It's a saturday morning in the SMP.

There's no mobs, it's nice and bright outside, the light peeking through the small opening on the tent. It's quiet, as is always when Wilbur chooses to camp out in the forest. The forest is significantly further away from the capital of the SMP (the SMP being the continent Wilbur is travelling in,) and thus there's usually not a person in sight. Wilbur could be alone.

...At least until now.

Unfortunately, Wilbur has a child now.

He thinks.

He's not sure.

But.

The child still hasn't left. Infact, the child was living the prime life. Tommy slept peacefully in Wilbur's sleeping bag, meaning Wilbur just had to sleep on the floor, and everything.

Wilbur realizes that maybe he really just isn't going to leave.

"Surely what I'm doing is illegal. I'm just taking a child. I don't have a home or anything. Tommy, I think this is illegal." Wilbur mumbles, lacking any train of thought, simply spewing words as they come.

Tommy is, well, he's just not listening. Tommy is, instead, occupying himself by investigating all of Wilbur's things as Wilbur just sits on the grass outside and rants.

"U-huh."

"Financially speaking this is a terrible idea, too."

"Yuh."

"All things considered, this is not a good idea."

"Yupperty-doo."

"I have never taken care of a child in my life."

"That's preeeetty obvi- wait," Tommy says, interrupting himself.

"Hm?"

"I'm- I'm not a child." Tommy states, trying to sound as assertive as possible. (And, judging by the voice crack, failing.)

"How old are you?" Wilbur asks, genuinely unsure.

"33. Like Jesus Christ."

"Stop comparing yourself to Jesus Christ. And no, you're not 33."

"I mean, I might be 33, big W, I wouldn't know," Tommy muttered. It's abundant that Tommy has already lost interest, completely ignoring Wilbur, instead focusing on the mysteries of his older companions bag. "I haven't exactly been countin', you know."

Wilbur is trying his best not to think about that. It's- It's upsetting to read into, to analyze beyond a surface level, all the connotations and weight that comes with the fact this kid doesn't even know his birthday or how old he is.

"-I walked in on someones' birthday party once, though. Man it was fucken- It was so fucking funny, people just accepted I was there and thought I was, like, y'know a guest, and I got cake." Tommy starts rambling, stealing and applying some of Wilbur's bandages.

(Wilbur was going to help Tommy with that sooner or later anyway, so he doesn't really mind him taking the bandages and doing it himself.)

"Speaking of cake-" Tommy continues, "You have cake in your bag."

"...I do." Wilbur agrees, turning his body to face the door of the tent.

Wilbur knows what is going to happen.

The child is going to ask for the cake.

"Can I have it?"

The child has asked for the cake.

"You've gotten way too comfortable." Wilbur states.

"Okayyyy? Anywaaays, can I have it?" Tommy repeats, poking his head through the door of the tent.

"You- Sure. Sure, mate, go ahead."

"Pog. Pog cake."

"Pog cake." Wilbur repeats.

------

Tommy has been betrayed.

Not only did Wilbur- The betrayer of all betrayings to ever betray- not warn Tommy that the cake he had bought was fucking mint flavoured, Wilbur had left him.

How could he?

Okay, so, sure, Wilbur was only leaving for five minutes to go get firewood, and, sure, Wilbur had talked to Tommy about every specific thing he's going to do while he's out so Tommy doesn't panic or think he's getting abandoned again, and SURE, Tommy had repeated insisted that he was going to be fine, but this was not fine. He had been betrayed. Wilbur had left. Like the absolutely foul old man he is.

Angry, and full of pure unfiltered rage, Tommy decided to look through more of Wilbur's shit and stuff. Wilbur has so much stuff.

Shit, shit, shit, Tommy thinks, rummaging through Wilbur's trinkets and supplies, shit, shit, shit, oh cool coat, shit, shit, shi-

Tommy then finds himself holding what seems to be a picture frame. It's usually dusty and worn out, glass cracked in one corner and wood splintered all around. The photo itself isn't in decent condition either; it's clear that the picture hasn't been taken care of. It's notably shabby and yellowed from age; and there's what appears to be burnt cigarette holes in some parts of the image.

The image itself is of-

Wilbur?

He thinks so.

Wilbur's not wearing his glasses in the photo; infact, he's not wearing anything that Tommy is familiar with as of now. He's sporting much more....pristine clothing, white and gold laced; said clothing layered underneath netherite armour. He looks very elegant, suave, sophisticated- helped by the fact in his hand was a long, thin blade, shining as bright as the golden trimmings on his clothing.

The sword's pommel was a dark maroon-esque brown, a beautiful (and expensive, Tommy realizes) emerald placed in the center. The grip appeared to be made out of some sort of velvet material; and the cross guard developed once the velvet grip stopped.

It was... fuck, It was so fucking cool. But, confusing.

This polished and dignified man that Tommy is currently seeing in this picture is a far cry from the Wilbur he's having witnessed to.

(Then again, time can do a number on people, or something. And Wilbur is old. Tommy is pretty sure he's like, 90, so the concept of time has really had enough....time, to do a number on him.)

(Wilbur's actually only in his late twenties. But Tommy doesn't know that.)

The white and gold is just- worlds apart from the browns, blacks and grey's Wilbur wears in the modern day, and his expression in the photo looks so much more determined and not at all tired or disinterested.

(Tired and disinterested being the look that Tommy had come to realise Wilbur has often. Infact, Tommy hasn't even seen Wilbur smile, and Tommy has said so many funny things, which is so messed up, really.)

Tommy's thoughts entertained all sorts of possibilities as to the context of such a strange image, because really, the possibilities are endless and also very funny, but his thinking was quickly ( and rudely) interrupted by the betrayer of all betrayings to ever betray.

"What are you- Tommy?"

"Hello, Wilbur." Tommy says, putting so much emphasis on Wilbur's name, you'd think he'd be seconds away from tearing his vocal chords.

"Why," Wilbur takes a deep breath in, "-Are you looking at my things again?"

"M'Bored."

"I- I was gone for- Tommy- What- I left for five minutes. That's- like- 300 seconds. Five."

"Sorry. This picture is cool though. Swords pog. Wilbur Sword. Bladebur. Stabbybur." Tommy giggles, fiddling around with the picture.

"Sure, now, put that back."

"No."

"Yes, Tommy."

"Why do you have a sword in this? I mean, 'looks fucking poggers, I just wanna know why." Tommy asks, changing the subject. Tommy is a big man. Tommy doesn't listen to orders. If he wants to hold something he will hold it.

"Because- Because I like swords." Wilbur states, but Tommy, certified smart person and reader of people, can tell Wilbur doesn't sound certain.

"I like swords. I don't have one. No excuse."

"I'm an adult with money. I can buy swords if i want swords."

"Ohh, I'm Wilbur, I have swords and money, and women, and I'm 90 years old, I have a funeral plan and a balding problem, memememememe-"

"I- what the fuck," Wilbur says, blunt and tired.

"Do you still have the sword?" Tommy asks, ignorant to the fact he just mocked Wilbur.

Wilbur pauses briefly, questioning the best thing he could do right now. He doesn't want to show the child his sword. Also, he doesn't want to listen to the child cry about it for hours, and Wilbur had a sneaking suspicion that will be the case if he doesn't see a sword today.

"I do," Wilbur sighs so hard you'd think he had just popped a lung. "And it would seem, you- You have thrown it across the tent."

Oh.

"Oh . "

One of the things Tommy had thrown out of the bag, under the assumption it was shit, was not shit.

It was a sword.

Tommy threw a sword thinking it was shit.

"I thought it was, like, a disgustingly long and dense pastry." Tommy defends himself.

Wilbur doesn't even try to combat the child's logic. He's too tired.

Slowly and carefully; Wilbur unsheathes the sword from its leather covering, revealing the same glistening sword in the photo; the pommel, the grip, and the blade being in the same immaculate condition he had seen in the photo.

It's clear Wilbur was all too familiar with it- Hell, it was almost as if the sword was particularly suited towards his hand, he maneuvered it so effortlessly.

God.

It was fucking majestic.

...

Then Wilbur put it back.

Wilbur recognised the immediate disheartened look on Tommy's face as he had to bear witness to such an elegant beauty of a blade be held captive in its disgusting brown leather prison. Wilbur only huffs in response.

"So like, how did you get it?" Tommy continued to pry, to Wilbur's abundant disdain.

"I told you, I just like swords." Wilbur shuts him down.

"But like- Big man, the materials, all that shit, it's expensive right? It looks almost, like, fuckin' royal quality or something-"

"Doesn't matter." Wilbur states, and it's cold. His voice is deep, and it's stern, and it goes right through Tommy.

Tommy tries to act normal, letting out a "Well, alrighty then, Big W." In response.

It doesn't work. And Wilbur feels very, very bad about it, all of a sudden.

"Hey," Wilbur begins, "We've got to get dinner, right?"

"Awww, fuck yeah! Though if it's like, your weird obsession with mint, I swear to fuck, I will not eat shit. You're gonna make me- You're gonna, like, make me eat liquorice or hard-boiled candy because you're fucking old and that's what old people eat." Tommy claims, walking out of the tent, assuming they'll be eating outside. ( Proven, when Wilbur followed him out.)

"What- When did you convince yourself I was old?"

"I decided." Tommy sticks his nose up.

"What does that even-"

Wilbur stops himself before finishing his question. He doesn't know much about Tommy, but what he does know is that Tommy still isn't the type to give you an answer.

------

"Tommy, get inside, it's late."

Wilbur demands, lightly, of course. It had been hours since dinner, and it had already gotten dark. Tommy, for some reason, decided to stay outside. Tommy is unpredictable like that.

(Tommy is a little shit.)

Tommy sits next to the fire, both fascinated and fixated on the little flickers of light that drifted upwards and the way the fire curled through the air and wood. "Nahh big man. 'Y forget what i said? Can't restrict this big man if there's no one to do so." He mumbled, letting out what almost seemed to be a snort.

"Well, big man, there is someone to restrict you now. And he's currently trying to do so right now. So get in. It's like, midnight, the only thing that's stopping a zombie from coming is the fire."

"Zombie's don't have shit on me, I have a gun, and my charis-" Tommy interrupts himself. "-Wait."

"Hm?"

"You. Uh. You know. Said. You said that, like. Well big man there is someone to restrict you mememememe, and, well, y'know, like-" Tommy continues to trip over his words, before laughing at himself lightly, realizing how silly he sounds. "I just, uh, you know, does that imply you're, like, letting me stay. For real, real?"

"I made you dinner. I showed you my sword. I even-" Wilbur pretends to be offended, "I even let you eat my beautiful, precious mint and dark chocolate cake-"

" That shit was disgusting."

"- And you still need confirmation I'm letting you stay?"

"I just- I know! I think, I just- The confirmation was just- good. The confirmation was nice. Poggers. Nice to know."

"Poggers is not a word. Anyway, come on already. The longer I wait for you with the tent open, the colder it gets. Get in. I really don't want you to get eaten by zombies after I've done so much for you, like, come on Tommy, I wanted that cake-"

Tommy enters the tent, saving himself from having to ever hear about the disgusting mint abomination ever again.

(Seriously. It was disgusting.)

------

It was surprising how quick Tommy was to fall asleep after he crawled inside his (Wilbur's) sleeping bag. For all his energy, you think he wouldn't be out like a light the second he's comfortable.

Wilbur simply once again placed himself next to Tommy, sat bolt upright, keeping an eye on the sleeping boy.

He just... looked at Tommy for a while.

Tommy... He- he still looks quite beat up, with his somewhat faded bruises and bandaid-covered face. And, yet, he looked very peaceful, a contrast from his typically loud and overwhelming presence.

(If Wilbur is beginning to find said loud and overwhelming presence of Tommy's endearing, he's yet to admit it.)

Wilbur gradually moved his hand to brush Tommy's hair out of his eyes. Now that his hair had been brushed, and combed as best as possible (making it much more straight and clean) it was apparent his hair was much longer than even he himself realized.

Wilbur continued to stare. Tommy really does look...tranquil. And Wilbur- well, Wilbur can't help but smile seeing him rest easy- something he can tell Tommy hadn't really been able to experience before.

"Goodnight, Tommy."