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Somewhere far, far away, there’s a little building on top of an island.
“Hey!”
Sneeg blinks. He’d thought he was alone for the afternoon– scurrying off into the tunnel system he’d created in his spare time, laying out the bricks in a way that only lets people his size or smaller to enter. They go everywhere, and he’s goddamn proud of them. He spent ages on these stupid freaking tunnels.
And now there’s another person in them, or at least, halfway.
“Charlie?” Sneeg stares at the guy in mild annoyance. Charlie’s halfway into the tunnel, just a tad taller than himself, crouched over and grinning wildly. He’s slightly out of breath. It takes every ounce of self-control in Sneeg’s tiny body to not laugh at the squelching noise he makes when he lets out a breath that’s particularly filled with gusto.
“Hey, man!” He says, squeezing the rest of the way into the tunnel. As he does, slime drips away, and slowly, he shrinks. Sneeg’s seen this before (one intrepid afternoon) but it still doesn’t cease to amaze him as Charlie goes from half a foot taller than Sneeg to an inch or so shorter.
“What the fuck are you doing,” Sneeg deadpans.
He leans against the wall, leaving green remnants everywhere he touches. Sneeg is going to have to find or make a mop. “Oh, you know, just bein’ a little num-num boy. A little slimy man, slippery fingers–” There it is.
“Ah. You stole,” Sneeg says, connecting the dots, from the overstuffed bag on Charlie’s hip to his slight out-of-breathness. Charlie grins and wheezes, bending practically in half as he laughs.
“Hell yeah I stole!” He cries, straightening up and sauntering over, slinging a goopy arm over Sneeg’s shoulder. He gives a tiny push, and Sneeg rolls his eyes, but continues walking down the tunnel hiding a grin. “Want some golden carrots? I got more than enough now.”
“Absolutely. Hand them over, my guy.”
--––
“Ranboo,” Niki says, in that lovely lilting voice she has. “Pass me an allium, please.”
“I don’t have any flowers,” Ranboo says, pausing in his daily tending to his sugarcane. Niki laughs, crossing her arms on the shoreline and flicking her tail absently. The water lands short of him but he still flinches, leaving both of them laughing slightly.
“I know you do,” she teases, voice light in the summer afternoon. Ranboo’s ditched his coat in the heat, the purple sleeves tied neatly around his waist. “Tubbo lives with you, doesn’t he?”
“I don’t see how Tubbo living with me means that I have flowers on me all the time,” Ranboo teases right back, reaching out and snapping the bottom stalk of a sugar cane to fold and stow in his bag. Making paper sheets will take some time this afternoon, but it’ll be worth it.
“He tells me about how you surprise him,” Niki says. “I’m sure you have something!”
“Wilbur spoils you,” Ranboo reaches further into his bag anyways, coming up with a handful of flowers. No alliums, but plenty of dandelions and daisies and a singular pale yellow rose, sat in the middle of the bouquet.
“And Phil pollutes. It cancels out,” Niki sing-songs, reaching out to take the flowers happily from his hand. He’s careful not to get too close, not to let her wet hand brush his, but when she gestures he pulls out a handkerchief to cover his hand and smiles as she deposits a handful of shells into his palm.
“Thanks, Niki,” he says, tying up the cloth and tucking the trade away.
“No, thank you!” There’s another flick of water, droplets soaring over his head, and then she’s gone, a shimmer of pink and blue in the water. Ranboo smiles.
––--
“Phiiiiil.”
Wonderful.
“Phiiiiiiiiiiil.”
“I’m right here, Tommy,” Phil says, stepping back from the worktable in his birdhouse. Behind him is a flutter of feathers, a rustle of movement, and then a warm body is pressed up against his own back and wings. “What do you need?”
“Are you still mad at me?” Tommy asks, tucking his chin into Phil’s shoulder, and there’s warm breath against his neck. The cool night air had been seeping in through the open birdhouse doorway, and it’s a welcome reprieve from the chill.
Phil shoots a glance towards Best Boy. “Maybe,” he says.
Tommy huffs.
“I’m mostly over it,” Phil amends, turning slightly and catching a glimpse of crimson and pure white feathers. Still downy, still a baby. It makes some instinctual part of him croon. “What do you need?”
“Jack grabbed my feathers,” Tommy whines, twisting his body around and outstretching a wing. There’s a clear disturbance that Phil can see, a slight singe, and Phil inhales with a quiet whistle.
“Any pain?” He asks, turning more properly around and abandoning his pickaxe on the workbench in order to gently reach out. The grab’s in a spot where Tommy can’t reach to preen himself, so it’s no wonder he came to Phil for help. His own wings twinge in sympathy.
“No.” Tommy flicks the tips. “It was an accident. We were messing around and he just right tipped over, snagged me to try and balance.”
“Not angry with him then?” Phil asks, and immediately settles his own hands by digging them into Tommy’s feathers. Gently, of course. The rhythmic motion is soothing, and Tommy’s shoulders are relaxing more and more as Phil starts to pull feathers and twist the pins.
“No,” Tommy says, and then there’s a pause. Phil stays quiet. “....I wrung him a new one, but I’m mostly over it.”
“Good,” Phil says, tipping his head to bonk his chin into Tommy’s forehead. Tommy has to lean down a bit for him to do it, but hey, it’s the thought that counts. “He deserved a chewing out.”
“Mm.” Tommy’s gone quiet, and it’s no surprise– the stars are already out, a purple horizon kissing the sun a final goodbye for the night and he’s clearly had a long day. Phil’s similarly tired, but he forces his eyes open and hands steady in order to weave through Tommy’s feathers. Tommy tries to return the favor– it ends up just being more a petting than anything.
Phil doesn’t mind. The quiet is nice, just the two of them sat there, preening quietly and soaking in a summer evening.
––--
“SCOTT!”
“Oops.”
There’s a crater the size of a charged creeper sitting at the base of his house, and a suspiciously smoking Scott a few yards away.
“I thought you wouldn’t notice,” he says, and there’s an indignant screech from Wilbur. Time to go!
––--
“--uite simple,” Tubbo says, snapping another twig between his fingers.
“It’s not, though,” Ranboo insists. “It’s redstone. That stuff’s not simple.”
“Simple enough!” Tubbo argues. Beside them, turtle eggs sit, cradled in the soft palms of sand. “It’s binary! With a bit of magic, I suppose–”
“I got Phil to mess with mine,” Wilbur explains, holding the mic of his communicator up to his mouth. “Watch this, I press a button–” A flip switches on the side, and suddenly, there’s a voice blasting out of all five comms in the room.
“--and all of the sudden, you’ve got live-time radio!”
“Aw, shit! Epic!”
“Oh great. Now I get to hear Wilbur’s voice all the time.”
“Shut up Ranboo, you love Wilbur’s voice.”
“Wilbur? Who’s Wilbur? Right now you’ve got Walter on the line, Walter Crondale here at Chicago 103.5, don’t touch that dial, folks!”
Niki turns her comm over in her hands, tipping her head slightly. She’s got two feet in the water, patterned scales glimmering in the lantern-light. A baby turtle is cradled in her lap. “I don’t think these have dials.”
“Good evening dear listeners, tonight we’re on the midnight crawl, which means good ol’ Walter’s got a host of things lined up to chat about. First on the list is the gaggle of baby turtles we’ve got crawling around the studio– a bunch of little eggs, all for your excitement. Our first babe’s popped out of the womb, a little guy who’s a little bitch. No, folks, you heard me right! Lil’ Bitch, our first baby turtle!”
Sneeg snickers, recasting his line carefully. Tubbo grins. Wilbur holds the comm closer to his translucent lips and Ranboo winces.
“I can’t believe you agreed to that name,” he faux-whispers to Niki. She laughs, petting the baby’s head gently. Tubbo’s quick to follow, reaching out to drag his fingers over the soft shell of the newly hatched baby.
“I think it suits him,” Tubbo says, dipping his feet into the water beside Niki’s.
“General consensus on Lil’ Bitch’s name is positive folks,” Wilbur continues, the crackling spark of radio talk making everyone in the room giggle. “The time is thirty-two minutes past midnight–”
“Is it really that late?”
“--yes, dear listener Toby, it is, and I’m suggesting anyone who wants to see the hatching of the next eggs hop down here quick, because I’m seeing another crack a–”
“Oh!” Niki gasps, leaning forward as one of the other eggs’ shells crack. Sneegs reels in his line once more, and Ranboo even leans forward, careful not to get too close to the glistening pond. Wilbur goes quiet, and the whole room holds its breath as a small head pushes and squirms against the shell of the egg until half the baby is sitting in the sand, blinking into the artificial light.
“And that,” Wilbur says, still in radio-voice, but softer now. “Is the miracle of life, folks.”
––--
“Hey, mama bird?”
“I’ve not got any bread, Will. Go check Tommy’s garden.”
“Actually, I’m not lookin’ for food.”
That’s a mild surprise. Phil turns, eyeing Wilbur from his perch on top of the Pub(e)’s outdoor area. Wilbur is lingering inside, away from the harsh rays of sunlight that would set him aflame. Phil’s the opposite, both wings outstretched and boneless around him as he hammers wood into place and soaks in the sun.
“What can I help you with, then, mate?” Phil asks, bringing his wings back up to his back and shuffling around. He spits out the nails from his mouth to palm, watching as Wilbur peers inquisitively at the roof he’s working on.
“Okay, one, that looks really nice–”
“Aww, thanks mate.”
“--and two, when it’s gonna be done? I have a new project I wanted to ask you about.”
Phil heaves a sigh, glancing down at the nails in his hand. He’s going to need a lot more of these.
––--
“Why, hello there.” Jack looks slightly to his left, and has to hold back a grin as Ranboo ducks his head in order to fit under the tree they’re both hiding under.
“Fancy seeing you here,” Ranboo grumbles, peering out angrily at the sky. “I think God hates me.”
“That’s if there is a god, yeah,” Jack reasons, peering out at the sky. Liquid fire is dripping from it--aka, water. The worst thing possible to happen to the two people currently trapped under a tree, hiding away from the literal acid. Jack already bears some scars from the pain of getting caught out in it, or tripping (see: being pushed) into a vat of it. Ranboo’s got the same deal, although his teleportation means that there’s a few less. Jack relies on his legs, thanks much.
“Still,” Ranboo sighs. “Bad weather. I just wanted flowers, man.”
“Ayup,” Jack agrees, nodding lightly. “I hope no one sets fire to the pub while we’re out.”
They both eye the floating island. Ranboo sucks in a hissing breath through clenched teeth.
“Let’s hope the rain doesn’t last,” he says. “It’s gonna be a painful dash to safety.”
“Fuck’s sake,” Jack mumbles.
––--
“I”m setting down some ground rules,” Niki says, the turtle shell helmet securely attached to her head via a leather strap.
“Ironic,” Techno drawls from his spot at the counter, “since you kinda rely on water and all.”
“Shut up!”
“Dude.”
“Oooh my god.”
“Jeez, tough crowd.”
“Anyways,” Niki says aggressively, leaning into the table and watching as all eyes snap back to her. It’s an impressive group she’s assembled today, and it’s mostly the problem people– exactly what she’s been aiming to gather. The rest will just have to have the message passed on. Niki claps her hand together and rubs them gently, feeling her nails catch just slightly. “Ground rules! No killing the smalls.”
“I’m a small?” Sneeg asks, a distinct amount of disgust in his voice.
“Yes,” Niki says with a smile. “You cutie, you.”
“Am I a small?” Charlie asks, raising his hand slightly with a squelch.
“Conditionally,” Niki says, pointing a finger at him with a grin.
“I do get infinitely tinier,” Charlie says, tipping his chin upwards.
“We still need to see if you get to quark size,” Tubbo cuts in, and Niki waves her hand absently in front of his face until she’s got the attention once more.
“Sneeg, Charlie, and Fundy–”
“I AM NOT SMALL!”
“--are officially under my protection as of now. You need to stop killing! I know respawns are on and initiation is fine, but it’s been days now.”
“The maternal instincts have finally kicked in,” Wilbur whispers to Techno, perched on top of the counter and only half-opaque. “She should have coffee with Phil.”
“Hush, you,” Niki chides, before turning back to the table at hand. “Now. Stop killing. It’s time for peace, and baby turtles, and kindness.”
––--
Tommy huffs as he slams down another pile of boxes, having dragged them up to the Pub(e) painfully by way of ladder. It had taken a fucking long ass time, and now his arms are aching, and he’s just fucking tired.
“Eyy, ayup big man,” Jack says, swinging his head down the ladder hole and into the basement. A spark fizzles out of his hair, floating down into the room. A fiery precursor to his appearance. “Got a question for you.”
“Yeah?” Tommy asks, wiping away the sweat from his brow and stretching his wings. They ache. Maybe Phil will preen tonight if he asks, although they did it yesterday too, but it’s so nice and Tommy falls asleep so much easier without the itchy feathers–
Right. Jack’s been talking.
“--ou think about that?”
Tommy had most certainly, definitely been listening. Yes he had.
“...suuure,” he draws out, pretending like he’s thinking about it. “It’ll probably be fine.”
“That’s what I figured! Wasn’t sure though, wanted to ask my co-owner.”
Jack stares at him, upside-down. Tommy stares back.
“We really are co-owners of a pub, aren’t we,” Tommy says mildly. Jack lets out a laugh, long and uproarious, more sparks flickering out of his hair.
“Sure are!” He crows.
“You look like a dumb piece of shit,” Tommy says, heading over to stand under the ladder. “Hanging upside-down like some kind of bat, you prick. Get out of the way. I need to get back up this ladder before my arms turn to fuckin’ mush.”
“Can’t you just fly up?” Jack teases, and his head disappears but his voice is loud enough when he says: “Or– oh wait, I forgot. Your wings are still too little.”
Tommy’s arms burn as he practically races up the ladder. There’s hell to pay for a comment like that.
––--
There is someone in his base.
“Tubbo,” Ranboo says, eyeing the walls suspiciously. “There is someone in our base.”
“‘S probably Sneeg,” Tubbo says sleepily, holding a heated iron pin to a piece of redstone. There are sparks. Ranboo thinks maybe he should be dragging Tubbo to bed, but right now he’s got a mystery to solve. He’ll make sure he sleeps later. “He mentioned tunnels.”
“No,” Ranboo says, turning on his heel and peering back out into the main area. The iron golems wander past and Ranboo watches, eyes the cracks in their skin, and then glances to the side.
There. A flash of gold, dissolving into the stone.
“What the heck,” he mumbles to himself, abandoning Tubbo in order to pass his hand over the wall and press into it. It doesn’t give, doesn’t move. He knocks on it. There is nothing hollow behind it. Ranboo hesitates a moment, and then presses his ear to the wall and knocks again. Nothing.
A clatter sounds in the next room and Ranboo rushes over, practically tripping over his own feet as he teleports onto the grass. A chest is open, arrows spilled all over the ground, and there is no one to be seen in the room.
“Sneeg,” Ranboo says out loud. “This isn’t funny.”
“Everything okay?” Tubbo calls. Ranboo kneels, starts to scoop the arrows back into the chest.
“Just fine,” he says cautiously, closing the lid, getting to his feet. He brushes his pants off. Maybe it’s Sneeg, maybe he’s just seeing things. Whatever it is, Ranboo elects to try and ignore it. He’s got to convince Tubbo to come to bed, it’s late and they’ve got a pub meeting tomorrow to attend and ammunition to sell and Ranboo turns, so many thoughts in his head–
He’s not expecting Wilbur to be standing there, a pumpkin head held up to his face. He’s not expecting Wilbur to drop it, grinning maniacally, and lunge forward with a “boo!”
They say people heard the scream from the surface.
––--
“I need your help.”
Jack’s voice crackles over the communicator, and for a second Niki is reminded of Wilbur’s nightly radio station bit he’s had going on, for about a week now. Walter Crondale, 103.5, don’t touch that dial– but it’s not. It’s just Jack, and he sounds a bit frantic.
“Oh?” Niki swoops over to her underwater garden, shuffling around in the sand for a moment, tucking her comm between her shoulder and her ear. There’s a seashell that needs to be moved slightly to the left. It sits better there, a perfect bit of coral-pink among the green seagrass she’s been harvesting to feed the baby turtles. “What do you need?”
“I’m stuck,” Jack says. “I fuckin’ died, Nik, and Tubbo smashed my last bed so now I’m halfway across the Nether and on a bloody fuckin’ cliff.” Niki goes still, flicking her tail absently, listening as Jack goes on. “And I got no shit, and I forget the way, and I need someone to come and meet me halfway with some things if they can, and you’re responsible, so can you–”
He cuts himself off.
Niki waits, patiently.
Jack lets out a long, unhappy, deep groan. Then a moment later, a distant “FUCK!” as he screams out the frustration. Niki can relate.
“Figure it out?” Niki asks with a bit of a laugh, shuffling her comm into her hands and glancing around. The water above her ripples– it’s about noon if she had to guess, based on the way the sunlight comes pouring in through the water. “I’m not sure if I’m the best to help.”
“Of course, of course, I’m sorry to bother, fuckin’ hell, sorry Nik–”
“Don’t worry about it! Let me see if I can get someone for you, how’s that?”
“Would you mind? Tommy’s not picking up his comm.”
Niki breaks the surface, gills pinching uncomfortably as she glances around.
“Makes sense,” she says absently, glancing around. In the distance, she can spot a glint of iridescently purple feathers, perched by Will’s house. “How’s Phil sound?”
“The man can fly, Niki,” Jack says. “He sounds fucking brilliant. Put him on the line.”
“Gotcha!” Niki says with a laugh, and Jack curses her out the whole way over but she’s laughing too hard to care.
––--
“You owe me a favor.”
Tommy glances up and finds Tubbo standing above him. He’s only taller by virtue of his literal position– Tommy’s in a pit, after all, digging in the dirt around Wilbur’s house to find some stone. The creeper explosion holes had seemed as good a place as any.
“No I fucking don’t,” he retorts, shoving the stone into his inventory and hoisting himself out of the pit. His wings flutter– they come in handy in times like these, just a bit. Tubbo’s crossing his arms in an attempt to look intimidating, but it’s hard to take him seriously with the antenna. And now, Tommy’s taller. “If anything, you owe me shit. Because I run a public space and do public service. I’m a good fella. You owe me for all the community hours.”
“Yeah, well I’m evil,” Tubbo counters. “I sell guns. And ammo for the guns. Which means I have a monopoly–” he sounds the word out carefully, “--on the businesses around here.”
“I literally founded the pub before you even decided you were being evil.”
“Irregardless!”
“Irrelevant. Wrong word, you shit.”
“Irrelevant! You owe me, because I’m going to start selling things in competition.”
“That doesn’t correlate at all. In fact, I think my establishment would win anyways simply because of the aes-the-tics.”
“Hey,” Tubbo says, pausing in their walking. They’d started walking at some point, Tommy’s inventory full of stone and wings fluttering along behind them both. Tubbo had started hovering, also. His head’s level with Tommy’s a faint buzzing filling the air as his wings work overtime to hover. “My shop is pretty.”
“It’s entirely made of stone, Tubso,” Tommy points out, glancing across the river. Tubbo follows his gaze, then glances up at the Pub(e) and scowls lightly.
“I’m evil,” he says obstinately, crossing his arms. “I’m going to just blow up your pub as an act of minor terrorism.”
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Tommy scowls right back, reaching out to shove and then promptly link his arm in Tubbo’s. “I’d kill you. And then, Phil would. How ‘bout this– I’ve got a better idea.”
There’s a twinkle in Tubbo’s eye as he turns to look at Tommy, raising a brow. Of course he’s on the same wavelength as Tommy is– they always have been, always will be. No matter how many stupid endermen Tubbo falls in love with and marries or whatever. No matter what.
“Go on,” he says, and Tommy keeps walking, hopping over the stones and river rushing past their feet. It’s a gorgeous day out– perfect for some business deals.
“Let’s form an alliance,” he says with a toothy grin. Tubbo’s grinning right back. “You and me. A hold on the economy of this place. Iron grip, all that. Sound sweet?”
“Sweet as hell!”
--––
Wilbur doesn’t really sleep.
Sure, he rests, but that’s more of him just shutting his eyes and drifting in the depths of his own mind for a few hours. Being a phantom is a life that is devoid of any sleep– his brethren are borne of insomnia, after all. Wilbur is eternally cursed in the same way.
Which is why he’s still awake at around three in the morning. Early enough for him to be the only one up, other than Tubbo most likely.
And the person digging around in his chests downstairs.
He hadn’t been sure the sound had been real at first. Maybe a waking dream, a hallucination, audible only to him. But as he’d lied in his bed and frowned and shuffled around a bit, the sound hadn’t gone away. It hadn’t gone away as he’d opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, as he’d quietly gotten up and tugged a sweater on, as he’d phased down the walls and poked his head out of the wood in order to spy.
No, it hadn’t disappeared. However, it had solidified into a solid, tangible thing. Wilbur watches in amusement as two furry feet and a tail poke out of one of his chests, waving slightly. Fundy is small enough that he has to lean into the chest– giving Wilbur plenty of space to creep forward until he’s just behind him.
Fundy stands up, hands full of something. Wilbur doesn’t care too much about what it is– this is about posturing.
He turns around.
And jumps, but doesn’t scream. Impressive.
“Wilbur!” He exclaims, staring at him and then down at his hands. The shit disappears, and Fundy is left empty-pawed. “Wilbur! Fancy seeing you here!”
“It’s my house,” Wilbur points out. Fundy winces. “Really, it’s funny seeing you here.”
“Yeah yeah yeah,” Fundy says, pressing his back to the chest and fiddling. He never stops moving– a foot tapping, a finger twisting, ears flicking. In contrast, Wilbur knows he is deathly still. He doesn’t even need to breathe, and the effect can be unsettling. “I wanted to see it! Housewarming! For me, as a housewarming to the place, introducing me, you know? Gifts! I brought gifts!”
Wilbur raises a brow. Fundy grins, half-ashamed and half-terrified. Wilbur’s about to make it full terrified.
He lets his arms fall from the cross they’d been in, stretching his hands out in front of him and grinning slightly. “You know what Fundy? I found you– I found you sneaking around out here, like the sly little fox you are, and you know, that’s great! Housewarming, sure. I’m glad you’re adjusting to the clever roots of your species, I really am.” Wilbur drapes an arm over Fundy’s shoulder, and he grins, all dangerous and teeth that look sharper than they should be. Fundy sinks in on himself a bit. “You know, I’ve even got this pact with Sneeg, I let him run around in my walls like a little rat. Kind of similar to you, sly fox. But the thing with Sneeg is– if I catch him, do you know what I do to him?”
“Nope,” Fundy peeps, desperately trying to edge away.
“I beat him,” Wilbur says simply. “With a bucket.”
“That’s nice,” Fundy squeezes out. Wilbur puts a little more pressure on his shoulder, and Fundy ducks, slipping out from under his grasp with a little gaspy terrified noise.
“Nice chat!” He calls, clearly sounding panicked as he skitters off, the door slamming and Fundy jumping clear over the river framing Wilbur’s house. His tail is tucked between his legs– literally and metaphorically.
“Damn,” someone says from behind Wilbur. When he turns to look, Sneeg is sitting on his lantern, legs swinging absently. “That was terrifying.”
Wilbur raises the bucket from his hotbar. Sneeg’s eyes go wide, and then he’s raising his hands and slipping off the lantern to land on the ground with a tiny thump. Wilbur’s quick– but not quick enough as Sneeg dips under a slab and disappears into the depths of the house.
“Dammit!” Wilbur curses, and from somewhere around him there’s a laugh.
“Better luck next time!” Sneeg calls, and then with the tiny pitter patter of feet, he’s gone. Even if Wilbur could sleep, he doesn’t think he’d be getting much of it.
There is a little pub on top of an island.
The people there are curious and strange, but delightful and full of life. They live, they breathe (mostly), they scam, they make deals.
They dance.
“Now step the right, swoop your foot back, there you go–”
Niki’s voice cuts just over the music, a low trombone counting out the beats as she sidesteps, hair draped over his shoulder and water dripping gently from her outstretched arms and to the floor.
“You know, a waltz is meant for three-three time,” someone cuts in from across the room, a head poking out of the floor. Dusky brown eyes and faded chocolate curls come into view. “Not four-four.”
“Oh, hush,” Niki says quietly, throwing her head back to laugh as her dance partner shuffles awkwardly, staring down at his feet.
“I’m learnin’ to dance, Wilbur,” Techno says, copying Niki’s feet with a gentle care that some would say is rather unlike him. Those closest know better. “More than you ever did.”
“I thought you thought that Niki was stupid,” Wilbur teases, moving to go and sit on the bar. Jack sighs, removing his hand from where Wilbur had sat on it and then completely phased through, despite the slight steaming of his being from Jack’s warmth.
“I was cleaning,” he complains quietly, and the music echoes over the room with a gentle air that’s hard to deny.
“I did,” Techno says, still staring at his feet. “But she’s a better dancer than Tubbo or you. Which is weird, considerin’ she’s a fish and doesn’t have feet half the time.”
“You can dance with a tail, too,” Niki explains, humming gently under her breath and whirling them both across the wooden floor.
“We’ve all got our odd appendages, mate,” Phil says, leaning against the wall with a mug in hand. Beside him are three entirely passed-out boys, one too tall for his own good and one with crimson feathers, the last’s antenna flicking gently as he dreams. Probably about flowers. “Niki’s is one of the better ones, if I’m honest.”
“No, Phil, yours is the best,” Wilbur says. “Easy.”
“Braggart,” Sneeg calls out. Phil flips him off with the one hand he has free before returning to combing through Tommy’s hair carefully, not wanting to wake him.
“Phil didn’t even brag,” Wilbur considers, lifting his hand so Jack can swipe at the counter underneath him and drag up the last remaining droplets of cider that someone (see: Tubbo) had spilled earlier in the night. It had almost been a disaster, Ranboo teleporting out of the way just in time to avoid some serious burns. “I did. For him. A placebo brag.”
“I didn’t say who I was calling a braggart,” Sneeg points out, tipping his head down from where he’s perched on a shelf. “Just said it out loud, into the general area. Coulda been talking to any of you fucks.”
“Well you weren’t talking to Fundy, because Fundy sucks–”
“Rude!”
“--and Niki and Techno are busy, and Phil and I were the only other two talking, so I think it’s reasonable, Sneeg, to assume who you were speaking to!”
“Hey, I’m here too,” Jack says with a mild pout.
“You sure are,” Wilbur says, grinning, and holds a hand out. “Pour me another one, barkeep.”
“I’m cutting you off,” Jack mumbles, but he turns anyways to find a mug and hide a smile and Wilbur only smiles wider, holding back laughter.
The music’s switched by the time he turns back to the main floor, and Techno’s leaning against the wall now as Niki hums to herself, ducking back into the water for a moment and snapping up her comm from where she’d left it earlier in the evening.
“Stay still,” she instructs Phil, ducking out of her tank and shaking her head a bit, droplets spattering. “I’m taking a picture.”
“Wait, I want in on this,” Scott pipes up, holding up his own communicator from where he’s laying in the grass, staring up at the constellations. “Look over here, Mr. Minecraft.”
“Oh, wonderful,” Phil grumbles, but he stays still on command and lets Niki snap a few pictures of the sleeping boys around him, his wings curled up gently.
“Mama bird,” Charlie says with no small hint of amusement.
“Blackmail,” Niki says kindly, with a wicked grin that suggests otherwise. Wilbur cackles.
“They’re cute,” Phil defends, glancing at the teenagers around him. “In an.. oddly menacing way, you know?”
“I think it’s the teeth,” Charlie pipes up again, having clambered his way up to Sneeg. They’re sharing from a larger cup– Jack’s hands were too big and clumsy to fill the small ones they’d carved themselves, so they had a big mug they were periodically dipping in and out of. Sneeg had suggested a bath at one point, and Charlie had eagerly hopped up to jump in– only to be pulled back and told no, not you, slimy man. “Ranboo’s. They’re all sharp and… marshmallow-y. Sticky. Like I am, but way more terrifying. Kid’s tall as fuck, too.”
“One hundred percent,” Wilbur agrees. “Tubbo’s pretty harmless looking though.”
“Except for the poison,” Techno drawls. “ Poison. In his hands. ”
“Right, the poison,” Charlie says, rolling his eyes. “How could we forget the poison.”
For a moment, the pub is quiet except for the sound of someone filling a wooden mug with drink. Jack slides the wood across the table, and Wilbur’s fingers curl around it. Techno makes his way over, bumps his side against Wilbur’s. On the shelf, Charlie and Sneeg sit. Niki ducks back into her tank.
Phil smiles, wings rustling gently as he tugs them closer around the teens. He glances up, and seems to catch… something, in everyone else’s eyes.
“You can come join them,” he teases lightly, breaking the silence. “Mama bird, and all.”
“Oh thank fuck,” Wilbur grumbles, hopping off the counter in order to float over. “I was afraid I was going to have to ask. How embarrassing.”
Charlie’s already launched himself off the shelf– even Techno finds himself pulled to sit down on the floor by Phil, a cozy circle. Bit by bit, everyone comes over to sit, legs layered over legs and arms intertwined with arms, a turtle-shell helmet a bit too big on a head of pink hair and fingers lazily braiding long strands of blond and pale peach. There’s laughter, subdued enough not to wake the sleeping, and fond smiles and warm cider. A purpledark sky and the faint lapping of lakeshore waves.
Somewhere far away in a strange world, there is a little pub surrounded by stars.