Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1.

It had been an age—an endless span of dull, mortal time—since Wilbur had been graced with the presence of a godling.

Too long, he thought, as he stared at the absolute darling in front of him, small as a sapling and brimming with a radiance no sun could rival. His hair was spun sunlight, catching the air like golden motes in a beam; cheeks pinker than the blush of cosmos in the gardens, eyes vast and blue like the skies of endless dreamscapes. He bore a faint resemblance to Phil – a glimmer of shared creation – but he was better.

Because he was adorable.

He was such a tiny thing, with a gap-toothed smile, peeking out like the moon from silver-lined clouds. His fingers, sticky with the stain of strawberries, as he offered one to Wilbur – a gift, an offering as humble as it was profound. Treasured. Something about it made Wilbur’s chest tighten, coiling with want and awe. Undeniably precious, and so, Wilbur decided in an instant that he must have him.

When Dream had first spoke of “selling” his godling, Wilbur had thought he was joking. Godlings – these rare and wondrous little creatures – borne of the universe’s compassion and whimsy, molded by the goddess of life herself –

“And the universe said I love you because you are love.”

- were miracles, blessings that appeared only once or twice in a decade. Each one a raw, unshaped power in shape of a child. Unaligned and untamed. To have one, to mold one, was to cradle heaven in one’s hands.

(For heaven makes gods, but gods do not make heaven. No, that honor lies to love itself. Cradled and strung in the grounds upon where they roam.)

Wilbur’s heard of them, seen their potential before – the mischief, the marvel, the endless charm. The children that hold magic in their palms, that have it listen like a siren. Calling. And this child? This little child, turning a humble strawberry into a sandwich thick with golden cheese and savory meats. Darling child, brimming with boundless potential. A single request from him made the world reshape itself, reality kneeling at his tiny feet.

He was far more precious that Schlatt’s godling, Wilbur thought with curling satisfaction and pride. Schlatt’s godling – Tubbo, he thinks the godling was called – was a brutish little thing, prone to tantrums that lit fires like sparks on dry kindling. Amusing, undoubtedly, but lacking the grace and wonder that this little angel possessed. Not that Schlatt cared of course – already a far better parent than Dream, not that it seemed to be a high bar to cross – he was proud of that tiny terror, lazy grin always etched onto his face ever since he had been blessed with one.

“What’s your name, my love?” Wilbur asked, kneeling so he looked less looming. He cupped the boy’s cheek, soft as rose petals, warm as morning sunlight.

The child’s face split into a smile so radiant it could have rivalled the dawn and won. “My name’s Tommy!” he declared, words bursting from him like birds taking flight. Suns were stitched into his smile, his cheeks, his eyes, in every word. He paused, smile faltering slightly as he pouted – a perfect little frown, so unbelievably precious to look at. “Well, one of ’em, at least.”

“One of them?” Wilbur repeated, tilting his head. He was helplessly endeared as Tommy copied the motion, blond hair flopping into his eyes. Tommy huffed, and Wilbur felt himself melt.

“Dream says my real name’s Theseus.” The boy wrinkled his nose and Wilbur felt his heart stutter. The name sunk in, honed and perfect for Techno’s ears. Perhaps the only right thing Dream had ever done. Oh, the universe was generous today. Tommy was already perfect, and now he held the key to Techno’s heart.

“But I don’t like it,” Tommy continued, cheeks puffed out like a pufferfish. Wilbur wanted to poke them. He wanted to poke them so bad. “It’s way too long.”

“Well, who gave you the name Tommy, then?” Wilbur asked, cupping Tommy’s face, thumbs tracing circles.

“Big Q!” Tommy chirped, his grin returning, brighter than ever. “He’s a big man! And he said I look like a Tommy!”

Wilbur laughed, soft, indulgent. “You do,” he said, booping Tommy’s freckled nose. The boy dissolved into giggles, lifting the air around them. “It’s such a lovely name.”

“Thanks, mister god,” Tommy said, beaming up at him with such a glow that Wilbur swore he’d been created from the stars.

Tommy tilted his head, his golden hair shimmering like sunlight on rippling water. “What’s your name, mister god?” he asked.

“Wilbur,” he replied, watching the boy’s nose scrunch up as he tested the name silently, like a taste on his tongue.

“Wilbur?” Tommy repeated, pouting. “That’s a weird name.”

Wilbur feigned a gasp, hand to his chest in mock offense. “Weird? You wound me, Tommy. After I just said your name was lovely!”

Tommy giggled, his laughter like bells in the altar. “Well, it’s not as cool as mine,” he said, puffing out his chest. With a dramatic flourish, he flicked his strawberry-stained fingers, and a cascade of golden stars shimmered into existence around them, swirling like fireflies caught in a summer breeze.

Wilbur blinked, momentarily stunned, his eyes following the glittering light show. “You are something else,” he murmured, awe threading through his voice.

“Watch this!” Tommy declared, and with another snap, the stars morphed into a flurry of dandelion seeds, drifting lazily through the air. He reached up, caught one between his fingers, and blew, scattering it into tiny sparks. Wilbur had never been more enthralled.

“You’re showing off now,” Wilbur teased, stepping closer. Before Tommy could respond, Wilbur scooped him up with ease, lifting him high into the air. Tommy shrieked with laughter, his little arms flailing, his magic fizzling into bursts of harmless fireworks around them. Wilbur spun him around, the boy’s laughter echoing like music, and finally drew him close, pressing a warm kiss to his forehead.

“You’re incredible, Tommy,” Wilbur said softly, cradling the boy like he was made of starlight. (He was.) “I think I’ll keep you.”

Tommy’s eyes widened, his grin breaking free once more. “Like...home-keep?” he asked, his voice laced with tender hope.

“Exactly,” Wilbur said, tucking him closer still. “I’ll be your family, if you’ll have me.”

Tommy stared at him for a moment, as if weighing the words, before flinging his arms around Wilbur’s neck. “Okay!” he said, as if it were the simplest decision in the world.

Wilbur chuckled, his heart swelling so fiercely it felt like it might burst. He looked down at the boy, this tiny, miraculous godling who had been cast aside like some unwanted trinket.

Dream had been a fool, Wilbur thought, to give him up. The man had paraded Tommy around as a symbol of divine favor, a tool to bolster his standing, but when the novelty wore off, he’d abandoned him. To give up a godling—especially one as breathtakingly pure and powerful as this—was unthinkable. But Dream had done it, and Wilbur could only be grateful for his short-sightedness.

His arrogance had been his undoing. For all his supposed greatness, he was no better than a mortal man. He’d used Tommy to present himself as a favored warrior blessed by life herself. Surely, Dream had reasoned the council, a godling in my care marks me as special, chosen, worthy of life’s blessing? They are rare, after all.

And the council had agreed, and Dream had milked Tommy for all his poster-child worth, and once the council was satisfied, the child apparently no longer served his purpose. He had deemed, in all his folly, Tommy as expendable. Disposable. Discardable. And an announcement had been sent, Dream was going to give up his godling to the next willing god.

The fool. No one gave godlings up, and so naturally, everyone had assumed there was something wrong with the godling. Or, like Wilbur, that it was a joke, a trap, mockery. Because surely Dream couldn’t be so foolish?

He was.

At least he had wanted to hand Tommy to another god, Wilbur thought mulishly, tickling Tommy. Godlings, for all their power, were still young and vulnerable, as fragile as they were formidable. They needed safety, care, a home. If no one had come for Tommy, Wilbur didn’t even want to imagine what might have become of him.

He was glad now – so glad – that curiosity had drawn him here. That he had come. Faster than Schlatt, greedy god that he was, already hoarding one godling and likely angling for another. Wilbur had seen Tommy, truly seen him, and now the boy was nestled in his arms, safe and adored.

Wilbur smiled down at him, his expression soft and adoring, brushing a stray strand of gold from Tommy’s forehead. “If Dream was idiotic enough to give up something this precious,” he murmured, his voice as soft as a prayer, “then I’d be an even bigger fool not to keep him.”

Tommy giggled, hand curling up to tug at Wilbur’s curls. Wilbur smiled, hopelessly endeared, unable to stop himself from pressing a kiss against his forehead. Oh, Phil would love him.

Yes, Wilbur thought, this godling was meant to be his. And once Dream realized his mistake, his colossal, foolish, arrogant mistake, Wilbur would laugh like the rest of them with Tommy in his arms.

When Wilbur finally made it back to the castle, the morning light spilling golden streaks across the stone halls, Technoblade was already in the kitchen, mug of steaming coffee in hand. His sky-blue pajamas, dotted with pink pigs, were rumpled from sleep.

(They were Techno’s favorite pair of pajamas and Wilbur had his own matching pair with blue sheep and Phil with crows. Wilbur made a note to buy Tommy his own matching pair, his own inauguration, Tommy would look so precious.)

Technoblade looked up at him groggily, eyes welled up with the last remnants of sleep. Wilbur smirked, perfect timing.

“Techno!” Wilbur crowed, his grin wide as he stepped into the room, cradling Tommy into his arms. Tommy, bright-eyed and curious, clung to Wilbur’s neck, his golden hair catching the light, making it look like an angel’s halo.

Technoblade froze mid-slip, his eyes narrowing as they fell on the child. He blinked once, then twice, then rubbed at his eyes with his free hand, as though expecting them to be nothing more than a sleep-dredged hallucination. When Tommy remained solid and very much real, Techno’s gaze snapped back to Wilbur, unimpressed.

“I thought Phil was supposed to be the one adopting strays,” Techno drawled, his voice heavy with morning sluggishness, though his eyes betrayed him. They lingered on Tommy’s golden curls, intrigue rising up to the surface like sea foam. Wilbur suppressed a victorious grin. Techno loved gold. The hook was all set; all Wilbur needed to do was to get him to bite, and then reel him in.

“Someone had to get his genes,” Wilbur said breezily, bouncing Tommy on his hip. Tommy stretched his hand out towards Techno cup, his small fingers twitching in interest. Wilbur chuckled, holding his hand gently. “Ah, ah, still too little for that, babylove. But what about hot chocolate?” He glanced at Technoblade with a cheeky grin. “Techno makes the best ones. He’ll even add marshmallows.”

Tommy’s eyes lit up, and Wilbur cooed at the sight.

Technoblade, however, wasn’t biting just yet. “Wilbur,” he said, his tone low and warning, though his gaze flickered back to Tommy’s face. “Who is that?”

Wilbur’s grin only widened. “Our godling,” he said, voice dripping with triumph.

The word hit Techno like a spark to kindling. His back straightened, his crimson eyes sharpening as the coffee mug froze halfway to his lips. Wilbur nearly laughed at how fast the shift came, but he held his composure, letting the moment stretch before he delivered the final blow.

“Technoblade, meet Theseus,” Wilbur said, watching with delight as the name landed like a stone in still water. The ripple was immediate, visible in the way Techno’s breath hitched, his eyes going wide.

“And Tommy,” Wilbur added softly, his voice warm as he turned to the boy, who was staring at Techno with open-mouthed awe. Wilbur’s heart clenched at the sight—it was almost too precious to bear.

“Tommy,” Wilbur said gently, tilting his head toward his brother. “Meet Technoblade.”

Tommy’s lips parted in a soft, hesitant, “N’blade?” His small voice was barely above a whisper, but it was enough to make Technoblade’s expression soften—just a little, just enough for the lethal, final blow that was Tommy.

“Not quite,” Wilbur said, laughing as he shifted Tommy’s attention back to him. “Tech,” he prompted gently.

“Tech,” Tommy repeated, obediently following his lead.

“No,” Wilbur continued, his grin growing wider as the boy parroted, “No.”

“Blade,” Wilbur finished, drawing the word out slowly, savoring every syllable as he watched Technoblade melt further with each repetition.

“Blade,” Tommy echoed, his voice bright and clear, like a chime in the crisp morning air.

“Technoblade!” Wilbur crowed triumphantly, kissing Tommy’s forehead with exaggerated flourish.

But before Wilbur could bask in his victory, Tommy struck back with a blow far more devastating. The godling beamed, his small hands clapping together as he shouted, “Techie!”

Technoblade froze. A strangled gasp escaped him, his eyes widening. Wilbur barely had time to react before Tommy pressed his advantage.

“Techie! Techie, Techie, Techie!” he cheered, his voice growing louder with each repetition, pure joy radiating from his tiny frame. And then, with a casual wave of his hand, the pigs on Technoblade’s pajamas sprang to life. Tiny, chubby little things, they trotted off and onto the table, before, with another wave of Tommy’s hands they grew soft, fluffy white wings and began fluttering around the room, their oinks harmonious with Tommy’s delighted shriek.

“Techie!” Tommy exclaimed again, pointing to the magical pigs now circling them. “Piggies!”

Wilbur blinked, dumbstruck. But before he could process what was happening, Technoblade moved faster than Wilbur had ever seen. In one swift motion, Tommy was snatched from Wilbur’s arms and cradled against Techno’s chest as if he had always belonged there.

Wilbur stood frozen, watching as Tommy nestled into Technoblade’s embrace, fitting against him perfectly. For as long as he’d known him, Wilbur couldn’t remember a single time Technoblade had ever held a child. Yet here he was, chuffing softly as he nuzzled into Tommy’s golden curls.

“Treasure,” Techno murmured, his voice uncharacteristically gentle, a smile tugging at his lips as Tommy reached up to grab his pink hair, clearly fascinated by the color. Wilbur stared, wide-eyed, as Technoblade, who had drawn his blade at someone for daring to touch his hair, simply leaned down, rumbling contentedly as Tommy tugged on it, not even wincing when the godling got a little too excited.

Oh, he was gone. Completely, hopelessly gone.

Around them, the winged pigs continued to flutter about, a few wandering off to land in Technoblade’s coffee mug with tiny splashes. One particularly adventurous pig tangled itself into Wilbur’s curls, oinking indignantly when he tried to bat it away.

Wilbur finally found his voice, narrowing his eyes at the pair of them—Tommy, giggling, and Techno, smug beyond words. “Hold on,” Wilbur said, pointing an accusatory finger. “How come you get a nickname first?”

Technoblade’s smile grew impossibly smugger as he adjusted Tommy in his arms, holding him tighter before pressing a kiss to his forehead, right over the spot Wilbur had kissed moments ago. Wilbur gasped at the audacity.

“Well,” Techno drawled, his tone rich with smug satisfaction, “it seems I’m the favorite.”

Tommy giggled, his delight bursting forth as he clapped his hands. Technoblade spun him effortlessly, eliciting another squeal of joy from the boy. “Techie!” Tommy cheered, the name ringing out like a victory bell.

Wilbur sputtered, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

“C’mon, runt,” Technoblade said, his gaze sliding over to Wilbur with a look that practically screamed hah, I won. His grin grew even smugger still—an expression Wilbur hadn’t thought humanly possible. “Let’s make you some hot chocolate.”

Tommy beamed, throwing his arms around Techno’s neck. Around them, the tiny pigs squealed in happiness, their fluffy wings flapping as they joined in the chorus of cheers.

Wilbur stood rooted in place, gaping. He hadn’t just lost the upper hand—he’d been thoroughly outplayed.

This was an outrage.

Technoblade hadn’t let go of Tommy once. Not once. Ever since they’d stepped into the kitchen, Tommy had been perched on Techno’s hip like he belonged there, happily tugging at the gold chains around Techno’s neck. Techno, of course, had promised Tommy all his necklaces, murmuring, “You can wear as many as you want, little guy,” in a tone so soft it could melt glaciers.

The tiny pigs had fluttered around them, trotting and oinking happily, but when one had nearly been squished underfoot, Tommy had clapped his hands together and wished them back into Technoblade’s pajamas. Techno’s reaction? Oh, nothing much. Just smothering Tommy’s face with kisses for a full ten minutes, murmuring endlessly about how Tommy was so much of a better brother than Wilbur.

Which, rude.

Without Wilbur, Techno wouldn’t even have Tommy, and the least he deserved was a shred of respect.

But no, Techno had taken to carrying Tommy around like he was his prized treasure. On his shoulders, Tommy giggling and steering him by the pink strands of his hair. In his lap, while the boy sipped his hot chocolate and kicked his feet, looking like a prince holding court. Even when Tommy asked to walk, Technoblade had clasped his tiny hand and strolled alongside him like a doting guardian.

Wilbur had tried—he had tried—to reclaim some of his own godling glory. He’d approached with his most charming smile, gesturing for Tommy and cooing, “Surely you must be tired, Techno. Let me carry him for a bit.”

But Techno had turned, deadpan, and said, “We don’t all have noodle arms like you, Wilbur.”

The audacity.

As if that weren’t enough, Techno had then proceeded to use this moment to show Tommy his swords. The boy’s face lit up with awe, his tiny hands reaching toward the blades as Techno knelt beside him, explaining each one with exaggerated, dramatic flair. “See this one, Tommy? This one’s called Orphan Obliterator. Isn’t it cool?” And Tommy, starry-eyed, had nodded, completely enthralled.

It wasn’t just favoritism anymore. It was bribery. Pure, shameless bribery.

Wilbur watched helplessly as Techno leaned in conspiratorially, whispering something to Tommy that had the boy bursting into giggles and declaring, “Techie’s the strongest brother ever!”

Unacceptable. Absolutely unacceptable.

For the rest of the morning, Wilbur trailed behind them like a disgruntled cat, all languid steps and narrowed eyes, his usual easy grace traded for something deliberately lackadaisical—petty, even. He was not sulking. No, sulking would imply some level of actual defeat, and Wilbur did not lose. Not truly.

Yet, as Technoblade strode ahead with Tommy nestled securely in his arms, the boy laughing, all golden delight and dimpled glee, Wilbur felt wronged. Grossly so.

It was what he had wanted, of course. And it had happended far better than he could have ever imagined, yes—Techno carried Tommy witht he same effortless strength that cradled war-honed swords, but the way his hands curved around Tommy’s back and legs—gentle, reverent—was a mockery of the ferocity he was known for. And Tommy, their little godling, had folded into him like a prayer answered before it could even be uttered. It was wonderful. It was lovely.

It was unbearable. Wilbur regretted coming to the castle immediately. He wanted more time with the baby. Tommy was absolutely adorable and Wilbur needed about a milenia with him before it could even come to close to being enough. And here Techno was, stealing his Tommy Time!

Wilbur was wallowing in his woes when Technoblade stiffened, his ever-vigilant instincts flaring, the telltale shimmer of a prayer pulling at his ribs like the steady pluck of a harp string.

A summons.

Wilbur doesn't get summoned a lot, humans have no need for the god of music. So, he witnesses it more often than not and he has seen it enough to know how it usually goes. Techno, ever-devoted to his purpose, would rise with the inevitable certainty of the tide, answering his call with the quiet fervor of a soldier bound to his cause. But now?

Now, Techno hesistated.

His arms curled tighter around Tommy, his brow furrowing, the corners of his lips dipping in something so minutely reluctant it was almost imperceptible—except Wilbur saw. And oh, he relished it.

Would you look at that, the Blood God had gone soft.

“Well, well,” he drawled, sidling closer with the grace of a man who had just stumbled upon a grand opportunity. “Would you look at that? Some poor soul, desperate enough to summon our dear Technoblade.” He sighed dramatically, placing a hand over his heart as if the mere thought brought him distress. “We wouldn’t want to break their heart now, would we?”

Tommy gasped, eyes widening, hands clutching at Techno’s collar. “Oh no, Techie,” he whispered, aghast, like the idea of someone needing Techno and being ignored was some grand tragedy. “You gotta go!”

Technoblade exhaled sharply through his nose. A battle lost before he even had a chance to fight it.

And then, as if sensing Techno’s wavering reluctance, Tommy clapped his hands together, something weightless sparking between his palms. Magic, raw and rich, pooled like liquid gold before swirling into a small, radiant charm, warm and pulsing with life. He pressed it to Techno’s chest with all the solemnity of a king bestowing a gift.

“For luck,” Tommy declared, tone grave, tiny hands clutching Techno's cloak tighter, as if trying to squeeze out all the magic from his tiny palms. “So you come back quick.”

Technoblade, for all his might and mastery, melted. His expression softened, the wariness ebbing from his shoulders as he gently unhooked Tommy's tight grip on his cloak, chuffing softly all the while. Soft. Gentle. Barriers Down.

Wilbur struck.

With all the grace of a thief reclaiming his prize, he swooped in, scooping Tommy into his arms and spinning away before Techno could do more than scowl.

“Off you go, warrior,” Wilbur called airily, grinning wide and wicked. He waggled his fingers in a mocking little wave. “We’ll be waiting.”

Technoblade grunted, reaching over to ruffle Tommy's hair and giving Wilbur a look that promised retribution before he turned and vanished into the call of his summons.

And then it was just Wilbur and Tommy, cocooned in the afterglow of fading magic.

Wilbur exhaled, cradling Tommy close and dipping his head to press his cheek against golden curls. “Oh, the betrayal,” he mourned theatrically. “The wound you have inflicted upon me, dearest Tommy. Ignored, discarded, for another—and my own brother, no less!”

Tommy giggled, twisting in Wilbur’s arms to look at him with those bright, knowing eyes. And then—

“Wilby,” he cooed, voice soft and syrup-sweet.

Wilbur’s heart stuttered.

Something molten and aching bloomed in his chest, threatening to swallow him whole. His grip tightened, protective and awed, like he was holding the most fragile, precious thing in the world.

Oh.

Oh, he was done for.

Prime, Wilbur realised, he had never held something so small before.

Not that Tommy was actually that tiny, no, but—he felt small. Small enough to cradle, small enough to tuck into the curve of Wilbur’s arms, small enough that Wilbur could feel the warmth of him, soft and new and precious in a way Wilbur had never known.

And Wilbur—Wilbur, who had never been prone to sentiment, not in any way he would admit, though Technoblade would scoff and call him a liar—Wilbur felt something vast and unbearable swell within him, pressing against his ribs, a storm-tide of feeling too great to name. It was exhilaration and reverence, something love-soft and laughter-bright, something golden and trembling and so achingly alive that he thought, for a moment, that his heart might simply give out from the weight of it.

And it only grew as Tommy peeked up at him, a little wary, a little confused, curls all windswept, gold eyes flickering like the sun peeking through storm clouds.

It was just like the garden, though it felt like a lifetime ago now. Shot by a golden arrow, loosed straight through his heart, by a golden boy who had never even known he was aiming. He had been so caught in his pettiness, so wrapped in his own wounded pride, that he had nearly forgotten the aching love that had made him bring the godling home in the first place.

Wilbur swallowed hard, something thick and unsteady in his throat. He cradled Tommy closer, like a treasured thing, and smiled. “Hello again, bumblebee.” The name fell from his lips without thought, without hesitation—like it had always been waiting, tucked away in the corners of his heart, simply waiting to be spoken.

Tommy huffed. “I ain't a bee. I'm a big man.”

Wilbur huffed out a laugh, damp and trembling at the edges, teetering dangerously close to a sob. “No, no, you are a bee! Look at you! Small and round and buzzing with energy—mine now.” And he pressed a kiss to Tommy’s forehead, sealing the words as truth, as if he could hold them there forever.

And Tommy paused, eyebrows furrowing for a moment, staring at Wilbur with something unreadable in his gaze, before something magical had happened. Tommy, his adorable, puffed-up, sulking godling, had hesitated for just a moment—and then melted.

He pressed his little face against Wilbur’s shoulder, arms curling around Wilbur’s neck, clinging like Wilbur was something safe. Something warm.

Wilbur stopped breathing.

Tommy let out a little hum. “... S’comfy,” he mumbled, half to himself.

Wilbur died.

Right then and there, collapsed, cradling Tommy like he was the most precious thing in the world. And he was.

“Oh, my heart,” Wilbur crooned, nuzzling against Tommy’s curls. “My darling little starlight. My sweetest honeycomb. You love me already, don’t you?”

Tommy jerked back immediately, scowling. “No!”

Wilbur grinned, unbothered, cuddling Tommy closer. “Too late,” he sang, rocking them back and forth. “You’ve snuggled into my arms. It’s over for you, my sweet. You adore me. You think I'm better than Techno, right? Right?”

Tommy let out the most indignant wail.

Wilbur’s heart had never been happier.

It had been inevitable.

For hours, Wilbur had delighted in Tommy’s laughter, showing him music, dancing with him across the clouds, letting him spin tiny galaxies between his fingers.

And then, just as Wilbur had his sweet godling tucked in his arms, Techno returned.

“Give me my kid,” Techno deadpanned, arms crossed.

Wilbur grinned, tightening his hold on Tommy. “Oh, dearest brother, surely you don’t mean to separate us?”

Techno squinted. “Wilbur.”

Wilbur leaned back. “Tommy, tell Techno he’s being unreasonable.”

Tommy perked up immediately. “Techie, you're being un-fease-able.”

"It's unreasonable, treasure." Techno sighed fondly, before turning to Wilbur. “Wilbur, give him to me.”

Wilbur smirked. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

And then—then, he ran.

“WILBUR!”

Wilbur cackled, Tommy squealing in delight as Wilbur leaped into the sky, bounding across the heavens, the stars gleaming beneath his feet.

Techno chased him, a blur of crimson and gold, but Wilbur was faster, soaring higher, laughing as Tommy clung to him, delighted beyond measure.

“Wilby!” Tommy giggled, face pressed against Wilbur’s chest.

“Oh, darling, say it again,” he pleaded, spinning them both mid-air.

Tommy, beaming, poked Wilbur’s cheek. “Wilby!”

Wilbur died. Again.

Techno groaned behind them. “This is ridiculous.”

Wilbur paid him no mind, utterly blissed out on his godling’s affection.

“Tommy,” Wilbur breathed, cradling him, pressing a kiss to his curls. “I love you.”

Tommy, shy but happy, wriggled deeper into Wilbur’s arms.

“… Love ya too, Wilby.”

And Wilbur, triumphant beyond words, turned to cackle at Techno, still holding his precious godling close. Take that, Technoblade.

Chapter Text

2.

When they were younger—well, as young as gods could be, unburdened by the weight of divinity—Phil would take them to the edge of the heavens, where the mortal sky kissed the infinite.

There, beneath the hush of eternity, they would sit, limbs tangled easily, shoulders knocking together and let the universe stretch out before them. Techno, ever the storyteller, would weave legends from the stars, his voice a slow and steady thing, deep as the roots of the world. Wilbur, curled lazily at his side, would cackle at his misery whenever a tale took a particularly tragic turn, his laughter ringing through the firmament like a bell. And Phil—Phil would listen, soft-eyed and steady, his love unspoken but felt in every breath, every glance, every moment they simply were.

Boy kings and their father, neither grief-stricken nor bloodied, not yet carved into something too sharp, too weary. Just gods, just brothers, just them. Eternal, for a moment. And evermore.

They still do it now, though the world has tried to take it from them. Phil is called away more often, summoned by fate and duty, the weight of ages pressing heavier upon his shoulders. And they, too, are pulled in different directions—wars and revolutions, protection and rebellion, whispered prayers and desperate summons echoing through the chambers of time. Tradition, once as natural as breath, has become something rarer, more fragile, slipping between the cracks that have begun to form.

But from now—from now, they will not let it slip away. Not with a new godling nestled among them, golden and bright, a fledgling star newly claimed by their constellation. Phil may still be gone, visiting Kristin in the quiet beyond, but they know he cannot deny them this, cannot deny Tommy this.

So they will let tradition be tradition again. They will sit beneath the stars and let the universe shrink to the space between them, where laughter and old stories and golden-eyed wonder mend what time has frayed.

They will seal the cracks with gold.

***

Technoblade carried Tommy without effort, the little godling fitting snug against his chest, warm and trusting in the cool night air. The sky stretched vast and endless above them, a canvas of ink-stained darkness where stars bloomed like fireflies caught in an eternal dance. They whispered, soft and distant, humming old lullabies and secrets carved into the bones of the universe. Tommy, for all his bravado, was small against it—golden and blinking and full of the kind of curiosity that had once built empires.

And so, Technoblade told him a story.

“You ever heard of the Weaver, treasure?” he murmured, voice a low rumble, deep as the corals that grew in the oceans.

Tommy, who had been nodding off against his shoulder, perked up instantly. “The what?”

Techno’s lips twitched, amused. “The Weaver,” he repeated, gesturing with a nod toward a faint cluster of stars, strung together like a silver thread across the heavens. “She was a goddess, once. Spun the first clouds, wove the sky itself—stitched the stars into place with thread made of light.”

Tommy blinked up at him, gold eyes wide, reflecting the constellations above. “She made the sky?”

Techno hummed. “Aye. She made it soft, too—so the lost souls that got too tired could rest easy in it. Made it bright, so no one would ever have to wander blind in the dark.” He glanced down at Tommy, smirking. “Pretty sweet, huh?”

Tommy snorted. “I could do that.”

Techno chuckled. “Maybe. But y’know what happened to the Weaver?”

Tommy shook his head.

“She fell in love,” Techno murmured, tilting his gaze back toward the stars. “With a mortal man. A shepherd who used to sing to the night, never knowin’ she was listenin’. And for the first time in all of eternity, she wanted something—something more than the sky, more than the stars. She wanted him.”

Tommy was fully awake now, enthralled. “Did she get ‘im?”

Techno’s voice dipped, slow and steady. “She did,” he said. “But the gods—her brothers, her sisters, the ones who spun the seasons and carved the mountains—they saw what she had done. And they didn’t like it.”

Tommy frowned. “Why not? That’s stupid.”

Techno huffed a quiet laugh. “Ain’t sayin’ it was right, gold. But they were scared. Scared that if one of their own could fall, could want more, then what stopped the rest from leavin’ too? So they punished her.”

Tommy clutched at Techno’s cloak, little fingers curling tight. “What’d they do?”

Techno sighed, shifting his hold to settle Tommy closer, steady, warm. “They tore her from him. Cast her back up into the sky and chained her there, made her part of it. And the worst part?” He paused, letting the moment stretch, letting the words settle like dust in the air. “They wiped her from his memory. Made him forget her, forget every song he ever sang to her. And when she called his name from the sky, when she wept and pleaded and reached for him—he never looked up.”

Tommy made a wounded little sound. “That’s—”

“I know,” Techno murmured. “But she kept the sky warm anyway. Kept it soft. Kept the stars burning, even if she could never touch ‘em herself.” He exhaled, quiet, reverent. “And maybe, just maybe, some nights—when the air is real still and the stars hum just right—he sings again, without knowing why.”

Tommy was silent for a long moment. Then—soft, so very soft—he whispered, “That’s so sad.”

Techno hummed. “Not all stories get happy endings, treasure.”

Tommy furrowed his brows, squinting up at the sky. “If I were there,” he declared, stubborn and fiery, “I’d have kicked their asses.”

Techno barked a laugh, loud and free. “Damn right you would’ve.”

Tommy huffed, nodding firmly. “Not fair,” he muttered, still staring up at the stars. “Not fair at all.”

Techno ran a hand through Tommy’s curls, pressing a warm kiss to the crown of his head. “No,” he murmured, voice quiet, steady. “But the sky still holds her, don’t it?”

Tommy blinked, glancing up at him.

Techno tilted his head toward the heavens, to the stars that shimmered and pulsed like a heartbeat. “She’s still here,” he said, “still watching, still waiting. Maybe one day, she’ll find her way back down.”

Tommy, thoughtful now, turned his gaze back to the sky. He reached out a small hand, fingers splayed, as if he could grasp the stars between them. “I hope so,” he murmured. “She deserves it.”

Techno didn’t reply, just held him closer, let the silence settle between them like a blanket. And in the hush of the night, the stars above them flickered: soft, golden, endless.

(Everything Dream would never have. Everything he was foolish enough to give up.)

Wilbur lay sprawled on his back, arms tucked lazily behind his head, eyes tracing the endless sprawl of the heavens above. The sky stretched vast and eternal, a cosmic sea brimming with distant, glimmering jewels. But none of them, none of them, shone quite like the little godling at his side.

Tommy sat cross-legged beside him, bathed in the soft luminescence of his own making. The gentle night breeze toyed with his golden curls, sending wayward strands to tickle at his sun-kissed cheeks. He was a sight, a darling thing, nose scrunched in deep thought, lips pursed in the way they always did when he concentrated too hard.

Wilbur watched, utterly captivated, as the boy lifted his hands, palms glowing with something ancient, something divine, something so very Tommy. And from his fingertips, the night bent to his will. Tiny stars, warm and pulsing like fireflies, flickered into existence, spinning lazily through the air before drifting up, up, up into the sky.

Tommy was trying to craft constellations again.

Ever since Techno had told Tommy that story, Wilbur had been a personal audience to Tommy's attempts — and of course, would watch enraptured as Tommy pressed each star into place with careful, deliberate hands, as though it was nothing more than a puzzle piece — no matter how many times Tommy did it, it still felt like amgic anew. Because it wasn’t just the stars Tommy created, but the way he created them. With thought, with wonder, with love.

He had never met a more empathetic child, so full of love to give, so ready to give it all. Dream didn't deserve him, didn’t deserve someone who had given his all only to get nothing in return. Why the universe had thought him fit of a godling was a mystery, though, he couldn’t compain too much, since it had got him a new little brother. 

Speaking of which, Wilbur smiled, tilting his head to the side as he drank in the sight of his little godling at work. “You’re making that face again, starlight,” he murmured, reaching out to flick Tommy’s cheek.

Tommy swatted at his hand, indignant. “Am not!”

Wilbur only chuckled, undeterred. “Hmm, I dunno… looks an awful lot like your ‘deep in thought’ face to me.”

Tommy ignored him, determined, and went back to his craft. Another star sparked to life between his fingers, glowing soft and golden, before he pressed it high into the heavens where it belonged.

Wilbur sighed, all fond exasperation. “You know, I think you just might be the sweetest little celestial artist I’ve ever met.”

Tommy gasped, scandalized, his gold eyes snapping to Wilbur in pure, unfiltered betrayal. Clearly learning from the best. “Take that back! I ain’t sweet!”

Wilbur smirked, thoroughly delighted. “Oh, but you are,” he crooned, sitting up, and before Tommy could even think to escape, Wilbur scooped him right up into his arms.

Tommy yowled, kicking his legs in protest. “Wilbur! Put me down, you lanky fucker—!”

But Wilbur was having none of it. He spun them both in a dizzying circle, hooting with laughter, before settling Tommy into his lap and immediately attacking him with an onslaught of soft, smothering kisses. “Nooo, don’t fight it, my little comet,” he cooed against the boy’s temple. “You’re a darling. My dearest, most wonderful, most perfect star in the whole sky.”

Tommy thrashed, his tiny hands pressing weakly against Wilbur’s face, but his spluttering outrage was hopelessly undercut by the little giggles spilling from his lips. “S-Stop—no! You’re so embarrassing!”

Wilbur only held him tighter, chin resting atop golden curls. “That’s my job, bumblebee,” he hummed, utterly content.

Above them, unnoticed, the stars shimmered in response. A constellation bloomed, so eager to please, mirroring the way Wilbur rocked Tommy back and forth. It was a loving thing, stitched into the fabric of the heavens by a boy who claimed he wasn’t sweet at all.

Wilbur tilted his head back, catching sight of it, and his breath hitched. His heart—his poor, foolish heart—ached with something overwhelming, something golden and vast and so, so full of love.

He pressed a final kiss to Tommy’s curls, gaze still locked on the sky. “You’re so much more than you know, little star,” he whispered.

Tommy, nestled warm in Wilbur’s arms, blinked up at him sleepily. “…Huh?”

Wilbur just chuckled, shaking his head. “Nothing, sweetheart,” he murmured, holding him close. “Nothing at all.”

(A world away, a man tilted his head back and gazed at the sky, at stars that glimmered like eyes he had once called his own. And in the hollow cavern of his chest, something cracked—something jagged, something wretched, something irreparably lost.)

(He called out to the heavens, not with reverence, not with tenderness, but with the only language he had ever known—rage, blistering and raw, the kind that scorched instead of soothed. He demanded, he pleaded, he raged. He had never learned the way love was meant to sound.)

(The stars did not answer.)

(For they may burn and dazzle and weep silver fire, but even they know when to stay silent.)