the little children raise their open filthy palms

chapter three

Chapter three
It's a day halfway into spring when Wilbur happens.

The snow melted for the most part, some little piles remaining on the grass and in the streets, dingy against the world. The trees have nearly started budding, however, and Phil can practically taste the warmth in the air. They're all desperate to be out of the house after the claustrophobic nightmare that was winter, and Phil doesn't try to stop them one bit as long as they're cautious. Tommy and Tubbo explore the neighborhood again and again, tracking mud and dirt all over the place and carving their names into every surface they see. When Phil goes out, sometimes he'll spot the letters and smile, knowing that they've been there before. He goes out by himself for the most part, walking down the streets and occasionally entering houses, but mostly just going in circles and humming to himself as the sun shines down. Everything's started to settle down, and Phil can't help but think about moving again.

If he was by himself, he'd already be gone. He'd have been gone the minute the snow had melted enough and the nights had gotten a tad bit warmer. But he's not by himself anymore, and they've created this sort of space for themselves that Phil can't bring himself to leave just yet. Not to mention, packing would be a chore with all the things they've gathered. Phil wouldn't want to leave any of it behind, and he knows none of the others would too. There's still an itch under his fingers however, remnants from when things had been more desperate in the past and from when Phil had constantly had to have been on the move to survive. He knows they all feel it, in some capacity. Tommy and Tubbo are fidgety, Techno disappears most days, and Phil himself is absent from their house for long stretches of time as he walks.

But at the same time, Techno always comes home before the sun goes down. Tommy and Tubbo claim a bedroom upstairs as their own now that they don't all need to sleep near the fire to stay warm, and when Phil passes one day he sees them arguing about decorating the damn thing, piles of clothes and sheets on the floor that they'd accumulated like it was their real bedroom, like they were planning on staying forever.

Maybe they could.

Phil's in the living room one day, hands busy with a needle and thread as he darns one of the wool socks he'd picked up in a hunting store ages ago. Faintly, he can hear the sounds of Tommy and Tubbo in the backyard, doing... something. He's not sure what, really, but it serves as background noise to his inner thoughts as he fixes the hole in the toe of his sock. He's nearly done when the door creaks and he glances up, expecting to see Techno coming in with a backpack full of new books, maybe. He'd asked him to stop by the town library after all.

That is not what he gets. What he gets is Techno, blood painted across his face in a grim spatter pattern, and a figure hanging off his shoulder. Phil shoots to his feet in an instant, sock forgotten as he immediately ducks under the couch and grabs their medical kit.

"Sit him on the couch," he instructs, and Techno moves to comply. He's got a few bags on his back, the man hanging off his shoulder pale and unmoving, feet dragging against the carpet. "Are you hurt?"

"No," Techno says, and his voice is shaking slightly as he sets the man down on the couch and then slumps his shoulders, letting the bags thump to the ground. One of them twangs.

"Were either of you bitten? Get anything in your eyes, mouth?" Phil knows the questions are rapid fire, but he needs to know as he gives Techno a once-over and then turns to address the obviously wounded man bleeding on their couch. Techno grimaces, and Phil can hear the exhaustion in his voice as he slumps to sit on the floor.

"Not to my knowledge." Phil starts at the man's head and then scans downwards. The guy's young, a flop of brown curls covering his forehead and parts of his face (Phil pushes it back to look for a head wound and finds nothing). He's got cracked glasses hanging off his nose that Phil ignores for now, the jacket he's wearing is brown and torn and stained with dirt. He's messy in general, but the main concern is what's under Phil's hands and the pressure he's exerting at the moment. The gash is large, maybe about eight inches long at first glance. The side of his torso is covered in blood, a makeshift bandage wrapped around the injury that's obviously Techno's work. There are a couple other, smaller wounds, but none as pressing as the laceration on his stomach.