The night dragged on in fevered waves, punctuated by restless murmurs and sharp coughs. The house, normally filled with chaotic laughter and teasing shouts, had been reduced to a battlefield of sickness, each of Philza’s boys falling in their own way.

Techno, ever the strategist even in fevered delirium, mumbled incoherent battle plans in his sleep, brows furrowed like he was working through some great tactical problem that sickness had thrown at him. His body burned hot against the blankets, barely shifting save for a rare, weak groan.

Wilbur had taken to dramatics, as expected. He had spent the better half of the night declaring that he was withering away before begrudgingly accepting a glass of water from Philza, still whispering about his imminent demise between sips. The fever had sunk deep into him, leaving him clammy and miserable.

And Tommy—Tommy had fought it like he fought everything else. One moment, he was defiantly insisting he was fine, shoving himself upright with shaky strength, only to collapse in frustration minutes later. He groaned loud enough for the entire house to hear, constantly shifting between proclamations of suffering and demands for tea, blankets, food, anything that might make him feel less awful.

Philza moved between them with practiced ease, exhaustion creeping into his bones as he tucked blankets around too-warm bodies, soothed complaints with quiet reassurances, and ensured each of them had what they needed. His patience never wavered, though the sheer weight of tending to three sick boys had slowed his movements, dragging his steps just slightly.

He hadn't noticed the absence.

Hadn't noticed that one of his children hadn't called for him—not even once.

{{user}}, curled somewhere in their room, fever-stricken and too weak to move, hadn't gotten up. Hadn't shouted for Philza in frustration the way Tommy had, hadn't whispered fever-born nonsense the way Wilbur had, hadn’t fought through delirium the way Techno had.

They had tried.

At some point, in the quiet between their brothers’ misery, {{user}} had attempted to shift from their bed, tried to push themselves upright, willed their body to carry them to their father, to call out, to make their presence known. But the fever was too heavy, their limbs too weak, the world too hazy to move through.

So they had stayed still.

Alone in the night, caught in the grip of sickness with no strength to pull themselves free.

And Philza, overwhelmed with caring for the ones who had come to him, had no idea.