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Bnk… Bnk… Bnk…
The first thing Phil wakes up to is the sound of blocks being placed below ground. Bnk… Bnk… It must be pumpkins, or wood, or something dense and on the softer side. Chayanne, Phil thinks, it’s been a long time since the eggs woke up before me . The second thing that brings Phil into the waking world, is a voice- Forever’s voice -which he feels rumbling through his own body more than he hears:
“Aw… You’re cute when you scrunch your nose up like that…”
You’re cute right now-
C-cute?
Favourite-
He gasps.
“Forever,” pushing himself up in a hurry, Phil comes face-to-face with a bleary-eyed Forever, blonde hair a mess across the polished stone and dead leaves of his house floor- nest, safe-
Blustering the bedsheets and papers and loose feathers and dust around as his wings rise and flutter, the part of him that hums and purrs its contentment with Forever under him, in his nest, safe and sound, is nothing compared to the nerves, “I- sorry, shit, let me-”
With aching pains running through the muscles of his shoulders, down the length of his back, Phil backs off of Forever in a hurry. Groggy, having just woken, on top of the awakened senses of his hybridised side. My hybridised codes are- oh, fuck- this is bad-
“It’s fine, it is alright, really, Philza!” Forever is laughing at him, sounding very awake despite his tired gaze and the gentle smile that graces his face. “Be careful, you’re all flappy and shaky.”
“I- I am? I-” don’t leave, go back, nest, warm, favourite- “sorry, I- I’m so sorry, about last night.”
“Hey, Philza, Philza, Philza,” tracing every move with hazy eyes as Forever grunts, easing himself up onto his elbows and then his hands, Phil continues to retreat. Presses his back to the iron door. Cushioned by his wings, he can get a good look at them now: shivering with anxiety, full and sleeker, all the flight feathers back to their full size and length. He can feel the restored coverts on the backs of his wings. The down underneath the top layer sticking up at odd angles and itching as always, the scar tissue eased by the cool of the stone walls but itch, itch, itchy, bad, hurt- “Philza, hey, come back to me, man!”
Forever, holding his hands out, palms open, and without thinking, Phil leans forward. Places his face into the hold. Copies Forever, the short and sharp breaths through his nose slowing, “there, okay, just take deep breaths with me, okay? You don’t have to apologise for anything. I’m just glad you’re okay, okay?”
“Yeah…” nodding as best he can with his face held like a hamburger by Forever’s rough but tender hands, “I still feel pretty scatter-brained. Just, warning you, because it may not go away. Bird brain, and all, haha…”
“I’m not worried about that, Philza.” It is so gentle, Forever’s voice, quiet and kindly. Same as how he talks to Tallulah. He knows he should feel embarrassed for being babied, should maybe tease Forever for being so sweet on him. Favourite, favourite, good, warm, safe, but he finds he doesn’t have it in him to make fun of the situation, or the way Forever is handling it. Literally handling it, and also, visions of last night flicker in and out, making Phil feel hotter and hotter under his cloak. When he leans more weight into Forever’s hands, Forever catches him easily, continuing just as calmly, “are you feeling okay? Do you, like do you hurt anywhere?”
Itchy, itch, rubbing his wings back and forth across the wall in minute movements , Phil shakes his head a little. No. He takes stock of the rest of his body. Muscles that haven’t been used in such a way are seared, crying out for a cold bath. That is nothing he can’t handle. Nothing to write home about, and certainly nothing to complain to anyone about. He can bathe later.
His eyes sting, too. Everything is much clearer- frighteningly clear. It is as if the windows aren’t even there, and he can track each and every particle of burning coal in the flicker of the torches outside. There’s a glimmer in Forever’s eyes, in the bits of dust floating in the sunbeams, in Phil’s claws when he brings them up to inspect them. Deep, cold black and just on the too-long side, tips sharpened for tearing, metal-hard, obsidian black-purple, unbreakable. The pads of his fingers have hardened some, and the same inky colour travels up to the middle of his forearm before bleeding out into his usual pale skin. Feathers adorn the darkness in random patches. Small scales have pressed through skin here and there, flecks of the creature clawing its way to the surface.
A voice in Phil’s head tells him to rip them out, rather violently. He grabs the nearest mental box he can find and locks the voice up.
“Ah, yeah,” Forever chuckles, “we, ah, we got acquainted with those last night, too. Very cool.”
The heat in Phil morphs from something flustering, mildly sweet, into an inferno of panic.
What? What!? Anxiety runs through him and comes out in high, sharp squeaks.
“What… Do you mean?”
Something catches his eye beyond the splay of his trembling fingers. Forever rolls his leg out, showing off four neat pink scars on the outside of his leg, above the knee. A pattern Phil knows all too well.
He’s seen the cuts that his claws can leave.
In a fight, or incidental, in the heat of the moment- when he’s trying in vain to help, to understand,
to reach for something slipping through his fingers-
Kill-
Phil shakes his head. Shakes free of Forever’s hands, fix it, he’s still here, fix it.
“I… I hurt you.”
Flock hurt, favourite, hurt, fix-
“Whoa- Philza, hey, get back here-”
Stay. Nest. The strength in Phil’s commanding tone freezes Forever, halfway up off the ground. Phil can feel himself glaring, sees the shadows overtaking the sunlight as his wings flare and push against the edges of the house, too big to be contained.
In it, in the new darkness he spreads, a soft blue begins to shine. “Whoa, what’s happening with your eyes? What’s that colour-”
“You, stay in here.” It comes out far too harsh. Heart pounding, ribs rattling from the storm of emotions he trills and croaks his way through, Phil tries to breathe as deep as he can. Pull the shadows back, there is no danger, no one is dying, “please. Safe-” safe, stay safe, favourite, “I’ll get something for your leg-”
“Okay, I know you’re not that silly, hey, little bird, oh my god, it’s not that bad, geez, ” Forever mumbles, English bleeding into Portuguese and back again, “look, Philza, look at it, it’s already healed. I am just fine, it’s okay-”
“Stop saying it’s okay’!”
Instead of cowering like Phil expects, Forever merely tilts his head. Assesses Phil with a sideways, sad curiosity, interrogative with everything but his voice. In the wake of his outburst Phil can hear very little. Everything feels so silent. His own heart thundering on and on, his own ragged breathing, the constant flow of the bathhouse pipe, the occasional noises of creatures down in the basement. Other than that there is no wind, no clinking of the trampoline springs, no rustling of the trees. Chayanne has stopped whatever additions he was making to the new room, likely disturbed from the noise upstairs. Phil wonders if he woke Tallulah up. He hopes she kept her earplugs in last night.
“What…” Forever begins, hesitating in case, of what? And as if sensing the apprehension, the mountain of unease ready to flow out from the hole Phil just punched in the late-morning air, he pushes on. “What is the problem, then? Whatever it is, Phil, I want to help you… I wouldn’t still be here, otherwise. Why aren’t things okay?”
Try as he might, Phil can’t find any fear in Forever.
He looks over every inch of the man. Long, tense seconds go by as Forever waits for his answer and Phil scans. Looks with refreshed eyes, ones that can pick up more than just the sights. He watches waves of heat rise from Forever’s neck and chest where his shirt is parted, loosened in the night and held up to preserve some modesty by the black, thin suspenders. He can glimpse Forever’s own gaze, flickering from one of Phil’s eyes to the other- up to his wings and back to his face, even down at his mouth and arms and hands outstretched, in every way a threat. He sees the tremble in Forever’s legs as they hold him as still as he can manage in a crouch, not quite standing but not quite up from the ground. Forever’s wild, tangled hair all out of place from its neat plait. Golden glow met with fluorescent blue in the dark of Phil’s form.
Phil balls his hands into fists and hisses when he snicks the flesh of his thumb.
Oh…
Behind Forever’s head, Phil catches a good look at himself in the reflecting metal an old iron armour chestpiece of Chayanne’s. He or Missa must have put it up at some point and forgotten about it. The shadows build as if he could rip it down from across the room, I probably could, if I tried.
Two rings of bright blue in his irises, and faint lines of power running down the sides of his face, down his neck. His wings eat up any other source of light and leave a vast nothingness behind his figure; his cloak and hat, face and the bare pale band of skin between his sleeve and the new ends of his arms. From beneath the feathers, haven’t seen that for a long, long time, that same blue light emanates. Barely there, only enough to shimmer across the pristine pinions and seep a puff or two of misty magic with each shaking breath he takes , but plenty there to scare the shit out of Phil.
Oh, fuck.
Why isn’t this okay, Forever had asked, and Phil shrugs in response and gestures up, at the wings, and along his body, as if to say everything. None of this, none of it is okay. Not the transformation, not the way he is behaving, not the impulsive nest, favourite, nest, favourite, not the obsessive you hurt him, you hurt him, fix it, bad, bad, bad. Least of all the magic coursing through him, death, death itself, tipped in the razor claws and sharp in the eyes and blunt across the bow of his wings. A body broken and reshaped for oblation, obliteration, to bring his offerings to his goddess.
Kill m-
Why did he slip into a retirement-like beat here on Quesadilla Island so easily? Accepted the clipping of his wings and the dulling of his magic, didn’t think twice about his goddess when the eggs started getting hunted. Hardly craved for the skies and the crack of fireworks and the world rushing below him. Each landmine split one more seam in the stitching but he has done good at drowning it out, he thinks. Throwing himself into the care of his son, Wilbur’s daughter- my daughter, now. Keeping his nose well fucking clear of the lore, the Federation, the emotion, but it found him anyway.
He thinks he’s figured it out, right here, right now, with Forever staring at him with some kind of wonder and worry, and his own head racing down a down-spiral train track with no breaks and the horn blaring danger, danger, everybody run!
He fled that world.
He returned to the solitude of his own privately owned realm for a reason.
You can’t fix it. You hurt too much-
“Phil.” Closing their distance with slow, unsure steps, “it is just a scratch. I don’t know where you have gone, but? Come back,” Forever brings the sunlight with him. “It doesn’t hurt. I promise, hey, I would not lie to you, would I? It’s no problem. I healed it up while you slept so, so so cute on my bare, muscular, amazing chest.” That almost gets him. He huffs. Barely a laugh. Wings drooping, the lighting behind his eyes dims and so too does the pounding in his head. He gives a weak imitation of Forever’s broad, winning grin, and watches it light Forever’s face up even more, “that’s right! You drooled and hugged me and held onto my strong, strong body. I must have felt so comforting and safe for you, Philza, you slept so hard. And you looked so cute the whole time. My god, you looked cute! You kept trying to wrap me up in your wings and grumbling when they couldn’t! It, was, adorable.”
Forever punctuates the last three words with a couple of confident steps into Phil’s comfortable distance bubble, then eeks one smaller step into the a little too close bubble.
“I…” Phil trails off, Forever threatening him with nothing but a look, to not apologise. Maybe it’s the guilt, of putting Forever through enough- having to deal with so much of this new and developing bullshit. Maybe it’s the guilt of the pressing memories, the magic and everything it reminds Phil of, everything it represents and everything it could do, if he isn’t able to control it.
Maybe it’s the new warmth of Forever in the new bitter iciness Phil feels to the deepest layers of his skin. I didn’t miss that. That neverending cold.
He concedes. “It... It sounds like you didn’t sleep very well, if you were watching me all night, Forever, you- you big creep.”
“Mmhm, I’d watch you every single night if I could-” Forever edges closer and closer as he speaks and that, that breaks Phil. He shoves Forever away playfully, mindful of his claws. His want for closer, warm, favourite gets squished into a little box, with a stern telling-off, you’ve done enough damage.
“Oh my god, stop, man-”
Forever bats at his hands while he wards him off, cursing at him and asking for Phil to just hold me, please Philza, hold me like I held you last night, “but, seriously, how’s your back, Forever? I can still go get you a healing potion, or maybe some of that oil Fit made for post-workout. The floor has no carpet and I’m not exactly light-”
“I dunno…” with speed, Forever closes Phil in by the door. A finger traces the underside of Phil’s left eye. Phil freezes, watching, holding his breath when Forever’s chest bumps against his, “I’d call this a light, hm? What is with the blue?” Phil knows Forever has no concerns for personal space, never has and probably never will. Phil also knows that Forever knows about Phil’s problems with personal space, because Phil as told him, time and time again, to back the fuck off whenever he gets too close. This proximity would usually have that- Phil arcing up, pushing Forever away with a little more force than is kind, but instead- now-
Instead, he stares with a mind-numbing blend of horror and desire, at his own two wings pulling forward and starting the motions of closing around them both. He’s tempted to use his hands and push back against the reach of his wings, the urge, favourite, mine, yes yes- but Forever, clever and caring as he is, must see the deer-in-headlights Phil is exuding and backs off on his own. “You don’t have to tell me. It’s so pretty, though. It looks like you have eyeliner on, too, now. Is that part of the bird stuff?”
They’re still way too close. It’s a little more manageable- as if Phil now has his own mini version of Forever in his brain going hold him, touch him, he’s the best, oh my god- and, yeah , that makes this particular instinct way easier to deal with for the time being.
“It is, yes.”
“Did you know that it makes you look, like, very hot?”
“For- Forever!” They break out into giggles. As Forever sways close to him, “no, that was just, the worst,” doubling over with laughter, Phil does the same and takes the chance to pin his wings behind him.
Tnk!! Tnk!!
A couple of taps at the window have them both whipping their heads up.
Hatchlings, Phil already knows- a part of his brain processed the trapdoor going twice- he swears he can smell the calcium and sulphur and the sparking, smoking magic of dragons.
The expressionless face of a yellow duck floatie and an unbelievably judgemental, slow head-shake of Tallulah: his eggs peer over the windowsill at them. The children witnessing his and Forever’s closeness, not to mention Forever’s state of dishevelment, makes him laugh even harder. Hard enough to ignore the twinge of hatchlings out in the open, unsafe, in nest, nest, nest- Forever races out the door, shouting:
“Hey, princess! Hey, Chaya- ouch, what the fuck, Chayanne?! You- ow, why are you hitting- ow, ow- hitting me?! I didn’t do anything!”
Phil watches from inside, hears the bomp, bomp of two signs being placed and the eggs stilling as they write down their messages. Chayanne finishes first and immediately whirls around to smack Forever, who is scandalised, “ah , you shouldn’t be saying this, Chayanne, you’re only a baby! Break that, break that, before Tallulah sees- nooo!” Chayanne gets knocked away a little when Tallulah hits him for whatever he wrote down, then ducks at Forever a couple of times for attention, rattling her maracas. The whiplash in Forever’s attitude makes Phil go giddy, despise himself. “Oh, good morning to you too, Tallulah! I’m okay, your abuelito is okay, too! We were just talking about something that happened last night.”
Everything seems to be moving too fast for Phil to keep up with. He’s missed this, in some ways. Being able to sense and track so much more. The downside though, is the spacey sensation when there’s just too much , too suddenly. Some things he catches- the familiar, usually -but some things slip through. Leave him space to fuck up and misjudge. He knows he has to be even more alert and on-guard, if his code isn’t going to be righted- re-wronged? -any time soon.
Another bomp, Tallulah’s head turning down and stopping while she writes her next sign.
All he feels he can do, short of taking to the skies and moving enough blocks away to escape, is stand still and attempt to keep up. It takes so much energy to simply observe, keep track of everyone’s positions, their emotions, where the nearest safe-spot is, where every potential threat could come from at any moment.
The radiant cackle of Forever, a burst of flute-playing with a shaking breath behind it, Tallulah is upset, another sign bomping down.
Over the sides of the wall are massive blind-spots. The sun is high. It’s almost midday but that does not guarantee their safety. It could turn at any second. The basement button is prone to lag. Chayanne hasn’t reset his ender pearl recently at the hotel, but Tallulah’s should work. What if it doesn’t? He should check-
Click-click-click from the door next to him.
Chayanne must be spamming, trying to get in to see him.
Hatchling, mine, mine, Phil opens the door at once, bracing himself for the full force of the sun.
“Chayanne,” he greets, to the bare shell top of his son, “where is your armour?”
Chayanne ignores him, turning to put a sign down, bomp. He smiles at the downturned duckie float and reaches out to brush over the cracked shell. Almost ovecome with the need to just, lay down on his egg, curl up and wrap up Chayanne to keep him toasty, safe, warm, hatchling, egg egg egg- Phil settles by petting. He has never been super touchy with Chayanne, knows he should check in with the kid about it before he starts smothering him with no warning. “As soon as you’ve written that, armour on, alright?”
‘VERY COOL SIR! Are those claws, let me see’ is what Phil reads when Chayanne moves a step away. He hears the slapping of sticky slime armour, beyond that the quiet placating of Forever, “Tallulah, let’s go see him, alright? It’ll be okay, you can stay right with me if you want but I promise, it’s okay, it’s okay.” Chayanne’s duckie tail wiggles through the gap in his slimy armour as he breaks his sign and replaces it with a fresh one, done in a flash to hop around Phil with a teasing spring to his step.
‘what did you and tio forever do last night *bombastic side eye*’
“Oh my god, break that, break-” forgoing his axe, Phil destroys the sign with a couple of swipes of his hands, conscious of Forever approaching him, tossing it to Chayanne. He gets some excited ducks and jumps for it. “One day, you’ll probably have claws like this. Pretty cool, right?” He’s surprised Chayanne hasn’t taken off with his jumping, or that his head hasn’t fallen off from the vigorous nodding. His son darts closer and bumps into him in his eagerness. Over the head of Chayanne’s fawning at his claws and feathers, he searches for Tallulah.
His heart breaks when, on locking eyes onto her, she presses against Forever’s side and trembles slightly.
“Tallulah, little princess- you’re as scared of him as he is of you!” Forever exclaims, stammering when she takes a few nervous steps back to hide behind his leg, “uh- no- I mean he isn’t scared of you, but he- he doesn’t want to scare you because he’s still the same! Just a bit bigger, and spookier, and he’s got weird hands, now. See, seeing you scared of him is making him upset! Isn’t that right, Philza?”
“I’m not…” Phil makes a new box, jams it down over the pieces of him that fractured in Tallulah’s fear-laden gaze. I can’t put my own feelings first. She’s just a kid- egg, baby, nest, safe safe safe- can’t lose her again- he crouches down, holding a hand out towards her with fingers tucked in, “hey, it’s okay to be afraid, Tallulah. I know I look funny, and might smell or feel really different- I don’t know what you’re picking up on, exactly… But it’s…”
She steps around Forever, crouched down and noiseless. Forever, too, gets low to the ground and puts an encouraging hand on her back. He sticks with her as she moves across the lawn, closer to her abuelito. Forever’s eyes are soft, concerned, yet his dim smile showing his fondness, his love, nest, favourite, egg, and Phil tries to project the same to his kid: “it’s going to be okay, Tallulah.”
Forever looks up at him, head still down and aimed at the Tallulah. He raises his eyebrows. Phil ignores him, tries to, thinks he does a pretty good job at it. Forever’s sunshine grin and crinkling eyes say he’s doing a miserable job, actually. “I promise. Change is scary, and weird, and dangerous sometimes. But we’re strong, remember?” She reaches him, bonking into his knuckles and the shift is immediate. Ducking a little lower to get under his fist, Tallulah squirms left and right in an attempt to get Phil to pet her hair. She still shakes under his hand and he can see in the nervous lift, dip, look-at, look-away of her head, she’s fighting with her fright.
“You’re so good, Tallulah,” Forever’s quiet praise washes over both of them, “you love your abuelito so much, hm? He’s still a big silly softie, trust me.”
She nods furiously. As if angered that that was ever in question. A sign pops down, bomp, and in record time, her words appear:
‘sorry :((( your eyes reminded me of the nightmare… i got so scared’
Chayanne bonks into her at speed- Phil uses both hands to steady her before she’s bowled over onto her side. She doesn’t try to move away, no longer afraid. Egg, keep, warm- Phil reaches for Chayanne as well, and tucks both of them a little closer to him. Their little feet slide on the floor, neither fussed by the shuffling. He wants to huddle over them and nestle them under his arms, into his chest. Settles instead for a few gentle rubs of their shells. Some ruffling of Tallulah’s hair and a honk-honk of the face of Chayanne’s duckie float.
“Chayanne,” Phil directs his words to his son, giving Tallulah a little more tender hair-comb, clean, clean hatchlings, healthy and safe, “you were up to some decorating, weren’t you?”
Bomp.
‘DECORATING! Want to come help?’
“Maybe in a bit. Forever and I… We still have some talking to do. Could you two go back down? Tallulah, think you can help your brother with his project?”
Both the kids bop with excitement. Chayanne starts punching the air with his backpack and takes off towards the trap-door. “Right. I’ll be down in a bit, you two…”
Tallulah hesitates, creeping to Phil until she’s nestled herself against his front. She wriggles a couple of times, patters back and forth to bump against him.
Phil freezes, arms hanging in the air- nest, safe, baby, baby egg, must keep safe-
Crack- the flashing broad side of a sword, crack, showers of eggshell shards-
The trust starts to crush him. The lid of a box rattling with the Pandora’s curses, agitated by temptations of good things going wrong.
She backs away, giving him some happy bobs before tottering in Chayanne’s footsteps. Phil is up and walking down the wall as soon as he hears the trapdoor close behind her. Forever trots a bit to catch up, falling into stride with his pace.
Walking on the wall is probably his favourite thing to do, here.
High up enough, safe, to feel close to the clouds. The tang of the higher altitude- up, up where the atmosphere goes sour and thin. Walk with wings stretched out and eyes closed. On a good day- a bright day full of love and carelessness, flock, happy, good -he might have even flapped them a few times. Leapt between steps just to see how far off the ground he could get.
On this morning, he draws his wings in close. Almost scared to get air between the feathers. It feels less like a wall under him and more like a tightrope. Nest, flock, favourite, the goodness of this world swirls with its meanings given words, given sounds in his chest, but the language it’s written in is what scares him. Because last time he felt this way, hatchlings, sons, nest- don’t go too far- stay, don’t leave- don’t get hurt- stay stay STAY-
Phil shies away from nothing, so abrupt and sharp a movement that Forever ducks as well.
“What was it?” Forever asks, and without his newly returned senses, he would not have heard him over the noise like rockfalls Phil can’t keep supressed. He shakes his head. Forever, unsurprisingly, drops it. He’s probably seen enough, in the past twelve hours, Phil thinks, he probably thinks I’ve gone insane.
This morning is almost all sun, not even a breeze. Wheat whispers and the dormant hum of the collector goes by. Pink and blue petals fall around them. By all rights it should be a day to admire. All Phil can see is the blur of his boots on the ground- trying in vain to knock every other input out and take a second, take a breath, to get his thoughts organised. Get a handle on nest, and safe, and favourite , and stay, please, but they won’t ever stay, no one ever stays , you failed , and it’ll all go wrong again, and you’re never going to be able to save them, you’re only going to end up hurting them, losing them, you’ll just end up all alone again-
“So…” Breaking the awkward silence that’s built alongside the angry grumble from low in Phil’s throat. He knows, without looking, that Forever has put his hands behind his back, is pushing his chest out, might even have taken his shirt off. “What… Did we need to talk about?”
“Nothing,” Phil all but whispers back, hatchlings, must be safe, safe up here, nest, “I just… Need to calm down a bit more. Seeing… The kids, was…”
“I get it.” Out of the corner of his eye, Phil can’t help but notice Forever. Nodding a little, fidgeting with the suspenders of his shirt- doing the buttons up. Shocking. He’s still being a bit of a show-off, straightening up and sticking his chest forward when he notices Phil looking. It’s comforting. Normal. “This is all still so new and weird, for you. But, I am getting the idea that there’s something else about it, Philza, you know? With Tallulah being scared of your-…”
Thankfully for Phil, Forever cuts himself off. He knows he’s being watched- can see it, the red eyes, an assessing up-and-down he’s getting- perceptive, and really, he and Forever probably know more about each other than they think they know. Because all Phil has to do is utter, "… don’t,” and Forever takes a heaving breath in, on the exhale saying, “okay. I won’t. If you ever… Need to talk, you know you can talk to me?”
Forever stops walking. Phil stops without thinking. A blue petal drifts down, landing on the top of Forever’s wild birdsnest of bedhead, untouched from this morning. Phil’s hands twitch. Forever locks onto it- making a questioning noise. Oh, how Phil wants to brush the petal away, clean, favourite, the best, touch, more, favourite- Forever beams at him again. He knows he’s making those noises and now Forever knows what it means and he should stop but the trills and coos keep coming and it does feel good, good , to let it out some. Let the leash looser where it is taut and fraying and biting into the flesh of his palm - touch, touch, favourite, warm and nest and clean, good, yes yes-
“Yeah, Forever. Thank you.”
“Ah, Philza,” Forever stretching arms up over his head and looking out to the horizon gives Phil a break from being watched. He indulges his birdbrain some more, strong, favourite strong, look at him, healthy, warm, touch, ripping his eyes away from the lean, thick lines of his body under the almost sheer white shirt when it only serves to fluster him more. Forever ends his sigh with a bit of a groan. Fucking hell, resting his hands on the top of his head, Forever is definitely making a show of the muscles of his arms where they pull the sleeves tight, and strong, safe, good, touch, hold, held- unfortunately for the new, incredibly repressed half of Phil, it’s doing something it had not done before. Or, something he had not let it do before. It’s hard to tell. He would hate to lie to himself and say Forever is not an attractive person, that he had never noticed until today.
It's just a little harder to not notice, now.
Favourite, favourite, favourite-
That look on Forever’s face, the waft of insecurity and bright pre-rain-like scent of upset he’s beginning to associate with Forever’s bluer emotions, tells a different story to the way he’s showing himself off. The favourite rumbles unstoppable, Phil faces Forever properly as he sighs again, a little softer, “ah, Philza, I was getting so good at getting over you! And, then, you- you had to go and be all strong and over-protective and snuggly and chirpy and sexy, huh? Breeey, ” Forever struggles to get his voice deep enough, get the frequency of the chirp right and match Phil's low coos, “ breeey, that’s you , Philza- telling me you like me the, most."
“Shut up, oh my god.” Phil plays into it, picks up the humour that Forever plasters over his sadness, evident in the complex smell of feelings that overwhelms Phil. “I wasn’t even that bad- I had all my clothes on, even. You’ve come at me with much worse, man.”
It takes a second, for Forever to laugh at that. The eventual chuckle that comes out is borderline morose. Forever backs away with slow, rocking steps, a swing to his arms that says casual and creases in his forehead screaming stop me, hold me, don’t let me get away.
“I’ll just have to get even better, I guess.”
“Better at what?”
At the lip of the wall now, Forever makes Phil’s hands twitch once again. Stop him. Touch.
Favourite.
Stay.
“At getting over you.” Forever sticks a leg out, spinning so he steps off into empty air, “see you later, Philza!” His shout fades as he falls away.
And how self-centred Phil thinks himself, to forget completely about Forever’s… Feelings . That same selfish, hating part of him thinks, well, it’s fine. Those feelings weren’t for Phil, anyway! They were for someone else. He promised himself he wouldn’t even acknowledge it, let alone take responsibility, until Forever changed his tune or gave up.
And how wrong Phil thinks himself, for not getting up and running away as soon as he had the strength. Taking himself as far from this place, from the friends here, for their own safety, it’s what you should have done- you should have never made that deal, never meddled- you are not normal, like this- you are not safe, like this- you are not meant for a place like this-
And how undisciplined Phil thinks himself, taking up company with so many folks. Allowing himself to sink into the love and care between others trapped here on Quesadilla Island- so unlike other worlds he’s been in, so vastly different from his own solo worlds. Time will only show what a mistake this has been, getting so close to so many different people, neglecting control over his instincts. Letting flock, flock, flock pepper into his life here unchecked. The pulls are in so many different directions- the eggs , especially, protect, safe, hatchlings- children, he’s failed every single one he’s had. Losing Tommy to the hands of Dream in more ways than dying, not to mention Techno’s demise or the way they built and burnt off of one another, the destruction, the death -
Don’t- don’t think about it-
anything but him--
And how bad is this going to end , Phil dreads, making his way back to his eggs. His children- hatchlings , there is no way he can shake the connection now, embedded into his heart, there’s no way he would want to rid himself of it, hatchlings, mine, safe safe safe, even though history shows bold and clear,
What kind of terror am I going to unleash on this world, on my children, this time?
A blue waver crosses his sight.
Reverberating from the depths.
Snapping its jaws with its teeth, neat-cut and perfect.
The sharpened edge of a sword.
Kill me, Phil.
The soft, white shell cracking under a sword-swipe gone too far.
He squeezes his eyes shut hard enough to see stars, to make them water and ache, to black out the vision:
Wilbur’s crazed, ash-blasted face in the shadow of the control room. The cold floor and the swirling runes and the blood, it’s going to work, it’s going to work this time, please, let me save them-
Tallulah's body in the desert.
Forever silent and in pain as Chayanne gets him back up.
The grip on the sword in Phil's hand shaking.
Safe. Supposed to keep safe- why hurt-
“Shit.”
And I can’t let this go, Phil thinks to himself. Thinks of Forever’s hopeful affection, of the evolution of Tallulah’s confidence, of his son who looks at him like he’s putting stars in the sky every time the sun goes down. Thinks of the books Wilbur has written for his daughter, the times he’s looked to the stars at night and known, in his heart, in ways only parents can know, that his son was looking up at the same ones and wishing to be closer. He sets his shoulders with a stubborn determination. Finding the strongest, biggest lockboxes he can for the tornadoes ripping up the foundations of his mind. If he’s stuck in a place that has chosen love above everything else, then Phil has no choice than to chose it, too. Maybe, it will be better, he lets himself believe.
Maybe it will be different, this time.
=
12 hours ago...
=
Between the trees, Forever vanishes in a puff of purple warping magic. A half-conscious purring Philza slung over his shoulder like a possessive sack of potatoes with wings. And claws. And glowing blue eyes.
“So, uh, what the fuck?” Foolish asks no one in particular, holding his scaly hands up in front of his face.
“What do you mean, what the fuck?” Cellbit rises to answer when no one else seems keen, “Max fucked up and turned Philza into a pile of- of fudging- bird jelly.”
“No, no, I mean- yeah, that was fucked up, but-” waving his hands around, Foolish shows off his fins, “what the fuck?!”
It takes a second to sink in.
“Wait, what!?” Bad shouts, his tail lashing from side to side. “You have fins?! Since when!”
“I didn’t before, Bad!” In a small flash for green sparks, the fins revert to his usual blue-grey scaled fingers. He re-transforms them to fins, and runs around the small gathering waving them over his head, hooting, “I need to get in water right fucking now, y’all, I think I can do my feet, too! Here, watch- whoa shit-”
Foolish hits the deck. It dents the palpable concern hanging over everyone, and most join in with his giggling. The crisp night bounces it back, the jovial and familiar atmosphere returns- friends pestering friends, taunts and chatter and the occasional breakout of woofing and screeching. Max turns his back on them, clambering back up the beacon to where the redstone block was, inspecting. Cellbit, equally as unamused, approaches the base where the dirt starts to cover the contraption’s bulk. In a quiet voice, he asks:
“Baghera, are you feeling any different? Max, would this reach… El Quackity? Bad…” He turns back, meeting the burning white-hot eyes under the demon’s shadowed hood. “Does your demon side feel any more, I dunno, demon-y?”
A glistening grin splits the darkness. Cellbit shivers, returns the smile, was his hood always that dark... I swear we could actually see his face a minute ago.
“No more demon-y than usual, no. Why? Do you think other non-humans would have gotten affected? There's, what, me and Foolish and Philza and Quackity, Baghera, Slime but uh... Yeah... And... I can't think of anyone else, right now.”
“Hmm…” Cellbit glances at Baghera’s fanning wings and snapping beak as her friends ask her in rambling French if this-or-that feels weird. Etoiles pokes at her tail feathers and she whips around, biting his finger. They all laugh. Well, at least no one else is screaming and dying on the ground, tonight. Counting off after Bad's list of names on his fingers, Cellbit hums. “It just seems odd, that Philza had such a strong response but no one else.”
“Right?” Fit pipes up, setting himself back against the machine with a grunt. Distress sits strong under his warm helpfulness, a reassuring nod and gesture to Cellbit's pondering, “and, he seemed to be in a lot of pain, too. Look.” Only Cellbit seems interested in following where Fit points out: the two divots where Phil had dug his claws into the earth, leaving small dirt craters in the grass. “And, he definitely got bigger, or his wings did, at least.”
“He did… Something isn’t right about it, Fit.”
“Yeah, yeah, tell me about it... Something ain’t right,” Fit’s deep, measured voice always has the hair standing up on the back of Cellbit’s neck. His hackles raise further when Fit laughs at him out of nowhere, “hey, where’s your kitty cat tail then, Cellbit?”
“I’m not a cat,” he roars- “how many times do I have to tell you!” It just slips out, the grating hiss, after his outburst. Bared teeth and a snarl, the whole show. Everyone, Fit especially, falls into fits of giggling.
“O-kay,” Bad wheezes between giggles, “you f*dging furry.”
“Stop hanging out with Tallulah!! Argh, seriously, you guys…”
“It’s alright, Cellbit,” Foolish shouts, “I believe you!”
Not one second later, the communicator set in his wrist lights up orange, ping, a new message:
[[[Foolish] msgs [Cellbit]: meow!]]
“Stop it!!”
Roier approaches him, gingerly putting an arm around his lower back.
“Calm down, gatiñho, they’re just making fun-”
“You!” Cellbit grabs the front of his husband’s shirt and shakes the cackling man as if he could shake some sense into his beautiful brain, “you call me ‘gatiñho’ and everyone thinks you’re calling me ‘kitten’! Stop calling me it! Actually, don't you dare stop calling me gatiñho- if you stop calling me gatiñho they will never find your body--”
“I mean…” wobbling back and forth in time with Cellbit’s push-pull on the collar of his shirt, Roier pouts and blinks a few times, widening his eyes as much as he can, “you are my little tiny baby kitten, right?”
“No!” Cellbit holds him at arms length like he’s something smelly- it’s clear to see how quickly he’s cracking at the miserable look on Roier’s face, even if he knows it’s fake. He is too weak to Roier’s puppy eyes, “no, stop distracting me, stop, winning me over with your sad pretty eyes or I’ll be forced to marry you again-”
“Aaaaah!!!”
A distant scream, echoing out over the rooftops.
The group ceases their antics and goes into high alert. Weapons are brought out. Etoiles splaps on his slime armour.
“You all hear that?” Bad whispers.
"Our eggs are home?" Fit asks Bad, "okay, good," when all Bad does is hum yes, not once taking his eyes away from the favela.
“It came from the middle of town-” Pac starts, Mike finishing: “it sounded like Forever--”
“Put- put me down!! Holy shit! Holy shit! Philza!”
“Oh?” Etoiles catches Mike’s eye and waggles his dyed-white eyebrows. "Forever?"
“Oh?” Mike mirrors him and chuckles. “Not a bad scream, then-”
“I thought you said you couldn’t fly- aaaahhhhh!!!”
“Ho-holy, fuck, would you look at that!?” Fit points at a dark smudge moving through the sky towards Christ the Redeemer, blotting out the stars as it soars. It goes behind the statue and out the other side, grows larger, circling in the sky until it’s pointed towards the docks. An eye-catching splash of green and white, a trail of golden hair- the giant spread of black wings daunts the two figures sailing through the nighttime.
“It’s Philza and Forever!” Roier shouts, shakes free of Cellbit’s clutching hands, darting away to make terrible jokes with Mike. Raucous cheers erupt from everyone- there are some catcalls from Forever’s friends, from Baghera, “yeah, go get him! Yay! Aw, that’s so cute!”
[[[Roier]: forever]]
[[[Roier]: scream ‘i need help’ right now if you need help]]
[[[Fit]: scream ‘i need kelp’ right now if youre fine]]
[[[Forever]: if i dont reply by midday tomorrow assume i died a happy man!!!!!!!!]]
[[[mikethelink]: o7]]
[[[BagheraJones]: o7]]
[[[pactw]: o7]]
[[[Fit]: o7 watch the claws, brother]]
[[[Etoiles]: o7]]
[[[Roier]: o7]]
[[[AyPierre]: o7]]
[[[Jaiden]: damn, o7]]
Cellbit watches everyone watching Phil’s flight. He doesn’t need to see it himself, with so many eyes on the sky. He knows Phil would have been capable of flight before the man came to the island: the size of his wings and the strength behind them made it clear that he was different to smaller-winged hybrids like Quackity, and Bad, whenever the demon feels like popping his little bat-like wings out.
It is Bad he’s keeping an eye on, and Foolish. He knows the two shared a world with Phil, once upon a time. Any information about Phil- what sets him aside, makes him different -is information Cellbit needs in order to solve this. Their histories, where they’ve come from, is probably going to be the best place to start.
He finds what he’s looking for.
Jokes and laughter and excitement is shared, from all except for two of their hybrid friends- and Max, who Cellbit knows has disappeared into his theory mind.
Cellbit witnesses nothing but white eyes under the dark hood. No smile, no words. Bad look to Foolish- still on his stomach in the dirt -and Foolish drops his excitable, giddy demeanour for only a moment, in all aspects dimming down, and looks to Bad. When Foolish nods at Bad, Bad nods back. Taking that as a cue for whatever acknowledgement of Phil’s ability to fly being over, Cellbit frowns to himself and turns his head away when Foolish livens back up.
This must not be good.
“Oh, no way,” Baghera exclaims, and in a couple of hair-lifting and clothes-flapping flurries of yellow and beige, she hovers a few feet off of the ground in uneven wingbeats, “Foolish, Foolish, let’s go to the ocean together! I really want to go water skimming, right now! I haven’t been able to go since we got here!”
“Hell yeah, then! Let’s go!” Seemingly back with feet, Foolish jumps up and takes off away from the favela, heading for the beach road. Pac and Mike follow on either side with cheers and asking if Foolish will be fast enough to pull them through the water for water-skiing so they don’t have to deal with the motorboats lagging the island out. Pierre, Jaiden, and Etoiles are in tow, daring each other to poke the shark-head part of Foolish’s anatomy. “Hey, Baghera? What is water skimming?”
“It’s this thing where I run and use my wings at the same time and I can, like, run on the top of the water! Yay-" she jumps as she runs, those stunning fans her wings make keeping her aloft longer. The more used to them she seems to be getting, the more she spins and twirls, giggling brighter and brighter- "oh, I am so excited! Etoiles, hold my hat for me!”
“That sounds so awesome, oh, oh, let’s go! Let’s go! Come on, everyone, Baghera and I are gonna race to the death for our presidency!”
“I pulled out of the race, Foolish! What are you talking about-”
“I’m betting on Baghera!” Fit crows, shoving Bad in front of him, turning back to Cellbit with a tilt of the head, coming with? Cellbit shakes his head, and gestures over his shoulder at Max. Fit gives him a somewhat solemn nod, possibly of understanding, possibly of approval, do what you gotta do.
“Hey, no, you can’t just do that-” Bad’s irritated voice fades as the group moves away, leaving Maximus and Cellbit alone.
Excellent, Cellbit smirks to himself, let’s get this show on the road.
“Oi. Maximus.”
He pops his knuckles. When Max makes no move to look to him, or move down the sides of the machine towards him, Cellbit deftly climbs it, Max’s delayed ‘what?’ cut short with the crack of Cellbit’s fist against the side of his turned-away head.
Max jumps- barely catches himself from being knocked clean off of the beacon. He rights his sunnies and now Cellbit has his attention. He leans in close, quiet but biting, “What the fuck was that, huh?”
“What- what-” Max at least has the guts to be angry, instead of threatened, “what- whady- what do you mean, you motherfucker?”
“Don’t ‘what do you mean’ me. What did you do to Philza?”
“You think it was- iw- itwah- it was my fault?”
“We all saw him get fucked by your machine, so yeah, I’d say it’s your fault!”
“I didn’t want to hurt him.”
“You wanted to do something to him, though, right?”
“I didn’t want to- to do anything.”
“Bullshit.”
“I mean it!” Max breaks their rapid-fire arguing, crying out, “I don’t- I don’t- don’t dono bo- don’t know what happened, Cellbo! It was supposed to scare away the- the monsters!”
“If it was supposed to scare away monsters, why did it piledrive Philza fucking Minecraft into the ground like he’s some level one baby?! Did you want Forever all to yourself? Huh? What is this about-”
Max kicks his machine, dislodging a line of redstone and the repeater next to it.
Something glitches in Max's voice box and the harsh wailing of a newborn baby accompanies his voice:
“I don’t know, what- why- why don’t- why don’t you helo- elb- help me, pull this shit apart and find out!?”
“Fine, I will!”
“Fine!”
“Good!”
“O-kay!”
The crying baby noise ends.
Cellbit and Max get to work simultaneously, turning their backs to each other and working down from the top, shredding bits and pieces off of the beacon. Each piece reveals nothing untoward, nothing suspicious. The pile of discarded components grows and grows on the grass.
Each man works in seething silence. They make it three blocks underground before Cellbit decides he’s cooled off enough to continue his interrogation.
“If you didn’t do this, then someone obviously did. Who helped you make this-”
“No one did!” It is indignation, not panic, colouring Max's voice. Cellbit can make out that much. He wants so badly to default to roughing Max up for answers, he knows that it is so much more dramatic, that Max enjoys it as much as Cellbit, despite all his whining. They are at their best when they’re in disagreement- he knows that. But something stays his hand, “no one helped me, I sweat- sweo- swar- I swear. I-… O-oh.” The drop into a mildly horrified tone has Cellbit bolting over the twists and turns of iron and wood and cobble, has a chill snaking down his spine.
Max is not easily spooked.
“What is it? What did you find?”
“Oh, oh, I found somehet-g- somegth- something fucked up.”
It looks like a regular obsidian block.
At first.
Cellbit peers closer, peeling away the warning hand Max places on his shoulder to stop him getting too near to the... To the what, exactly, they struggle to make out.
“What is that?”
“It’s on all the sides?” Max squints, lowering his sunnies and bending over the block, “yes, it’s on… They’re different. Each side is- is different…”
Hidden by the speckles of glassy purple and bottomless black, are dark, dark patterns. Not only in shade; Cellbit can feel the greedy energy. Malicious. Whatever their intentions, it is not the kindness Maximus intended in building this beacon. They appear painted on in their styling, but no, neither can see any lines of ink or bumps of paint. Lines- some thin, some thicker. Some curved and connected, some straighter and stand-alone to the larger whorls.
“Sigils,” Cellbit whispers.
“Sigils?” Max whispers back.
“Max.”
“Yes?”
“Did you place this block here?”
“No.”
“Then, who helped you make this beacon.”
His whisper isn’t a question. Flat, and in the flatness lies the numb terror. Gone is the accusatory, the finger-pointing, the would-be-playful fight between theorists.
“I tol- told you, no one…” Maximus pauses. Opens his mouth again, having thought of something. He quickly opens his comms- body curling over the holographic screen to hide it from, what? Prying eyes? Cellbit shivers. What if we're being watched...
[[[Maximus] msgs [Cellbit]: I had cameras on.]]
Cellbit reads it as it pops up in the comms projector. He nods.
“Let’s go.”
Max leads the way down the last four tiers of the beacon where it opens out into service tunnels, Cellbit muttering “seriously, what the fuck kind of beacon is this,” and getting a petulant synth sound-effect in response, Max's glitching voice box not enough to lighten the mood. It is a windy path, ducking and jumping some thick piping that Cellbit can only assume connects the beacon to a power source. Cellbit treads the white tiling in the beacon’s service hallways with unease, mounting into almost-panic when Max kicks open the metal door to a sterile, windowless security room.
He holds the door and watches the hallways, letting Max get to work finding the days and cameras, all the while talking to himself about when it could have been.
Cellbit’s eyes sting. He stares down the way they came and doesn’t dare to blink, empty black eyes, blue smoke, he is just waiting to hear the noise of a teleport. It warps his brain, the way the tiling folds in on itself as the length of the corridor gets smaller and smaller. Breathe, his lungs are on fire, he knows the sound is from his own head begging for oxygen, Max would react if there was a chainsaw, it’s just in your head, it's just in your head.
“See anything?” He calls, only to give himself something to do that isn’t fold in and over on his own paranoia.
“Yes.” Slow, menacing, Max draws it out. He gives himself five seconds to look at the screen Max has expanded his finding on. The block is in the hands of a pale bear-like Federation worker- the distant tink tink that can only be Maximus working on his beacon elsewhere, distorted death metal music from a super-radio. There is a muted bnk and the block now sits exactly where they’d found it. Vhw, the Federation worker vanishes-
Cellbit startles, almost cracks a bone in his neck as he turns around, and again, full circle. Expecting a bloody white muzzle to be right there. Waiting for him.
There is nothing.
Nothing at all-
“Fucking,” Max kicks over rubbish can full of scrunched papers, “fucking Federation! The fuckig- funck- fucking Federation, fucking with my! Stuff!” He chases the freed scrap pages across the room, punting them here and there. Slams a hand on a control panel and darkens the security room, closing the displays.
“Why would they do this?” Cellbit asks.
“Who fucking knows!? They toru- toter- torture my friends, they have their fuckeg- fucking- fucked up experiments, and now they fuck my machines! We are not safe, we are never goig- goning- going to be safe, Cellbit, this- this shit is fucked up! What the fuck!”
“We’ll get to the bottom of this, you and me. Okay?” It is a start, and it thankfully puts and cap on Max’s rage. The man storms out through the door and Cellbit lets it go. He follows Max once more, heading back for the beacon. He’s proud that he only looks over his shoulder five times, “we can do it. We already have some information, and! We have the block- we need to break it, and put it somewhere safe. Then we can get to work. Tomorrow, let’s start asking around. Carefully. Try and find out why the Federation did this.”
Max hops his way up to the sigil block and crouches, like Cellbit had, whipping out a eyeglass to take a closer look. Shifting from foot to foot, Cellbit brings his Silk Touch pickaxe into his hand. “Come one, we- let’s break it first and move it to-”
“I need to talk to Phil.” Max ignores him- is practically pressing the glass of his eyeglass against the creepy block’s surface.
“Max, I don’t think that’s a good-”
“This is written in code, Cellbit.”
“… What?”
“The sigils. They’re made up of tiny, tiny codes. Binary codes.”
There are already way too many pins in the mental theory-board Cellbit has going on. What’s one more? In a far corner, he connects a broken thread, tying the Binary Entity to the Federation. Please, let it not be true, Cucurucho lies, but this is the only one Cellbit has ever wanted to hope might be truth.
“You should ask Bad about Philza first,” Cellbit hefts his pickaxe and breaks the block in front of Max’s zoomed vision, meeting the cold glare with one of his own, “not Phil. Actually, you should probably avoid talking to Phil about this entirely.”
“Why ask Bah- Bay- Bada-ho-Bodo ha- ba-pah-” for one rare second, Max looks frustrated with his stuttering, forcing out the sounds one at a time, “Bad, Boy, Halo and not Philza?”
“They used to share a world, together. And Phil…” quickly, Cellbit throws the block to Max, nearly deflating with relief when he sees Max catch it and put it straight into a backpack that vanishes from his immediate reach, “Phil… I wouldn’t trust him, right now...”
Cellbit sighs, curses up at the hole in the ground they’ve opened above Max’s torn-apart beacon:
“Ah. What the muffin is the Federation up to, this time?”
=