Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“OH FUCK! OH SHIT, TILÍN!”

Today had been a good day. Tilín had actually begun to feel good today. They had Flippa back, their best friend, and they had spent the day with Tío Charlie, Papa was smiling at them, even! Imagine that!

“TILÍN, TILÍN, TILÍN, WAIT. TILÍN, TILÍN. Flippa what happened?”

They ought to have known better than to follow Tío Charlie into the woods at night. Everyone knows not to venture out when the moon ascends without torches and a weapon. Tío Charlie had no one to watch his back when the monsters attacked, just two small children and a sword. Tilín should’ve stayed with papa Quackity. Papa wouldn’t have allowed this to happen.

They got ambushed, surrounded by hissing and rattling bones and mournful groans, and Uncle Charlie had only a sword to wield in their defence. The blade was cold and keen. It scarcely hurt when it cut deep between Tilín’s shoulder blades, a literal stab in the back.

The sun emerges on the horizon, and its rays drive away the monsters. They had only needed to endure the onslaught a few minutes longer.

Tío Charlie hovers over them, distressed as he presses his hands, wrapped in his belt sash, on their back to staunch the bleeding. Juana-Flippa is standing back, her face clouded, her eyebrows furrowed.

“You killed my best friend.” She says quietly.

“No, Flippa! I don’t- I was fighting a monster, and they ran in front of it.” He grits his teeth. Tío Charlie’s eyes have always fluctuated in colour, right now they’re a muddy-brown mixed with bright green, as his own magic wasn’t working. Tilín had always liked the way Tío Charlie’s eyes looked, like a magical version of Chayanne’s.

They cough, and something warm spews from their lips. It tastes of iron, of blood. A crow caws softly from a tree above them. It has a small nook in its beak. Tío Charlie’s gaze turns from hopeful concern to horror.

“No, no, no, no, no, no!” He shouts, as Tilín’s eyes close. They can't resist the pull into darkness, into the comforting embrace of sleep. They can't feel the pain anymore, nor the pressure of Tío Charlie's hands desperately trying to save their life.

They feel… cold. Really, Tilín is surprised they can feel anything. Is this what Death is supposed to feel like? Their abuelos Phil and Missa and Bad had all assured the children, as the protégé’s closest to Death, that She was a kind lady. That She would look after their departed friends. That She was looking after Trumpet.

Tilín hasn't actually seen anyone. No goddess to guide them into the afterlife. It was cold and frightening, and they couldn't see anything, feeling as though they were drowning. Plummeting into the depths of limbo or wherever the afterlife may be. They struggle, choking on the absence of air and trying to move, to swim, to do anything.

A pair of arms envelop Tilín, rescuing them from the abyss. They're pulled into the open air, gasping for breath and coughing. Water trickles down their face as they blink open their eyes. The structures surrounding them shimmer with bright lights. It appears they were submerged in a grand fountain, with a golden statue at its centre.

Tilín turns to thank Lady Death, but their words catch in their throat. It's Tío Charlie who holds them now, clad in unfamiliar garments. His smile seems off, stretched too wide, and his eyes remain a toxic green, devoid of flickering colours. Tío Charlie looks slimier than usual.

"Hello, dragon from...” He hesitates, his too-wide grin faltering momentarily as if unsure of Tilín’s origin. “From Not-Here,” he decides. “Quackity from Las Nevadas mentioned only someone very small or very stupid would drown in the fountain. Which are you?”

Tilín blinks, staring up at Not-Tío Charlie. He reminds them idly of the Federation workers, who stood stiff and straight and focused on nothing but their work. Tilín doesn’t even know what Las Nevadas is. Or where it is. Where Papa is from, apparently, but Tilín thinks this is some afterlife hallucination.

“Uh. S-small?” They stammer. “Um, Tío Charlie? Where are we?”

Not-Tío Charlie scrutinizes Tilín for a long moment. “What is a ‘Tío Charlie’?” He asks brightly. “I am called Slime, from Underground, but I am very human.”

Uh?

“Why were you in the fountain, dragon from Not-Here?” Tío Slime barrels on, not giving Tilín a moment to process his statement.

“…I don’t know,” Tilín replies, shaking water from their clothes and hair. It's becoming less like a hallucination and more like reality. Their mental version of Tio-Charlie shouldn’t be this different from what they knew. “I was in the forest with my Tío and my best friend when were surrounded by monsters. I got hurt and woke up here.”

Tío Slime’s toxic green eyes gleam. “Oh, I understand.” His smile widens more than it should. “I see, I see. You need to talk to Quackity from Las Nevadas. He’d be very intrigued by your tale, dragon from Not-Here.”

“…” Tilín blinks their eyes up at him. “My name is Tilín.”

“Okay, Tilín from Not-Here.” Tío Slime keeps them held in his arms as he merrily carries them towards the large building the fountain sits in front of. It’s white and gold and very, very large. The building is full of important-looking people and security bustling back and forth. The people look like the islanders impersonating Federation workers, in wrinkled suits and weary gazes.

Tilín is overwhelmed by the sight of so many diverse beings, and they instinctively retreat into Tío Slime’s embrace. He seems to be absorbing the water from their damp clothes, his skin becoming waterier and more translucent, revealing the skeletal structure beneath that maintains his humanoid form.

"Where are we?" Tilín asks, feeling certain they're no longer on the island. This place seems beyond the Federation's reach, a territory unfamiliar to them.

“This is the White House.” Tío Slime explains. “The home for the president of Las Nevadas, Alexis de Hermosillo Quackity. If you meant Las Nevadas, that is the country in which we currently reside. The territory of her leader, President Quackity, and under the protection of the Divine Totem. I have also been informed that Lady Death likes to hang around sometimes.”

Tilín nods, wondering if Lady Death left them here because she frequents this place. Could it be because their papa is the president?

"What's a president?" they inquire. Tío Slime gazes down at Tilín, his unsettling grin still present.

"I'm not sure!" he proudly exclaims. "But Quackity from Las Nevadas oversees the entire country. He handles a lot of paperwork and ensures his subordinates are all fulfilling their duties."

So... Not-papa is Cucurucho? Or the Duckling of Las Nevadas? That doesn't sound promising. The Federation hadn't treated Tilín or their friends kindly before they were taken in by the islanders (albeit under the Federation's watchful gaze). Tilín hums softly, seeking solace in Tío Slime's arms.

Tío Slime observes Tilín for a moment before stepping into an elevator, swiping a card on the reader and selecting the top floor. Even in his embrace, Tilín feels the platform ascend beneath them.

"Tío Slime, is your Quackity kind?" Tilín asks softly, tugging at his sticky, semi-transparent shirt, which seems to meld with his skin.

"What's 'Tío'?" Tío Slime responds kindly.

"Oh, um..." Tilín fidgets. "It means 'uncle', but I was taught to use it as a term of respect for older men."

Tío Slime nods "Yes, I am quite old," he remarks cryptically. “Quackity from Las Nevadas is very nice. He was my first friend when I came from the underground. He taught me many things. Like humans are assholes and seek successful revenge.”

“…Ah.” Tilín murmurs. "That's... comforting?"

"He certainly is!" Tío Slime beams, his smile appearing slightly more genuine now.

As the elevator doors open, Tío Slime strides out confidently, leading Tilín down a hallway with the assurance of someone familiar with the surroundings. It's a bit intimidating for Tilín, with the large walls adorned with portraits of unfamiliar figures, a flag in shades of blue, white, and red with black accents and a yellow cross, mounted horns of animals, and various displays including trinkets, insects, and pinned corvids, all foreign to Tilín's eyes.

"Whose collection is that?" Tilín murmurs, gazing sadly at the pinned birds. Memories of the crows that used to follow Grandpa Phil flood their mind. One of the birds with its wings splayed out looks familiar, it has a nook in its beak.

"That's Quackity from Las Nevadas' collection," Tío Slime answers. "He hunted down the Angel’s Murder and the High King’s Kaleidoscope himself." He gestures towards the mounted horns. "Those are from the satyros’ who dared to defy Las Nevadas’ authority."

"They came from people?!" Tilín exclaims in shock.

"Indeed," Tío Slime confirms. "Quackity from Las Nevadas isn't too interested in hunting animals, but he despises those who disobey his laws... So, they end up as trophies, a warning to others." He continues down the hall, waving a dismissive hand. "Quackity from Las Nevadas prefers displaying satyros’ horns in his private office for personal reasons, while the wings of the fae or the whiskers of katze are exhibited in casinos and clubs. He uses piglin hide for leather."

Stopping before a grand set of double doors, a golden plate engraved with "Private Office of Alexis de Hermosillo Quackity" catches their eye. Tío Slime gently places Tilín on their feet and knocks on the door.

"Quackity from Las Nevadas!" he cheerfully announces. "I've brought a guest for you." Without waiting for a response, he pushes the door open and ushers Tilín inside.

The office is spacious, illuminated by a large window that overlooks the city. Bookcases line the walls alongside ink pots, while more butterflies, crows, and satyr horns decorate the space. In the centre of the room sits a desk facing the door, with several couches arranged opposite it. Behind the desk sits Quackity.

This man could never be mistaken for Tilín’s father, despite being a mirror image of him. His face is the same, his black hair is the same, his beanie. His clothes are different. More formal, matching Tío Slime’s with a white collared button-up and suspenders. The differences, which send a chill down Tilín’s spine, are the abysmal lack of light tan feathers adorning his cheekbones, and the angry, jagged scar down his left eye to his lip. His eye is probably missing, it’s covered with an eyepatch though, so Tilín can’t tell.

Without even looking up, Not-papa-Quackity’s lip curls into a sneer, exposing a couple of golden teeth in line with his scar.

"Slime," he says, his voice icy, reminiscent of when Papa-Quackity indulges in too much drink and grumbles about Mr Luzu. "What have I told you about—" His gaze flicks up, shifting from Tío Slime to Tilín, his voice trailing off. His eye is red, a stark contrast to Papa's brown eyes. Tilín trembles under his intense stare. "Slime, who is this?"

"Their name is Tilín, from Not-Here," Tío Slime announces.

Not-papa-Quackity's frown deepens. "Is that what they told you, or do you truly not know?"

“I don’t know.” He responds, maintaining his upbeat demeanour. "I haven't seen dragon whelps around for many centuries."

Not-papa-Quackity turns his attention fully to Tilín, scrutinizing them from head to tail. Tilín nervously fidgets with the end of their tail, which is adorned with yellow duckling feathers just like their face. Made from Papa Quackity’s DNA, they mostly resemble him, complete with moles and feathers. However, Scar-Quackity bears no feathers. He looks as human as Tío Dan did.

Motioning Tilín closer, Not-papa-Quackity meets them around the desk, kneeling to get a better look at their face. "Where did you come from?" he murmurs.

This Quackity still has moles on his face, more visible now without a line of feathers. He bears a striking resemblance to Tilín’s papa, yet simultaneously not at all.

"You look like my papa," Tilín blurts out, unsure of what else to say. They don’t want to get in trouble for revealing Federation secrets to an outside government. Who knows what consequences that might bring?

Not-papa-Quackity blinks at them. "Who's your papa?" he asks, his tone not unkind. It seems he's making an effort to be gentle, perhaps not accustomed to conversing with a young child. He appears slightly older than their papa upon closer inspection.

"Papa Quackity," Tilín replies. They suspect he must have had a first name, but everyone called him Quackity, and Tilín followed suit. They couldn't even recall what his first name might have been.

Not-papa-Quackity stares at them, his expression growing somewhat irritated—not at them, but as if he's gazing past their head at something. "Oh," he mutters. "You're his. He’d be foolish enough to mate with anything to get a dragon baby."

Straightening up, Not-papa-Quackity rubs his hands over his face, muttering curses in Spanish. "Of course. He vanishes without a word, and ten years later a kid shows up at my doorstep. That's just like him. No note, though. No 'I'm sorry I left you, Alex. I like what you've done with the place' or 'I want you to meet my wife and our kid'."

Tío Slime remains silent, his smile unwavering. Not-papa-Quackity groans to himself before turning back to Tilín. "I suppose he didn't bother to tell you who I am before sending you to me?"

Tilín isn't sure what conclusion Not-papa-Quackity has drawn, but it's definitely incorrect. Tilín had thought Lady Death had sent them here. However, too scared of being reprimanded or dismissed, they simply shake their head.

Not-papa-Quackity sighed again. "How about you just call me Tío Alex from now on, dragoncito? I have a twin brother, you know. It’s probably why we look so similar.”

Wait. Is this not papa? But Not-Tío-Charlie is right there, even if he's slimier than usual. Oh. Slimes can duplicate. These aren't Tilín’s family; they're papa-Quackity’s twin brother and a duplicate of Tío Slime! That makes more sense; the world isn’t confined to Quesadilla Island, obviously. How they got here, Tilín doesn’t know, but it could be a waystone glitch or something.

It's sort of amusing that papa and Tío Charlie's brothers are also friends or co-workers, or something.

Tilín nods up at Tío Alex. "Okay."

Tío Alex cracks a smile. "¡Muy bien! Slime, prepare one of the spare rooms for the newest member of the Las Nevadas Duplex." He puts a comforting hand on Tilín’s shoulder. “You can tell me about your journey here later, dragoncito. Right now, you must be exhausted.”

Tío Slime's grin widens. "Of course, Quackity from Las Nevadas." He extends his hand to Tilín. "Let's go, Tilín from Las Nevadas."

Chapter Text

Tilín, facing away from the looking glass, twists their neck to peer over their shoulder, eyeing the scar adorning their back. Though not causing direct discomfort, the wound left by Tío Charlie's blade lies jagged between their shoulders. They wonder why they woke up with the scar healed over.

Did… did they pass out for a long time? Is that how they ended up outside of Quesadilla Island? They… were shipped out to be healed or something? And left with papa’s brother? Such a scenario seemed improbable without some form of involvement from the Federation. Tilín truly doubted they’d just let Tilín go and live with Tío Alex without some sort of caveat. Perhaps the Federation had a hand in it, conducting inquiries into the denizens of Las Nevadas, or Tío Alex himself had affiliations with the Federation.

A gentle knock raps against the privacy screen, Tío Slime’s shadow respectfully veiled on the opposing side.

“Have you changed into your sleeping gown?” He asks, sounding as consistently buoyant as he had the entire trip. It’s unnerving because Tilín distinctly remembers Tío Charlie having an array of emotions, not whatever faux enthusiasm that caked Tío Slime’s entire personality. “I cannot vouch for the fit of Kyle from Las Nevadas' baby clothes but given the circumstances, it shall suffice on short notice.”

"Just a moment," Tilín responds, slipping the dressing gown over their frame, and discarding their remaining undergarments. They emerge from behind the privacy board and hand their pile of clothes to Tío Slime’s expectant hands.

“Well done.” Says Tío Slime, attempting to smile warmly. Tilín appreciates the attempt if slightly butchered. “Quackity from Las Nevadas told me to assure you your clothes will be cleaned and returned at once. As well as to inform you new clothes will be arranged at some point.”

“Okay.”

Tío Slime nods, turns on his heel, and leaves, closing the door behind him. Not so much as a good night. Tío Slime truly is nothing like Tío Charlie.

The room is about as large as the rest of the rooms in the White House, with a double set of doors to enter, and double doors leading off on a balcony. The sun set a while ago, but Tilín feels like they’ve slept for too long, having lost time between the sun rising as they bled out to it sinking on the horizon as they woke up in Tío Slime’s arms.

The chambers probably belong to another kid before Tilín, there’s a scent of boy in the room, like Chayanne or Ramón when they’d been sweating too much but never seemed bothered by it. Leo too, sometimes. There were letters addressed to someone with their surname hidden away in some of the draws, and annotated books with boyish scribbles in them.

A cousin, Tilín thinks. Tío Alex’s own child is presumably older and gallivanting elsewhere, which is why they were given his room. They pitter-patter over to the bookshelves and peruse through the titles until one catches their eye, and then they jump into the bed to read by the candlelight.

By the time weariness befalls them, a chill breeze wafts through the balcony doors, so they close them. They’re sort of thirsty… and hungry now that they’re thinking about it. When was the last time they ate?

Tilín ventures forth, quietly opening and closing the door and walking along the carpet as to be quiet. Since they’re borrowing Kyle’s room, they’re basically across the hall from Tío Alex. His letting them stay was kind of him, but the way he looks so similar yet different to papa-Quackity invokes a twinge of trepidation.

Midway along the corridor, realization dawns upon Tilín— they don’t know where they’re going. They’re just looking at doors labelled with names of who they assume were members of the Las Nevadas Duplex. Purpled, Fundy, & Sam. Tío Slime had a room as well, but Tilín was pretty sure slime creatures didn’t need to sleep, Tío Charlie hadn’t slept much. (His bed was strictly reserved for his wife, according to papa). One can only surmise Tío Slime's quarters house an assortment of curiosities or hobbies to occupy his leisure.

Nonetheless, Tilín forges ahead, eventually encountering Tío Alex himself, his surprised face illuminated by the firelight of the candelabrum in his hand.

“Hey,” He greets, tone surprisingly tender. “What are you doing up so late?”

“I’m hungry.” They answer. “And thirsty.”

Tío Alex’s face very swiftly passes through several complicated expressions before he plants on a forced grin. “Of course you are.” He says through grit teeth. Oh, his teeth are so much sharper than papas.

His expression changes once more, looking gentler as he offers Tilín his free hand. “I’ll take you to the kitchen, dragoncito. We’ll get you a late-night snack and a warm glass of milk, and then you’re going right back to bed, okay?”

“Okay, Tío Alex.” They take his hand, and he leads them towards the kitchen. They endeavour to commit to memory the twists and turns of their journey, noting portraits as landmarks.

“So, Tilín.” Tío Alex says as they walk before the silence can eat at them. Papa hadn’t liked silence either. Really, it seemed no one on the Island did, except Tío Fit. But he was pretty intimidating. Tío Alex clears his throat, and Tilín tunes back in. “Where did you come from?”

“Oh. I don’t know.” They answer as they come to the elevator They go down. “I think Tío Slime told you, but I just woke up here. The last thing I remember is getting injured. Now it’s naught but a scar, and I don’t remember anything between.”

“Really?” Tío Alex says conversationally. “Nothing else?” Tilín shakes their head, prompting Tío Alex to ask; “What about before that? What else do you remember?”

“Oh, uh…” What should they tell him? Mention of the Federation risks retribution for such brazen candour. They dare not court punishment; their skin burns at the thought of it. “I came from an Island where I live with my papa and my friends.”

“An island? What was it called?” He’s watching them from the corner of his eye. The same way the workers used to. The way Cucurucho would glare at them through his doll eyes.

Tilín trembles. “Ah, I don’t really remember.”

Tío Alex remained silent for an uncomfortably long stretch, eyeing them closely. “Alright then.” He concedes, the tone too light for the storm in his eye. “What were your friends' names?”

“Oh!” Finally, an easy topic. Just don’t mention the experimentation and punishments! “I have lots of friends. Like Bobby! He's keen on fisticuffs, and his father, Roier, and mother, Jaiden, are truly amiable. They like to say I’m a part of their family, but they argue with my papa a lot about me, so he doesn’t like it when I go over there.”

“Oh?”

“And there’s Ramón! His papa Spreen isn’t around much, but his papa Fit is very robust and affable. He comes from a place called 2B2T.”

Tío Alex’s eyebrows raise. “That’s interesting. 2B2T is renowned for its lawlessness. Is Fit cordial towards you?”

Tilín nods. “Fit is exceedingly amiable, albeit somewhat intimidating in appearance. He has a robot arm.” Tilín gestures to their own as an example.

“A prosthetic.” Tío Alex corrects. “I knew a few people with those. They ought not to evoke fear. The craftsmanship involved should be admired.”

Tilín nods. “And I had a friend named Trumpet, but they passed away some time ago.”

“Oh?” Tío Alex's expression darkened once more. “That’s not good. Do you know why?”

“Our Tío Bad was babysitting for the islanders and wanted to celebrate someone’s birthday, I think.”

"I'm acquainted with someone by the name of Bad," Uncle Alex muttered under his breath. Upon Tilín's pause, he continued, "It's a rather common moniker. Please, proceed."

“So Tío Bad went to Trumpet’s house only to find it deserted. Both of their fathers were absent. We found Trumpet, nestled in their bed, cold and thin. I overheard the adults remark that they melted into their bedsheets because of how long their corpse had been left there.”

Tío Alex grimaces. “That’s dreadful. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

Tilín doesn’t respond. Instead, they think. Because. It was normal. Trumpet died, Juana-Flippa died, and then Tío Charlie made a deal with a demon to get her soul back, and the children in the Federation died all the time. By failing their tests or by simply being deemed a risk to the workers. Some just starved, like Trumpet had.

“Tío Alex, why is the kitchen down? Isn’t it really far from the rooms?” They ask, watching the small lamps illuminate in numbers. The redstone for it looks complicated, like something Ramón or Dapper would come up with.

“Hm? Oh, it’s so the food can be stored underground.” He explains simply. “The cooler temperatures preserve the foodstuffs for a longer duration. Especially since we live in the desert. Food rots quickly if left out. Did you not have that with your dad?”

Their domicile consisted of but a single room, which doubled as Tilín's sleeping quarters. All provisions were either procured fresh from the marketplace, hunted or foraged independently, or provided by the Federation to the islanders.

“We lacked the means," Tilín responded as the elevator doors slid open. Tío Alex led them down more twisted hallways Tilín tried to memorize as they came to the kitchen. He released their hand as he busied himself behind the counter, prompting Tilín to perch atop a stool at the island counter.

“Do you have any preferences?” Tío Alex asks. “Allergies?”

Tilín shakes their head.

"Very well," Tío Alex murmured, pacing back and forth as he assessed his culinary arsenal. He seemed to deliberate over his choice of dish. "Ah, what say you to Black Bean and Chicken Soup?"

“I’ve never had that before,” Tilín admits.

“A travesty," proclaimed Uncle Alex. "Your father shall be admonished for neglecting to acquaint you with the wonders of Eldham soup."

Tilín giggles, and Tío Alex grins in triumph as he goes about preparing the soup. Tilín thinks with how rich he seems to be Tío Alex would have servants to cook for him. Maybe he did, during the day, but they weren’t working because it’s night now. Maybe that’s one of the reasons papa didn’t talk to him much anymore.

He flips the stove switch, the base alight with runes as flames dance to life. Tío Alex hauls a chopping board onto the counter and demonstrates his chopping prowess to Tilín, dicing an onion and crushing a clove of garlic. Placing a saucepan atop the stove, he pours in oil and two different pastes, then extends a wooden spoon to Tilín “Do you want to stir?”

Their faces light up, nodding eagerly. Papa never allowed them to lend a hand in the kitchen! Tío Alex positions a chair by the stove so Tilín can stir, then resumes chopping tomatoes, and carrots, and shredding the chicken. Tilín thinks they have never seen raw chicken look like that.

“The bones have already been removed.” Tío Alex responded when they voiced that comment aloud to him.

Adding a few cups of powder to the saucepan, he tosses in the vegetables, meat, and a small leaf, "For flavour," he says. Tío Alex instructs them on how to let it simmer, allowing Tilín to help with seasoning and adding the beans.

They divide the soup into two bowls and dine together. Tío Alex praises their assistance and ensures they eat heartily, urging them not to waste a bite, even if it sits uneasily in their stomach.

He also sets a pot of milk on the stove to warm, as promised earlier.

"Wow, you've cleaned your plate," Tío Alex exclaims, visibly pleased. "Did you enjoy it, Tilín?" They nod, and he beams. "Good, good. Muy bien."

Removing the pot from the stove, he pours the warm milk into a glass cup. "It should be just right, but blow on it if it's too hot."

Tilín takes a sip, smacking their lips. “It’s delightful. Pleasantly warm.” It soothes their stomach, a welcome relief.

"Good child. Now, off to bed with you," Tío Alex declares, leaving the dishes in the sink as he escorts Tilín back to their room. They sip the milk idly during the elevator ride, and he holds their hand all the way to their room.

Tío Alex even tucks them in, patting their hair and kissing their forehead. On instinct, they tug at his shirt.

“¿Hm? ¿Qué pasa, Tilín?”

"Can you tell me a story?" they ask shyly.

Tío Alex seems momentarily flustered. "Uh, sure, um..." Sitting on the edge of the bed, he smooths out the sheets with his hand.

"Once upon a time," he begins slowly, choosing his words carefully, "there was a little duckling. This duckling had many friends in their home, and they cherished each other and their home dearly. But one day, some pigs arrived in town, and they didn't like the duckling's home. So, they destroyed everything. The little duckling was heartbroken, so they journeyed to a new land and built a safe and happy home for themselves and their friends, away from the pigs. And they all lived happily ever after."

Tilín blinks. "Why didn't the pigs like their home?"

Tío Alex furrows his brow slightly. "Well, some folks just can't stand to see others happy," he explains slowly as if trying to make Tilín understand.

"But that's sad."

"If sad things didn't happen, there wouldn't be stories to tell, little dragoncito," he says, affectionately tousling their hair. "Now, off to bed, my dear. Buenas noches."

“Buenas noches.” They respond, and Tío Alex smiles at them before closing the door. As his footsteps fade down the hall, not toward his own room, Tilín notices a similar smile to Papa's – that bittersweet smile that lifts your spirits even when you're feeling low. They don't understand why Papa looks at them like that, but maybe they can figure out why Tío Alex does.

Tilín pulls the covers up and drifts off to sleep, anticipating the new day ahead.

Chapter Text

The brush slides gentle-like through their locks. Tío handles it with surprising care. Papa hardly ever bothered with Tilín's hair, and when Tío Charlie took to it, it was like a whirlwind. (Tío Roier too. But Tía Jaiden had sat them down and taught him how to brush Tilín’s hair properly. And then Bobby wanted to brush their hair and preen their feathers, so Tía Jaiden taught them that too. Papa never preened his own feathers, so he had never found it in himself to teach Tilín how to look after their own.)

Tío Slime used Tilín’s ribbon to pull their hair into a small ponytail, making sure to tie it into a neat bow the way they liked it. “Las Nevadas can get sweltering hot, so hot I melt sometimes!” He chatters conversationally. “You might not mind it much being cold-blooded, but it is still good to prepare for a hot day.”

There's a knock at the door, and in comes a fox, with a triangular face and orange-white fur. Long ears, sharp eyes. He's dressed mostly in black, with a hat to match between his ears. By his side is a kit with ash-coloured fur on a leash, trying to dart off in every direction.

"Uh, hey. Quackity sent me to..." He trails off, waving a bag of kids' clothes vaguely at Tío Slime.

“Hello, Fundy from L’manburg!” Tío Slime greets. Oh, Fundy has a room here. “Yes, those are for Tilín from Las Nevadas.”

Fundy’s eyes flick to Tilín. “Uh… hello, kid.” He greets.

His kit pops up as close as they can to Tilín's face, the leash tugging them back. Tilín recoils, hiding behind Tío Slime's leg. "Hi. You smell funny. Where are you from?"

“Yogurt.” Fundy scolds, sounding equal measures tired and nervous. “Don’t pop up in people’s faces like that. You scared them, see?”

 Yogurt looks back at their dad, then to Tilín, their ears pinning back. “Oh. I’m sorry.” Their tail flicks slightly as they approach Tilín more deliberately. “My name is Yogurt, that’s my papa. What’s your name?”

They even stick out their paw to shake Tilín's. Fundy makes a comment like "good job," so this must be something they're working on.

"Tilín," they shake Yogurt's paw tentatively.

"I like your bow," Yogurt says. They don't seem to notice Fundy pulling Tío Slime aside for a chat while they talk.

“Thank you,” Tilín says. “It was… er- a gift.” The Federation gave each of the children an identifier just before they were put in the adoption centre, so the islanders would think they were cute. It certainly worked, given they were all mostly chosen based on those trinkets. (Chaynne kept his floaty on despite it being a detriment to his movement because that’s why Abuelo Phil and Abuelo Missa chose him. They thought it was cute, and it meant they liked him.)

"I like your hat," Tilín says to Yogurt, scrambling for something to compliment them on.

Yogurt's tail wags as their face brightens. "My dad got it for me," they say, their accent not one Tilín recognizes. They weren't as good as Chayanne with their studies. They only knew the two languages the locals spoke, not... whatever accent seems to come and go in both Fundy and Yogurt's speech. It's subtle, but it's there. Yogurt takes off their hat, showing it off to Tilín, pointing out details. "My dad had a hat, and I wanted one like it. So, he got me this."

The hat's a sort of pale green with leaves sticking out. It's kind of cute. "It makes me think of the forest."

"You're not from Las Nevadas?" Tilín asks curiously.

Yogurt laughs, though it sounds more like a shriek. Neither Fundy nor Tío Slime seem to think it concerning enough to look over at them, though. “My papa is from L’manburg, but we live in a cabin far, far away from everyone, so I don’t think I’m from either. I think the cabin is technically on Great Exempi’s land, though. So, I’m probably from there.”

"Oh, wow," Tilín blurts out, bewildered. Those country names fly right over their head.

“Where are you from?” Yogurt asks.

“Uh… an island.” They answer blandly. “I don’t remember what it was called. I’m just… staying with my Tío Alex for a spell.”

Yogurt nods. "Mr. Quackity, huh? He keeps insisting I call him that, but Papa says no. Don't really see him much though. Is he alright?" They babble on, fidgeting about, shifting their weight, tail flicking, ears twitching. Can't seem to stand still for a moment.

"Got here yesterday," Tilín responds with a shrug. "He's decent enough, I suppose. Letting me bunk in Kyle's room for the time being."

"Met him a few times," Yogurt remarks. "He's pretty cool, but I reckon he isn’t much into hanging out with me. Says he's 'too old' for babysitting. Likes to do his own thing, I think."

“I see.” Tilín murmurs.

Yogurt puts their hat back on their head, adjusting it to their liking. “So, you haven’t explored Paraíso Jugador, yet?”

“What’s that?”

"The big city," Yogurt explains. "Right where we are now. Haven't taken a stroll through town?"

Tilín shakes their head. "Not yet."

Yogurt's ears perk up, and they dart over to their father. "Papa, can we show Tilín around the city? Please, please, please, please-" they plead, much to the irritated twitch of Fundy’s ear.

“I don’t know, liefje.” Fundy murmurs "We only popped by to drop off some of your clothes for Tilín."

"PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE-"

"Quackity from Las Nevadas has some business to handle," Tío Slime interrupts. "I was meant to keep an eye on Tilín from Las Nevadas today, but I suppose he won't mind if you want to give Tilín a tour, Yogurt from The Forest."

"YES!" Yogurt exclaims, simultaneously with a weary Fundy blurting out a sharp "NO!" that's drowned out by the yapping of his young one.

“Perfect!” Tío Slime chirps, turning to Fundy. “If you need to contact me, don’t. Call Quackity from Las Nevadas.” And then he oozes into a puddle of goop and disappears under the door. Fundy buries his face in his paws and lets out a muffled scream.

Tilín's heart sinks. Oh, he's livid. They know all too well what an angry grown-up means. Pain and distress, and a whole lot of shouting. For a moment, Tilín feels like they're back in their one-room shack, the smell of booze thick in the air, and their father yelling, not at them, but at Roier, his grip tight on their shoulder.

Yogurt slaps a paw on Tilín's shoulder, giving them a hearty shake as they bounce around in excitement. "You're gonna love it!" they assure.

"Uh, yeah, I guess," Tilín responds, a bit jittery. At least Tío Slime and Tío Alex looked like people Tilín had been familiar with back home. They have no idea who Fundy is even remotely.

Fundy takes a deep breath, letting out a sigh. The annoyance still lingers, but he looks less likely to tear the head off a chicken now. “Well,” he says, squatting down to Tilín. “Quackity asked me to bring you some proper clothes since you’re roughly Yogurt’s age and size. A little small, actually.” He squints at them.

“Uh, anyway. I brought some clothes Yogurt doesn’t wear often and you can choose something to wear, alright?” He offers them the bag of clothing in his paws "Need help changing? Some of those skirts might be a bit tricky."

"That's why I ditched 'em," Yogurt chimes in.

Fundy smiles at Yogurt in a way that screams “that was unnecessary”, but Yogurt doesn’t seem to pick up on it. Tilín wonders how Yogurt can’t actively be thinking of a way to keep the adults passive and kind. Yogurt’s general behaviour would be punished at best by the Federation (they don’t like to think about what the worst-case scenario would be).

"Um," Tilín takes the bag and lays out the donated garments on the bed, pondering their choices.

"It's scorching outside," Fundy remarks, noticing Tilín eyeing something more akin to the jacket their dad gave them or something long and layered. "Las Nevadas is a desert. Fur or long sleeves are better for night outings, not daytime strolls."

Yogurt shakes their head vigorously, shedding a good amount of fur. "My coat thins out real good in Las Nevadas!" they exclaim, tossing a pawful of fur into the air like snow. They chuckle as it flutters down like feathers.

Fundy stares at the pile of fur as if it might combust under his gaze. It doesn't, and he lets out another sigh. "Take your pick," he advises Tilín, then heads back to the door. He leans halfway out to instruct a servant to clean up Yogurt's fur.

Tilín selects a blue piece from the laid-out clothes, needing just a bit of help with the buttons and ties. "Mr. Fundy?"

"Yeah?" Fundy replies wearily. Weariness seems to cling to Fundy's every move and word, a stark contrast to Yogurt, who's bouncing around the room like a pinball.

"I'm sorry,"

Fundy pauses, his paws still over an undone button. “What for?” He asks.

Tilín's face burns; they're not sure if it's embarrassment or impending tears, gripping at the edge of their skirt tightly. "For getting you stuck here. Clearly, you don't want to be."

Fundy runs a paw through Tilín's hair. “Oh, that’s- that’s not your fault, kid. You don’t have to apologise.” He fumbles for something else to say as hot tears stream down Tilín's face. "Pretty sure Quackity's scheme was to get you to buddy up with one of us, you know?? To make friends?? Y-you know, you’re new here, and Yogurt’s about your age. Probably.”

Yogurt bounds over, eyeing Tilín's tears with concern and following Fundy's lead in trying to lift their spirits. "Yeah! And... and you'll meet Junior and Finley, and we can all be pals."

Tilín sniffles, pressing their hands to their face in an effort to stop the tears. The Federation had no mercy for tears, and Papa hadn't been much different. "I'm sorry."

"No need for apologies!" Yogurt insists, patting Tilín's shoulders. "You must be scared, huh? You’re from an island? Must be scary in this big place all alone."

That's not the main concern, but Tilín nods anyway, hoping Yogurt will cease digging a hole for them. Fundy seems observant enough to look a bit sceptical, but that's how grown-ups are—always knowing more than the kids.

"I was pretty scared too when I first got here," Yogurt continues, more calmly. "I kept hiding behind Papa, and I didn't get the big words he and Mr. Quackity tossed around. But I made friends, and... it's not so bad here once you get used to it. Right now, it's just a bit much. We'll take it slow. No one will mind if you need time to adjust."

Somehow, Tilín doubts Yogurt knows the meaning of the word “slow”, but it kind of helps. Fundy doesn't look angry anymore, just a bit sad, much like Tío Roier always did when he looked at Tilín.

"Are you sure...?" Tilín's not even sure what they're asking.

"I promise," Yogurt reassures. Fundy tousles Yogurt's fur affectionately.

"When did you become so wise, kid?" he murmurs fondly.

“That’s just what Junior said to me when I freaked out!” Yogurt replied, batting away from Fundy’s touch.

"I haven't a clue where that kid gets it from, certainly not his father," Fundy comments, finishing up Tilín's buttons. "Feeling alright, kid? Yogs was right, you know. I won't mind if you need a breather or anything. Alright?"

Tilín wipes their face clean of tears and snot as Fundy brushes their hair from their face. "Alright," they respond quietly. "I—"

"Don't apologize," Fundy interrupts gently. "You don't need to."

He stands, turning away to fuss over Yogurt getting fur on the clothes they're already wearing. Tilín catches his sleeve, tugging for attention. "Hmm?"

“Do you shed your fur too?” They ask softly.

Fundy chuckles. "Oh yeah, my fur's no stranger to shedding in the heat. I had a good shake in the sand earlier, though. Yogurt here wasn't up for it," he says, tilting his head in Yogurt's direction and putting a claw to his mouth as if they were sharing a secret.

"I didn't need to shed then!" Yogurt defends themselves, bounding over to Tilín's side and throwing an arm around their shoulders. "Today, my friend, I'll be your tour guide. Get ready as I show you the enchanting wonders of Paraíso Jugador, the capital city of Las Nevadas."