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Fundy knows he just isn’t enough. Not strong enough, not manly enough, not good enough for this family of gods.
Even still, the notion has his heart aching, and pleading for a mercy Fundy knows he will never receive.
His uncles are the Blood God and a vicious Agent of Chaos. His grandfather is nicknamed “Angel of Death,” and not for naught. His own father is alike a siren, tongue quick and silver, tone charming.
A he, a lowly fox hybrid with no special power beside the ability to talk to animals, is nothing when compared to them. Jealously angers his heart when he looks at Ranboo, who had so easily been accepted into their family. Fundy knows it isn’t the boy’s fault, but Fundy just so desperately wishes it was him, instead.
There are certain things Fundy expected when he first met his grandfather. Phil had been a surprise to the whole server, but they weren’t related to the man.
The man who, after killing his father, called him disgusting and refused to look after him. The man who, once he finally got some fucking sympathy in his black hole of a heart, still refused to hug him. Fundy had never heard the man who claimed to be blood say “I love you.”
It stung.
Actually, it did more than that. It burned, and it melted Fundy from the inside out. Like a match had been lit inside him without him knowing.
But it was fine, and it was a-okay, even if Fundy still lacked developmental skills because he’d been forced to grow up so fast from just a pup in war times. No one in his family knew that, he doesn’t think. Not now, not when he’d never been given the opportunity to explain his motives and actions.
***
“Fundy?” Tubbo asks, glancing over at him from the side, confusion and hidden but noticeable despite the bushel of hair covering the top half of his face.
Glancing back, Fundy hums his own question, “Yeah?” He asks, quirking a brow as he dusted his hands off, clawed fingers still caked with red powder despite the wringing of his hands.
Tubbo shrugs, a small frown on his lips, “You just look…” He trails off, a thinking look over his scarred face, “Sad.” He finishes bluntly.
A small laugh escapes Fundy, ears twitching and flickering with his giggling. “I dunno,” He admits, shrugging, “I was just thinking.”
Tubbo raises another brow, “Well, you must’ve been thinking of some sad shit, then, huh?” He asks. Fundy’s tail twitches at the callout, however innocent. “Eh.” He says back noncommittally.
The conversation lapses into silence, the two working and messing around with the red dust. Fundy can’t help but let a small frown grace his lips, biting his bottom lip harshly. Sad shit, Tubbo said, practically his life story, huh?
It’s another hour before they’re done.
Fundy leaves with a murmured, “Goodbye,” that he barely even says because he’s so tired. He slept fine last night, he shouldn’t be tired, but he is exhausted, and he doesn’t know why.
(He doesn’t. He doesn’t he doesn’t he doesn’t he doesn’t he does-)
His house, wherever that may be, is abandoned as Fundy lets his legs carry him wherever they wish to go. His mind is carried away in his imagination’s warm arms.
(Papa had warm arms. Fundy ignores the thought and delves into his daydreams, which kiss him gently as a greeting.)
The vague registering of the fact that he’s now in a snow biome is just that, vague and barely there. Fundy treks through the ice and the snow and even as his legs freeze painfully and beg for him to turn around, go home, little fox.
(Where is home?)
Half way, Fundy shifts into his fox form, allowing himself to whine pitifully as he scampers through the snow that is almost the same height as him.
Did you know that foxes can cry?
They can sob and whine and mewl. Mostly only baby foxes, pups crying for their parents in the case that they get lost. It alerts other foxes of a scared, terribly alone, pup.
Finding a tree with no snow around the trunk is a hard task.
But, Fundy manages, and he curls up at the base of a tree, stump thick and bark rough against his soft but slightly matted fur. A sob escapes him, loud and keening and, in simpler terms, pathetic.
He wants Papa. The pup in his brain, sad and broken and just a baby, is sobbing for Papa. Papa promised to never leave him, and now he was completely and utterly fucking alone.
(Papa also said to not curse, that it was unbecoming. Fundy figures he’s already disappointed his Papa too much for the other to ever hold hope for him again, anyway.)
The soft and caressing sound of gentle snow falling is like a lullaby, a piece of drifting wood that lulls you to the island of pure and peaceful sleep. Fundy curls tighter, ears flickering and tail laying atop of himself to bring some semblance of warmth.
With a last whimper, lost and confused and hurt, Fundy falls asleep. His sleep is not pure nor peaceful, it is vile and distraught. He does not fight it. He stopped fighting a losing battle a long time ago.
***
Ranboo knows he is lucky.
A while ago, you would’ve never convinced him of this fact, but it is the truth, now. This life he’s led has been hard and difficult and full of trauma, but now he is happy and safe with his new family.
So, yes. Ranboo knows he is lucky.
He has been given the gift of a family, something not many on this server possess. It is precious, and must be protected. No one will be forgotten.
This is why Ranboo has gone on a rant (or two, maybe three.) to the rest of his family, about the forgotten foxling of their nest.
In the midst of their excitement about the new, freshly made alive again member, Wilbur, and the group adding Ranboo to their family, Fundy has been a background thought. Ranboo almost cried when he thought back on exactly what that felt like.
That’s why, when Phil huffs and his wings puff up and he says, “He betrayed our entire family, Boo-“ Halfway through his sentence, Ranboo teleports in front of the immortal Angel and smacks him across the face, affronted and purely angry.
It’s a strike that leaves Phil silent in a millisecond. The other looks shocked, and a tad hurt. Ranboo holds no sympathy.
“We’ve all betrayed each other. To not gift Fundy a second chance like we have each other is nothing short of revolting.” Ranboo says back stonily.
Techno, having stood when Ranboo had slapped Phil, stares at him with hard eyes. Ranboo, even though his inner Enderman screeches at the eye contact, meets the red eyes with his own red and green.
There is a choked, strangled noise from the recliner chair and all heads snap toward the noise. Wilbur is sitting in his (technically Phil’s, but who denies a previously dead man?) chair, tears rushing down pale cheeks and he lets out a sob.
“Oh, god,” Wilbur gasps out, looking almost on the verge of a panic attack. Tommy is the first to jump into action.
Tommy stands in front of his brother, looking worried and anxious, “Big Dubs? What’s wrong?” He asks, rambling and tone shaky. Wilbur lets out another sob, standing.
“…Wilbur?” Phil asks quietly.
“My son, my little champion, oh god, what have we done?” Wilbur babbles out, hands carding roughly through his brown curls.
Even Ranboo remains, simply put, confused. Wilbur hasn’t even brought up Fundy in the weeks of his reappearance. Wilbur pushes Tommy (gently, always gently with Tommy who he’s hurt) out of the way to make his way to the front door.
“We need to find him. He’s hurt, I can feel it.” Ranboo feels something cold drop in his stomach.
Techno and Phil both look hesitant, but Tommy is immediately putting on shoes and grabbing a sword. Ranboo’s tail flicks anxiously, “Wilbur? What does that mean?” Techno asks cautiously.
Hysterical, Wilbur throws his hands up in the air, “Fundy! He’s hurt, I can feel it in my soul, my bones, he’s hurting and I don’t know if it’s physically or mentally.” He rambles.
A father’s instincts, Ranboo wants to think. He knows it’s probably just left over magic, or maybe just left over insanity, but it’s sweet to imagine Wilbur just knows.
(Ranboo can’t really think that Wilbur does just know. Not when his own parents have abandoned him and he’s been put through so much. He can’t childishly think of a parent loving their child so much they just, simply, know.)
“Okay, Big Dubs. Is he around here?” Tommy asks, visibly trying to put all of his faith in Wilbur. Ranboo knows he’s struggling. Wilbur nods, “Yes, yes, he is. I don’t know why. He’s close, we need to go get him and help.”
Wilbur must figure that’s all the explanation they deserve, because he rushes out of the cabin and starts calling (brokenly, his voice cracks every so often) Fundy’s name.
They look about each other. Wilbur hadn’t been showing any signs of insanity before now, so they follow the revived man out into the snow and call for the foxling they’d left behind.
***
Fundy hears loud noises, and he sleepily opens his eyes. He prays it isn’t mobs, but really, that’d be just his luck. A whine tears itself from his throat, and he blearily looks around himself.
Snow has been sprinkled on his back, ebbing between the protecting leaves from the tree and fluttering down to freeze him and he trembles.
“-dy!” A person shouts. Fundy trembles violently, flinching at a too close boot crunch of snow to his left. It’s all too loud, too close to his person, his form small and vulnerable.
“Fundy!” Another person shouts.
Fundy lets out a sharp sob. Papa. He was here, he was here to save him. He came back. Fundy’s not alone anymore. He squeals loudly, barking out for his Papa. He hopes Papa knows that it’s him, it’s his pup.
An answering bark back fills him with relief. Papa knows it’s him, knows that his pup is here and he’s letting Fundy know that he’s home. Fundy takes off, shivering from the snow as it layers on top of his fur.
It doesn’t take long before Fundy is barreling into Papa’s arms, his nose leading him right to Papa by the other’s warm, roasted chestnut scent. Papa scoops him up, brushing off the snow gently and holding him close, warming him up.
Fundy could almost start crying. Instead, he purrs and makes a plethora of other noises to show his affection and thanks. “Oh, my little champion.” Papa coos gently, and Fundy nuzzles deeper into him.
“We’re going home, little one. It’s okay, baby,” Papa murmurs to him, letting Fundy just be held in his arms. It’s so warm.
***
“Fundy?” Phil calls, making the fox hybird- he’d turned back into his ‘human’ form once they got inside- look over at his grandpa. Phil’s heart shatters when he sees the fear and anxiety in the little one’s eyes. “We all have these… uniforms, per say, and, well, I was wondering if we could make you one, too?” Phil asks gently.
A swell of love and a burst of happiness floods Fundy’s veins, and breathing feels a little bit lighter. He smiles excitedly, “Yes, please!” He exclaims, waving his hands up and down, tail flicking back and forth eagerly.
Grinning lovingly, Phil holds out a measuring tape, “Well, let’s get to it!” He says, helping the boy stand up from his previous spot on his Papa’s lap.
“Wait!” Wilbur says. Fundy freezes, anxiety crashing down on him again. Did Papa lie? Did he not really want Fundy to be apart of their family anymore? Wilbur stands up, and holds Fundy by the shoulders. Fundy meets his Papa’s eyes hesitantly.
“Little champion,” Wilbur murmurs, “I’m so sorry. You can be little again, you can be your mental age. I’m so sorry I forced you to do this to yourself,” Wilbur explains. Fundy’s eyes fill with tears, and both father and son ignore the confusion heavy in the small living room.
Gasps ring out through the living room when Fundy poofs again, and this time, instead of a fox, he is a three year old, teary eyed and looking up at his Papa, making grabby hands. “P-Papa!” Fundy cries, wrapping his tiny arms around Wilbur’s neck when his Papa picks him up.
They’ll explain everything, later, but now Fundy is happy to lay in his Papa’s arms as Grandpa measures him for his new uniform, a final puzzle piece falling into place.