Archive of Our Own ^beta

fundy is four feet and two inches. he's sitting between the knees of his father on the steps of the caravan. his father has a pair of scissors resting on his thigh and a hairbrush in his hand. they had cut his hair only a week ago, but it’s back down to his shoulders, just long enough to get caught in branches and used as fighting tactic against him.

“and we’re still a ‘no’ on growing it out? we could braid it,” his father tries, slowly dragging his long fingers and blunt nails through fundy’s frizzy, half-curly hair. he got his mother’s color and his father’s texture. “i want a boy’s haircut,” he whines, squinting down at his shoes, already pinching his toes. it’s why he prefers going barefoot.

“long hair isn’t a girl’s haircut. my father’s friend has long hair, and he’s a boy.” his father has the same tone of voice when he’s pulling worms from fundy’s fingers and telling him they’re not food. he twists in his seat to glare up at his father, pinching his mouth together when he sees soft eyes and a barely hidden smile, and fundy makes it clear that even if he had long hair, people would still think he’s a girl.

at first his father didn't know how to take that. fundy’s too small to properly identify the confusion, shock, then understanding flickering over wilbur’s face. “my baby,” fundy tries escaping his grip, but his father still drags him up to sit on his lap. it’s kind of humiliating, fundy’s not a baby anymore. “are you not a girl?”

fundy thought his dad was smarter than this. he scrunches his nose. “of course not. i’m a man.” he’s never thought of himself as a girl. from the moment he could walk, he knew he was a son. “like tommy. and you,” he adds, just in case his father is really dumb.

“of course, my bad. yes, we’ll cut your hair short.” wilbur doesn’t reach for the scissors immediately. he presses his cheek against the side of fundy’s head, orange hair tickling his chin, and says in an unmistakably fond voice, “my little champion.”

fundy quite likes the sound of that.

-

he's five feet three inches. he thinks. his head hurts, like when he was three feet eight inches and his fangs were growing in, but he also feels floaty and sparkly. the table is somehow too far away even though he's mushing his cheek against the old wood. there had been a bottle of dark amber liquid in the center, with a short glass besides it, droplets on the rim. like someone was in the middle of drinking and got pulled away, so.. fundy finished for them. it's the polite thing to do.

he wanted to know what it felt like, but honestly he wanted to not feel anything at all.

his head hurts.

light footsteps enter the room, pausing at the doorway, almost a stutter of body language. he peeks his eyes open and sees the vice president round the desk. it's nearly.. three am? so he's surprised to see overworked and perpetually tired quackity still up, but he forgot that sleep is a luxury reserved only for drunks and exposed traitors.

"shit, my dad is gonna kill me," he has the compelled need to tell quackity, then remembers his father isn't here, and that he wasn't even talking about wilbur, but— schlatt doesn't care. quackity's eyebrows are furrowed, but his hands are gentle as he pries the glass of.. whiskey? beer? from fundy's hands, and moves fundy's sweaty bangs out of his face. his fingers are cold. fundy’s hair is too long again.

"it'll just be between you and me," quackity answers. he thinks quackity keeps a lot of secrets, but is better at hiding them than tubbo. he believes him, when he says that. he wonders if quackity would tell schlatt about the leather bound diary if he knew about it, but he doesn't think so. quackity’s protests had been the loudest when the stage lit up, and after respawning, he held fundy’s arm like it was made of glass when wrapping bandages over it.

the explosion got all of them and quackity’s the only one who didn’t mention the pain.

persistently, underneath the haze, he wants to tell him. his fingers are stained from the wet ink of today’s entry. he doesn’t want to be the next one, and he has the most damning evidence.

quackity loops his arm underneath fundy’s shoulder, hoisting him up, and he stumbles into him. he giggles into his vice-president’s shoulder as his feet trip over each other, half-following and half-being carried into a white house bedroom. the room's not his. not quackity's either. he smells burnt ember and ash on the pillowcase, barely peeking to see little confetti on the windowsill.

it’s just the three of them now; quackity, fundy, and schlatt.

quackity sits on the edge of the bed until he falls asleep, one hand resting on his ankle as he looks at him like he’s a troubled masterpiece. if he was lucid, he would say q’s worried. when fundy makes a weak sound in the back of his throat, quackity starts to card his fingers through his orange hair. there’s wetness on his cheeks after he closes his eyes.

"night," he mumbles. “i love you.”

and he means it. quackity's the only one who stays.

-

he’s five feet two inches when he tells his father he’s running for president — the first time. the wick of a lantern burns low in the september evening, and he's standing in front of his father's desk, back straight, shoulders arched back, trying to make himself taller than he is. there’s a scratch of a quilled pen over recycled papers as his father scribbles out sentences too fast for even fundy’s keen eyes to pick up. his father hums a disinterested note as he dips the pen back into a pot. fundy waits and then tries again, picking up his voice from when it stumbled the first time.

“niki’s going to be my running mate. we’ve already decided on a name.”

more scratches. he wants to break that pen in half. “that’s nice, fundy,” a low murmur, the same eyes he inherited not glancing up from cursive scrawl. the tips of his ears burn as they flick down against his curls, and yet he persists even in the wake of disappointment, dropping his hands from where they’re clasped behind his back to press his palms over the oak desk. a few inches from his claws rests a crude clay figurine; a knight bravely holding up envelopes.

“her bakery is endorsing our campaign.” his claws scratch against the wood, like a dog scrambling to get inside. let me in. he could scream it and wilbur would only complain about the noise. “free cookies, and bread. ice cream.” only a non-committal hum in response. another dip in that damn bottle. he pushes, “plus chocolate, a lot of it.”

that guarantees a flicker of an expression over his father’s face, maybe worry in scrunched brows, but his hand only pauses enough to dot a period. “try to stay away from it, please.” short, practically a dismissal. fundy’s heart strains. his fingers twist in the loose fabric of his uniform, an old one of tubbo’s, underneath the sound of a quill scratching and sudden, to both of them, he grabs the pen from his father’s hand, leaning over half-dried letters and knocking over the clay sculpture he made when he was a kid. the pen snaps under his piercing nails.

thankfully only a minimal amount of ink falls onto the document. unfortunately he had been hoping for more.

he swallows thickly as his father finally raises his head, meeting his gaze with a strenuous sigh, mountains over his shoulders and trenches under his eyes. he hardly looks upset over the loss. fundy tries to continue through the souring tension, “i’m participating in the actual election. i wanted to tell you so you’re not blindsided. i have nothing against you except your policies.”

he believes he could do a better job. better than tommy, who’s a full head taller than him yet acts even more immature. l’manburg, under his and niki’s rule, would flourish. (his father would have to pay attention to him then.)

“fundy.. it’s.. a brave thing for you to do. but have you talked with tubbo? last time i checked, he was creating little contraptions. you could help him.”

he shouldn’t have expected anything different.

-

he’s three feet and the world is ending. fire wages across the sky, bursts of orange he's only seen in his crayon drawings before, black snowflakes of ash falling down around them. he’s never seen snow before. across the battlefield his name is being called, urgency speaking over the humming from the flames, but he can only whimper in response. he doesn’t dare move.

explosions had destroyed l’manburg around him. he lost his wooden sword in the chaos.

he's tucked behind an overturned wagon. hay bales crumbled into dust around him. he's curled as tightly into a ball as he can manage, bruised knees pushing into his forehead, shaking despite trying so hard to be brave. dad said he needs to be brave. and also stay in the van, but through the bubbling of potions, he heard the loud voices of his family screams. there’s nothing more childish than wanting to be a hero.

his ears pick up loud footsteps, like someone is sprinting, and he squeezes himself tighter. please don't find me, he wishes into the burning stars. but the steps fumble as they pass by, so he's pleading and wishing and hoping he’s not seen.

(his dad said he needs to be brave and he's trying really really hard, but there's bruises on his arms, ringing in his ears, and bloody knees because he tripped. and his father isn’t here to kiss the boo-boos away. he really wants his dad.)

"holy shit, fundy?!" that's tommy's voice. he raises his head as tommy practically falls to his knees in front of him, flinching back at the mess of dirt, soot, and blood on his friend's face. but tommy only looks relieved. he reaches out to grab fundy’s shoulders, panicked eyes looking over him, "wil's been calling your name for ages! did you not- fuck, it doesn't matter. are you okay? what hurts?"

fundy shifts, his body twinging in protest, and flings himself at tommy. less of a fling, and more like a collapse, dropping himself into tommy’s chest as if his rapid heartbeat is a lullaby. “i’m sorry,” he sobs, hiding his face into the crook of tommy’s neck, tears dripping into the grime packed onto tommy’s skin. he had only wanted to help, and tommy and tubbo made it seem so easy when they card through sandbag dummies at practice.

tommy clutches him fiercely, one hand holding the back of his head, holding him so close he’s being shielded from the rest of the wreckage. “it’s going to be okay,” tommy says into his hair, choked up thanks to the dust in his lungs. “we got to find your dad. i’m gonna protect you, alright?”

fundy nods. his small arms loop around tommy’s neck. his claws pierce through tommy’s tattered shirt from how tightly he clings. they traverse through the burning wreckage of l’manburg together.

when they do find dad, he has to be coaxed into letting him go.

-

he's five feet seven inches. his grandfather's wings create imposing shadows over the ground, and when he raises one to cover fundy's shoulders, he disappears completely. "you know, there’s a perfectly good cake inside. niki made it,” phil looks over to him and smiles, adding, “no chocolate. i made sure.”

there’s already sweetness clinging to his mouth from sneaking an earlier piece, but he doesn’t mention that. the creamy frosting and vanilla filling feel like rocks in his stomach. there’s a bitterness sticking in between his teeth. too sweet, he thinks. he can admire the effort put into it, but with sprinkled confettei, large orange font, and a cartoon fox.. it looked like something for an actual toddler.

it actually tasted pretty good, but he thought.. wilbur would be here. it’s his first birthday without his father. even last year, in the middle of scrambling for votes, wilbur had woken him up singing. he remembers all the lyrics and the smile on his father’s face. “three years old! almost as old as me,” wilbur had brightened, and even though fundy was too big, he still gave him a piggyback ride to the kitchen.

the party’s winding down. it’s not as though it was a bad turn out. more people came than he was expecting; purpled, who he’s never even talked to before but still gave him a poorly packaged present of.. ferns, a slime-like creature that poses as human, and sam came, only to leave swiftly. it’s not a bad party, and objectively, as paranoid as his father seems to be, wilbur would’ve hated it.

fundy might be selfish, because he thinks wilbur should’ve come anyways.

he curls his arms over his knees with a long sigh. maybe he should’ve made his front porch more comfortable to sit on. “how old do you think i am? like, mentally. physically. not… time-wise.” he asks idly, his long claws picking at the loose threads in his jeans. unfortunately, he’s at the height where tubbo’s clothes barely fit anymore and tommy’s are too big. but he might be done growing.

5’7”.

schlatt and wilbur are both over six foot.

“sixteen..?” phil sounds really unsure, especially because fundy can only shrug in response. the question came out of left field too. being sixteen wouldn’t be bad, but it’s less of the point he’s trying to make. fundy’s not sure how to explain how he thinks his accelerated age is inexplicably tied to his sense of loss. quackity may have come to the party, but tommy and him have remained decidedly on separate sides of it.

he swallows, and clarifies, too genuine for a hot day in l’manburg, sitting on his porch with people eating cake inside, “i don’t know. it’s always been a guessing game. it’s like.. i feel mature, gramps, but how much of it is just.. an act?” his breath hitches. “i don’t think i’ve addressed my trauma. i didn’t- didn’t even realize schlatt hurt me until q told me. how much of a kid am i?”

phil quiets, then nudges his shoulder against his. “right now, you’re the most mature person i know.” there’s that smile again, but it seems less awkward this time, more genuine. “you’re smart, reliable, hardworking. the list goes on. you’ve built this whole house by yourself, and flooded floors aside, you did a damn good job.”

fundy’s cheeks pinken and the tension that’s built up in his shoulders slowly slips away. “thanks,” he mumbles back. phil’s words strike encouragement in him, though his gaze remains stubbornly at the forest.

wilbur’s probably not going to come. maybe tonight he’ll see him, but.. he’s not going to seek him out. it’s not on him to make the first move, again and again, consistently jumping at grapes too high on a branch. it’ll only tire him out. it has tired him out.

“i did,” he agrees, straightening, and meets phil’s eyes. “i’ve done all i can do.”

then he shifts out from underneath phil’s wings, and holds out a hand, his bangs slipping back into his eyes. he doesn’t push them away. maybe he’ll start to grow his hair out, there’s nothing unmanly about it.

“let me show you the fish tank. i just added this fancy light display.”