Chapter Text
Wilbur’s an idiot, because he came back.
He was one hundred percent, absolutely, undeniably an idiot. A complete moron with a room temperature IQ— because he came back.
Tommy is sitting on the tracks, waiting for him. He waved at Wilbur when he saw him, and Wilbur waved back, because it would be rude not to.
Tommy was holding a rock, holding it out for Wilbur to take. “Stone!”
“You have another rock for me?”
Tommy scowled. “Stone!”
Wilbur made a funny face. “Stone?”
Tommy nodded. “Stone!” He patted Wilbur’s arm, bouncing to his feet. “Day?”
Wilbur tilted his head. “It’s Thursday.”
Tommy scowled. “No. No.” He poked Wilbur. “Day?”
“My day was…” His day was the same. All the days were the same, now. He’d get up in the morning by himself, hit their toaster until it would turn on so he could make peanut butter toast— and go to school. Eight classes a day doing subjects he didn’t really like with teachers he didn’t really like with classmates that didn’t really like him.
Tommy was like… the interlude. The inbetween. Something different, something new and bright sandwiched between routine and gray and dark.
“My day was okay.” Wilbur said, and Tommy’s face twisted in confusion.
“No. No. Good?” Tommy tilted his head, mimicking Wilbur .
Wilbur felt a boost of bravery, and ruffled Tommy’s hair. “Well it’s good now. ”
Tommy's eyes turned into saucers, bringing Wilbur’s hand back to his hair. “Good!”
“Good?”
Tommy nodded. “Good.”
Friday was a bad day.
Friday’s were always a bad day.
Friday’s should be an epitome of good; the end of the school week, pizza for lunch, plans for the weekend, the excitement of staying up late. Fridays were supposed to be good.
Walking down the railroad track, Wilbur felt like he was walking to his execution.
Friday’s meant the weekend; Friday’s meant two whole days he had to spend in his room with his door locked. It would be so bad if his dad was drinking. Fuck, Wilbur fucking despised this; despised the weeks between checks where they ran out of money. He despised that he came last.
For his dad, his first priority was the booze— then the bills, then the groceries. Wilbur wasn’t even an afterthought.
Wilbur thinks he might hate his dad.
It’s— it’s wrong, and he felt guilty. He doesn’t want to hate his dad. He wanted to love him, he wanted to be loved. He wanted to know what it was like to feel loved and protected and wanted.
Instead, Wilbur just felt less.
He felt like a pest that lived in the gutters, something that you occasionally remember is there.
Wilbur wanted to love his dad, he wanted to be able to walk around in his home without the possibility of getting screamed at— hit. Wanted to get through the night without his dad drunkenly screaming out. Wilbur hated those specifically, the nonsensical yells, the angry near-animalistic growls that would make Wilbur flinch and cover his ears.
He hated when his dad would remember him, and call for Wilbur, or bang at his door to let him in or talk to him. Wilbur hated having to guess when his dad would pass out so he could leave him room to go to the bathroom.
Wilbur that despite all that, he still preferred when his dad was drunk. At least then he would eventually pass out, or be too intoxicated to move. When he was sober he was angry, and it was a pure, unfiltered anger. It was a snapping at Wilbur when he walked past the television to get to the kitchen, it was calling for Wilbur to come out of his room so he could yell at Wilbur about the emails he’d get on Wilbur’s missing assignments.
To yell at Wilbur for wasting his life in his room, for wasting his life on his failing assignments and for wasting his mom’s life.
Tears burned in Wilbur's eyes. He just… Wilbur really, really, hated Friday’s. He hated the weekends. He hated that he had nowhere to go. He hated that he couldn’t even get new shoes.
“Wilb?”
Wilbur was to busy sulking, staring at his feet in his torn, cramped shoes and the dead grass next to the railroad to notice that he had nearly ran into Tommy.
“Hi.” He greeted, throat tight.
Tommy frowned, uncrossing his legs and rising to his feet. “Wilb? Sad?”
An invisibile hand wrapped around Wilbur’s throat, squeezing— choking him. He nodded. “Bad day.”
Tommy took his hand, putting the rock in it and closing Wilbur’s fingers around it. “Stone,” He repeated, nodding solemnly and patting Wilbur’s hand. “Stone. Better.”
“Thanks,” Wilbur forced his lips up in a smile. “You pick the best stones.”
Tommy grinned at the praise, pointed little teeth poking out. “Better!”
Wilbur let out a small ‘yelp’ when Tommy threw himself against Wilbur, wrapping his arms around Wilbur’s abdomen.
“Oh,” Wilbur murmured. Oh. Oh, that was—
That felt nice. Wilbur really, really couldn’t remember his last hug. He dug through his mind for it, flipping the tables and looking under the rugs and cleaning out the closet and he couldn’t remember his last hug.
Wilbur must have done something, in another life— maybe it was an ancestral curse, or some fucking bullshit like that— Wilbur must have done something to be so unlovable.
Tommy tapped his back. “Better?”
Tears burned at the edges of Wilbur’s eyes, but he nodded a shay. “Yeah— better.”
Maybe this wasn’t such a bad Friday.
On a usual Saturday, Wilbur would stay in his room. He’d fill up a cup of water in the morning, before his dad was up— and scavenge their cupboard and fridge for snacks he could take into his room to eat throughout the day.
Then his dad would wake up, and Wilbur would lock the door.
Eleven-am was the earliest his dad would start drinking; one-pm being the latest. If Wilbur got lucky he would pass out before then, or be stuck in his own head to do anything. Then Wilbur would have free range in his own home, as long as he was quiet enough to not wake or disturb his dad.
But because he couldn’t drink, Wilbur’s routine in the morning would be different. He’d have to get all his shit together to be able to stay a long time in his room.
His dad didn’t have any— rules on what Wilbur was allowed to do and where he was allowed to go. His dad was too fucking stupid for rules. He just didn’t like seeing Wilbur, and Wilbur didn’t like seeing him either.
His dad might yell for him to come out to do his chores— because he would remember that when he was sober, but outside of that Wilbur was left alone.
Because of this, Wilbur made the mistake of having enough confidence to leave out his front door.
“Where the hell are you goin’?” His dad called, Wilbur’s hand hovering over the knob.
Wilbur bristled. “Friends house,” He lied, half-truthed.
“Who said you could?” Wilbur turned to look at his dad, shoulders, tense. “Did I say you could?”
Wilbur scowled. “No one said that I couldn’t.”
“I’m not nobody,” His dad hissed, standing from his chair. Instinctively, Wilbur pressed his back to the door. “I’m your dad and you can’t just leave this house without telling me.”
“Well,” Wilbur straightened, reaching for the knob. “I’m telling you now. I’m leaving.”
“What the fuck was that?” His dad snarled, stomping towards him with his big-stupid-loud feet.
Wilbur’s sudden confidence cracked, and it shattered. “I—”
Wilbur kept his hands out, trying to keep an arm's distance from his dad and Wilbur himself. Wilbur ducked, avoiding a grab his dad made for his hair.
Wilbur was halfway out the door when his dad grabbed his collar, dragging him back inside. Wilbur yelled, scratching at his dads' hands until the grip was loose enough for Wilbur to slip away.
Wilbur booked it for his room, nearly tripping as he slammed the door shut behind him— quickly securing the lock.
Fuck. Fuck. “ Fuck! ” Wilbur rasped, leaning against his door. Tears burned at his eyes, and he jumped back at a loud BANG from the other side of the door. “Fuck off!” Wilbur yelled, flinching away from the door.
His dad must have lost patience, maybe interest— because he didn’t bang at Wilbur’s door again. It didn’t stop Wilbur from keeping an eye on it, waiting for it to rattle and shake from his dad trying to get in.
Wilbur’s chest hurt. Fuck, he was stuck in here, then. He was stuck in here! And— and that was his usual Saturday, when his dad was forced into sobriety— cooped up in his room— but he had somewhere to fucking be!
Wilbur tugged at his hair, trying to ignore the frustrated tears. He hoped that Tommy wouldn’t miss him, too much.
Wilbur wasn’t able to leave the house until Monday, for school. Accompanied with a new bruise on his cheek too, because come Sunday morning his father did not forget about the incident from Saturday like Wilbur thought he would.
He got some laughs from a group of kids in one of his classes, and the only thing the teacher had done was roll her eyes and tell them to quiet down. No questions , no concerns about the purple mark on his face.
Not that Wilbur felt like putting up with CPS, or— foster care. He w as twelve, he had about… six, maybe five years left in this shit town if his dad didn’t kill him first.
Now Wilbur was on a tight schedule— his school got out at two-thirty, if Wilbur wasn’t home by three-forty five there would be… issues.
Wilbur didn’t expect this schedule to last. Come Thursday his dad will have the money to drink; one bender later and Wilbur’s new curfew would be completely forgotten.
Wilbur couldn’t wait, honestly. For his dad to disappear into his head and leave Wilbur al—
“Wilb!”
A small body crashed into Wilbur, wrapping his arms around Wilbur’s waist.
“Hi Tommy,” Wilbur croaked, patting Tommy’s head.
Tommy pulled away, forcing two rocks into Wilbur’s hands. “Gone!” He scowled, frowning at Wilbur.
“Sorry,” Wilbur said immediately, knowing what Tommy was referring to. “I couldn’t leave.”
Tommy titled his head, frowning. “Hurt?”
Wilbur pointed at his cheek, nodding. “Hurt,” He repeated back in confirmation. “And I have to go home soon—” He paused, thinking. “Or, hurt , again, yeah?”
Tommy’s frowned, the young shadow-forest-monster looking close to angry.
Oh no, that wasn’t good. Wilbur really didn’t want to piss off his favorite shadow-forest-monster.
Tommy pointed down the rail-tracks, in the direction of Wilbur’s home. “Hurt?” He repeated.
After Wilbur gave another nod of confirmation, Tommy—
Tommy took off, back to the forest.
Huh.
Wilbur tried to not be offended by it, waiting a few moments to continue his walk back home. He could not be late. His dad was absolutely glued to the television, the likelihood of him actually watching the clock very low; but it wasn’t, particularly something Wilbur felt like testing out.
Wilbur was not late.
He wasn’t. He just wasn’t!
He arrived home yesterday at three-twenty-six. Nineteen minutes before his curfew! He wasn’t even with Tommy for that long and—
His dad was not happy with him.
Which Wilbur didn’t get! He was nineteen— nineteen god-damned minutes early!
He didn’t get any hits in, because his dad was big and stupid and Wilbur was quick and smart, he made it to his room before his dad could get his hands around Wilbur’s neck—
“Wilby!” Wilbur’s head sapped up, and—
And—
Tommy wasn’t alone.
Wilbur’s pace slowed, and then stopped completely. Someone was with Tommy. Someone was with Tommy .
Wilbur’s body tensed. Involuntarily, because Wilbur trusted Tommy, so Wilbur should trust whoever Tommy brought along. Maybe it wasn’t even another shape-shifting-shadow-forest- monster, maybe it was another towns-person who walked the rail tracks that Tommy had befriended.
Which was… just did not make sense. Wilbur had been the only person to walk these tracks, this time of day, during the week for months .
Tommy ran forward, leaving his— friend, behind .
“Wilb!” Tommy grabbed his sleeve, pulling him forward. Wilbur tried to not drag his feet.
“Tommy,” Wilbur said, trying to slow the boy down. He really hoped he wasn’t about to be sacrificed. Eaten. Both. “Tom— who is that?”
Tommy bounced, face brightening with delighted excitement. “Dad!”
Wilbur blanched. “Dad?”
Tommy’s dad smiled, and his teeth were somehow even sharper than Tommy’s.
“Wilb?” The older-shape-shifting-shadow-forest-monster smiled.
“Wil— Wilbur,” Wilbur stuttered, wondering if he could outrun him. Wilbur’s eyes trailed to the large , inky black wings, and decided that no , that was certainly not an option.
“Wilbur!” The older-shape-shifting-shadow-forest-monster chirped, clapping his clawed hands. “Sorry mate,” He ruffled Tommy’s hair. “He’s still learning human tongue— he’s still a little choppy with it.”
“Th— that’s okay,” Wilbur stuttered, and then the older-shape-shifting-shadow-forest-monster was handing Wilbur a rock. “Thank you…”
“Philza!” Philza. Philza and Tommy, the shape-shifting-shadow-forest-monster duo that lived by the tracks.
Wilbur nodded. “Philza,” He said, testing the name. “I— I have to go…” Wilbur really hoped he wasn’t about to get to the part of the horror movie where the monster asked why don’t you stay for dinner and betrayed him and ate him. That would really suck— that would ruin his week, even.
Philza frowned, and shit— Wilbur thought, he was definitely getting eaten— “Why such the rush?”
Wilbur twisted his fingers, anxiously. If Philza didn’t plan on killing him then his dad definetly will if Wilbur doesn’t book his ass home right now.
“Curfew.” He said curtly, glancing at Tommy, who had become fascinated with pulling Wilbur’s knotted and torn shoelaces. “My— my dad. He won’t be happy.”
“Your father,” Philza said slowly, eyes narrowed. “And is he…” He pointed at the new bruise on Wilbur’s cheek, the one that the teachers ignored but this— this shape-shifting-shadow-forest-monster noticed.
His expression made Wilbur pull anxiously at the strings on his bag, wondering if he just signed his dads death sentence in some weird ass fae shit. Wilbur was wondering if he would mind it.
“I got to go,” Wilbur decided, instead of answering. He gave a wobbly smile to Tommy, wanting to ruffle his hair but not daring to in front of Philza. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
Tommy waved, removing his attention from Wilbur’s shoelaces. “Bye Wilb!”
“It— it was nice meeting you,” Wilbur decided to say, really not wanting to offend Philza by running off.
Philza smiled, and if Wilbur wasn’t so worried about the shape-shifting-shadow-forest-monster eating him, it would have been— warm. “As it was to you, Wilbur!”
Wilbur did not go to school Wednesday with another bruise, thankfully. He had booked it for the rest of the way home yesterday— out of fear of Philza changing his mind and chasing him and eating and murdering him and out of fear of his dad.
His dad didn’t pay him any attention when he rushed through the door, other than a mean sounding comment about not slamming the door— which was fucking stupid, his dad’s slammed the door plenty of times while drunk.
Wilbur did not argue though, because Wilbur was smart and Wilbur knew better.
Wilbur just hoped that Tommy—
Tommy—
Tommy wasn’t there.
Wilbur frowned, slowing his approach to their usual spot. Tommy wasn’t on the rail tracks. He scanned the trees, trying to spot the mop of blond hair.
“Tommy?” Wilbur called, trying to not sound anxious. He wasn’t anxious, because Tommy was here— just hiding. That was it. Tommy was hiding. “Tom?”
The trees whistled with the breeze, and a crow cawing; but no Tommy.
Wilbur bit his lip, trying to keep it from wobbling. Tommy— Tommy didn’t leave him, that was a silly thought. Tommy was his friend.
And Wilbur couldn’t stay, he really needed to get home. He couldn’t afford to sit and wait for Tommy, he really, really couldn’t.
“Tommy?” Wilbur tried one more time, and a crow landed next to him— but Wilbur wasn’t looking for a crow, he was looking for Tommy.
Tears burned at the edges of his eyes, and Wilbur wiped it with his sleeve— blowing gross snot into it. This was silly. Wilbur was being silly, he shouldn’t be crying over this. He walked this track for months before Tommy showed up, alone, without the creaking door that was Tommy that shined
sunshine on his miserable fucking life.
The crow cawed, again. Wilbur frowned at it. “I don’t have any food,” Which was true, he didn’t. Wilbur had eaten the small, stale package of crackers he stole from the school cafeteria that he found at the bottom of his backpack when his dad basically locked him inside his room.
“Caw!”
“I said I don’t have anything,” Wilbur scowled, continuing his walk down the rail track. “Go away!”
The crow cawed again, before finally taking off.
Wilbur sulked the rest of the way home, definitely not aware of the bird tracking him from overhead.
Wilbur didn’t even stop this time for Tommy— for two reasons.
One, yesterday hurt. It made Wilbur feel… not nice. That was it. It didn’t fucking feel nice to be left like that, so if his shape-shifting-shadow-forest-monster-friend wanted to play that game, Wilbur would too!
Two, it was fucking pouring. He asked multiple teachers for a ride home— getting answered with some bullshit about how they legally can’t, which Wilbur thought was stupid. Then he asked if he could burrow a teachers umbrella, which— once again, was fucking turned down! No one wanted to help him!
Wilbur had his hood up, which really didn’t do anything— he was fucking soaked through his hoodie. He had folded his glasses and shoved them in his pocket, because he couldn’t see through the raindrops that were pattering against them.
So no, Wilbur did not stop for Tommy. He needed to get home before he got sick, and his backpack was ruined.
Thunder roared in his ears, and lightning cracked, and Wilbur squeezed himself tighter— teeth clattering. He was so fucking cold.
Wilbur stomped up his porch, having to drag the extra ten pounds of weight that his wet clothing gave him.
He didn’t bother kicking off his shoes once inside, bee-lining it for his room. It was paycheck day, which meant his dad probably went and got booze before it started storming; which meant he was drunk and Wilbur wo—
Air was knocked out of Wilbur’s lungs, his back aching. Wilbur tried to process it all at once— the tight grip on his arm, his dad, the gross smell of alcohol on his breath— oh. Oh, fuck.
“What the fuck?! ” His dad hissed, pushing Wilbur. “You fucken’ stole from Jimmy?”
Wilbur could have combusted into flames right there, killing him— killing his dad, killing the whole town. Wilbur wished that he would.
“I—”
“I went to go get somethin’ to fucken’ drink— and he kicked me out! ” He yelled. “Saying you, ” He poked at Wilbur’s chest roughly. “Stole from him— I had to hike all the way across town just to fucking get some bottles!”
“I— I did it for you!” Wilbur choked, pushing back. “I stole it for you —” Wilbur really didn’t have time to register the fist, or the pain in his jaw, or the fact that he was on the ground. It didn’t register until he was dragged by his hair to the door, yelling and cursing and digging his nails into his dad's hand.
“I don’t wanna fucken’ look at you,” His dad spat, throwing Wilbur onto the porch. Wilbur suppressed a whine, rubbing at the spot where his dads hand had pulled.
The door slammed shut, and lightning cracked and Wilbur cried. He was cold and wet and he just wanted his bed.
He pushed at the knob, banging at the door. Yelling curses at his dad to let him, begging, apologizing— just let him in.
The porch had no protection, and it was still raining and Wilbur had nowhere to go. He was so tired and he had nowhere to go.
Wilbur stumbled off the porch, trying to figure out where to go— what he could do. What can he do. Fuck, what the fuck could he do?
There was a hole in the wooden fencing of the porch, and it was dark in there and probably filled with spiders and rodents and mold but it was— shelter. It was protection. It was something.
Wilbur was skinny enough to crawl into the hole, swiping at the cobwebs he couldn’t see. Water dripped from the rain, and it was so fucking dark but it was shelter. Wilbur shivered, swallowing a sob. He really, really just needed his bed. He needed warmth. He needed a change of clothes. He needed— anything but this. A reprieve. A release. A res—
Lightning cracked, and something crawled under the porch.
Wilbur stiffened, freezing in place for more then reason now.
Something— something crawled next to Wilbur, into his lap.
It— it— what? What?
Wilbur was cold, and Wilbur was terrified— but this was warm— and— and—
“Tommy?” He whispered, and whatever form Tommy was in shifted into his arms
Tommy didn’t respond, but Wilbur didn’t need him too. Wilbur couldn’t see him, but this— this was fine. This was warmth and this was comfort and this was all Wilbur wanted and it made him want to cry.
The stairs creaked above Wilbur, and Wilbur’s grip on Tommy tightened. The door slammed open, and Wilbur tried to not make a verbal reaction to it.
Wilbur wanted to talk to Tommy, to say hello-- to ask what he was doing and he found him but Wilbur's throat hurt.
Thunder roared, and Wilbur swore he could hear his dad screaming.
Wilbur's hold tightened, burying his head against Tommy; trying to block it all out, the screaming, the yelling, the noises. He knew it was a bad idea to go to sleep, he was sick, and cold, and hiding in the bottom of a fucking porch but he was so tired.
The screaming eventually stopped, and Wilbur tried to not let the drowsiness win. He didn't realize it immediately when Tommy shifted back into the form that he knew, but little hands were shaking Wilbur.
"Wilb?"
Wilbur's eye cracked open. "Hi,"
Wilbur still really struggled to see Tommy, partly because of his lack of glasses-- but the rain had stopped, and Wilbur was still cold but he could make out Tommy's toothy smile.
"Caw!" Tommy chirped, and Wilbur winced at the volume.
"That was you?" Wilbur whispered, and Tommy nodded, repeating the sound, once again making Wilbur wince at the volume.
The stairs creaked, and Wilbur tensed. Was it his dad? How would he react to Tommy? Oh fuck. That would be bad. This was a punishment, Wilbur wasn't supposed to--
A head poked through the wooden opening, and it wasn't his dad.
"Hi Wilbur," Philza greeted, and his smile was warm, and Wilbur really, really wanted to believe it this time.
"Is he gone?" Wilbur croaked.
"What's left of him."
Good, was Wilbur's first thought, and he tried to not feel guilty over it. He's gone. No more punches and kicks and mean words and alcohol bottles and yelling and no more him.
But his dad was gone, and Wilbur really, really tried to love him but he was so awful and now Wilbur didn't have--
Tommy tugged at Wilbur's still-wet sleeve. "Home? Wilb? Go?"
Wilbur looked at Philza, trying to not appear hopeful-- desperate. Please don't leave me here.
"Let's get you home, then," Phil offered his hand, and Wilbur took it-- and the odd but warm cloak Wilbur was wrapped in made him want to cry. Home. Warmth. Away. Safe.