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nerdiestnerdtoevernerd · 2 years

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This is a prompt from @chaos-creature1 for @pinchhitsfromthevoid

It's a sequel of sorts to my fic Livin' In a Mansion That We Made Out of Glass (it's at least the same in the same AU)

Word count: 4923

Sayin' and Portrayin' Things You Don't Really Mean

If there’s one thing Wilbur knows, it’s that all good things end in flames.

The very first thing he remembers is heat. A raging, burning, hungry heat that took and took and took and left nothing behind. He remembers hands, pushing him out of the way, urging him to run, and then disappearing under ouch-hot rubble. He remembers the terror (mother-father-brother-family-gone). He remembers crying, reaching for the comforting warmth, and instead being burned by heat too hot to handle. He remembers screaming in pain both physical and emotional, a scream of mourning, and a cry for help. But his answer was nothing but silence.

He waits for a time, the white flakes drifting through the air turning his dark hair gray. He watches, watches as white hot flames flicker through reds and oranges and yellows. Listens to the crackle and pop and crashing and destruction. He stares up at the sky normally dotted with bright stars, now filled with thick, billowing smoke painted a nightmarish shade of red. He watches in horror as houses crumble and people run, screaming. He turns his gaze (too young, too young and innocent to be seeing any of this) from the area around him back to the dancing smoke in the sky.

He waits, waits for something to happen. Something, anything. Anything to wake him from this nightmare of destruction and despair. He stretches out a hand, again reaching for safe, loving hands, but is met with nothing but hot metal and coals.

And so he listens to the last words he’s heard and he leaves. He runs through the burning debris that rains down on his head. He ignores it when smoke fills his lungs and he feels like he can’t breathe. Ignores the screams of pain from around him and the smell of burning flesh, blocking out all his senses and thoughts until the only words left are “Go, run, be safe.”

He remembers turning back some time later and seeing nothing but a world painted in hues of red and orange: the colors of pain, of death, of destruction. He remembers running until he can’t anymore, until he can’t feel the heat at his back and the flames licking at his heels. Finally dropping to the cool, welcoming ground and crying until he falls asleep, the soft grass welcoming his tears.

He remembers waking up in the morning to drops of water on his face and the realization that this was the first day of the rest of his life.

And that’s where his story starts. A small five-year-old left on his own. A community there one second, gone the next. A home razed to the ground. A family turned to ash. A life that’s just beginning.

——————————

Wilbur’s pretty sure that the first five years of his life were good.

He doesn’t have specific memories of those years, just little feelings. He still wakes up from dreams some nights, longing for something long gone. Anticipating a warm, loving touch that would wipe all his worries away, but is instead left with the cold, aching loneliness of his room.

He’ll watch the families in his community, watch as fathers teach and play with their children, and almost remember trusted hands tossing him in the air. Watch as mothers care for and love their children, and taste the long-forgotten flavors of delicious homemade foods on his tongue. Watch as siblings play with and protect each other, and hear laughter and jokes that aren’t there. Watch as children are wrapped up in comforting hugs, and feel the phantom sensations of loving arms wrapping around him, lifting him up, carrying him when he can go no further, and he can’t help but long for it back.

It’s the small things. The little happy things he feels like he’s done before, the memories that are there one second and gone the next, and the niggling thoughts that poke at him to remember.

He’s sure there were bad times, but they are easily left forgotten, pushed to the side to leave room for the good.

His next three years of life were pretty much the opposite of the first five.

He wanders for what seems like days, drinking from streams and eating whatever berries he can find. His mind stays on the loss he has sustained, a small child mourning his family and life and all he had ever known and all he ever could know. He mourns the future he will never have.

And so he wanders, unknowing of what is to come, of what to do next. He wanders and wanders until he collapses by a stream, his tiny body so tired it can’t keep going.

His eyes slip closed as he lays there for what seems like forever, just waiting to be welcomed into death’s open arms and see his family again.

Some time later, he is stirred from his memories of his family by worried hands roaming his body for non-existent injuries. A cool hand is placed on his forehead and he leans into it, hearing his mother humming. Worried voices surround him, and suddenly he’s being picked up by strong, sturdy arms (father his brain whispers). A warm blanket is tucked around him and cool refreshing water drips into his mouth. He swallows, too out of it to do much more. Then he’s moving, the gentle steps rocking him to sleep.

He becomes more aware when he enters a cool, dark space, and he fights the darkness pulling at him. But then the second he’s layed on a soft surface he gives in, allowing himself to be dragged into unconsciousness.

He sleeps fitfully, waking for a single moment and then slipping back into sleep. During one of his longer bursts of wakefulness, he overhears a conversation.

“He must be from Clarcton. You saw the state of it. That’s the only place a child this young could have come from,” a voice whispers.

“But what do we do with him?” another voice questions, worry prevalent in their tone.

“We’re heading to Aethelney aren’t we? Why don’t we just drop him off there?” a different voice chimes in.

Before he can hear any response, he slips back into the darkness, allowing his body and mind to rest.

He doesn’t know how long he does this, waking and sleeping intermittently, but one day he finally stops. He blinks gummy eyes open, brain rebooting. He must make a noise because there’s suddenly someone leaning over him, a soft, concerned smile on her face.

“Hello,” she greets. “Welcome to the waking world. You’ve been asleep for a long time little one. I’m glad to finally see those beautiful brown eyes.”

Wilbur blinks at her and opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. He tries again. Still the same result. His eyes widen as he begins to panic, trying to say something.

“Hey, it’s okay,” she soothes. She reaches over to a table beside the bed he’s laying on, Wilbur’s eyes following the movement, and grabs a canteen, bringing it back to pour some water in his mouth. He greedily gulps it down, whining when she pulls it away. She laughs, a soft melodic thing that soothes all his worries. “You don’t want to drink too much. I’ll give you some more in a minute, okay?”

Wilbur opens his mouth to respond but again can’t say anything. He, again, begins to panic. He drank water which has always helped him in the past, so why can’t he talk now?

The woman, noticing his worry, runs a hand through his hair, trying to calm him down. “It’s okay. Calm down. Are you struggling to speak?”

Wilbur nods.

“Well, it’s not too surprising. You’ve just been through something traumatic and so you might not be able to talk for a little bit.” Wilbur’s alarm must show on his face because she hurries to reassure him. “You’ll get your voice back eventually though. I promise.”

And maybe he shouldn’t trust her, but he does anyway.

——————————

He remembers traveling with the traders for weeks. Eating meals, doing all the little things a five-year-old can do to help set up camp, watching them laugh and play and sing. He remembers them trying to get him to talk, and his frustration at being unable to. Remembers them getting him to smile and laugh. Remembers as over time those occasions soon dwindle in number and his smiles become almost as rare as his words.

He remembers arriving at a colony with the traders, tucked behind the one woman who had found him, her shirt clenched in his fist, any request to let go immediately refused by a quick head shake. He remembers watching with wide eyes as they enter the colony, traveling to the center, buildings growing bigger and bigger and busier and busier. Watches as they are welcomed in, as the traders are offered food and drink and a place to rest for a moment. Watches as they accept and some immediately start offering goods and bartering and trading.

He follows as the one who found him leads him to the biggest house there is, taking him in and sitting him down in an uncomfortable wooden chair and then disappearing down the hallway to talk to the leader of the commune. He waits, left alone in a big room with nothing to do. Nervous, he sticks his thumb in his mouth, slowly sucking in an attempt to soothe himself.

He waits for what feels like forever, nerves growing with each minute that passes. What is going to happen to him?

Finally, the woman comes out, a big man trailing after her. “Alright kiddo,” she says, crouching down so she can be face to face with him. “I’ve talked to this nice man here and he’s agreed to let you stay! Isn’t that great!” There’s a smile on her face, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Instead, they contain worry and sadness.

Wilbur shakes his head, thumb still in his mouth.

The woman’s smile falters. “I know you miss your family, but maybe if you stay here you could see them again!” she says, false cheer in her voice.

Wilbur stares at her and shakes his head again. He knows he won’t see his family again. Why is this woman lying to him? He’s five, not an idiot. He can understand that his family is gone. They were trapped in the burning-pain-can’t-get-out. And he wasn’t. He was here. Alone. Cursed to spend the rest of his life by himself with no family and no home.

“Oh, kiddo,” she says softly, her hands helplessly fluttering. “I’m sorry, but you can’t stay with us. This isn’t the life for a child. All the uncertainty…” she trails off and pauses for a moment, but then shakes her head and continues on, a sad look on her face. “It’s best if you stay here, sweetheart. They can take care of you better than we can.”

Wilbur glances up at the tall man behind her, shyly making eye contact. He drops his hand back into his lap and opens his mouth, wincing at the sound of his hoarse voice finally appearing. “Whe-re… I… Sta-ay?” His thumb quickly returns to his mouth.

He ignores the heartbroken look on the woman’s face, focusing instead on the man’s voice. “We have two options for you…” he stops, looking to the woman for his name. She glances back up at him, helpless.

Unfortunately for the man, Wilbur knows she doesn’t know. He hasn’t opened his mouth to tell her a thing, not even his name. She and the traders have just taken to calling him kiddo. He pulls his finger out of his mouth and manages to force out, “Wi-Wilb-b-bur,” before returning his thumb to his mouth.

The woman startles and whips back around to face him while the man nods and continues with what he was saying.

"Well, Wilbur, the first option is a family of three. They have a son about your age and I think you two would get along wonderfully." The man kindly smiles, clearly expecting Wilbur to choose this option.

Wilbur immediately shakes his head, startling the man. He doesn't want a sibling. No one can replace his brother.

"Oh... okay. Well," he continues hesitantly. "Our other option is an... older woman who's willing to take you in. She's a seamstress and lives more on the edge of the commune, so you probably wouldn't have as many playmates, but it's still a good option," he says cheerfully, trying to sound optimistic, despite his obvious belief that Wilbur wouldn’t want to stay there.

However, that sounds exactly like what Wilbur wants. No one to bother him, no one to try to replace his family, a chance to just exist with no painful things to remind him of them. Just an old woman who would make sure he stayed alive.

Wilbur pops his thumb out of his mouth and shakily holds up two fingers.

“Al- alright!” The man says and hesitantly smiles at the boy, confusion in his eyes. “Let’s go meet Ms. Mabel, shall we?” He holds out a hand, inviting Wilbur to follow him.

Wilbur looks at him, confused, and points to the woman who found him.

Understanding his unasked question she wraps him in a quick hug and says, “Oh sweetie. You go meet your new mom-” Wilbur jerks back and she hurries to correct herself. “Sorry, caretaker, okay? I’ll have to leave soon, so this is goodbye. You’re going to have a good life, okay?”

Wilbur buries his face in her shoulder, clinging to her. She brings up a hand to brush through his hair, untangling the strands. “Goodbye, sweetheart.”

Wilbur pulls back, tears now running down his face. “G-good-b-bye,” he stutters hoarsely and gives the woman one final hug.

The man, who had been watching the bittersweet moment with a sad look on his face, straightens up and claps his hands, causing Wilbur to flinch. He stretches his hand out again and this time Wilbur takes it, allowing the man to pull him off the chair and lead him out of the building.

——————————

He and the woman get along well. She is a sweet lady who almost functions as an aunt. Wilbur tells her that once and her smile is so bright and happy that he swears to himself that he will try to put it on her face at least once every single day. She takes care of him and teaches him (he learns how to knit and make his own clothes). She gives him little gifts (he wakes up one day to a pair of fingerless gloves left beside his bed and a little note saying she thought he might like to wear them to hide the scarred over burns on his hands. He grins and quickly pulls them on, thanking her fervently and declaring that he “loves them so much he will wear them every second of every day”). They spend time together, and learn from each other, and eventually they grow to love each other in their own way.

The rest of the commune, however, is another story. The adults are all perfectly polite to him, if a little distant. But their kids are the problem. He is ridiculed, teased, hated. He makes a few friends, only to have them stab him in the back when he least expects it. It gets to the point where he never leaves the house and hates whenever someone stops by, always afraid he’ll like them and then they’ll leave him, or, worse, that they’ll take away the only good thing he has left: Aunt Mabel.

Finally, one day, he decides he’s sick of it. Sick of being treated like an outsider, a cripple, a monster. So, he decides, if they are going to treat him like a monster, he will become a monster. He takes the one good thing he has, the one person who accepts and loves him, and he sacrifices it. He sets it on fire. He takes a match, lights the fuse, and then disappears in the night, leaving nothing behind, not even a note. (It breaks his heart to leave as he does, but considering the things he had said and done to try to make a clean break, he figures Aunt Mabel wouldn’t want him to leave a note.)

He is again, left on his own to wander. (This time of his own volition. Which somehow only makes it worse.)

He quickly runs through the water and food he was able to bring this time, and again goes back to drinking from streams and eating berries off of bushes.

He especially likes to eat the pretty red and purple berries he finds. He even gets to climb the trees to pick them! The first several times he tries there are no problems (other than a few scratches and skinned knees), and so he quickly gains confidence in his tree climbing skills, trying to scale the trees faster and faster and doing risky things.

One of the risky things he attempts includes a branch on one of the trees that looks kind of dead. It’s all cracked and gray and gross looking and there are no yummy berries that grow on it. At first, Wilbur completely avoids it, afraid it’ll break and he’ll fall. He keeps taking the long way around to get to where he needs to go. But then it gets to the point where he is confident enough in his tree climbing skills to finally set foot on the branch. He’s extremely cautious as he does so, nearly hugging the trunk as he inches himself along it to reach the next branch. He pulls himself onto it and smiles. He did it! There was no danger there! It was just an old branch that looked scary but really wasn’t!

Wilbur uses the branch whenever he climbs the tree, confident he won’t fall. He uses it time after time after time. He pulls himself onto the branch, stands up and steadies himself, inches along, and grabs the next branch. He does it again and again and again. Pulls himself onto the branch, stands up, steadies himself, and…

CRACK

The next thing he knows, he’s falling through sticks and leaves, slamming into branches, and crashing hard on the ground below.

He lays there, pain radiating through his body, as he tries to take a breath, struggling and failing to do so.

“Are you okay?” A face fills his vision, bright blue eyes peering at him, looking like an angel with his golden hair haloed by the light filtering through the trees.

——————————

Tommy hasn’t necessarily lived the best life.

He is a bit of a troublemaker and that tends to rub a lot of people the wrong way.

He’s also an orphan, and in a place where resources are already pretty short, one more hungry mouth to feed who can’t put in very much work is not the most welcomed. It especially doesn't help that, though his mother died in childbirth (a noble way to go according to the people in his community), his father just up and left one day, leaving his infant child to be raised by his neighbors (who already weren’t very fond of him—Tommy tended to scream a lot as a baby… and as a child… and a teen… Tommy just tended to be loud at all ages).

So, it was no surprise to anyone (least of all Tommy) when he gets kicked out of his colony at the ripe old age of sixteen and is left to wander on his own. Luckily for him, he’s allowed to take as many things as he can fit in a small rucksack so he isn’t completely doomed to die.

And so he does.

He crams his little bag with as much food, clothing, medical supplies, and water as he can (and at the last second, unable to leave it behind, he shoves in the last thing he has of his mom: her favorite scarf) and sets off, leaving the place he’s called home in the dust.

He is able to survive on his own, using the knowledge he has gained from watching others and reading the few books his commune had. He teaches himself how to take care of himself. He asks the nomads and traders he comes across what plants are safe to eat, and how to trap, kill, and cook small animals. He teaches himself how to survive. How to live no matter what life throws at you.

And so that’s what he does.

He lives. He survives. He thrives.

He knows others aren’t as lucky as him, but he has never really realized it. That is he hasn’t until he comes across a kid laying on the soft grass looking, frankly, awful. Leaves and twigs are tangled in his curly brown hair, scratches that look pretty painful litter his body, his arm is resting at an odd angle, and it looks like he is struggling to breathe.

“Are you okay?” he asks, looking down at the kid.

The boy’s eyes flutter open revealing chocolate brown eyes filled with tears.

Oh crap.

Tommy does not do well with tears. Not even when they’re his own.

He’s screwed.

What even prompted him to come over here? Why did he have to walk over and bring the boy’s attention to him? He could have just carried on on his merry way.

(He knows why. He knows that seeing the boy laying there all alone reminded him of himself. He couldn’t help but go over there. Couldn’t help the way his heart ached and his hands longed to pull the kid into a hug and comfort him—though that might just be the touch-starved part of him talking.)

The boy stares at him, tears starting to clear from his eyes.

“You okay?” Tommy repeats, stretching out the last word.

No response. Tommy’s starting to actually get worried. He hopes this boy’s not like dead or something. Wait, but he opened his eyes, meaning he’s not dead. Maybe he’s brain-dead?

“Hello? You in there?”

“Hi?” the boy whispers, bewildered.

“Hi!” Good, he’s not brain-dead. “You good?”

“I- yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

Tommy snorts, shaking his head. “You very clearly are not. I mean just look at your arm!”

“Why’d you ask me if I’m good if you already knew I wasn’t?” the boy exclaims, emotion starting to filter onto his face making him look more alive.

“I was makin’ conversation!” he blurts out, acting offended.

“Well, you suck at it,” the younger retorts, glaring at him.

Oh the levels of sass in this small child. How dare he question the great, amazing Tommy? “I do not!” he exclaims, now actually offended. He reaches a hand out to help the boy sit up, maneuvering him to lean against a tree.

“You kinda do,” the boy says, wincing as Tommy pulls out his medical materials and tends to his cuts and scrapes. The blond feels along the child’s arm, checking for bruises or breaks, and is relieved when the only thing he finds is more scratches. He must have just landed weirdly and not wanted to move his arm. That’s the only thing Tommy can come up with for the reason his arm was laying so weirdly.

“Why are you out here alone?” Tommy asks as he rubs a poultice made from yarrow on the cuts.

The boy studies him for a moment, indecision written on his face. Tommy lets him be, knowing that if the boy is going to trust him, this is the moment that would be key.

He sighs, appearing to come to a decision. “I- I ran away,” he admits, ducking his head so he can’t see Tommy’s expression. “No one- no one wanted me.”

Uh… That’s like illegal isn’t it? No kid should be left on his own. That’s- that’s… what’s the word? Neglect! That’s neglect. And Tommy’s like 90% sure that neglect is illegal and a pun-ish-able offense. At least that’s what the old lady in charge of the books always told him.

Maybe they could stick together? Tommy always wanted a little brother. And if they took care of each other then neither one of them would be neglected! Which means that nothing illegal would be going on, no siree.

“Well, no one wants me either,” Tommy says, grabbing the boy’s chin and lifting his head so he can look him in the eyes. “Maybe we could stick together?”

Tears gather in the boy’s eyes and he flings himself forward to bury his face in Tommy’s chest. Tommy lets out a sharp breath of air and his arms wrap around the child on instinct, giving him a comforting hug.

He’ll take that as a yes.

And that’s how Tommy gains a younger brother.

(He doesn’t realize until they’ve already started walking that neither of them knows the other’s name.

He points this out, causing the boy to break down into giggles. A light feeling enters Tommy’s heart and he promises himself he will keep this boy as happy and content as he can, no matter the cost.)

——————————

He’s spent two wonderful years filled with adventure with his brother when he gains another one.

They find him in a jail cell, of all places. Thrown in for stealing some food. They’re passing through the commune, spending the day trading what meager belongings they have for the things they can’t get from the woods, when they hear about him.

“Did you hear about the kid that Chassy caught stealing his bread?” one man asks another. “They threw him in the jail cell. First time that’s been used in a while.”

“Or ever!” the other man guffaws.

“Almost feel bad for the poor soul. Who knows what’ll end up happening to him.”

“Eh, they’ll probably let him rot for a bit and then send ‘im on his way.”

Wilbur, being the curious child that he is, drifts closer and asks them what they are talking about. Tommy, finishing his bartering, notices the lack of his little brother’s presence near him and quickly joins him, catching the tail end of the conversation. He asks the man to repeat the story, and he delightedly does, reveling in the small audience he’s gained, Tommy and Wilbur’s interest having caused several other people to wander over.

Tommy grows incensed the more he finds out. The kid (for he is a kid, at most a year older than Tommy, and even that’s highballing it) was thrown in jail for trying to take food that he needed. He was a starving child from a small colony that had recently been destroyed, thus leaving him on his own with no support system and no way to get food.

(He’s especially angry because that could have been him. That could have been Wilbur, his baby brother. But instead, it’s this poor kid who’s being punished for something that’s not even his fault. Okay, a little his fault, but the events preceding the stealing of food that caused him to do it are not his fault.)

Tommy, deciding to take justice into his own hands, resolves to break the boy out of jail.

And so he does.

That night he sneaks into the commune with one person and leaves with two.

The kid they met in the jail cell introduces himself as Tubbo, and after Tommy introduces him and his brother, he invites the new kid to join them. (Wilbur teases Tommy about how different the order was when they met, joking that he could have “at least gotten a name before you, a perfect stranger, kidnapped me!” He gets a good-natured shove in return.)

He agrees.

And just like that, it’s the three of them against the world.

——————————

Wilbur’s still afraid of fire.

Both literal and metaphorical.

He’s afraid of burned relationships, of red hot pain, of flames that lick and burn and take take take.

But at the same time, he can’t help but be drawn to it. He can’t help but stare at the dancing flames when they make a campfire, wanting to reach forward and touch and hold and play. Can’t help but be drawn to the red, orange, and yellow of autumn (of flames and destruction). Can’t help but claim the most explosive and fiery hot person as his brother. Someone who burns so hot and bright and passionate that Wilbur knows that when he explodes it will be a beautiful sight. Like a star exploding. Bright and colorful and beautiful.

(Wilbur hopes that when it happens, Tommy will take him with him.

He’s always known all good things end in fire. He just hopes that this is one thing that will end in good flames and not bad ones.)

Tubbo too is like a fire, though he isn’t as bright and explosive as Tommy. He reminds Wilbur of a candle’s flame. Small and bright, but with no less importance. He can still grow and be bright and a part of something bigger. He can light up your path, show you the smart way to go, and bring you a feeling of comfort and warmth after a long day. Though small and overlooked and somewhat different, he still brings light and warmth and Wilbur loves him for that.

——————————

Wilbur loves his brothers. They make life worth living again.

But he can’t help but worry this is yet another story that will end in flames.

#wilbur soot #tommyinnit #tubbo #age reversal au #role reversal au #also on ao3 #dsmp fanfic #paranoia #self sabotage

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