He could have changed, I just wasn't worth it - Wilbur & Fundy angst fic

Chapter 3

(guys now that ive realised that there are actually sentient humans reading my fic, even though not many, I'd like to say updates will be pretty scarce cus I'm a lazy ass lol I'm really lazy)

Fundy would never admit his buried affection for his so-called father, but it lay beneath his anger like a sapling trapped underneath an active volcano, ready to crawl its way out into the sun once the volcano becomes dormant. Is it possible for the sapling to grow through the lava spew? Maybe only now, as its being protected by a firm coating a jealously, guarding it from the sizzling magma, while also nurturing the volcano. Fundy wasn't angry, truly, he was jealous and sad, mournful of a past relationship he couldn't have. He was sorrowful that his father could have changed, Fundy just wasn't worth it. 

But this "Tallulah" was.

Fundy strode at a brisk pace, no particular destination in mind. He just wanted to be away. Away from his dad, away from his apparent little sister, away from that park and most importantly, away from the love all of that reeked. Love that he never had. Love that he evidently didn't deserve. Love he wasn't worth.

Fuck love.

He wasn't sure if Schlatt had called for him, he didn't care, his hair blew through the wind (revealing a stunning massive forehead that glistened, much like his fathers) as he strutted his way forward, his anger almost radiating off him like the scent of cigarettes, recognisable by all those who passed him. His teeth were clenched and eyes narrow, his eyebrows creeping towards each other the more his thoughts rushed - the more the volcano erupted - the taller that sapling grew.

The smell of fresh cigarettes left Tallulah's senses but still lingered in her mind, not with any malicious intent of course, the girl was simply curious why some cigarettes smelled so fresh. Maybe Quackity smoked and she didn't notice? Or maybe someone left just before they came? Or maybe she was overanalysing every little detail to save herself from the futile mourning of what could have been a great birthday what Quackity ruined. Thats probably it.

As she swung back and forth she became less enthusiastic and more bored, sitting on the swing on a beautiful day, in a run-down park that had somehow lost its alluring glow as her boredom took over. Tallulah yearned to be home listening to her Papa's singing and playing her flute, she yearned to be anywhere without Quackity.

'Papa? Are you ready to go?' Talullah signed half heartedly, tapping lightly on the rusted chains on the swings to get her fathers attention. Wilbur's head whirled round as he heard Tallulah and his eyes met hers awkwardly, they were scrunched in an apologetic way that almost made Tallulah forgive him.

"Maybe a bit longer Mi Amor? Me and Quackity need to talk, um, maybe you can stay with Phil for a bit soon-ish." Tallulah's father rushed out, his words quick and eyes guilty. Tallulah audibly scoffed, causing both Wilbur and Quackity's eyes to widen at her uncharacteristic actions.

"Come on Tallulah its not that bad y'know! it'll be fun and we can all have a great time once we get home!" Quackity rambled with a wide smile slapped across his face, the edges of it twitching as if it were going to deflate any moment. Tallulah sucked air - or more so old cigarette smoke through her teeth as she regarded his statement, she could tell he was lying because his lips moved.

Tallulah merely turned away in distaste instead of responding to the man, baring her fangs lightly but non-threateningly to herself.

By the time Tallulah had finally arrived to the warm light of her home with achey legs and huffing breath, Quackity and Wilbur had gotten even more tense, she heard their murmurs, their voicing creating low melodies of worry about an apparent stranger to Tallulah they saw storming along the sidewalk while they were heading home. They kept talking about his stupid orang hair. By this point Tallulah was beyond pissed, she let herself flop down on the couch with a huff, a huff that didn't even reach the pair no matter how persistently loud it was. Some birthday. 

The two men's voices cut in an out like a static radio no matter how much she strained to pick up little parts of the conversation, their melody was diligently keeping to itself, not wanting to let her bathe her senses in its addictive majesty. Tallulah eventually give up, her ears flattened as she made a scene of storming up the stairs to her room, she let her anger and disappointment waft down on the two mumbling like a fine cloud of perfume, something your barely conscious of but not oblivious too. Yet neither looked up.

Neither looked up to see tears roll down Tallulah's cheeks.

Neither looked up to see her glance at the photo of a man with orange hair in Wilbur's hand.

Neither cared enough to watch her face twist into conclusion.

Who was that man?

Why was he important?

And why did he look like Wilbur?