Chapter Text
There was something following Wilbur.
He’s walking home from school, when he notices it. His feet hurt; he needed new shoes, like, pronto. The lace on his right shoe was all fucked up— torn, knotted.
Wilbur was a fucking master at walking with his shoes untied. He has never tripped, not even once. Not even when going down the stairs! No, no, Wilbur has never once tripped on his fucked up shoe laces.
“Your shoes untied,” His teachers would point out, and Wilbur would smile and nod and thank them. Then he would duck into his next class and tuck them into his shoe.
“Don’t you know how to tie your shoes?” One of Wilbur’s classmates would sneer at him, making Wilbur scoff. Of fucking course he knew how to tie his fucking shoes. He was twelve. Not a stupid four year old.
The issue was that Wilbur couldn’t! His shoe were in a unsaveable state — there was no use in retying them, especially since Wilbur was an absolute professional at walking with his shoe laces untied.
His shoes were all cramped and small, and they hurt. He had been asking for new shoes for months, before eventually giving up . He was going to have to manage with these until they fall apart on his feet.
Which they might as well have. Wilbur had to duck tape the front of his left shoe because his toe started poking out.
Wilbur scowled, kicking a pebble backwards with his heel as he walked. He hated walking, and he hated school, and he really didn’t want to go home either.
A pebble hit the back of his ankle, and Wilbur nearly jumped.
Wilbur tensed. What the fuck. What the fuck ?
Wilbur lived far from his school. He started trekking along the rail road a few months ago because it was a faster route then through the town; and it was isolated. He never ran into any assholes from school that wanted to fuck him up because of his smart mouth, or any creeps that wanted to shove him into a van. He’s used to no disturbances or social interaction; so a fucking pebble should not have been thrown back at him.
The railtrack itself was rusted, running next to a dense a forest and a creek. A long as Wilbur had been walking this path he’s never seen a train; so either he’s just missed it’s schedule every day for the last five months or it has been abandoned.
Fuck, this is his fucking railroad! And he’s not going to fucking share it with whichever twat that decided to follow him!
Wilbur whirled around, expecting a confrontation, a fight, a fist.
It was just the railroad track, and the forest, and the creek.
Wilbur tilted his head. Huh.
It must have been a fucking... bird, or something. Yeah. Birds were fucking assholes. A bird was totally messing with him.
Wilbur really, really needed new shoes.
The shoe laces weren’t even the issue anymore. They ached when he walked to school and they ached during school and they ached walking from school. They ached and ached and Wilbur was closed to swearing his life to bare-footedness.
If he didn’t get new shoes soon, he would take a vow to never wear shoes again. If no one wants to get him new shoes then fine, the world would have to deal with his bare feet and his weirdly shaped toenails.
“I want new shoes,” Wilbur had told his dad, last night.
He got a snore in response.
Wilbur stood there, fiddling with his hands, debating on whether or not to wake him up.
The TV was still on. Wilbur hated when his dad fell asleep with the television on. He would always keep it so loud, and the thin walls in their trailer did absolutely nothing to block out the noise. Stupid SCI-FI channel movies had kept Wilbur up to the late to ungodly hours of the night, until the television timed itself out because of the lack of the interaction.
Turning off the television was a death sentence, and waking his dad up was the lethal injection.
The last time he woke up his dad after a drinking binge, Wilbur had to wear hoodies to school for a month because they were the only thing that could cover the hand prints on his neck.
Wilbur really needed new shoes.
Words would sit on his tongue, choking him. He would ask his dad another time.
Maybe Wilbur could use the one dollar bills he’s pocketed from his dad's wallet to hop a bus to the mall. He really only had enough money for the bus, but he was smart. Wilbur could figure out a way to shoplift some shoes out of JC-Penny or something.
Maybe he should bring a pair of scissors, to cut off the tags. That way he could wear them out without setting off the alarms. He’ll even leave his disgusting old shoes in the b—
Something hits the back of Wilbur’s head, and he startles.
That was on purpose! Someone hit his head on purpose!
And someone—
Wilbur tilted his head.
No one was there.
Deja-vu, this was some weird deja-vu shit. Who is it that kept throwing rocks at him?
Wilbur picked up a pebble, turning it in his hand. He glanced at the forest; the only possible hiding place for whoever was messing with him. Stalking him.
Wilbur hesitated, then threw the pebble back.
He watched the pebble disappear into the treeline. He could play this game. Wilbur liked games!
Wilbur waited, and waited, for the pebble to be thrown back.
The birds chirped, and the leaves whistled, and the pebble was not thrown back.
“Hello?” He called, taking a smell step forward. This was stupid. This was dangerous, and Wilbur didn’t really care. Wilbur leaned down, not taking his eyes off the tree line.
His hands searched for a slightly larger rock, throwing it into the tree line. Unlike the pebble, he could hear the light thump of it hitting the forest floor.
He wasn’t really expecting anything to happen; just silence, disappointment, and returning to his walk home.
Something peaked behind a tree, and Wilbur flinched.
They’re short, and… and their eyes are blue. Bright, vibrant, unnaturally blue.
A clawed-looking hand creeps around the tree, and it’s a shadow. Its body mass was a shadow.
Wilbur blinked.
Its blue eyes blinked back at him.
With the thoughts and complaints of his shoes and aching feet, Wilbur booked it home. He will not be dealing with that.
Wilbur had been avoiding the railroad.
Which was— unfair, it was his fucking railroad!
But… but he thought it was for the best to wait it out before returning to it. He could do his morning and afternoon walks to and from school through the town.
This went fine, for a few days. This was fine. This was fine! Going through town was more dangerous, and so much longer, but it was temporary, and Wilbur didn’t mind the time away from their trailer.
He really, really didn’t mind the time away from the trailer. His dad ran out of vodka two days ago, and because his social security check didn’t come in until next Thursday and they were broke he was stuck dry.
Wilbur thinks he preferred it when he was drinking.
At— at least when he was drinking, by the time Wilbur got home he was passed out. Or too stuck in his own head to acknowledge Wilbur. Wilbur could slip to his room and stay there all night, only slipping out to heat up some microwavable Kraft mac and cheese or make some strawberry and butter toast.
While his dad was sober, he was much more mean. More aware. Sneaking past him was hard, and avoiding him was even harder.
It made Wilbur drag his feet, walking home.
He really didn’t like his dad while he was drunk, but Wilbur really didn’t like him when he was sober, either.
There was a gas station, some local, cheap place that didn’t lock up their booze. Wilbur only knew that because when he was nine, he got in the car with his dad while he was drunk under the promise of getting some ice cream. They ran in together, his dad grabbing the little bottles of vodka they had in stock while Wilbur bounced to the freezer.
The chocolate ice cream was not worth the nauseating feeling on the car ride home, not worth his stomach flipping when his dad ran a stop sign or when he drifted over the white lines on the road.
His dad lost his license and five months ago, and his car was taken away because of delayed payments. Which Wilbur thought was fucking stupid, and unfair.
Wilbur ducked into the gas station, keeping his head down. It was smaller— it was easier to steal from bigger places, more places for them to not be looking at you in. More shelves to hide behind while he ripped off tags and slipped junk food into his pockets.
He wasn’t here for junk food, though. If he wanted junk food he’d steal a fucking donut from the Quik-Trip down the block. Quick-Trip kept its booze locked up; this place didn’t.
Wilbur grabbed a few mini-bottles, shoving them in his sleeve and hoodie pocket as he walked over to the candy aisle. He scratched off the barcode of each and every one while pretending to decide on what junk food he wanted to buy.
The mini bottles his dad would usually pour into tea, or coke. He would use the entire bottle, and they would go quickly; Wilbur probably have to steal again before the next paych—
A hand grabbed his wrist, pulling it out of his pocket with one of the mini Smirnoff bottles.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Wilbur’s eyes blew into saucers. “Uh— I…”
The clerk tightened his grip on Wilbur’s wrist, shaking him. “ Uhh — I-I-I-I ,” He mocked, dragging Wilbur towards the counter. “You’re stealing from me! Did your old man fucken’ put you up to this?”
Wilbur shook his head immediately. “No sir.”
“You’re a thievin’ addict just like him!" The clerk spat, and Wilbur was shaking. “Guess I’ll be callin’ the station instead of him.”
Wilbur’s stomach dropped. “No— no please—”
If the police picked him up his dad would kill him, he’d kill him fucking dead. Dead-dead-dead. Wilbur would be so fucking dead.
Wilbur screeched, stomping on the cleerks foot. Again. Again. And again until he reeled back and his grip on Wilbur was loosened.
Wilbur booked it through the glass doors, his feet aching, his lungs on fire; Wilbur didn’t stop running.
The bottles clinked in his hoodie pocket, one of them falling out when he escaped from the grasp of the clerk. Wilbur couldn’t bring himself to care. He still had the bottles, enough to last his dad a night; maybe two.
The clerk shouted after him, but did not give chase. Wilbur was faster, and smarter. He was so fucking smart, so much more fucking smart then some stupid-ugly-fat-middle-aged gas station clerk.
Wilbur didn’t stop running until he yanked the back door to their trailer open, nearly falling onto the counter, out of breath.
Wilbur gasped. His lungs were on fire, and his feet burned. He would never be able to show his face in that gas station again, and neither would his dad.
That wasn’t Wilbur’s issue, there were plenty of cheap booze places in town. It was their only trade; stinky alcoholics and the alcohol that made them stinky alcoholics.
Wilbur hung up his backpack on a kitchen chair, hesitatingly floating towards the living room.
His dad was awake, sober. Cranky. The television was loud. It was always so loud.
Wilbur deposited the mini bottles of Smirnoff vodka onto the disgusting, stained wooden tv-tray that his dad used as an end table.
His dad grunted. “Where’d you find those?”
“Under the sink,” Wilbur lied, easily. Lying to his dad was easy. “You’re welcome.”
Wilbur stood in the doorway, bouncing on his aching toes, waiting for his dad to say thank you.
He didn't.
By the time the clerk called, his dad was passed out. He had fallen in the empty door frame between the kitchen and the living room. Wilbur had been hovering, watching him fall. He checked to make sure that he was still breathing, alive. Wilbur rolled him onto his side, just so he wouldn’t choke.
He’s done this before. Wilbur was used to him still being asleep on the floor in some random place in their trailer by the time Wilbur would get up to go to school.
Wilbur deleted the clerk's voice mail, and then blocked his number; just to be sure. His dad was too fucking stupid to figure out that the clerk was blocked in the first place, let alone how to unblock it.
Wilbur’s dad didn’t thank him in the morning, either.
Wilbur had gone back to the rail track.
He was still a bit shaken, and feared passing the gas station. He was afraid the clerk would see him through the window and start chasing him with a broomstick, or something. In movies those small business owners usually had guns behind the counter. Wilbur was lucky he didn’t get fucking shot—
“Soot!”
Wilbur frowned, turning on his heel.
Three older teenagers stalked towards him, and they looked angry.
Not a lot of people at Wilbur’s school really liked him; he didn’t have many friends. Most of the kids in his grade avoided him.
The meaner kids would kinda make a game out of him; brushing against him in the hallway and chasing their friends with the arm that touched them. It was mean, really, really mean.
It made Wilbur purposefully avoid touching people, he would swerve out of the way of somebody else before they would get the chance to do it to him. He would take big steps to avoid touching people in the hallways before they could do it and laugh.
These guys were older, highschoolers, they were in an entirely separate building. An entirely different grade.
“My dad says you fuckin’ stole from him!”
Oh.
Oh, that’s what this was about. Oh no. He didn’t even know the clerk had a kid!
They must have trailed him from the school. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Wilbur was a fucking twig. Wilbur was also a coward, and Wilbur will not be fighting them.
Wilbur ran, and Wilbur didn’t make it twenty feet before rough hands were grabbing his shoulders and pushing him to the ground. They were taller and faster than him, and it was so fucking unfair.
Wilbur curled under the kicks, arms moving to protect his neck. The punches were relenting, constant. Constant-constant-constant.
The punches slow down, and one of his attackers yelp— a set of fists disappearing entirely.
“What the fuck ?!”
The punches stopped altogether, and two other voices join in to the chorus of confused curses.
Something is falling— rocks, pebbles. Hitting the ground around Wilbur. Wilbur kept his head firmly tucked under his arms, even after his attackers started retreating.
Wilbur shook, his lungs rattling. God. God. God-god- god it fucking hurt .
Footsteps on gravel. They were coming back. God they were coming back. They were going to fucking kill him.
Wilbur peaked from behind his arms, expecting the older teenagers.
A shadow. The shadow.
Wilbur blinked, and it ducked back into the tree line.
Did— did the fucking tree monster scare them away?
Wilbur glanced at the rocks, at the pebbles that were scattered around him, and he wanted to laugh.
Wilbur wanted to cry, too.
It hurt. It hurt. He could lay here, for just a minute. Just— a minute. His dad wouldn’t mind. His dad wouldn’t care. It wouldn’t matter if Wilbur was five minutes late or five hours late, he wouldn’t care.
Tears burn at Wilbur’s eyes, his throat tight. Wilbur could die on this fucking railroad track and no one would care. Not his dad, not his teachers, not anyone at school. No one would care.
No one would care but the fucking shadow monster who throws rocks at him.
And that thought was enough for Wilbur to not just lay there and die.
He was starting to think that the shadow monster that lived in the trees might want to be his friend.
That was a ridiculous, silly thought. But, the shadow monster hasn’t eaten him yet, and yesterday it defended him.
Wilbur wouldn’t mind it, to have it as a friend.
He wouldn’t mind a friend , in general.
Wilbur stood on the track, facing the forest.
Wilbur bounced on his toes. His feet still really, really hurt. One of his shoes had fallen aparlt on his, way home last and Wilbur had to use ductape that he burrowed from their neighbor to put it back together.
While he was taping, he taped the laces to the side of the shoes. It was one thing to have fucked up laces, it was another to have shoes held together by tape. That was a real kicker during his classes.
Wilbur shoved his shaking hands into his hoodie. “Hello?” He called, testing his voice. Testing his bravery.
Wilbur didn’t get a response, so he threw a rock.
The rock came back, seconds later, landing next to Wilbur’s feet.
Huh.
Wilbur threw it back.
Wilbur waited a few moments, and the rock did not return.
Wilbur frowned. This was stupid. He was being stupid. There’s no way a random shadow-forest-monster wants to be his friend.
Wilbur stalked towards the forest, towards where he knew he threw the rock.
Maybe this was a trap, to lure him, to eat him. Maybe it was just the shadow-forest-monster being shy.
Wilbur searched the forest floor for the very specific rock, tossing it in his hand as he picked it up. Wilbur frowned, why didn’t it want the rock?
Maybe Wilbur should have picked a better rock. Maybe Wilbur hit it on accident— or… or it was offended that Wilbur threw it back. Was he supposed to be keeping the rocks?
A tree branch snapped, and Wilbur’s eyes shot up.
The shadow peaks from behind a tree, bright blue eyes blinking at him.
Wilbur blinked back, and the shadow ducked back behind the tree.
“Hi?” Wilbur tried, taking slow, small steps towards the tree. “I— I just wanted to…”
He held the rock out— which was stupid. The shadow-forest-monster could rip his arm off. Or bite him. Or drag him into a hole and murder him with other shadow-forest-monsters.
The rock was yanked out of Wilbur’s hand, the tiny hand disappearing out of view.
Huh.
His new friend did not come back out, nor did it return the rock.
There is a child on the railroad.
Wilbur has to blink, and then rub at his eyes when he first sees them. There is a child sitting cross-legged on his railroad.
Who the fuck let their kid out here? How the fuck did a kid get out here on its own?
Wilbur pouted, shoving his hands in his pockets as he approached the child. He didn’t want to deal with this— he didn’t want to be a babysitter. What if this kid scares off the shadow-forest-monster? Fuck, what if the shadow-forest-monster fucking eats him?
“Hey,” Wilbur greeted, voice flat. “Did you get lost?”
The kid looked up, and Wilbur is startled by very familiar bright, slitted blue eyes.
The kid looked up, and its teeth were pointed.
He forced out his hand, opening his palm—
The rock. The same rock from yesterday. This was the shadow-forest-monster.
“Oh,” The single syllable fell like water out of Wilbur’s mouth. “You… you're… hi.”
Somehow, its pointed tooth smile got bigger, nodding at Wilbur’s realization.
“Stone!” It yelled, and Wilbur tried to drown his shock at the voice, at it talking. It was scratchy, and high. Wilbur thinks it might sound like a chair being pulled out.
Cautiously, Wilbur took the rock out of its hands. “Thank you,” Wilbur muttered, cupping it with both his hands. The not-kid beamed at him.
“Me!” It yelled again, pointing towards the forest. It was then Wilbur realized that the tips of its fingers were inky. Wilbur tried to not stare at them. “Me!” It yelled again, probably assuming that Wilbur didn’t get it.
“You?” Wilbur smiled, playful. “You’re the one that’s been throwing rocks at me?”
It nodded enthusiastically. “Me!” It pointed at its own chest. “Me! To—” It coughed. “Tom-my!”
“Tommy?” Wilbur clarified, scrunching up his nose. Tommy was a… odd name for a shape-shifter-shadow-forest-monster.
“Tom-my!” It chirped, tapping its chest. “Tom-my, he!”
“He?” Wilbur said. “You’re He?”
“He!” He tapped his chest, and then pointed at Wilbur. “You. You?”
“Wilbur.” Wilbur mirrored the motion of tapping his chest. “Uh— he.”
“He!” Tommy poked. “He! You! Left! Wilb—” Tommy’s face twisted up, like he tasted something foul. “You! Wilb left!”
“I left?” Tommy nodded, solemnly. Wilbur realized he must have been referring to the week that he had walked through town instead of the tracks. “I am sorry.”
Tommy reached out, patting Wilbur’s leg. “S’okay.” He patted again. “Mean. Mean—” He frowned. “Mean. He’s. Gone?”
Wilbur was having a really hard time following. “I’m sorry?”
Tommy scowled. “Mean! Hurt! Stones!”
Wilbur’s face fell. “Do— do you mean the guys that chased me?”
Tommy nodded. “Hurt. Gone?”
Well— they weren’t gone. They hadn’t bothered Wilbur since the incident; not that they really could. The middle-schoolers and high-schoolers were in different buildings, at opposite ends of the campus.
And— and the hurt wasn’t gone, either. Wilbur’s feet still ached, and he always felt so painfully tense in his own home; and he was so tired all the time now.
“They’re gone,” Wilbur decided. “Thank you for that, by the way.”
Tommy beamed, his eyes somehow brighter. “Protect!” He pointed at himself, then at Wilbur. “Me! Protect! Wilb!”
Wilbur couldn’t help the smile. “You’re my protector?” Tommy nodded, hopping to his feet. It was then that Wilbur realized he didn’t have shoes.
Tommy’s clothes were surprisingly clean— arguably cleaner then Wilbur’s. Which he tried very, very hard to not take offense too. He tried! He was absolutely not jealous that the child that lived in the forest had cleaner clothes then him.
Tommy patted Wilbur’s hands. The skin on skin contact made Wilbur realize that his fingers weren’t stained, they were feathery.
Oh.
That didn’t freak Wilbur out, at all. It definitely did not. He was so not freaked out.
Tommy pointed towards the forest. “Home. Me.” He tapped Wilbur. “Home. You?”
Wilbur pointed down the railroad, the direction of their trailer. “My home is that way.”
Maybe it wasn’t the best idea, to give Tommy even the direction of his home— maybe Tommy didn’t plan on eating him, but the other shape-shifting-shadow-forest-monsters might.
Tommy shook his head. “No. No. Home.” He pointed towards the forest again. “Home? Go?”
Wilbur shook his head, trying to look solemn. “I can’t go home with you.”
Tommy pouted. “Why?” He gestured again. “Home!
“Because I have to go to my…” Home. Wilbur has to go back to his home. It was still a few days until the social security check came in, and he had drank all the tiny bottles Wilbur had stolen for him in one night.
Wilbur hadn’t risked going into town since then, and he wasn’t going to take his chances any time soon.
“I have to go back to my home.” Wilbur said, because Tommy was staring at him like he was stupid.
“Go with? Me.” Tommy pointed at himself, then Wilbur. “You!”
“You wanna go with me?” Tommy nodded. “I don’t think my dad would like that very much.” Not that he would notice an entirely new child in his house, but his dad was sober, angrily sober, and it would be significantly harder to waltz Tommy in.
Tommy’s eyes brighten. “Dad?” Wilbur nodded. “Dad!” He pointed back towards the forest. Tommy really liked pointing. “Dad!”
“Your dads in there?” That was great, there was a bigger shape-shifter-shadow-forest-monster.
Tommy tapped his chest. “Go. Dad” He said, his tiny face twisting into a frown, pointing at the forest. “You. Next day?”
Wilbur would definitely hate to let down the child-shape-shifter-shadow-forest monster, so he nodded. “Next day. Tomorrow, yeah?”