“Fuck– shit .” Wilbur hissed under his breath, his hand flinching back at the hot touch of the oven. He sighed, staring at the charcoal black cake that was still in said oven. It was supposed to be a vanilla cake. He just– he got distracted making the decorations, okay? He stared at his hand, his fingertips glowing a vile red. Instead of holding his hand under the cold sink, he grabbed a cloth to take the cake out and put it on the counter. He stared at it in grief for a few moments.

Wilbur just wanted to bake a cake for his foster parent, since just– it’s stupid. Wilbur had been in the foster system since he was four years old, something uncreative about his parents just not wanting him. Or not ready for him– whatever excuse they might want to use. Maybe they’d bring up something bittersweet about wanting the best life for him and them not being able to do the job, if they wanted to make him feel better.

So Wilbur has had his fair amount of foster homes, he thinks this is his eleventh? He stopped counting after five, not bothering to learn the numbers after that anymore. In most houses he wasn’t the only one, apart from the first few. Families want cute little kids that they can influence, not nine year olds that can’t sit still and have breakdowns. So since he was seven years old he always had to share his space with a lot of other kids, most of which didn’t like him. They were older– stronger– and wanted to test him out. And sadly, most foster ‘parents’ didn’t quite care much. As long as they’d all sit still and look pretty when they came to check up on the lot of them, they were fine.

But that was a different problem. That was a problem for later, one Wilbur would get to eventually. Now he had to figure out how to fix this monstrosity for Birthday. While you weren't his parent, you had fostered Wilbur for over a year now, the longest he had been fostered since he was eight. And Wilbur couldn’t help but feel some sort of obligation to get you something.