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Philza knew he should have gone with the boy.
This concern had been at the back of his mind long before he had even discovered the exposed cave stretching down all the way to blackstone. His concerned nature, although rather uncharacteristic of him only swell up more when he called out to Tubbo, stopping the boy on his track to show him all the exposed raw ores and gently glistering glow linchens this bottomless pit of hell could offer. He should have known, should have listened to his scares blossoming from his chest, choking him with vines decorated with sharp thorns, pulling down his anxiety-ridden heart into the bottom of his own self misery and hatred.
He should have considered that a small adventurer with little to no experience would hop on the opportunity to get all the riches and goodies in a short trip, rather than taking the safer, although longer and arguably more boring resource gathering in towns and villages. He was just a kid, short and brave, full of life and love.
The kid – Tubbo – was talented. Spawning into a hardcore word weighed down his shoulders greatly, but his spirit was seeming unbreakable, a small pit of light, a faint whisper of hope in the endless darkness of death and danger. They only have one life each, one Creeper falling on their head, one miscalculated step, a minute of dissociation and the damage is permanent.
Maybe this excitement, this strange rush of adrenaline, the feeling of no return captivated Philza all those years ago, making him a hardcore player instead of living a semi-safe life on a regular survival server with his friends and family. He was an adventurer, a fighter, an inventor, but a babysitter? Not so much.
But still, seeing this chestnut-haired ball of excitement, gentle flame of joy, the pure childish way of life made his heart flutter, reminding him of his own son who grew up way too fast for his liking.
He should have told the boy no, he should have insisted they go and find a different cave to explore, a cave less deadly where the stone is not crumbling down on them and the walls are still decorated by alcohol drenched torches.
Entering an exposed deepstone cave is like buying a one-way ticket to Heaven, and Philza knew this all too well. But still, he let the boy go, he let him enter the cave, hell, he was the one who placed down the water so he can swim up later. It seemed like a good idea at first, he watching over the boy from above while Tubbo is cutting through rows and rows of monsters.
Maybe he saw a learning experience in the situation. Maybe he was just getting tired and less alarm after a day of running around, maybe the gears in his head were getting rusty and old already. Maybe he never truly had those gears intact in the first place.
Philza is old and wise and the biggest idiot known to Mother Earth. He only knew Tubbo for a few weeks, but he already made him explore the world as if a boy his age can properly take care of himself in a mad world like theirs.
Tubbo told him he trusted him, he trusted his tricks and tips, century-old advices, and he felt safe around him, only him and no one else, that Philza was the one who can protect him from the unseen danger creeping around the two. And Philza made a dumb promise, a whisper of uncertainty, soft and sweet, a vow to die protecting this boy if the time comes.
And still, during their first expedition, not even ten minutes after entering the hellish Nether, his chestnut-haired counterpart had gone down to one and a half heart. It was scary, seeing his burnt skin and sweaty forehead, those greenish eyes so faded and dull, looking at something only a dying man could comprehend.
But Philza, blinded by his own ignorance and drowned in guilt had patched him up and the two had went home to Tubbo's tiny tree house to rest. The boy was tired, wobbly legs carrying him up the ladder, and Phil stretched out his wings to catch him if he takes a misstep halfway up to safety.
Tubbo had a burn marks on his face after the incident, raw and angry, a constant reminder just how fragile a human life truly is. The two never got to grab blazerods, all they had were a few jars of ointment made by Tubbo a few days prior and semi-clean sheets of fabric to patch up the rough scar tissues. They knew it won't be pretty once the fabric is removed, but neither wanted to risk their life for something seemingly so minor in their eyes.
And still, despite looking at the burned face day after day, seeing the scars littering those sun-kissed hands, Philza is dumb and slow, and forgets how irreplaceable the boy's life is. It's hardcore, every step you take has consequences.
While he's up on the open filed, the Sun dipped under the horizon, his biggest concerns are Creepers, while his boy is down there fighting vicious monsters left to right. At first, his victorious cheers had filled Philza's heart with the soft feeling of pride and affection, blossoming and bubbling positive feelings overtaking his senses and pure judgement free from distraction. He called out for the boy and he answered excitedly, showing his mentor two diamonds already collected from the sides of the cave.
But as the minutes ticked, fewer and fewer answers could be heard from down.
The cave is now silent, and Philza is too scared to look down. Tubbo might be dying, but his legs are not moving.
It's hardcore, and he's in iron armor. He might not be so smart when it comes to teamwork, but he's an expert when it comes to survival – his own survival. He's a coward, who avoids thunderstorms and nights spent in an open field under the endless skies, and big jungles and exposed caves. He avoids even looking at endermen, backs up when he sees a Creeper and blocks up paths leading to blinding darkness in the heart of a cave.
The boy is brave. He has iron armor and an incredible amount of bravery acting as a secondary protection layer, patting his back and leading him toward constant danger with rewards awaiting at the end of his journey. He's headfirst, and loves danger, and doesn't like to build bridges even though he lives in a treehouse. And Philza have no idea how he managed to survive for this long. Maybe luck, maybe and invisible force wrapping him up in a protecting embrace over and over again, or maybe just the goods looking out for him from above.
It's all too silent, and the ringing in his ears make him want to rip out of our eardrums. Phil hears footsteps, but they're way too sneaky and light to be the boy's. He steps aside just in time to dodge an arrow. It's late at night, and he doesn't have a torch, and he still doesn't have him, he doesn't have the boy next to him to run away.
Phil faces the biggest dilemma in his life. He had survived for so long, he spent years all alone wrapped up in safety, the walls of his home hugging him tightly, protecting him from thunderstorm riding Charged Creepers and dark nights spent outside. He had machines and iron golems and countless dogs, iron doors and extra security. And most importantly, he had enchanted netherite armor weighing him down securely.
Philza fears death.
He always had, despite living for so long already. But there's so many things to do still! Reuniting with his son, visiting his wife's grave, going home, taking care of the dogs one last time, drinking a beer or two with his friends.
Death is cold and slimy, dark and frightening.
Philza fears death.
But he fears losing the boy more.
His legs are carrying him to the entrance of the cave on their own, the endlessly flowing water still intact, his rusty bucket crafted by the boy placed neatly next to the source. The stones under his booths are slippery, and for a moment Philza is scared death awaits him down there.
From left and right, he hears rumbling and dry bones rubbing together painfully, the sound making his back crawl in disgust. But he pays no mind to them, even if a creeper had managed to sneak up behind him and almost blew him up in the water. The low durability iron armor dugs into his body painfully his wings spread out in a weird uncomfortable position, reminding him it was not made for a person his size. It's the boys, he had overstayed his welcome, but god, the look on his face when Philza told him he should leave would be enough to make a dead man cry in misery.
His eyes are wide and his body is tense as he frantically searches for even a glimpse of the boy. Chestnut coloured hair, poorly enchanted iron armour, burnt skin, green shirt that's a few sizes too big on his short frame.
He reaches the bottom of the cave with a soft thud, his iron armor pieces clicking together. His clothes are drenched, and the cave makes sure to laugh in his face, to tease him with an ice-cold whiff to worsen his shivering.
Phil is cold but fuck, he's just worried and panicky as he calls for the boy, calling for his name. Tubbo, Tubbo Tubbo.
But oh no, the cave is too dark, and Phil is out of torches. He's blinded by darkness and the sound of monsters panting into his neck almost makes him run, run far away, run until his legs are jelly and his lungs are collapsing.
His wings twitch and puff up after every groan he hears.
He hears a sloppy step and his sword is out of its case in a second, slashing towards the sound blindly. His opponent with a newly acquired attacker title dodges quickly with a surprised huff, it's clear as the Sun their vision is far more used to the chocking blindness. Their feet slides on the ground to get behind Philza, yanking him down by the hem of his shirt to the ground.
Philza hits the ground with a loud thud, iron armor sliding on the stone ground sharply. The impact knocks the air out of his lungs, as well as the sword out of his hand, and his back is throbbing dully. The sickening crack coming form his wing is just a faint afterthought. He still can't see anything and it's frustrating, but his attacker quickly yanks on his shirt again and just in a second he's in a manmade hole in the side of a wall lit up by a single torch.
The orange flames were weak and barely gave off any warmth, but Philza appreciated any sort of closure of his soul still clinging to dear life.
"Philll, why would you come down here without at least a torch? You're the one who always preaches 'bout safety and shit." A familiar voice, just above a whisper knocked some sense into him, as he carefully tried to get up from the ground. It was cold and wet, hard, and didn't do any good to Phil's already cold state. The hole was small and the back of his head hit the roof after standing on one knee.
His boy, chestnut hair and poorly enchanted iron armor, burnt skin and way too big green shirt is looking at him with confusion written all over his face, and Philza can only hope he's not dreaming. He pinches the skin on his arm, making sure to dig in his nails as well. No, he's very much awake, his full health bar with ten heart flickering gently from the abuse.
"Hey Phil, you good?" Tubbo asks again, worry laced tone covered by a false tone of cheerfulness, and Philza just can't contain himself any longer. He throws himself onto the boy, his boy, wrapping him in a warm embrace, even if both of their clothes are damp and rough, the iron helmets crashing into each other sharply, the weathered leather straps cutting creases into his skin. But it's okay, everything is okay, he's safe, the boy is safe. Tubbo murmurs something incomprehensible, a whisper or bewilderment, and Phil hugs him stronger, putting a hand on the back his head to pull him closer, burying his face into the chestnut strands of curly hair.
His shoulders are shaking, and maybe he's crying. But when Tubbo shyly wraps a hand around his back while patting his arm with the other, it's all worth it, coming down is worth it, spending weeks with the boy is all worth it.
Philza is not good with children, even though he's a dad himself. The awkwardness, strange feeling of out of place was always at the back of his mind, telling him he should not intervene with their life any further than he already is, he shouldn't get involved. And Philza, for the most part, believed this sickly-sweet tone of voice who helped him sleep late at night and told him what to do, murmuring feathery lies and honeyed promises.
When the voice with no figure stayed quiet for a few minutes and didn't growl angrily at Tubbo, the decision was clear. He stayed by his side.
Tubbo reminds him of his own son. Unruly chestnut hair spiralling to every possible direction, headfirst but surprisingly intellectual personality, a strange sense of humour and... Philza as his safe place, his safe person.
Philza misses his son, he misses him more than anything. He's selfish as he's telling himself, for missing someone he was never really part of their life of, but it's true, and the regret is eating him from the inside out. Many nights spent awake, mourning over a life he never really had.
Tubbo was like a breath of fresh air after a life spent underwater, a chance to change, to finally see land and crawl onto the bolden sand to dry off under the careful watch of the morning sun. And god, if only the boy knew just how grateful Philza truly was when he got caught in Tubbo's trap instead of a wild boar.
He's not sure how long they'd spent tangled in lanky limbs, but by the time Phil got the energy to move again the boy was already half-asleep, his chin resting on Phil's padded shoulder. The weight was grounding and appreciated, but they needed to get going, fast.
The light licking the wet deepstone from above whispered a promise of lull morning, and Philza finally understood why Tubbo stopped calling out his name after a while; it was night-time, and he was simply following his tips. When the moon is out monsters become more aggressive, and in a blindingly dark, crammed place like this, speaking and light is merely a privilege.
He pulls out from the embrace and Tubbo bites on a half hearted whine from the loss of contract, the extra warmth. It's not the right place to act youthful and they both knew it. Philza is proud, his lessons had paid off, his boy was still here and alive, warm and so full of life. The two exchange looks then nod, and with the intent of leaving the cave the two crawl out of the manmade hole. They were cramped and their muscles ache as they get to stretch them for the first time in god knows how long. Tubbo walks ahead, a bit more familiar with the structure of the cave, even in complete darkness. They can't risk lighting a torch now, the repetitive clicking of their iron boots are already stretching their luck to no end.
When Philza hears water, he's utterly relieved. It's been a long day and an even longer night, and he's exhausted, mostly emotionally, his face burning from the memory of the hug. The effects of the nigh can be seen on the boy as well who swings left to right like a drunk fellow, pure determination keeping him on his feet still.
Their guard is low. They're almost out of the darkness, the water is glistering in the morning sunshine gently. Birds are chirping, and Phil could swear to ever living gods he can hear a cow somewhere near.
And just in a second, in a blink of an unsuspecting eye, a hiss is heard. Phil had forgot the number one rule he teaches his fellow hardcore mates; never let your guard down, the monsters are always lurking.
Phil have no time to think, the hiss came from his right, just where the boy was standing. The dumb promise he had made all those weeks ago is back again, pulling his limbs on strings of honey covered whispered secrets, his vow all lighted up and pulsing with power.
He jumps in front of the boy and wraps him in his arms, pulling both of them to the ground in hopes of getting the least amount of blast and chocking gunpowder creepers are known for. But it's not working, and the explosion leaves his back bare from any armor he ever had on his body. The blast is frighteningly precise, hot flames devouring them instead of the stony surrounding.
It's silent for a second, as Philza feels the life draining out from his body like golden sand. His wings are numb and dull, as if they are made out of metal and rust is eating their interior in a rapid pace. Those once red hearts are quickly losing their colour, red like blood, red life life, grey like dust and misery.
He feels like laughing. He, the king of hardcore, dying of a creeper explosion. He should have bought a shield, just like the boy had said. But then again, the fulfilled promise floats above his head like a crown, all shiny and gold and just the right size for an idiot like him.
He's down to half a heart, a full heart less that what Tubbo was on when they left the Nether on that dreadful day. The poor boy must be traumatized, out of his mind, frantically searching for anything that can save an old man like him. But there's no cure for death.
His cheeks are wet, and he's not sure if the hot tears are his own or someone else's. Unnecessary act of kindness, pure and oh so human it's almost painful to witness.
He's getting dragged on the ground, his wings getting caught on smaller pieces of stone, ripping out feathers from their designated places. It should be painful, but he feels absolutely nothing. His ears are ringing, hot liquid tracing down his jawline, and he's pretty sure his eardrums got blasted and ripped to no repair.
He wants to laugh, but only a pathetic wheezing leaves his dry throat. It's weird, tasting the bubbling irony substance coating his throat while his mouth feels like the Sahara desert. He wants a glass of water.
Philza smiles, his little student grew up fast and strong. He wants to tell him to go, to walk, to run fast, free from any materialistic burden, but speaking never felt this hard before. He stays quiet, his skin getting even more scared as sharp pieces of stone scattered around the floor of the cave cuts it deeply. Maybe it's not even Tubbo, maybe he's already death and the devil himself is dragging him across seven hells all at once.
With an amused puff, he lets his head hang low, he's tired. Tired but satisfied, even if his life was rather unfinished and leaked any real excitement. Philza closes his eyes with a gentle smile on his face.
He wonders if the flickering orangish light is a honey scented candle on his bedside table or the lights of heaven awaiting him with open arms.