Chapter Text
The moon can’t shine without the sun, his mother would tell him every night.
“You are my sunshine, Wil,” she would whisper as they lay in bed, moonlight shining through the curtains. “You are my sunshine, and one day, you’ll find yours too.”
Wilbur scrunches his nose, “I don’t think I want a sunshine, Mum.”
Kristen’s laugh fills the quiet room, so melodious and carefree. “They don’t have to be like me and Dad, Wil. They could be family.”
“But you’re family,” the boy frowns. “Dad is.”
“We’re married, Wil, there’s a difference. You can have two families,” Kristen says kindly. “There’s your blood family - that would be me and Dad, and there’s family you can choose.”
(The stars can’t dance for their moon if it doesn’t glow in all its ethereal beauty; the stars shine brighter when the moon shines.)
“Is Techno family?” Wilbur asks his father one day on a trip to the village.
Phil is confused by the question, but of course, Wilbur’s growing up, and the world will seem more curious to him.
“‘Course, mate,” he replies, squeezing Wilbur’s hand softly.
There is silence except for the horse’s trotting and the birds chirping, and if Phil tries hard enough, he could hear water rushing.
“Is he… is he your sunshine?” Wilbur asks timidly after a while.
Sunshine. The word seems to fascinate Wilbur, just like how potatoes fascinate Techno.
“You could say that,” Phil replies. “Why do you ask?”
Wilbur only shakes his head, and says, “Techno is cool, and I didn’t want him to go away. Besides, who’d take care of you if it weren’t for him and me?”
Phil lets out squawk and flicks his son’s nose, who brings a hand up not soon after, complaining about how awful of a dad Phil was.
Phil misses his moonshine, though she is not dead.
(The planets are drawn to the sun, but their moons pull them away, either by greed, lust or to make sure that they don’t get too drawn in by it’s warmth. Sometimes it can be hard, for every sun is a star, but not every star is a sun.)
“You like potatoes a lot,” Wilbur states as he gets up from the dirt and brushes his legs to get rid of any dirt or insects.
“Heh?” Techno mutters, baffled. “What d’you mean?”
“I’m just saying,” Wilbur shrugs innocently. “You seem to like potatoes a bit too much.”
Techno wipes a hand across his forehead. “You little gremlin, I just think they’re cool.”
Wilbur nods like he doesn’t question the whole acre of potato crops more than his existence.
Wilbur, now 17 (turning 18 in a few months), is known as the bard of the nearby village near their cottage. Kids run up to him with childish requests he enjoys playing on his guitar, and has grown to affiliate the place with the word home.
He has a spot designated to him - a semi-secluded tree that has been there from the beginning of time, if the gnarly, thick trunk is anything to go by. It’s not far from the market, but far enough that the bustling chatter and conversation don’t interfere with the peace he gets to create there.
And yet this time, he finds someone already there.
There’s a boy who looks to be twelve (Wilbur was never good at guessing games) with messy blonde hair and bright blue eyes, clad in a dirty white shirt that is many sizes too big for him. He sits with his hands fisted, a meaningful glare, fluffy ears poking out from his nest of hair and a fluffy tail loosely draped across his criss-crossed legs, which are littered with cuts, bruises and mud.
“Alright there, mate?” he greets him and plops down next to him, feeling a bit of concern as the other flinches harshly and almost falls. “Sorry for the scare,” he chuckles sheepishly, “but you’re in my spot, kid.”
“My spot now, bitch,” he mutters irritatedly.
“Alright, we can share,” Wilbur smiles, pulling his guitar to the front from his back. “Do you have any song requests in the meantime?”
The kid looked at him with a confused glance.
“...Song?” he mumbles, brow creasing.
“Yeah! Music, and all that,” Wilbur explains briefly. “Like, you know, the sound music discs make, or instruments, like my guitar!”
“Oh,” the blonde breathes, and it’s done in a naïve manner. One could say that he didn’t know what music was, what songs were.
Wilbur’s heart softens a bit for him.
“I’ll play you a song,” Wilbur continues, shifting to a more comfortable position. “You can then tell me if it was good.”
And so, he starts to pluck and strum his guitar.
He plays one of the few melodies his mother would hum to him when he couldn’t sleep, mostly because he was sick. The lyrics were mostly bittersweet, but the melody was… mellifluous. It reminded him of afternoon picnics spent picking flowers and leaves to weave intricate flower crowns, apple pies accompanied by the smell of roses and lavenders; it was very safe to say this melody was a nostalgic one.
When he is done playing, he looks over to the blonde kid, who’s looking at him with awe-filled eyes and a lost look on his face. It takes him a moment to come back to reality, and the first thing he does is grin brightly and clap softly.
“That sounded nice?” Wilbur asks nervously.
“Very,” Tommy nods vigorously. “Can you play something else?”
Wilbur chuckles fondly, and starts to play another song.
He plays another, and another, and another, and then the sun starts to touch the horizon and it’s his time to leave.
“Do you have a place to stay?” Wilbur asks as he gets up and slings the guitar to his back.
The kid squints his eyes. “What? Are you going to patronise me?” he asks defensively. “Just ‘cause I got no home don’t mean I don’t have a place to stay!”
“I was just asking!” Wilbur exclaims. “You could stay for a night or two, then decide if you wanna stay.”
“And if I don’t?” he asks with a poorly hidden tone of weariness and fear.
“Then you can leave,” Wilbur assures the blonde. “I won’t let anyone stop you.”
Wilbur may be the bard of the village, but before that, he is a God - his domain stretches over music, healing and… truth. The village has his protection, along with his father’s and Techno’s.
Tommy is clearly hesitant to accept the help, and Wilbur thinks there’s more that can be uncovered later when more trust is gained. Wilbur only smiles, and digs in his pockets, pulling out his red beanie.
“Here,” Wilbur extends his arm holding the beanie outwards towards the kid. “Have this.”
Small hands come up and make a grabbing motion, but retract as fast. “Are… are you sure?” Tommy asks with a frown.
Wilbur only nods.
“No favour?” bright blue eyes dig into his dark red ones. “No… I’m not indebted to you?”
Wilbur frowns. “No,” he says truthfully.
He’s not sure if he was harsh or if his magic flowed through or if Tommy trusted him enough, because the dirty blonde kid snatches the beanie almost greedily and shoves it on his head.
“Thanks,” he mutters out, then clears his throat. “Well? Aren’t you going to introduce me to your family?”
Wilbur lets out a genuine laugh, and beckons Tommy to follow him.
“Okay,” he grins, “Let’s go meet my family.”
“Poggers,” Tommy chirps.