Snippet:
Wilbur noticing more and more similarities between dream and Phil
And/or
Techno doing the same
Wilbur wished his father didn't stash the most interesting parts of his life away in the basement. If Wilbur had thousands of years worth of antiques, he'd display it proudly around his house (in beautiful arrangements with perfect feng shui, he would add), not stuff it all in boxes and pretend it didn't exist.
When the world felt overwhelming, Wilbur would go to his father's house and sort through some of it, and he'd walk away with an armful of ancient books about philosophy and warfare, and Philza would frown at his selection. He'd say he doesn't need those books anymore, and that Wilbur could take them.
Half-ripped, covered in dust, and tucked between some history books, was a painting.
It depicted a young man with long blonde hair tied loosely at the base of his neck. His skin, though pale, was sun-kissed and freckled at the peak of his nose and cheeks. He wore white lace at his neck and an elegant brooch that held dark green robes at his shoulders. He looked dainty yet powerful, with an intelligence in his eyes.
It was Dream.
"Phil!" Wilbur called as he carried the painting upstairs, his boots heavy on the floor. He did his best not to trip on the untied laces. "Phil, you've got some explaining to do, old man."
"Mm?"
"Imagine my surprise when I'm sorting through dusty old history books and I find this," Wilbur said, dramatically displaying the painting to where his father was reclining on the couch. He watched as Phil went through a series of expressions-- first, squinting in confusion, then his head tilted as he searched his memory, then finally recognition sparked.
"Ah," Phil said. "Those were very different times, eh?"
"Different times?" Times when his father kept elegant paintings of the enemy?
"I'd never commission a painting of myself like that anymore," Phil said, "Cringe. To use Techno's words."
The whiplash hit like a punch to the chest. This man was his father? This wasn't Dream?
Dream looks more like Philza than his own son does?
"This is you?"
"That's me, mate. From a time I'd like to forget." Phil stood and headed to the kitchen, and as he walked, he turned the painting away from himself, "You're welcome to keep it, but I'd rather it just stay in a box somewhere. I don't want it."
---
Dream's hair grew out in the Vault, and he tied it loosely at the base of his neck. His eyes took on a half-feral and wild sort of light, like green flame. When he regained some muscle it sat on him tightly, as it would on a wild cat, and his ribcage always looked a bit corpselike. As something of a corpse himself, Wilbur was unbothered by that. What threw him off was the image of his own father, now abused and torn apart by his long-time rival. A man who flinched away from his own image.