Chapter Text
He cracks open his eyes immediately cringing at the foul smell flooding his waking moments. He really needs to clean. Pushing off his blanket he resists the urge to throw up. He has chores– things to do.
But of course he can't focus. A body sits under a bed, under a multitude of blankets and air freshener.
There are always bad days. The guilt, or just the numbness. He had assumed he would have to deal with it at some point, but he had severely misjudged it all. It came at him every crashing moment of the day. Sometimes getting out of bed was more a struggle than spiraling into the darkness that threatened to consume him the longer the damned thing sat under his bed.
He had chores. He tried to focus on that, not the rising panic now– he wouldn't get caught. They gave up searching for the man under his bed over two weeks ago. He hadn’t been caught for the two months the body was laying there. He would be fine.
He chanced his way into the white van that everyone else slept in– he had too, before. It was still incredibly early so everyone was as leep still he made sure to be careful as he placed the food on the counter. Yes they usually made food on the same counter they made drugs, it was highly unsanitary.
Fundy bit his lip, focusing back on unpacking all the containers he had in his inventory. Hopefully someone would be up before he was done. The silence was unsettling, not even a bird in the distance was making a sound. Just the unnatural sounds of his foot creaking on planks and glass containers clinking together.
He finished unpacking on a quiet note. The sun was just starting to come up. It was a rainier day so he figured leaving a note near the food would be fine. If Fundy even had any paper. He found a scrap with some lists written on the back and quickly repurposed it, writing down that he was back at his house because of the weather. Walking out the rickety white door of the van was like a breath of fresh air. Correction, it was a breath of fresh air, he thought as he relished in the smell of pine and city bustle rather than whatever concoction the little nine year olds had been up to.
He does stop by his house. But he doesn't stay long. L’manberg is a funny place. They don't have laws against children working 9 to 5’s or drug laws but they do have laws against leaving the premises without permission. It never quite made much sense to him so he never bothered to follow one of the few rules that got actively enforced.
Slipping over the wall of obsidian wasn't a hard task. He just waited for Brim– the guard who’s usually on guard duty to go get bored or leave for a moment and boom he's on the other side of a tall wall that had kept him in for most of his short life. He remembers a time when he was younger– 7 perhaps– too scared to climb to the other side but doing it anyways, just to do it again and again to relish in the stress slipping out of his body as he crossed into dense woods and creeks that you never saw in his rusty country.
He liked the alone time. Even when loneliness seeped into his bones it was still peaceful– so far from his real life, the war torn country he had been born tied to.
The one with his father, and the dead body under his bed and his friends and those nine year old boys. He wished he could leave, sometimes, in the depths of the forest or a quiet moment at his work when selfish thoughts invaded his mind.
He scrunched his face up looking away from the wall, hiding from his intrusive thoughts like always. Running is the only thing he knows. His Father ran from his mother, he ran from his home to this server, into this place. His father was selfish, leaving little room for fundy to be even nearly as opinionated.
He stamped down that thought as well. It was not his place, perhaps he really would understand when he was older.
(He doubted it, looking back on the one time he met his uncle, Technoblade, he knew to stay away from the man his father said was dangerous but accidents happen outside of the ‘controlled’ environment of those walls.)
He slipped into the forest without a thought, Following a river, it ran from inside the City Walls and came out into the gorgeous wildlife of the Greater SMP murky and gray. Really it was no wonder the Dream SMP wants them gone. He couldn’t particularly blame them, with how much he himself didn’t really enjoy the city.
After the River broke off into two sections he passed a few clunky older trees with little carvings in them into a clearing. It was barren but had little dirt and weeds, showing the wear he had inflicted in the short time he had been coming. It was his place.
Sometimes he would sit and weed the plant beds or h e would read a book. Or he would practice with the illegal wooden sword he had gotten. But mostly he just sat. The woods were quiet in a way he had never quite experienced, sometimes unnaturally so. It allowed space to breathe in and smell the flowers and pine scents.
Unlike the bustle and hurry of his city. He never had to worry about speeding up or not taking his time. There were no time constraints. He could lay down and complain to no-one about his aching back or his Father.
His father. God he didn’t have enough words in the world to complain about his birthman. Perhaps it was Wilbur himself but rather his positions, titles, actions… okay maybe most of him.
He was obscure and opinionated, but in all the wrong ways. Fundy agreed with him on much but his way of thinking was flawed. Morals in love or war were rarely genuine. His Father was a hypocrite. He preached of words not weapons but did little in the face of warfare. He would sit atop obsidian walls that would never come down whilst untrained soldiers ran to their deaths.
That was what Father would do. He had seen Fathers plans— he knew they would fail. He also knew he was doing it anyway. Maybe it was for his friends, maybe because he felt he had to, but really he thought it was because he couldn’t go anywhere else. It was a bitter truth, most countries despised L’manberg, a country of crime, they would call it. It was true; they had little food and the wage gap was higher than ever, like always.
It was comfort, as much as it was hell. It was all he had ever known here, perhaps if he lived with his mother…
He shook his head stretching his back looking at the Amaranth’s soaked in a deep bloody red, it had been years since he had planted that flower. Back when he was younger, eight or so, wishing for Happiness. The wish had never died, or been fulfilled. He tilted his head squinting through the bushy canopy as rain started pouring down into the alcove.
He knew that meant it was time to head back before he was soaked to the bone. Quickly packing all his supplies into his inventory he started towards the bushes, just to hear muffled steps followed by rapid profanity. It made him jump, his boots squelching on now muddy dirt.
He turned to look at the perpetrator of the swearing, seeing the most green outfit he had ever looked at. It was an outfit he had seen many times he cataloged, looking at the straps around the waist holding a very special looking inventory, along with his hotbar, the tag of the sword was what alerted him though, that he was very much not safe.
Nightmare, was a claymore that swung on the hip of the War Leader. He had seen the man, talking with Wilbur, talking calmly as L’manberg’s leader shouted. The man had instilled fear into the hearts of many, and will do so for many more years far after L’manberg and his own expiration date.
Worst of all, seeing him up close made him realize just how appealing he looked, and how young he was. The man– boy– a teenager– was staring at him, or at least it looked like he was. His head was tilted to the side in an attractive manner, looking genuinely confused. Fundy shifted his weight, leaning backwards trying to gouge how far he could run before the war general could catch him. He decided not to try, reasoning he would die anyways no point prolonging it for fear to settle in.
Abruptly he heard a quiet– almost soft, “Hello…”
Fundy fashioned himself, adjusting his coat subtly looking at the wooden sword he had already put away wistfully, before replying, “...Hello,”
The blonde strode over to him, hand on the hilt of his Nightmare. He seemed relatively relaxed though looking at his posture, perhaps he really wasn't that much of a threat.
“You are President Soot’s son.” Fundy’s head snapped up from where he had been looking at the intricate design of the sword. His ears tinted pink slightly as he blushed in embarrassment.
“Yes, and you are the mysterious War leader.” The teen let out a sharp, cruel laugh, nothing like his previous soft spoken persona. The grip on his sword seemed to tighten, though not out of wariness.
“Is that how you know me? Well I suppose L’manberg isn't very politically inclined…Nice to meet you…?” He trailed off looking at the shapeshifter hungrily devouring every detail of the teen, his leather coat that looked older than time, the lack of weapons and the look in his eyes. The one that screamed, in some emotion he couldn't decipher.
“Fundy, and you would be?” He asked, tipping his paperboy hat, now soaked in rain ikt dripped onto his hand and into his sleeve.
“Dream. Now tell me why you L’manberg Rats are in the Greater SMP?”
Fundy tilts his head sideways slightly in a show of confidence before speaking, bold and unflinching, “I’m the only one out here.”
Dream drew his sword, poking his throat, in a display of violence.
His confidence remained, back straight. Internally Fundy felt like a deer in headlights but fake it till you make it eh?
Confusion flashed by tightened muscles and shifting stances before going straight back to neutrality. After a moment of silence Dream spoke, “You should know better than to say that.”
Fundy laughed, cold seeping into his bones as rain soaked his body. It was resigned, bitter, it spoke far more than words and yet he spoke anyways.
“I know.”
Dream tilted his head, muttering something about L’manberg Rats, before sheathing his sword. His wet hair dripped onto his hoodie as he shook his head and turned back into the bushes.
Fundy blinked. And then collapsed. His head spun and he had to lean on a tree as he calmed his heavy breathing. Panic rising and falling like rapid waves. Soon enough he was just cold, drenched, and muddy. Noticing the trail of blood on his neck down to his collarbone, he sighed.
Grumbling, he cracked his neck and started the walk back.