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He was six years old the day he tried to put on his father's uniform and tripped over his boots when he took his first step. His Uncle Tommy, barely old enough to be wearing the uniform he saw him in everyday back then, laughed when he knelt down and straightened his hat. He was still a different person back then, still wore his hair long and wore the clothes that his father made him that weren't made for him , but for her.
"What are you doing, kid?" Tommy had asked as the hat fell back over his eyes and he lifted his hands to take it and hold it. He had been giggling when he had said, "I'm pretending to be Papa!"
He had made a face that only made him giggle harder. " Why ," his uncle had said, "would you want to do that? Wil's not that cool."
" Because , Uncle Tommy! He's Papa ." Fundy had said it as though it was obvious, because it was, way back when. It should have been, anyhow. Tommy had snorted, and ruffled his hair as he stood back up.
"Why don't we get you your own uniform, huh? So you don't mess up your Dad's." Tommy had held out his hands, swooping the girl who didn't know any better yet from the floor and out of her father's too big boots. "Does that sound good?"
He had nodded, reaching up and placing the hat on his uncle's head. It was nearly too big for him, too. He laughed, and the sound had made Fundy grin.
/
He's Wilbur, but he's not. This man looks like Wilbur and he acts like Wilbur and, hell, he talks like him too, but this is not Wilbur. Fundy's ears press flat against his head and he shoves down the bark that threatens to rise from his throat as he stares at the man who is his father but is not all the same.
"Fundy—"
"Don't." He cuts him off, a hint of that suppressed bark bleeding through the snapped word. He sounds angry, he sounds tired — he's both of them. "Just, don't, Wil."
There's a muffled yip from the doorway behind him and Fundy instinctively steps to the side to block Yogurt from view but he knows he wasn't quick enough by the way his father's eyes flash down and then back up again. He tries to say something, anything , to keep Wilbur's attention from the kid when the toddler murmurs sleepily, "Papa loud."
The look in Wilbur's eyes softens for half a second, before he catches his son's gaze again and then he nods. "Alright. But, we're not done, Fundy. Not yet."
"Yes, we are," he says, and when he turns and bends down to lift Yogurt in his arms, the only other noise to be heard is the slamming of Fundy's front door.
/
Fundy will always vividly remember the day his mother left, even if he's pretty sure he's not supposed to.
Before he was Fundy — or, better put, before he knew he was Fundy — when he was still called she and his father was the general to an army made of child soldiers that was built on soon-to-be-broken promises, Fundy remembers the day that Rosalie Soot left and did not come back. And he remembers that his father didn't know he was on the other side of the door and that his uncle, barely old enough to be on his own much less fighting a war he had no business starting, had been there, too.
Wilbur never knew that Fundy and Tommy were there to hear the shouting. Wilbur never knew that Fundy and Tommy were there to hear him look at his wife and say, " Take her with you, when you go ." Wilbur never knew that his son who was not yet his son and the little brother he drove to Hell and back again were on the other side of the door to hear Sally tell him, " No ."
Fundy remembers with vivid clarity that he's not all that sure he should possess — he was only four, after all, and what four year old remembers the day their life changed irreversibly? — the day his mother left him behind.
He remembers the sound of something shattering, and he remembers Tommy lifting him into his arms and rushing back towards the other side of the encampment to sit with Niki and Tubbo and Eret (seven years later, when Fundy was eleven years old and his father called him his little champion, Fundy remembered the click of a button as Eret laughed and told him, it was never meant to be ), and he remembers that his father did not come out the next day.
Or the one after, or the one after that.
Fundy remembers a lot of things he probably shouldn't. He's not all that sure whether that counts as a blessing or a curse.
/
His mother looks the same.
(That's not entirely true, really. She's older, and that's fine, because he is too, but she looks at him like she doesn't know him and she doesn't and he knows that but it still makes something deep inside him that he thought he left behind at eleven years old with his first life and the name she gave him when she still cared ache. )
Rosalie Soot looks the same, and her son does not. She opens her mouth to speak, and the scales that litter her face like the freckles that litter his shift and glint in the light of the torches, and he cuts her off: "My name is Fundy. Not whatever bullshit you and Wil called me. It's Fundy."
"Fundy," Sally says, slowly, like she's testing it out and he hates the way that something in his brain, some part of him that is still the four year old she left behind without a second thought, is reaching for her approval. He hates it.
A hand tugs at his own and Fundy nearly curses again, looking down at his kid and then back up to his mother. He has to fight the urge to bark when she tilts her head and crouches down to Yogurt's height. Sally says, eyes not leaving the Arctic Fox hybrid at his side, "And, who is this?"
There's a brief second where Fundy considers just picking Yogurt up and leaving. Walking away and never speaking of this moment to anyone ever again, but then Yogurt lets go of his hand and they tilt their head back at Sally like a reflection of a reflection of himself and they say, "I'm Yogurt. You have the same hair as my Papa. Who are you?"
Sally smiles, soft and kind. She has the same smile as her grandchild and something about it makes Fundy feel sick. He ruffles the hybrid’s hair gently, saying, “Come on, Yogurt. We have to go.” And he doesn’t wait around to hear if his mother says anything. He doesn’t care.
(He really, really does.)
/
Fundy's just tired. He's tired . He doesn't want to have to think about dads who are supposed to be dead and moms who are supposed to be gone and uncles he hasn't spoken to in nearly a year. He doesn't want to think about any of that.
What Fundy wants, what Fundy will never ever get, not as long as anyone but him ever gets any say in it, is to go to sleep. He wants to take a long, long nap, and he wants to wake up after all of this is over. After everything is said and done and over with, and he can look around at this place he's supposed to (might have, eventually) called home and have it be utterly and completely true.
But Fundy's not asleep. Fundy is wide, wide awake and there's a sword in his hand, the glit of enchantment casting a soft light around him as he moves slowly towards the door. He's got a feeling he knows what's on the other side of that door, and it's a feeling that he doesn't want to be true, but the Universe has never cared about the things that Fundy does or does not want, and it never will. The door opens.
"Hi," Dream says, and for a brief second, Fundy considers closing his eyes. He doesn't, because he's not an idiot, but he thinks about it.
He doesn't move from the doorway.
"What do you want, Dream?"
He's smiling, a barely there thing behind that mask of his, cracked and faded as it is. Fundy can't see the smile, but he knows it's there. He knows it is.
"Now, we both know you know why I'm here, Fundy."
And maybe he does. Maybe Fundy knows exactly why Dream is standing in his doorway and maybe Fundy knows that that reason is asleep in a different room of the house but Fundy doesn't say that.
Dream doesn't stop smiling. Fundy doesn't let go of the sword. Neither of them speak again.
Fundy's gotten very good at silence, these days.