Archive of Our Own

Wilbur hates the idea of being alone, and yet, look where he is. 

He stares at his therapist blankly, eyes desolate. She’s speaking – her mouth is moving, of course, but he’s not listening. He wants to get out of here, to be away, to go to bed and never wake up. The day is too bright for this. Her voice is too kind. Wilbur bites the inside of his cheek. 

He wants to be by himself today, wants to hide from the world and come out in two days. He doesn’t feel safe; doesn’t feel warm, doesn’t feel comfortable. The walls of the office are colorful, painted in almost every shade of the rainbow, but for once Wilbur just wants something plain; He wants something he can stare at, something to hold onto. All these colors make his head spin. 

“Puffy,” he starts quietly, stopping her mid-speech, “Puffy, tomorrow is his birthday.” 

The woman across from him blinks. She opens her mouth to say something again but then stops, confusion crossing her features. “And who is he?”

“My brother,” Wilbur simply states, looking down at the carpeted floor. “He would have been turning 20 tomorrow at 11 in the morning.”

Heavy emphasis on the ‘would have’ – but he’s certain Puffy had the memo already. 

Part of Wilbur wishes she’d understand, that she’d let him go home and rest, but another part of him wishes she would talk him through it. She was good at that. He needs help.

He can hear her shift. “Are you excited?” Puffy asks, voice soft now. Wilbur lets out a long sigh. Well, is he? That’s a silly question.

“No,” the brunet responds, defeated. “This is the second year without him.” 

A small silence hangs over the two as Wilbur’s reminded of memories he had in the years prior; memories with his family, memories with his brothers. Now it was just him and Techno; something he still wasn’t quite… used to yet. Techno wasn’t even remotely close with him anymore.

He looks up at Puffy, eyes misty. She returns his gaze. “How are you doing?”

That’s a good question. WIlbur reaches up to wipe his eyes, brain still foggy. “Terrible, actually.”

Puffy frowns, her eyebrows knitted together in worry. “Wilbur, would you like to talk about it?” 

He hesitates for a moment, something cold digging into his gut. Does he want to remember, or would he rather forget? He misses the person he was two years ago. He wishes he were still the naive older brother in the past; the person who had thought his brother would get well, the person who thought things wouldn’t end out as they did. 

Wilbur doesn’t think he can get help today, actually. Shit, he should have never mentioned it. 

“No,” he says finally, a look of hurt flashing across his face. “I’m sorry, I..” 

Wilbur trails off, unable to finish his sentence.

It’s what he wanted; guidance, assistance, comfort. But deep down, he knew nothing would help. He would still miss his brother as much as he did the day before, and the day before that too. Nothing would stop the never-ending train of regret. Puffy only nods and offers a reassuring smile, reaching over the table to rub his shoulder. “It’ll be okay, Wilbur. If you need anything, just give my number a call,” she offers, trying her best not to invade. Wilbur appreciates her efforts. 

“Thanks, Puffy.” 

— 

The walk home is a long one. Wilbur doesn’t like walking alone at night – it scares him, the silence a little bit too deafening for his liking. He misses the noisy conversations he’d have every day of his life, the races he’d have back to the house, the constant chatter. 

Wilbur holds onto the umbrella a little tighter, the rain starting to come down harder. Cars rush by him, headlights blinding. It reminds him all too well of… ugh. 

He quickens his pace, footsteps getting faster. The more time he spends out here, the more he feels like a zombie, every inch of survivor’s guilt eating away at his sanity. He hates that he was the only one who survived, yeah. He hates it all. Hates how the memory tears at his head and wears him out in his sleep.

Tommy was… dead. He has been, and he forever will be. There was no stopping that. Time is brutal and it will never cease to be brutal, so what can Wilbur do, really?

The rain halts to a drizzle but his grip on the umbrella stays the same, unchanging. He keeps it that way until he gets to his home — his silent, simple home with four rooms and one person living in it. 

The umbrella is closed and left near the door, and now tired hands fumble through pockets, looking for keys. ‘Where did I put them?’ 

“Under the doormat, dumbass,” Wilbur finds himself muttering quietly, looking under. There lay his spare key for the front door in all of its glory. He picks it up and pushes the ridge into the lock, twisting the knob open. The door pushes open with a creak. 

The brunet steps in and shuts the door behind him, the house pitch black. He reaches for the light and switches it on, kicking his wet shoes off in the process. “I’m home,” he shouts to no one in particular, shrugging his coat off and throwing it onto the floor. 

The home he’s been living in has been long silent for two years now. Empty countertops have been collecting dust and the family pictures on his walls have all been stored in a box and kept underneath his bed. Empty frames were scattered about the floor – Wilbur had managed to keep them in one place, yet the floor still felt crowded – it was probably his lack of cleanliness, he assumes, and he leaves it at that. 

For a moment, he considers calling Phil. After all, it’s probably the right thing to do today. He goes to sit on the couch and pulls out his phone, looking through his contacts. Wilbur stares at the screen, eyes unfocused, hazy. All he wants to do is sleep, he wants to go to sleep, can he sleep? 

He finds himself zoning off, brain going fuzzy. Exhaustion creeps into his mind and threatens to take him hostage.

“Hello?” A familiar voice chirps, and Wilbur’s brought back to the present. He blinks and looks at his screen again, realization dawning on him. Shit, he must’ve pressed the button without knowing. 

The big white letters of the Caller ID shine bright against his face, yet he’s not entirely sure who he rang up. “Hey, it’s me, Wilbur.”

There’s some shifting on the other end and Wilbur closes his eyes, leaning back against the couch. For a moment, he’s afraid he called a person that despised him, or some person he hadn’t seen since his college years. “Hey, mate. How’ve you been holding up?”

Oh, great. Yeah, it’s Phil. That’s… good. 

 Wilbur grumbles. He puts a hand over his eyes in an attempt to calm the headache arising; the pain in his head. “What do you think?” He mutters, loud enough for the phone to pick up. Phil sighs. 

“I know, I was just trying to be nice,” The blonde responds carefully. “I’m sorry, Wil.” 

The brunet knows that it’s some immediate response, and so does Phil, but the words are out of his mouth before he can take them back.

“No, you aren’t. You know that you aren’t,” Wilbur argues. “It’s my fault for everything that happened. He would have survived if I could have just – yknow – been responsible, and –” 

“Wilbur, no.” 

Phil’s voice is teetering on the edge of being dangerous, his patience long gone. 

“ Yes, Phil! I shouldn’t have left him unattended, I knew he was going to pull some stupid stunt, yet I –” 

“No one asked you to ring me up a day before his birthday to blame yourself,” Phil snaps, voice breaking off at the end. “Tommy’s birthday’s supposed to be something to celebrate, not something to mourn. Did you truly think so little of him?” 

The question is vague and Wilbur’s not quite sure what it means, but it’s enough to make him shut up. He pauses mid-sentence and blinks, surprised, caught off guard. He’s not able to answer.

“...Sorry for lashing out,” the blonde starts, but Wilbur’s quick to cut him off. “You’re fine. Sorry for calling.” 

And before the latter could respond, he ends the call and slumps in his seat, biting the inside of his cheek. “I messed that up, didn’t I?” he says to no one in particular, closing his eyes. Yes, Wilbur. Yes you did.

Memories of Tommy flash through his mind like pages of a book, and Wilbur sits through it all, watching each like a slideshow. 

It was his fault that his brother was dead, down, six feet under. It was his fault that Tommy was far away and not here, having endless conversations and constant laughs.

 It was Wilbur’s fault that his family was all split up in different parts of the city; his brother lives somewhere on the outskirts while Phil lives dead in the middle. He lives the furthest away from them – which in his case was probably for the best. 

He wishes things were different in a million different ways. In all of those million different ways, he wishes Tommy was the one who survived and not him. 

With one final sigh, Wilbur drifts off in his seat and feels the darkness slowly slip into his mind. Sleep etches its picture into his brain.

—

When the brunet wakes up, he’s met with something he hasn’t seen in a while. 

“Am I dreaming?” he mutters, sitting up from his sullen haze. He realizes he’s in a bed now, which is odd, since he’s 99% sure he crashed on the couch. The walls of the room were painted yellow and there’s an extra bed in the corner – again, another odd thing, because he moved that out ages ago. It belonged to his brother – they had this thing where they’d sleep in each other’s rooms sometimes, and —

There’s some shuffling from outside the door and Wilbur jumps up, panic fueling his every move. Uh. Did someone sneak in?  

He grabs the pillow he was laying on and holds onto it tightly, ready to slap whoever was in his house in the face big time. The door creaks open and Wilbur raises the mass to hit them when —

“Wil, dad told me to come here and wake your sorry ass up… what the fuck?”

A tall, lanky blonde boy stands at the open door, frowning. He’s wearing a confused look on his face, but it slowly morphs into a smirk as he reaches up to snatch the pillow away. Wilbur blinks, eyes blown wide with shock. “Were you trying to catch me off guard, Wil?”

“Tommy?” Wilbur asks in disbelief, frozen in his place. “Is that you?”

Tommy snorts. “Yeah, it’s me, I’m Technoblade. Wilbur, who else would it be?” 

When Wilbur’s frown only deepens, the blonde sighs in exasperation. “Come on, stop being a bitch. It’s my birthday, can you at least be nice?” He complains, and Wilbur’s heart shatters into pieces. Immediately, he pulls him into a hug, an overwhelming feeling of relief washing over him. 

“Happy birthday, Tommy,” he says, only hugging tighter. The latter slowly hugs back, eyebrows furrowed. 

“...Thanks?” 

Oh, fuck, was this real? Is he really alive? He can’t be. Or maybe he is?

Wilbur pulls away and puts his hands on the blonde’s shoulders, just to make sure. Tommy shakes his hands off, a bit concerned now. “Okay, talk about a moodswing. You were supposed to be up fifteen minutes ago, we’re going out into the city… are you like, drunk, or something? Hungover?” 

The brunet knows it’s a joke. It’s been a running thing they’ve had ever since, well, forever. 

“Definitely not,” Wilbur manages to scrape up, trying to get over his bewilderment. “You’re turning 18.” 

Right, right. This was his 18th birthday. It had to be. 

“And what does that have to do with anything?” Tommy jokes, putting the pillow down on the bed. This room reeks of nostalgia. “Just get up and be in the kitchen soon, Phil made food.” 

The two share eye contact for more than a second, dark brown reaching an electrified blue. Wilbur relishes this, and he wants to stare for longer, but it’d be weird. “Got it. I’ll be out in a few,” he responds, and with that, he turns around. As soon as footsteps retreat, the brunet sits down on the bed, holding his head. This had to be some sick trick. Some side effects of his headache. 

But he had seen Tommy there, alive. Infront of him. And he was solid. Was it a crime to believe? Aw, fuck, whatever. He could do this. 

With a quick sigh, he gets up and goes to the dresser in the corner of the room. He pulls out a familiar yellow sweater and searches the rest of the drawers for some pants. ‘Where did I keep those, again?’ 

Finally, he finds a pair of pants and changes out of.. Well, whatever he was wearing the night before. He’s not sure how or what is happening, but what he does know is that he’s been transported to the past, and things were just the way they were before. Which means that Tommy’s still alive, today’s his birthday, and he’s turning 18. 

“Wilbur, are you that fucking slow?” The blonde calls from downstairs. Speak of the devil. 

The brunet smiles to himself and starts for the door, running a hand through messy curls. “Deal with it, gremlin. I’m coming down right now.” 

Going down the stairs was an.. Experience, to say the least. 

The walls were still covered with pictures – all of which had Wilbur and his brothers in them, of course, since Phil liked to keep track of all the things they’ve done – and will do – together. The counters were filled with random, useless junk that Techno liked to keep in the house. 

“It’s just a hobby,” said Techno, one time in the middle of a light argument. “I like collectin’ things. You got a problem with that?”

Wilbur never really thought much about it until he woke up one day and all the antiques and figurines were all gone, stored up in a box at the back of a moving truck. 

‘Don’t think about that,’ Wilbur says internally, trying to shake that nagging feeling of dread. ‘You’re here now, and things are okay. You are alright.’ 

As he comes down, he can hear Phil speaking in the kitchen with Techno and Tommy. 

“You’re a hundred percent sure you woke him up, right? I don’t see him anywhere, kid.” 

“Don’t call me that, Phil, I’m a big man now! And yeah, I’m actually two hundred percent sure I woke him up. I’m also a teensy bit sure he had something to drink last night.” Tommy whispers that last part, but Wilbur can still hear it loud and clear. 

“Not funny, Tommy,” he mutters, and the blonde turns to him with a squint. 

“I’d like to think it was very funny,” he counters, and Wilbur scoffs. 

“Can you two stop fightin’ and start putting food in your mouth?” Techno mutters from the corner of the table, reading glasses on and novel in hand. It’s some history book, Wilbur bets. He looks his brother up and down and raises an eyebrow. 

“Crazy for you to talk, Tech,” he teases, motioning to the full plate of waffles on his side. 

It feels weird talking to Techno face to face, especially in a state like this. The last conversation they had was more of an argument.

Technoblade immediately scowls and looks back down at his book, turning the page. “Shut up, Wilbur, you’re the one that woke up too late,” he mumbles, voice monotone yet words saying it all. Wilbur laughs, letting the weight of the future fall off of his shoulders. He decides that he’s allowed to enjoy this phenomenon, if only for a little. 

The brunet sits down across from Tommy and takes a bite of the eggs that their father had cooked up for them. It tasted just like it used to – well – what it tastes like now, at least. He’s pretty sure this was the last birthday they had all spent together. 

“So what are the plans for today?” Wilbur asks suddenly, and Tommy looks up from his side of the table, eyes lighting up with excitement.

“We’re going to go shopping n’ shit, I think,” he responds, voice light. “I’m not sure. You guys were the ones who planned it, right?” 

Techno looks up from his book again and glances over at Wilbur, a bit concerned. Regardless, his voice still stays the same color. “Yeah, we did. Wil, you sure you had nothin’ to drink? You were the one who had the idea, y’know.” 

Wilbur blinks, looks down at his plate, and then remembers. Oh, yeah. His 18th birthday. No, he couldn’t forget about such a thing. 

“I promise you, I didn’t drink anything,” he says, and Phil cocks his head to the side. “Actually, come to think about it. Did your hair grow? And you look a bit taller too, mate,” he questions, and Wilbur swallows. ‘Well, that makes no sense. I thought I was the Wilbur from the past.’ 

Then again.. Nothing was making sense right now, so. He didn’t think much of it. “Must’ve had a spurt overnight,” he laughs, and Tommy shares a laugh with him. God, did he miss that. The blonde has to put his fork down and stifle his laughter because Phil looks like he’s seconds away from slapping him in the head. 

“Growth spurt? It can’t be, it’s like we’re synced,” Tommy jokes, eyes crinkled into a smile. “So you get disgustingly old when I age? If I suddenly turn up with another brother, my future looks bleak.” 

Now it’s Wilbur who wants to smack Tommy. He gets up to do so but Techno pushes him back down. “Easy there,” Techno says, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Be the better person ‘n suck it up.” 

“Be the older person,” Tommy corrects, and Wilbur glares lightly.

“Shut up, child.” 

“You can’t call me a fucking child because I’m not one anymore,” he chides, and Wilbur rolls his eyes as he shoves another piece of scrambled egg into his mouth. 

He couldn’t lie, couldn’t put up a good poker face if he tried. He missed this banter – missed the way his mornings would always be loud and full of chatter. He missed how the dishes would never pile up in the washer, and how the plates in his cupboards would never be collecting dust. 

He missed his family. He missed Tommy. 

Part of him hopes that this was all reality, that he had been in some strange coma and he had just awoken now. He wants a second chance. He deserves one. The guilt tears away at his resolve slowly as he sits at the table, chewing on his egg mindlessly. Did he deserve one, really? He can’t really tell. 

—

“When you said shopping, I didn’t think you meant grocery shopping,” Wilbur mutters, squinting at the grocery list. He doesn’t know where his glasses ended up, but they were definitely not on him. 

Tommy scoffs as he inspects the products on the shelves, eyes laser-focused on the items. “The fuck you mean, ‘think’? You were the one who planned this, old man,” he says back nonchalantly, smiling slightly when Wilbur looked up to glare. 

“Don’t call me an old man when you’re on the brink of becoming one,” Wilbur hisses, looking back down at the grocery list. “Now, we need cake mix. Are we in the right aisle?” 

The blonde blinks. He gestures to the shelves around them. “We’re in anywhere but the baking aisle, Wilbur.” 

Once again, the brunet looks up – only this time, it wasn’t to glare. He realized that they were standing in the middle of where the snacks were. “Oh.”

Tommy laughs and Wilbur elbows him in the side. Techno sighs and they’re both once again reminded that their brother was literally standing right there. “The bakin’ aisle is a couple down from here,” Techno says, tilting his head up to look for the beam that says ‘cake mix’. “Should’ve started there if you were lookin’ for baking supplies, you know?” 

Tommy pouts. “It’s not my fault Wilbur’s a prick at understanding where things are,” he complains, and Wilbur rolls his eyes. 

“Whatever, let’s just follow Techno – since, yknow, he’s the only one dedicated to this shopping bit,” Wilbur replies lightly.

The blonde gawks and Techno snorts as he takes the list, scanning it over. “Alright. You two go get the cake mix n’ I’ll go find the rest of the stuff,” he responds, voice speckled with amusement. 

“Hey, this is my birthday shopping, not yours!” Tommy complains, and Techno looks up, feigning a hurt look on his face, “My bad for trying to keep your birthday a surprise. Go get the mix you need before I get everythin’ for you instead.” 

Tommy blinks. “You wouldn’t.” 

Techno scoffs. “I would.” 

There’s something foreign in his twin’s voice that sounds so utterly strange yet familiar at the same time, and Wilbur doesn’t like it. He turns and takes Tommy’s arm, promptly dragging him out of the aisle. Tommy doesn’t fight it – he huffs and lets himself get whisked away. “Techno’s a proper bitch,” he mutters, and the brunet frowns. 

“Not really,” Wilbur defends, looking for the baking aisle. “He’s just a bit weird.” 

Tommy rolls his eyes. “Weird is an awful nice way to put it,” he bites, and Wilbur shushes him. “Be nice,” he scolds. “You never know what might happen. This might be the last day you see him.” 

Fuck, what just happened? 

Wilbur blinks and turns to stare at Tommy, who’s staring at him with such an obscure look on his face. “Why are you so sentimental ‘n shit all of a sudden?” he questions, and Wilbur knows he’s done for. He glances around nervously.

“Uh,” he starts. “I don’t know. But hey, look! There’s the cake aisle.” 

Nice playing, Wil, he curses silently, dragging his bewildered brother towards the baking aisle. 

The people in the grocery store turn to stare at him, but Wilbur ignores their antics, assuming it was just some weird dream thing. 

Right.. This was a dream. 

No — no, no, no, he tells himself, going into the aisle with Tommy in tow. This is reality. This isn’t a dream. Stop thinking it’s a dream and maybe it won’t be.

“Wilbur, stop fuckin’ dragging on me,” Tommy grunts, and Wilbur immediately lets go. “Sorry,” the brunet mumbles, snapping out of his trance. “I forgot.”

“Of course you forgot,” Tommy snorts, smiling to himself. “Old man.”

“Hey,” Wilbur asks suddenly, watching as Tommy reaches for the cake mix on the shelf. He turns, meeting his brother’s gaze. “What are you going to do after today? Do you have any plans?” 

Tommy nods. “Yeah,” he responds, turning back to the cake mix. It looks like he’s debating whether or not to get the chocolate or strawberry. “I’m planning to go and hang with Tubbo. Yknow, just us two. For fun.” 

Wilbur thinks for a few moments, wondering if tomorrow was something he’d stick around for. “Oh, okay.”

“What, are you jealous or somethin’?” Tommy jokes, finally making a decision and taking the strawberry mix off of the shelf. Wilbur shakes his head, chuckling. 

“No, why would I be? I can’t stand your friends,” Wilbur says, and Tommy shoots him a glare. “Hey!” 

The two continue bickering, but the brunet has something else on his mind. His words are meaningless without their bite, and Tommy notices, but he’s too caught up in his own words to say something himself. 

Techno comes into the aisle a few moments later with a shopping cart, holding all of the other things they needed. He leans forward against the handle and watches them fight, pressing his lips into a thin line. “Seriously?” he interrupts. “C’mon, you two, you’re drawin’ attention to yourselves,” he drawls, yawning. 

“Well, Wilbur over here’s being weird,” Tommy accuses, looking the brunet up and down. 

For a second, Wilbur gets a sense of deja vu – something comes over him, and his glare softens. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see a woman with straight brown hair staring at him. She opens her mouth to say something but her words are obscured. Wilbur can see her shake her head.

She looks.. Familiar. Too familiar. 

“ — ilbur,” a voice says. 

“Wilbur, hello? Are you listening?”

He’s pulled from his daze again and immediately nods, flashing the two a smile. “Totally,” he chirps, and Techno sighs. 

“You sick or somethin’? Do you need’ta get some Tylenol while we’re here, too?” 

Wilbur shakes his head, giving them an incredilous look. “No, jesus. Guys, I’m fine.” 

Tommy and Techno share a look but the two nod, giving up. “Okay, but we’re going home, okay? So we can put together whatever the hell you planned,” Tommy says, dropping the cake mix in the cart. “Come on, let’s go.” 

Wilbur hums and helps Techno push the cart as Tommy strolls on ahead, oblivious. He’s trying to seek out the lady he saw mere seconds ago, but she’s gone; the basket in her hands abandoned near the check-out lines, empty. 

“So, what are we making?” Wilbur asks Techno, and his twin shrugs, looking down at the cart warily. “You suggested we make a cake, so we got cake mix. Phil insisted on making dinner, so I bought the stuff he needed for that, too.” 

Wilbur lights up, the memory dawning upon him. “That’s right, I said we would make a cake! Yeah, this is going to be great…. Oh, wait. We don’t…” 

Techno presses his lips together to form a thin line. He leans forward on the cart a little as they push it. “We don’t know how to bake.”

“Right.” 

There’s an awkward silence and Techno clears his throat, pushing the cart towards the self-checkout. “Scan them, nerd,” he tells Tommy, turning to Wilbur. “Look, I don’t know why you’re forgettin’ things or why you look so different, but you need to get a grip on reality.”

Reality? Is this really reality? Wilbur questions internally, staring at Techno blankly. He can’t be so sure. This is what they did on Tommy’s last birthday. This is where they went, but this is not what he said or saw or heard. Things are different. Is this really reality, or is it some fucked up version of the past? 

“Wilbur, stop being an ass and help me,” Tommy whines, scanning all of the items begrudingly. Wilbur blinks and he’s to his side immediately, scanning items. “Just chill out, will you?” He pokes, and the blonde huffs.

“You’re one to say ‘chill out,’ Wil. Are we just going to ignore how on edge you were white I was reaching for a box of cake mix?” he responds, voice lively. It was expected, after all — Tommy was always all over the place, no matter what he was doing or where he was going. It’s been like this since forever. 

The three finish checking out the items and Techno slides his credit card through the slot, squinting at the receipt and then down at the groceries. “Bruh.” 

“What?” Wilbur asks, glancing over his shoulder at him. Techno shoves the receipt in his pocket and pushes the cart towards the door. 

“This cost me a fortune,” he mutters, and Tommy snorts. 

“It’s okay, Techno,” he reassures, “We’ll spend more, don’t worry.” 

That earns a groan from Techno and a chuckle out of Wilbur. God, his siblings could be so funny sometimes. 

— 

Now they’re at home, and they’re baking a cake.

Or – well, at least, trying to. 

“What is that?” Phil cackles, staring at whatever the hell they had put together in a bowl. Techno’s reading the back of the cake box in confusion, eyes scanning over the same paragraph more than one time. Wilbur’s hands are covered in what looked like batter, and Tommy’s trying his hardest not to laugh. 

“A monstrosity,” Wilbur deadpans. 

“Well, we followed everythin’ in the directions,” Techno offers, voice grey, “So maybe it’s just a problem with the cake mix.” 

Wilbur turns to him, frown deepening. “This is literally instant cake mix,” he starts, “There’s no way this was a problem with the mix and the mix only.” 

“Well then maybe it was you?” Tommy offers, and the brunet shoots him a glare. 

“Be quiet, Tommy, you probably snuck something in here – did you actually put something in here while we weren’t looking?” 

Tommy blinks, innocently, and Phil’s biting back a smile. Wilbur narrows his eyes. “You’re sabotaging yourself, you know that, right?” 

The blonde grins. “Just finish making the cake, so we can eat it, Wilbur,” he says, ignoring the brunet’s words. Wilbur looks down at the bowl reluctantly. 

“I don’t even think this is edible..” 

“Well, if the kid says he wants it, then we can throw this in the oven.” 

Phil only laughs harder. “I don’t think he’d survive whatever this is,” he jokes, and Wilbur groans. He reaches for a rag and wipes his hands on the textured surface to get rid of the batter. Some of it sticks to his fingers, dry. 

“Stop making fun of our baking, will you?” 

“Not a chance,” their father responds almost immediately, stifling his laughter. “This is too fucking funny, I’m sorry.” 

Techno puts the box down and then grabs a cake tray from the dishwasher, then starts to pour the batter. Wilbur lets him. “Tommy, I think you’d need a waiver to eat this thing,” the brunet mutters, and Tommy snickers. “Now, come on, do you truly think so little of me?” 

Wilbur blinks and he’s thrown into a state of deja vu again. He stares at Tommy blankly, eyebrows furrowed. The blonde notices and he raises an eyebrow, but he says nothing. Wilbur glances over at Phil, who’s too busy laughing to care. Again.. He fails to answer the question. But does it matter, really?

He misses this, misses the way everything was lighthearted, the way everything didn’t matter. Wilbur missed when things were more simple. This version of his father is a wave of nostalgia washing over his aching heart. He seems so happy here, whereas two years into the future… 

Two years into the future, he’s a lost man, dull from the loss of a kid too young. He’s easy to anger, and rich in regret. The Phil in the future is hardened. 

And it’s only then does he remember that his time is running short, and Tommy’s birthday is almost over. He looks at the clock and his face falls even further when it reads 9:00 PM. 

“How long is that cake going to take?” Wilbur asks Techno, and his twin looks up from the oven. It seems that they had put the thing in whie he was busy thinking. Techno hums, looks at the box, and then glances over at Wil. “Thirty minutes,” he huffs out, and Wilbur nods. “Thanks.” 

“What’s up with you all of a  sudden, Wil?” Phil asks, and the brunet turns to face him. “Deep in thought?” 

Wilbur shrugs, the nickname being said so sickeningly sweet. He might as well be thrust back into the future because Prime, it felt weird hearing him say his name like that. Again, the Phil in the future was cold and tired — he had no kindness left to spare anymore, or at least, nothing left for Wil.

“Just thinking about tomorrow, that's all.” 

“Oh? Do tell,” Tommy interjects, sitting up on the edge of the kitchen counter. He leans in as a joke, to try and mock being interested, but Wilbur laughs and pushes him gently, no real scowl in his actions. Phil props an arm up and rests his head on it, staring at Wilbur.

“Well, you heard the kid,” he says, and the brunet locks eyes with him, brown meeting pale blue. “Do you have plans tomorrow, Wilbur?” 

“Maybe I do,” he responds. He opens his mouth to speak again but something stops him. He sees something in the corner of his vision and he pales almost instantly. 

It’s the lady from earlier, peering into the window. Her gaze is piercing. Wilbur’s eyes widen and his focus is ripped from the conversation. She opens her mouth to say something again, her words barely audible. He doesn’t know how he can hear her, actually, but her voice echoes into the depths of his mind, sentences burning holes into his brain. 

“There’s no tomorrow,” she whispers, words scathing. “Tommy is dead. He is gone. Wake up.”

‘Tommy’s not dead,’ he tries to reassure himself, panic rising like bile in his throat. ‘He’s not dead. He’s right in front of me, lady.’ 

She shakes her head for the second time. “You are in a dream,” she insists, fist raised at the window, “Wake up, wake up, wake up.” 

Wilbur grits his teeth, trying to tear his eyes off of her. She’s only making everyting worse. She’s reminding him. Wilbur doesn’t want to be reminded, he wants to live this life and stay in it forever. “Fuck off,” he manages to say out loud, and immediately, she vanishes. 

“Did you just tell me to fuck off?” Phil asks, bewildered, and Wilbur blinks. 

“Shit, did I?” 

The blonde frowns, and Wilbur’s quick to respond. “I’m sorry, Tommy – I zoned out,” he explains, and Phil chuckles. “What?” 

“Tommy and Techno told me you’ve been doing that a lot today, Wil,” he responds, slightly amused. “Though it’s a bit funny, I’m concerned. Did you get enough sleep last night? Drink something you weren’t supposed to?” 

“Why does everyone think I got intoxicated?” Wilbur groans, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “No, Phil, I’m just tired. Sorry.” 

“Oooh, you just told dad to fuck off,” Tommy taunts, and Wilbur shoots him a glare. “I swear to god –” 

“Cake’s done, come get it you nerds,” Techno interrupts, taking it out of the oven. Tommy turns, excited – that is, until his eyes land on the cake. “Why does it look like that?”

 “We’re supposed to ice it first, you dipshit.” 

“Like… put cubes on it?” 

Wilbur gapes. “I didn’t remember you to be this stupid,” he says, stifling a snort. If the tension wasn’t fading before, it definitely was now. “You put icing on the cake, Tommy. Not ice cubes.”

Techno chuckles, and Phil lets out a cackle. Tommy’s face goes red in embarrassment. “I knew that, guys. Shut up.” 

“You definitely didn’t.” 

“Did too!” 

“Can the both of you stop fightin’ and help me make this look edible?” Techno grumbles, putting it on a glass tray. Tommy tries to open his mouth and speak but Wilbur beats him to it. 

“I don’t think I can trust you to make the cake look good,” Wilbur teases, and Tommy frowns. “Especially since you were the one who suggested we put ice cubes on a cake.” 

“Fuck off, the joke’s dead!”

All of them share another laugh, and Tommy sits in the middle of it, pouting. Their evening is sweet, and so is the cake — to all of their surprise (And Tommy’s delight), it actually tastes like.. Well.. something, at least. When Wilbur takes a bite, all it tastes like is bittersweet regret, the flavor lasting on his tongue. He looks around at his smiling family, then looks down at himself. 

The realization hits him like a brick, right there in the kitchen. The lady is, in fact, right. He doesn’t have time to waste, doesn’t have time to mingle in this mess. He will be gone soon, and this world will be gone with him, left in the past – abandoned, wasted, in the back of his mind. 

But he doesn’t want to say goodbye. He can’t say goodbye… ugh, fuck. 

“Thanks for the cake,” Tommy says, licking up the frosting on his fingers. He looks up at Wilbur and smiles, and his heart almost drops in his chest for what could have been the fifth time today. 

“You’re welcome, Toms. Is there anything else you want to do today? Movie? Ice cream? Anything?”

The blonde shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I think I want to go to bed early today, actually. Y’know, so Bee Boy won’t lose his head over me being late to his little thing?”

“That’s not like you,” Wilbur responds, and Techno huffs in agreement. 

“Yeah, you’re usually beggin’ us to stay up later,” he adds, slicing himself another piece of cake. It sits on his plate nicely. 

Tommy shrugs and takes his empty plate, then drops it in the dishwasher. “Well, I don’t want to this time.”

Techno rolls his eyes while he eats, and Wilbur purses his lips. “Well –” 

“Let him do what he wants, mate,” Phil butts in, looking up at Wilbur strangely. “Y’know, since he’s an adult now?” 

Wilbur doesn’t — he doesn’t want to go to bed. He remembers this exactly as it happened; Tommy went to bed too early, woke up too early, and then asked Wilbur to take him to Tubbo’s early in the morning. It was still dark outside – the sun barely touching the sky – yet Tommy insisted on going, since Tubbo wanted to take a train with him to go see something in another city. 

They were being young, dumb, and silly. 

“No,” Wilbur insists, a little stronger now. Maybe if he tried to get Tommy to stay up later, things wouldn’t happen. Tommy blinks, confused. “Why're you so pressed about it, Wil?” He asks, and Wilbur has to refrain from saying anything that could get him kicked out of this reality. 

“I just think it’d be nice if we stayed up later on your birthday,” he lies sweetly, and Tommy frowns. Wilbur knows it’s not enough to keep him. He knows his efforts are in vain, but he still wanted to try. 

“Wilbur, no –” 

“But why not?” 

“Because he doesn’t want to,” Phil says again, and Wilbur turns to him, mouth ready to argue, but —

But —

He can’t. He’s not allowed to and he knows. Maybe it was some unspoken rule he picked up on in the beginning, or maybe it was just him trying to keep the memory as it was. He didn’t want to change anything, and Prime forbade him to mess with the past even more. He just wanted to relive the life he had lost two years ago.

“Fine,” he says quietly, and he can feel Techno’s concerned gaze linger on the back of his head for a few seconds. Tommy stares at him, still confused.

“Goodnight, Wil,” he tries carefully, and Wilbur simply nods in his direction. 

“Sleep nice, Tommy.” He feels so guilty about this, about watching him leave – because he knows what happens, he knows what’ll go down tomorrow. He watches Tommy retreat up the stairs and rubs his temple, the headache starting to return. “Oh, fuck.” 

When he stumbles, Techno’s quick to catch him and Phil’s in front, trying to talk to him. “Wilbur, seriously this time,” he says, voice dripping with worry. “Are you okay?” 

Wilbur shakes his head and his resolve crumbles. He holds onto Techno, gripping tightly, afraid to let go. He doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t want to leave.

“My head hurts,” he says, grimacing when his ear starts to ring. The noise is high pitched and deafening, and it’s painful. “I’m sorry, fuck, it’s loud.” 

Techno and Phil share a look. “Does this have to do with the cake?” Techno asks, voice monotone, and that makes him snort. Wilbur lets out a choked laugh, trying his hardest not to cry.  “No, I just – no, it wasn’t from the cake. I promise.” 

“Then what’s wrong?” Phil questions, pushing some curls out of Wilbur’s face. He misses this. Misses the kindness, misses the love, misses his family. Fuck, he misses his family.

“It’s — I don’t want to go,” he mutters, and Techno tilts his head. “Go where?” 

“Away,” Wilbur tries to explain, the birds in his head chirping, whistling, banging. They’re getting increasingly louder, and he’s sure he can hear crows cawwing in the distance. “I don’t belong here.” 

“Wilbur, this is your house, it belongs to you,” Phil deadpans. “Literally.”

They don’t understand, Wilbur decides, his heart beating in his chest. They won’t. 

He needs to come to peace with the fact that this world is artificial – it’s fake – and – god, fucking damn it. He can’t save them, he can’t spare their innocence. In every reality, it will always be Wilbur’s fault, and in every reality, Tommy will always be dead. “I’m sorry in advance,” he says suddenly, and Techno shakes him. 

“What do you mean? All this talkin’ and yappin’ ain’t gonna solve whatever’s wrong with your head unless you tell us what’s goin’ on. Why are you apologizing?” 

Wilbur pushes him off gently and rubs his head, the migraine only getting worse. “I’m apologizing for everything. For how I treated Tommy, and for how I treated you guys. I should have been nicer. Should have tried to understand.” 

The only thing Wilbur could do was apologize for everything he’d been holding in for two years straight – and even if this wasn’t his family in present time, it felt wrong to leave – to go – without at least saying sorry. He watches as Techno and Phil exchange glances. 

“...Go say goodnight to Tommy again,” Phil offers, trying to be helpful. “Maybe get your mind off of things. Come on, mate, it’s his birthday, don’t let him end it by being confused.” 

Right.. He probably worried Tommy, too.

He nods and stands upright, making his way to the stairs. “I’ll be here tomorrow,” Wilbur assures them, glancing over his shoulder. “I promise.” 

He’s lying – he can’t promise that.

Techno nods. “Don’t do somethin’ you’ll regret, nerd.” He can hear the humor in his twin’s voice, but it’s disguised under layers of concern, which – to be fair, Wilbur understands. He nods and walks up the steps, head pounding, heart thumping. He knocks on Tommy’s door. 

“Are you still awake?” 

There’s some shuffling on the inside, and Tommy opens the door, hair disheveled and nightclothes hastily thrown on. “What do you think?” he jabs, and Wilbur lets out a small sigh. 

“Can I come in?” He asks, and his voice breaks off at the end. “I want to talk to you about something.”

Tommy nods and he pulls his door wide open, revealing the cluttered floor and messy bed. “Don’t step on the legos,” he mentions, turning and letting Wilbur right in. 

Maybe Wilbur can do something before he leaves. He doesn’t know if it’ll help. 

The lady’s voice is still present in the back of his mind as the migraine painfully starts to subside. “Wake up,” she whispers. “Tommy is dead.” 

Not yet, Wilbur thinks, and he goes to sit on the blonde’s bed. Tommy’s already sitting, messing with the hem of his shirt boredly. “So, what’d you want to say? That you love me? Are you going to kiss me goodnight too?” He questions, snickering a bit when the brunet looks at him with a slight glare. 

“No,” he starts, his gaze suddenly softening, and he takes in all of his brother’s features. He remembers his blue eyes, sees the blonde curls, and notices the smile lines adorning his face. “I wanted to let you know that you’re going to die tomorrow.” 

There it goes. He said it. 

The words feel like salt being dumped into his mouth. Wilbur wants to take it all back once he sees Tommy’s face twist into confusion, and then into one of panic. “The fuck you mean, die? I’m going to be dead?”

In the dim light, he can see the innocence in his brother’s eyes disappear. He wants that innocence back. He wants the light glares, he wants the humor, he wants the jokes. “You’re going to die,” he repeats, frame trembling, eyes watering. “I’m sorry, Tommy.” 

Is this how those doctors felt whenever they had to tell a family that their baby didn’t make it? He felt like his whole body was on fire, the flames eating him up, dragging him slowly into reality. Tommy stares at him, mouth agape, eyes blown wide with fear. 

When he sees the woman standing in the doorway again with a weary expression on her face, he knows his time is starting to run short. He looks at her, then looks at Tommy. “Promise me you won’t go out tomorrow?” He pleads, almost begging. “Promise me you’ll stay safe?” 

Tommy shakes his head. “You’re kidding, Wilbur,” he mutters, scooting back. “Is this some sick joke? Are you trying to ruin my sleep or something?” 

He sounds afraid and terrified, but what Wilbur picks up on the most is his disbelief. He reaches out to try and console him but the blonde scoots away even further. “No, don’t you fucking touch me. Did you truly think so little of me? Has it gotten to the point where you thought I’d fall for some stupid little trick?” 

There it is again – that question. Wilbur wants to respond, to say something, but he can feel his time running short. Again, he can’t answer the question. “Fuck, Tommy. Just…” 

He pulls his brother in for a hug, feeling wetness finally prick at his eyes. “I’m not kidding, Tommy, I wish I was, and—” 

“Shut up,” Tommy interrupts, voice muffled. He hugs him back, face buried in the latter’s shoulder. Wilbur’s heart shatters when he hears him cry, body trembling, shoulder stained with tears. He pulls the blonde closer and hugs him tighter, eyes stinging with tears. He stays silent as his brother sobs. 

“It’s time,” The lady says from the door, and Wilbur’s head jerks up immediately. ‘Give me longer,’ he pleads silently, holding his brother close. ‘Please.’ 

She shakes her head, a grim expression on her face. ‘Say goodbye.’ 

Wilbur hesitates. He looks down at Tommy’s shaking figure. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Tommy, I need to go now.” 

Tommy sniffles, confused. He shifts. “What? You can’t just fuckin – deliver a bomb and leave just like that,” he snaps, still on edge. The brunet stares straight ahead at the wall, tears staining his cheeks. This dream feels too real and in every part of him he wishes it was, but it isn’t, it never will be. 

“Promise me that you won’t forget what I just said,” Wilbur mumbles, feeling his body starting to numb. He can see light filter through the windows and he knows for a fact that it had just been turning night. He pulls away and keeps his hands on Tommy’s shoulders, eyes full of regret.

 “Promise me, Tommy.” 

“I don’t think I’ll forget that,” the blonde says, wiping at his eyes. He’s still trembling, all joy in his eyes gone long since. “Please don’t leave, Wilbur.” 

“I have to. I’m so sorry.” 

Wilbur looks around, the walls now bare and the room starting to fade. He looks at Tommy one more time and tries to pull him in for another hug, but as soon as his body comes into contact with the latter, his world comes crashing down and his vision blacks out. 

——

Wilbur wakes up with a jolt. He shoots straight up from the couch, eyes blown wide, heart beating fast.

He’s sitting on the couch, looking around, gaze softening. The figurines were gone from the countertops. The family pictures were gone. Picture frames were scattered about the floor. 

Was that a dream? He wonders, chest rising and falling unevenly. There’s light filtering through half-shut blinds. Oh, I guess it was.

Wilbur stares up at the cieling blankly, trying to calm himself. When he reaches up to brush his messy curls out of his face, he feels something wet on his cheeks, and it barely registers in his mind that he’s been crying, crying in his dreams, crying in his sleep. 

Fuck, he’s had enough of this. 

He gets up from the couch and goes to the kitchen, then stares at the pile of dishes in the sink, unwashed. He goes and opens the fridge, desperate to try and find leftover cake, but the only thing inside was leftovers. Wilbur doesn’t want to give up though.

Wilbur runs up the stairs and bursts into his room, fist clenched. The bed in the corner is gone and the walls are a faded yellow. 

After that, he looks up at the walls of the hallway, looking for pictures. They were all ripped off from their thumbtacks, a few remaining on the counter where all of Techno’s antiques used to be. 

“No, no,” he mutters quietly, turning and going to Tommy’s room. “It wasn’t a dream. It couldn’t have been.” 

He swings the door open and all he sees is a fixed bed and clean drawers, empty, unchanging. A few dusty school books lay flat on the floor, and the corners of the room house a couple of webs. The room was unused, it’s been unused, it’s been two years, and — fuck. 

The crows in his brain are cawing. Flapping, beating their wings against his sanity. He crawls onto the empty bed and hugs the pillow resting on it, burying his face into its surface. He misses Tommy. He misses his family. 

“Did you truly think so little of me, Wilbur?” The question rings in his head, repeating itself over and over and over again. He lets out a strangled sob and holds onto it tighter, almost allowing himself to cry. 

Hell, what was he doing? 

He remembers what Phil had said the night before, the real Phil,  not the past. How he said that Tommy’s birthday was something to celebrate, not something to mourn on.

Wilbur wipes his face on the pillow, and gets up, then puts it down carefully. He rubs his eyes and stares, cold dread creeping at the pit of his stomach. He has a better idea, something that doesn’t involve tampering with his brother’s room. 

It takes him a few minutes, but when Wilbur’s ready, he gets out of the house with a faded yellow sweater and a pair of ripped pants. The storm from the night before had calmed, and the air outside was humid — but not humid enough to keep the brunet inside. His first stop is a flower shop near the cemetery. 

“Hey, Nik,” he says as he opens the door, and a girl looks up in surprise. She’s shorter than Wilbur, and her hair is dyed pink. She’s holding flowers in her hands, probably for a delivery. She lights up, her face twinged with confusion.

“Hi, Wilbur! It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, how have you been?” Niki responds, arranging her flowers in a bouquet. Wilbur offers a smile, eyebags visible. Niki has always been there for him, through all the turmoil and rain. He’s grateful for her patience, truly. 

“Just fine,” he replies nonchalantly, looking at all of the flowers on display. The walls are painted a light green and it smells like wet grass. 

Niki stares at him, and Wilbur knows that she sees right through. She doesn’t question it, much to Wilbur’s relief, and plows on ahead. “Is there anything I can get you?” 

Wilbur looks up, eyes wide. “What? Oh, yeah. Do you happen to have any bouquets on you right now?” He asks, and oh wow, is that a stupid question. He was just looking at them. 

Niki raises a brow and motions to all of the arrangements scattered about the store, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. 

“Is there anything specific that you need? Any flower type you want? I can see if we have them,” she offers, leaning against the counter. Wilbur looks around and frowns, deep in thought. What would work?

Finally, he sighs, and makes eye contact with his friend. “Give me a second,” the brunet questions, walking around to inspect how each flower was pressed into their bouquets. They’re all beautiful, but he was looking for something different. 

In the corner of his mind, he can see his twin trying to explain to him something that he had learned in his books. 

“Look, I’m tellin’ ya,” he started, shoving the book in his face. “Victorians had a cool thing with flowers and I think you’ll like it!” 

“I don’t like reading books, Techno,” Wilbur pouts, although he knows it isn’t true. He loves literature, just not when his brother had something to say about it. The latter groans and pulls his book back, flipping to a page. Seemingly desperate to get Wilbur’s attention, he turns the book around again and points to a picture of a purple flower. 

“Look! This one has so many different meanings,” he insists, and the brunet squints at the words. It’s a pretty plant and the petals look like… grapes – at least, that’s what they looked like before blooming. It sticks out, and Wilbur gets a sudden burst of interest.

“What’s it called?” 

“Oh, it’s a —” 

Wilbur breaks out of his trance and blinks, the name of the flower going blank in his head. He clicks his tongue while Niki tilts her head, studying him. “Can you describe it for me? The flower, I mean,” she says, and Wilbur sighs. 

“It’s purple,” he explains, brain still trying to come up with the name. “Or, well – yeah, some shade of purple. Had some role in Greek mythology, I think.” 

Wilbur’s not sure about that last one, but Techno would often tell him about things like that, so it was worth a shot. Niki hums, a look of general realization crossing her face. “I think I know what you’re talking about,” she responds, glancing over at the door that led to the greenhouse. “Do you want to take a walk with me?” 

“Sure,” Wilbur blurts, and Niki motions for him to come over. They both walk into the greenhouse quietly, and oh boy is it a change from what he was feeling inside the flowershop. 

It’s humid in here and plants are everywhere, covering the space in every wall and corner possible. Wilbur gapes in awe. 

Last time he had seen Niki, flowers were just a small passion, and her shop was something to keep her busy. Now she had a plethora of bouquets and customers to match. Has it really been that long since they’ve spoken? 

She looks around and admires her work, and Wilbur does the same, taking in his surroundings.

“Did you grow this all?” He whispers, and Niki smiles. 

“Yeah,” she mutters back, voice barely audible. “It’s like home for me.” 

Niki turns and stops, gently pulling out a pot. Inside were purple and blue flowers, sparkling in all of their glory. Wilbur’s eyes are glued onto them, a wave of nostalgia hitting him immediately.

She looks up at him, a twinkle in her eye. “Are these the ones?” 

“I think so,” Wilbur hums, taking the pot and inspecting the flowers. “What are they called?” 

“Hyacinths!” She chirps, putting her hands on her hips proudly. “I managed to force a few in here last spring. Is there a reason you need them?” 

The brunet shrugs. “Why do you ask?” 

“Well, you asked for them specifically,” Niki points out, and Wilbur glances over at her. “So I was just wondering if they were for someone?” 

“They are,” he responds, and he looks down at the flowers again. “I’ll take a bouquet of these two colors. How much do I owe you?” 

“It’s for thirty,” she starts. “Sorry, it’s a bit expensive. But they’re really pretty flowers.” 

Wilbur puts the pot down and digs into his pocket. He pulls out thirty-five dollars and presses them into Niki’s hand. “Keep the change.” 

Niki smiles and nods, then looks at her watch. “It’ll take me some time to make the bouquet – are you okay with staying around for fifteen minutes, or do you need to be somewhere, Mr. I’m-too-busy-to-hang-out?” 

She chuckles and Wilbur elbows her in the side lightly, a smile tugging at his lips. “Cut it out, Niki,” he laughs, relief flooding through his veins. That’s the first time he’s genuinely laughed in a while. “But yes, I’m completely fine with hanging around.” 

And that’s how he ends up walking away from the flower shop thirty minutes later, a bouquet of hyacinths in hand. They’re beautiful, fresh, and they smell great – he doesn’t know how Niki does it, but again, he’s grateful. 

Wilbur walks along the sidewalk with heavy feet, tired eyes looking around. There are many people out today, smiling, running around, having fun. It was an odd feeling to know that everyone else was having a good time with their family while he had nothing at all, but then again, who’s stopping him from calling Phil and Techno up? 

No one but himself. 

He can see pointed gates poke in the distance and that’s when he knows he’s close. Wilbur looks thrice before he walks across an open road.

He doesn’t want to focus on the fading memory of his brother running around said empty road, shouting that he was going to do something that the brunet couldn’t. He didn’t want to remember the damaged headlights or the blaring of some underaged driver. 

He wanted to see Tommy. 

The gates get closer and Wilbur can see the bolded letters of the cemetery stand dully outside of the graveyard. He takes a breath and walks right through, heart racing. Chills run through his body. 

Here goes nothing, he thinks to himself, gripping onto the bouquet tightly. This would be the first time he’s visited Tommy ever since the twelvth of two years ago. God, does that make him a bad person? It makes him feel like a bad person. 

Wilbur trudges about the path hesitantly, eyes scanning for the blonde’s name. When he finds the grave, it’s gray and dirty, unchanging. His name is etched deep into the stoned surface. 

Thomas Smith Minecraft 

Apr. 8, 20XX – Apr. 9, 20XX. 

He can feel an overwhelming drive of regret fuel his senses, and immediately, Wilbur’s crouching and placing the flowers down at his feet. They rest upon the stone, their bright colors contrasting against the dullness. He sits down and stares at the words, feeling the tears prick at his eyes. He can’t cry yet, though. There was no need, was there? 

“Hey, Tommy.” 

There’s no response; not that one was expected, anyways. The purple and blue hyacinths rustle in the wind, still bound together tightly. “How has everything been for you?” 

Fuck, what was he doing. He blinks and wipes his eyes. “Scratch that. I’m sorry. I had this – I had this weird dream last night, and you were in it, and it felt real.”

In his head, he can hear Tommy’s laughter, his words, his voice. And then all of a sudden it feels like he’s there, in front of him, sitting ontop of his grave. 

“Maybe it was.” 

Wilbur opens his eyes and looks around, a bit alarmed. When he seens no one, he assumes it’s just.. Well, him, in the best sense. It was probaby a trick that his mind was playing. 

“I know I wasn’t really a great brother, and fuck, I know it was my fault you aren’t here today. If you’re haunting me, I can tell,” he laughs bitterly, glancing down at the flowers again, “Because I’ve been carrying the same burden for two years now.” 

The wind whistles and a cardinal chirps off in the distance, perched upon a tree overlooking the cemetery. 

“Don’t feel sorry,” the voice says. Wilbur can picture Tommy staring down at him with amused eyes, a smile splayed on his lips. “I don’t know why you’re so upset.” 

“I’m upset because it’s my fault,” the brunet repeats, voice breaking off at the end.He can feel something wet slide on his cheek. “I shouldn’t have let you run out on the road like that. You were just a kid, Tommy. And I thought you were going to get better in the hospital, but I didn’t, and —” 

“Shut up, dude. It was never your fault.” 

God, did that only make him feel worse. Wilbur watches as the petals shift in the gentle breeze. “I was stupid for not watching you. A failure of a brother, really. I should have done better.” 

“Wilbur,” his mind echoes, and Wilbur isn’t sure what’s real and what isn’t anymore. Tommy sounds real. “Wilbur, come on. Sure, I took like.. I took an L at the hospital, and my grave looks real shitty, but do you truly think so little of me? I didn’t die on purpose, you know.” 

That question irks Wilbur. “Oh , Tommy, I thought the world of you.”

There he goes. He said it. He was finally able to respond – after three times – and hell, he’s been holding it in for a while. 

The voice is silent and so he edges on, the tears starting to slip. “I thought you and I were going to fight the world together, hand in hand. I thought our family would stick together forever and nothing would fucking bring us down, but things are different now. I took everything for granted. I took you for granted.” 

“Families aren’t supposed to break up like this,” The voice offers, and the cardinal from the tree chirps again. “I can’t really joke about it, because it’s true – things have been hard for you. Way too hard. I’m sorry Wilbur, I really am.”

“You don’t get to apologize for anything,” Wilbur sniffles. “I thought the world of you. I wanted to be there for you. I wanted to meet your friends, wanted to see you go to college, wanted to watch you conquer the world one step at a time. I had too many expectations thinking at least one was going to make it.” 

His words start to shake and he lets out a choked cry, giving up. “But you didn’t even make it.” 

The Tommy in his head lets out a snort, and then a laugh. He can picture him trying to stifle his laughter, a hand over his mouth, eyes crinkled into a tearful smile. “That’s a good one, Wil,” he cackles. “Made me laugh. 10/10. But stop crying, please?” 

The question sounds more like a beg, and Wilbur doesn’t totally follow. He continues to sob. “I thought the world of you,” he repeats, staring at the words on the gravestone intently through blurry eyes. “I never thought of you as some stupid brother with stupid friends and a stupid future. You were my life, Tommy. I lived for you.” 

“Well, I hate to break it to you Wil, but you need to find a new thing to live for. Especially when this one’s dead.”

“Stop joking around,” Wilbur bites back, scowling through tears. “I miss you, Tommy. I want a second chance, and I know I’ll – fuck – I know I’ll never get one, but…”

The voice sighs. “Honest to Prime I’m not joking,” he starts. “I know you miss me, and I miss you too. I miss the past. I miss dad, I miss Techno, and I miss what things used to be. But I’m never coming back.” 

The words feel like salt to his wounds. Wilbur takes a shallow breath. “I’m sorry that I killed you.”

“Don’t be dumb, WIlbur,” Tommy snorts – or, at least, that’s what Wilbur could hear. “You didn’t kill me. The car did.” 

There’s no winning to this conversation, it seems. In his head, the blonde leans back, looking at him with young eyes. He was still a kid. Sure, Tommy was 18, and he forever will be, but he was still a teenageer.

“But I’ll forgive you, Wilbur. Just so that you stop.” 

Wilbur can’t help but feel that his apology wasn’t enough, but the voice is just his head speaking to him, saying the things that he wanted to hear. There was no Tommy. There couldn’t have been. Tommy is six feet under the ground, dead. 

“I wish you were here with me,” he tries again, looking up at the sky. It’s bright out, and Wilbur feels as though it’s rather unfit for such a moment, but… it’s whatever. 

“We’ll see each other again eventually,” his head rings, and he feels a warmth engulf him from behind. It’s comforting and inviting. He doesn’t think much of it – it’s probably only the sun, after all. 

“Till next time, then?” Wilbur whispers, and the voice laughs a bit, reassuring. 

“Of course. I’m going to haunt you until you die.” 

And when the brunet lets out a teary laugh, he can feel the warmth vanish, and the cardinal flies away. 

Wilbur sits for a few moments. He looks at the name on the grave again and stands up, letting the bouquet sit against the stone. “Bye, Tommy,” he says, and then Wilbur’s walking away. He catches a glimpse of a familiar brown-haired lady standing at a grave a few rows away, eyes downcast, gaze fixated on the letters. 

I hope she finds peace, the brunet thinks, and then he’s off. 

—

“Who’s this?” Phil asks, voice on speaker. Wilbur holds the phone away from his ears and sets it on his kitchen table.

‘Should I reply? Ah, fuck it, I already called him.’ Wilbur sighs and props an arm up, leaning against it. “It’s Wilbur,” he responds, grimacing when he realizes his throat is dry. He interrupts Phil before he can reply. “Before you ask, no, I’m not trying to apologize again.” 

Phil shifts on the other end of the phone, and in that moment, Wilbur feels bad for him. His father’s gone through so much, and although sometimes he could be quite the pain, he deserves a break.

 So many things have happened in such little time. He can imagine a picture of the blonde in his head now; tired eyes, thin expression, slouched figure. Phil from two years ago would disapprove of Phil now – and Wilbur knows that for a fact. 

“Then why did you call?” he questions, most likely groggy from sleep. Wilbur takes a deep breath. ‘You got this, Wil.’ 

“I was wondering if you and Techno could come over.” 

He stares straight at the greyed wall infront of him, anxious for the answer. 

Philza’s quiet for a few moments. He can practically hear the cogs turning in his head. Suddenly, the blonde chuckles, and Wilbur blinks. “What?” 

“Did you finally come around, Wilbur?” Phil asks, voice heavy; amost a little watery, from what the brunet can tell. 

“Come around from what?” 

“From pushing us away, mate. I do admit, we’ve collectively been doing that too, but you were the worst out of us three.” 

Wilbur huffs and Phil lets out another faint laugh. “It’s just – I wanted to do something for Tommy’s birthday. Is that a crime?” 

“Yesterday you were acting like it was one,” his dad mutters, and Wilbur scowls. He relaxes though, and he can feel another weight lift from his shoulders. 

“Just – be here as soon as you can, okay?” 

“Of course, Wilbur. I’m glad I finally got through to you.” 

He wants to snap back at that, but deep down, he knows that Phil’s right – so he doesnt. Wilbur ends the call and scrolls through more of his contacts, trying to search for the familiar pink and gold icon. It’s buried underneath millions of others, but Wilbur finds it with ease. He stares at the call button, heart racing, anxiety starting to spike. 

The last conversation he had with his twin was an arguement. Hell, for all he knew, Techno had probably blocked him – but it was now or never. He grits his teeth and presses on it, praying it doesn’t go straight to voicemail. 

The phone rings once, rings twice, and then Techno picks up. 

“Sup nerd, this is Techno.” 

Wilbur stares at the phone for a second. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and pulls the phone closer. ‘Shit, he actually answered.’ 

“Hey, Tech. It’s been a while.” 

Techno hums. There’s faint music playing in the background, some parts getting cut out from the phone. “Hey, Wilbur. It’s been a bit, you can say that.” 

His voice isn’t cold, it isn’t full of malice, it’s just.. Plain. As if they’ve been speaking for the two years that Techno’s been away. As much as that sounds like a relief, it isn’t. 

“How have you been holding up?” Wilbur asks, trying to keep a strong front. This is his brother, not some stranger. The call is quiet for a few moments before Techno sighs and shifts. 

“What do you want, Wilbur?” he responds. So much for trying to have small talk. 

Wilbur frowns. “Look, Techno. I’m just trying to be civil. Have you checked the date today?” 

“Of course I have, so what do you want?” Techno drawls, voice a bit on edge. “Look, I don’t want your yappin’ and apologizin’. Phil told me you always go to him, and I don’t want to be his replacement. So if you’re calling just to cry, I’m blockin’ you.”

‘Oh,’ Wilbur thinks, and the realization hits him like a bomb. “I’m not going to apologize. I’ve done that enough.” 

He doesn’t want to fight, he really doesn’t — but it sounds like it’s going to be one. Ugh. He plows on when Techno doesn’t respond, most likely just trying to listen.

 “I want to do something for Tommy because we haven’t done something together for him in two years. I know he meant a big deal to you, because he meant the world to me, and I just – I don’t want to stay on shit terms with you forever. Fighting or not, you’re still my twin. And we’re supposed to stick together.”

Wilbur has to admit, he’s being a bit cheesy; but at this point it didn’t matter. He waits for Techno’s response, fingers tapping against the counter. 

Finally, Techno groans. “You could’ve just said that first. What do I need to do and where do I need’ta go?” 

His voice is much lighter now – still monotone, of course, but his words are lifted and the edge is gone. The brunet smiles to himself. Score. “Just be at the old house as soon as you can.” 

Wilbur goes to drop the call, but his brother cuts him off. “Wait.” 

“What?” 

Techno sighs and his phone shifts. There’s an abrupt silence, followed with, “I missed you too, Wil.” 

It’s quiet, the words are barely audible, but that’s the best apology Wilbur’s heard in forever. He chuckles and lifts the phone up to his ear, glancing over at the window to his side. There’s another cardinal sitting on a branch, chirping soundly. It tilts its head at the sight of the brunet and chirps again. 

“See you when you come home,” he says, and Techno hums in agreement. The call is ended and that leaves Wilbur to stare at the cardinal with bright eyes, relief flooding his veins. 

When his family comes over, they’re going to make a cake. It’s going to be shitty and offputting and it’s going to taste horrible , but they’re still going to eat it, and Wilbur might have to force them, but he doesn’t care. They’re going to talk and reminisce and celebrate, because hell, they’re supposed to. It’s Tommy’s birthday, after all. 

He’ll do the dishes – he’ll finally get them done. He’ll put his share of the family photos back on the wall so that he’ll see his brothers again. He’ll dust the counter tops and put more things of his own on there, to fill the empty space that had been unclaimed for too long now. He’ll beg Phil and Techno to move back, and they will, Wilbur doesn’t care how much convincing it’ll take. 

It won’t be the same as before, he knows. But nothing can truly fix what had happened. All he had to give were a million apologies and conversations to – well – nothing but the wind. 

He’ll have to live without Tommy for the rest of his life, and that’ll never be okay, but he’ll learn to be alive again. It was never his fault that Tommy died. The universe was just too cruel. 

“Did you truly think so little of me?” The question rings once more, and Wilbur can finally answer it with ease.

“No, Tommy, I thought the world of you, and I still do.”

Purple hyacinths sit at his brother’s grave, accompanied by a waiting cardinal. It pecks at the petals and accepts them, carrying them up to its nest.