’t do anything for her?” 

The doctor shook his head. “That child… The only way to help her was for him to never be born.” 

And he had said it as nothing, but Phil ran with it. He got into contact with as many mages as he could. 

He traveled a lot and took Wilbur with him. He left his kingdom and traveled the bordering nations in search for help. 

He found what he needed in a masked hunter named Dream. “Sounds like what you need is an amnesia spell. It’s amateur work. Really, easy.” 

“So you’ll do it?” 

Under his mask, the mage grinned. “I can. At a price.” The amusement of the situation was too good to let go. “But you’re sure? You want to make your wife forget about her own child?” 

Wilbur was six when Phil got down on one knee and pressed his forehead against his. “Wilbur, your mother is very sick,” he said, as if he hasn’t grown up to witness her spiraling. He spoke slowly, and he nodded along with it. “And… the doctor thinks she can get better. But, for that to happen, Mama can’t know you.” 

“Mama… will get better? If I’m gone?” 

Phil’s chest tightened, and his blue eyes welled with warmth. “I will love you twice as hard to make up for it.” He hated himself. He hated the sickness that took his happy, strong wife from him. He hated how eager Wilbur was to agree to let his mother abandon him. “Do you understand? Are you sure?” 

“Mama will get better,” he said, nodding as his father wrapped his arms around him. “She’ll be happy again.” 

--

Wilbur grew and grew. And somewhere along the way, his father found what she had seen in him, all those years ago. 

A mother’s instinct, perhaps. 

But what she feared, he revelled in. 

“It fucking hurts!” Wilbur was itching, stretching his arms above his head. “Dad, it fucking hurts!” 

“I know, Wil, but stay strong, okay?” He needed her. He couldn’t do this alone. He needed someone to help, but it was just him and his child crying in pain, locked away from the world in a cellar down by the maid’s children and servantfolk. “The pain will be over soon.” 

Keeping Wilbur away from Mama was proving more and more difficult. Phil had to sneak away to tend to his child, and more often than not, Wilbur spent time alone. He had to keep in his home on the grounds because of the wings on his back. 

“If Mama sees you, she’ll get sick again,” he explained. “So you need to keep these covered.” 

And it hurt, binding his wings so tight, but Wilbur agreed. He’d do anything to protect his Mama. 

He stayed clear. He went out at night and slept during the day. He did his tutoring alone. 

As promised, Phil loved him so dearly, but even so… Wilbur found himself sneaking off. Not to try and hurt her, not to speak to her, not to remind her of the monster she created. He just liked to watch. 

He was told she used to paint. As a child, he liked to look at her old work and read her old war stories. 

But he had only known this sickly version of her, the one that hated him with every fiber of her being. After she forgot him and cleansed herself of him, she got better. Healthier. 

She started painting again. 

Beautiful paintings. They told stories.

And Wilbur started to play. 

When he was ten, he snuck out into the night. No one was supposed to be out, not in the fields behind the castle. Nobody knew about this place. It was just for him. It was his. 

A place where he could fly and not worry about being seen. 

That was, until, he met the unfortunate boy with unruly pink hair. 

He had to teach himself to fly. Phil tried when he did, but with Mama still recovering, he spent a lot of time with her. He set upon using the nights to try and flap his black wings. 

He’d crashed into a couple of trees by the time he saw the boy. He had a pig skull. 

A hybrid. 

Like Wilbur. 

“Hello!” he greeted, very excited as he bundled his way over. There was a wetness on his forehead, and the boy raised his sword in response. “No, hey, I’m friendly! Hi. Are you lost?” 

“You’re bleeding.” He spoke with a dignified tone, as if he was royalty also. Was he from a neighboring country? Why was he in his yard? “You’re a shit flier.” 

“Hey!” he barked. “Fuck you! I’m just starting to learn.” 

“Keep the crashing to the minimum, alright? I’m trying to practice, and it’s distracting me.” 

Wilbur curiously peered over. “Practicing what?” 

He groaned. “None of your business.” 

Wilbur whined. “Sorry, I thought you’d want to be friends.” The man stilled, looking up at him. Through the pig skull covering his eyes, he couldn’t read his expression. “Since you’re a freak like me.” 

“That’s a very rude thing to say.” 

Safe to say, they got along very well. 

Wilbur spent a lot of time with the younger boy, Techno. He was from another world, as it comes. A warrior, a piglin. But he only had the tusks. He had a human face, but he kept it covered. 

He was the opposite of Wilbur. His mother loved him dearly, but she is very protective of him because his human side made him a target in his home. To keep him safe, he spends his time in solidarity. 

“So you sneak out,” Wilbur had said. “I do too! I’m kind of a secret. My mama can’t know who I am, or she’ll get sick again.” 

--

Knowing Techno, his first friend, made the pain better. Easier. Even as it lingers, as he watches in jealousy as his mother grows and laughs, blissfully unaware of his existence. 

When he was eight, she got pregnant again. Phil was terrified and spent most of his nights in agony, anxious for what was to come. 

“It’s okay, Dad,” Wilbur said, rubbing circles into his back. “It’s gonna be okay.” 

How sick it was, to comfort his own father for the sake of the thought of another turning out like him. 

A part of him wanted it. 

Wilbur wanted another to be hated, to be outcast like him. Because maybe then he wouldn’t be so lonely. 

But he remembers how ill it would make Mama, and he hates himself for thinking that. 

And when she gives birth to a blond blue-eyed boy, Mama hugs him close to her chest and names him “Tommy.” 

Tommy took after Phil. He had his hair, his eyes, everything but his wings. Wilbur took after his mother, yet he was the one cursed with Phil’s wings. 

After some time studying it, they came to the conclusion that it had something to do with how a mortal can’t ever give birth to a hybrid. It’s too taxing for a mortal to live with that. They’re too disgusted. 

Tommy was different. He was normal. 

Wilbur hated the child. He hated how Mama held him and sang lullabies, ones he never got to hear. She took him into the woods and taught him to hunt. She taught him things she never taught him. 

She loved Tommy. 

He had wanted her to love him, too. 

If he was just like him… like her. A little bit more. 

Maybe he’d be loved, too. 

“Wilbur! Wilbur, what the hell are you doing?” 

Wilbur’s eyes creaked open as the black boots of his father filled his vision. Phil lifted him up, cradling him close. “Oh, son, what did you do?” 

“Are they gone? Did I do it?” His back ached. 

“Oh, son, no…” 

Phil kept a close eye on him after the incident. 

After Wilbur tried to slice his own wings off with a dagger he found. 

By the time he was sixteen, he was able to go out on the streets. He was careful to keep his wings hidden, but he still tried to stay out of sight. He worked and learned with the other children his age. He played with Techno and their hut in the clearing, in the safe home that was only there’s. 

Techno was in a mood, this afternoon. He wasn’t in a mood for talking, as it seemed. He had his nose buried in a book, but that was fine to Wilbur. He was tired, too. He wanted to practice some music. 

He was singing a peaceful tune when a blood-curdling scream rang out. Wilbur was quicker to react, wings flapping as he ran away from the sound. Techno drew his sword and headed towards the sound, and Wilbur reluctantly followed. 

Nearby in the clearing was a rather large hole. They knew well to avoid it. 

But this passerby did not know as much. 

“It’s a child,” Techno said. “It’s all snotty and gross.” He nudged Wilbur. “Fly down and grab him.” 

“No, you do it!” 

The crying continued. 

Wilbur sighed and carefully floated down into the dark cave. Sure enough, Techno was right. A small child was curled up into a ball with his hands over his eyes. 

Wilbur stilled. 

It wasn’t just any child. 

Tommy. His brother. 

He almost bolted, but the child had already opened his eyes. He staggered to his feet and latched onto him. “Ew, no,” he cried, prying the kid off of him. This was bad. Papa was going to be pissed at him. “Sorry, sorry.” 

“Help me,” the boy cried. “I can’t find my toy.” 

Wilbur’s eyes widened. “Your toy?” he barked. “You’re at the bottom of a hole, and you--?” God, this kid is insufferable. He doesn’t even know how good he has it. 

How dare he cry, when he’s the one blessed with being human? With being loved properly? 

“I want Mommy,” the boy cries. “Take me to her.” He clapped his hands. 

“You little brat…!” He gritted his teeth together, but the boy just latched onto his cloak. “How’d you even get out here?” 

“Tubbo was lost.” Wilbur had no idea who the hell he was talking about. “So I was trying to help him find his way back.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“And now I can’t find Tubbo.” 

“So you’re lost?” 

“Are you stupid?” This fucking kid. A gremlin, more like. “No, Tubbo’s lost! Right, Tubbo?” He turned around, as if just realizing he was missing. And then he started crying. 

“Oh, shut it,” Wilbur groaned, but the boy just wouldn’t stop. Finally, he gave up and scooped the kid up and covered his eyes as he floated out of the pit. Techno kept his distance, hiding behind a tree. “Stop crying, will you? You’re so fucking annoying!” 

The kid, suddenly dry with no tears, raises his head. “What’s ‘fucking’ mean?” 

“Oh, shit, you’ve done it now, Wilbur,” Techno mumbled under his breath. Wilbur watched him abandon him, leaving him with the child in his arms. 

“Don’t say that word.” 

“Fucking!” 

“No, shit, stop that.” 

“Shit?” 

Oh fuck. What has he done? 

He dropped the kid now that they were out. “Okay. Go on now, gremlin. You’re out now. Go.” 

He frowned. “Who’re you calling gremlin?” 

“You. Gremlin.” He poked him in the forehead and pushed him away from him. That only spurred the child on and he reached for him again, to climb up on him. “Stay back!” Wilbur walked away from him, but Tommy was hot on his heels, following every footstep. 

“Who’re you? Never seen you before.” 

“That’s what happens when you go wandering where you shouldn’t.” 

“But I wanted to see Tubbo!” Tommy kicked at a rock at his feet. “I hope he got home okay. His father gets really worried.” 

He thinks to Phil. He must be in hysterics that Tommy is missing. 

Though, he probably won’t even realize Wilbur’s gone too. 

“You know Dad?” 

Shit. Wilbur’s so used to being on his own that he just talks to himself. Oh well. “Well, you are the prince. Everyone knows you.” 

“Oh.” He pondered that. “I don’t know you, though.” 

“It’s not important.” 

There was something budding on his tongue, an argument perhaps, but Tommy fell short as Wilbur stopped in his tracks. Tommy looked past him at the familiar sight of his castle. At his home. “Home!” he cheered. “Oh, I see Papa flying! Hi, Papa!” 

He waved and stepped forward. Overjoyed, he spun around to thank the man, but he was nowhere in sight. 

Where had he gone? 

“Oh, Tommy!” Phil cried, landing on the floor with a flap of his wings. “We were worried sick. Are you okay?” 

“Mhm! Look what I found!” He held out a rock. 

“You’re filthy, Tommy. Let’s get you home. You hurt at all?” He scooped his son up into his arms, and Tommy craned his head to fit under his neck. 

“Mh-hmm, the nice man helped me out.” 

“Who?” 

“The guy. He helped me out, showed me the way home!” 

Phil shrugged it off. He was just happy he had his son in his arms. 

Wilbur watched with careful eyes as his father pressed a kiss to his brother’s forehead and took off into the night sky. 

“Made a new friend, Wilbur?” 

“Shut it, Techno.” 

“That’s the prince, isn’t it?” he asked. It wasn’t often he asked questions, for his sake. 

He turned to the pig skull. He must be worried. Wilbur smiled and pushed against the snout. “I’m fine, Techno. Don’t you worry about me.” 

“I never said--” 

“No, I know. You don’t have to say it.” 

A huff. “You’re insufferable.” 

--

Tommy didn’t forget. 

He was young, yes, but he never forgot the man who helped him out. It felt silly, in a way, but he felt… connected to him. He was attracted to the man for reasons he can’t explain. He had to see him again. 

He snuck out a lot. 

Most of the time, he just got lost. Horribly lost. 

Today, though, he’d brought a dark green hoodie. In the clearing, not too far from where the hole he fell in, was a stream. 

The clearing was full of flowers and a small hut. It didn’t have doors, only a roof made of stone and green leaves. There were mushrooms along the floorline and books stacked high. A pink haired man was fast asleep with a sword over his chest.

The brown haired man, too. He was propped up against the stone wall. He had an instrument in his lap, but his eyes were closed. 

Tommy climbs up on him, and the man stirs. He creaks his eyes open before screaming. “Hi.” 

“Holy shit!” Wilbur screeches, almost sending the boy hurdling through the air. The pink haired man stirs in his sleep, sitting up at the commotion. “What, Tommy? What the hell?” 

“Hello!” he greeted warmly. “I’ve found you.” 

“You…” 

He found their hiding spot. 

First, Techno found his spot. But that was fine. He made peace with sharing. 

Tommy, though, that’s where he drew the line. That fucker took everything from him. “Get out. You’re not allowed here.” 

“But! It took me so long to find you again!” 

“So? I don’t care. Get out. Before Techno slashes you with his sword.” 

Techno, obviously irked that he’s been awoken, unsheathed his sword. Tommy just laughs. “Do you want to play?” 

“No! Get out of here.” 

Tommy sprawled out on the ground and snatched his guitar off his lap. “You…!” He pried the instrument out of his grip and lifted the child off the ground. He was about to throw it or something, but the boy started to laugh. “That tickles!” Wilbur’s hand was wrapped around his side. 

“I barely even touched you.” 

Oh. 

Oh shit. 

It’d completely slipped his mind, but in his sleep, his cloak had slipped off his shoulders, and his wings were out. They were small, but with Tommy thrown over his shoulder, the wing brushed against his nose. “Like Papa!” he cooed. “I’ve never seen a bird.” 

Wilbur snorts. “You’ve seen a bird before, I’m sure.” 

“Nuh-uh!” 

“You have. Your papa is an avien.” Honestly, does he not give his child a proper talk? Wilbur spent enough of his childhood trying to help his father cope, he can’t do this much. He can’t take care of the child that’s blessed with the life he could never have. “There’s not many like him left.” 

“But you have wings,” Tommy sighed in amusement. “I wish I had them too.” 

Wilbur almost dropped him. What a careless thing to say, even if he wasn’t aware of the harm his words held. 

“You could fly with Papa,” Tommy continued. “I bet he’d like that.” 

“You can’t tell your father you saw me.” 

“Why not?” 

Think of a lie, think of a lie. 

“I’m on the run. Your father doesn’t like me.”

Bad idea. Surely, he’d rat him out. 

“Cool!” 

Apparently not. The kid was a dumbass. 

“Time for you to go on home, Tommy.” 

“What? I just got here.” 

“Shoo. It’s past bedtime. I don’t want the kingdom on high alert because you snuck out.” 

He kicked his feet. “It’s not fair.” 

“You’re eight. You can’t sneak out like that.” 

“No…” he whined. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours. ‘S not fair.” 

Wilbur stared at him, at this dirty, mud-ridden little boy who stands for everything he hates. For everything that he could’ve had. 

He doesn’t understand why, but he says, “Wilbur.” The boy smiles, and repeats it, then again, and again, as if afraid he’d forget it. 

He heard something somewhere once. Don’t name a cat because then it’s yours. 

He’s not sure how, but it applies here. In a way. 

Because Tommy comes back every chance he can. 

“I hate that stupid gremlin.” 

Techno is sprawled out on the grass with a book in his hands. He hums as Wilbur rants. “Seriously, stealing my sandwich? Like he doesn’t get fed enough by the maids? He’s so greedy!” 

“Then why don’t you go?” 

“What?” 

Techno closed his book. “You could find a different spot. Or ignore him. But you don’t.” 

Wilbur was silent, deep in thought. “I like this spot. I like it here.” 

Techno hummed. 

Maybe he didn’t realize it yet. 

He wouldn’t actually, even after the boy reached ten and was visiting Wilbur for about two years now. “Wilby!” he groaned, appearing one day with a black eye. 

“What happened?” Wilbur asked. “Did you fall?” 

“Got in a fight with Big Man Tubbo.” 

Wilbur had yet to see this kid, but he knew they were good friends. Tommy sniffled. “Papa’s all mad at me.” 

“He is?” 

“He deserved it! Tubbo was playing with this other boy today. Instead of me. Stupid, little, fucking creepy boy.” 

He paled. “So he has good reason to be mad. You picked a fight because you’re jealous.” 

He can’t talk about being jealous. 

Not when he’s filled with the same emotion everytime he looks at Tommy. 

“It hurts, though,” Tommy whined, curling himself against Wilbur, who sprawled out his wings and wrapped one around Tommy. His wings were small, nothing like his father’s, but there was enough room for Tommy to bury himself in. 

“Don’t go fighting with your friends. Little gremlin like you might not have any if you chase him away.” 

“I have you though.” 

Wilbur stiffened. “We’re not friends, though.” 

“You’re right.” Tommy sighed and tucked his head under Wilbur’s neck. “We’re more like brothers.” 

“Don’t say that,” Wilbur cut in, and his vision started to blur. “I will cry.” 

For a long time, Wilbur loved his mother and hated himself. Sometimes he hated his father too. Sometimes he wished he loved him more than he loved Mama. 

For a long time, Wilbur hated his baby brother, the one who took everything from him. 

Though, and he’s not really sure as to why, but somewhere along the way, he learned that Tommy was everything to him. 

A snotty-nosed child with a brat complex. They were forbidden to interact, for the sake of his mother. Their shared mother. 

Because they really were brothers. Even if Tommy didn’t know. Even though he did know, in a way. He knew that he loved Wilbur. 

Wilbur loves his younger brother, too. Quite possibly more than anything in the world.