Chapter Text
For a long time, while they both sat there, hunched together in grass, Schlatt was scared to look at Wilbur. He was so close- and he seemed so small, which was deeply unnerving, as Wilbur had always been- tall. Physically, and in personality. He commanded attention, despite being so understated and gentle about it. There was an awkwardness to him that came with being taller than everyone else in the room, but he wore it well, and before all of this chaos and politics, Schlatt had admired it. He knew the feeling of being out of place, sticking out of the crowd- for fuck’s sake, he had horns. During his youth he’d tried to hide them, never seen without a cap and letting his hair grow long, but they became so large that it was impossible. So he submitted to their existence, cutting his hair significantly shorter and adorning them with random jewellery he found, wrapping chains and bracelets and even a rosary around them, drawing as much attention as was humanly possible. It wasn’t pride, though. It was resignation, and it was an attempt to make them seem less fucking ugly. Whenever he met someone, that’s where they looked. They made him look like a demon. Maybe it was inevitable for him to turn to the malice and slavering ambition that claimed his life, adopt the persona he believed they gave him. Food for thought, Schlatt considered, as he angled his head carefully so to not catch Wilbur with them. They were sharp. They pushed people away. They were cruel and aggressive and they were all for show.
He was scared to look at Wilbur not only in case he caught him with his horns, but also because he was worried that he would see the vulnerability and emotional exhaustion he knew he wore on his face. For days he’d craved the protective blanket of being drunk, and when he was faced with the prospect of eternal sobriety, staring mournfully at broken glass, and trying to drink alcohol he couldn’t taste, he had spiralled out of control, smashed bottles against walls, screamed himself hoarse the top of his lungs, facing the reality that he had no whiskey crutch and was completely alone and always would be-
Alcohol wasn’t an option anymore. Even as a ghost, he shook. He wondered if Wilbur could feel him trembling and willed himself to stop.
Wilbur had stopped crying a while ago, the violent shakes of his shoulders calming into a steady rise and depress of manual inhale and exhale, breathing exercises in order to calm him down, a tactic Schlatt recognised, so he also began breathing manually, matching Wilbur’s rhythm. They didn’t need to breathe, and Schlatt certainly didn’t need to stop an approaching panic attack. It was calming, though, the warmth, the rhythm, the closeness of how they were sat, as cold as they were, as little the elements of the world now affected them. It was like the approach of the end of the world, but it had already ended, and only they had survived.
What poetic goddamn irony.
“Why don’t I remember?” Wilbur’s voice wavered, and Schlatt swallowed, looking up at the sky as if he could find the answer there, shape it out of the clouds.
“I couldn’t. At first.”
There wasn’t an immediate reaction, so Schlatt finally chanced it and snuck a proper look at Wilbur’s face. He was still grey and washed out, deep hollows beneath his glazed eyes, that stared straight ahead, unblinking. His eyelashes were spiked and stark. For the first time since he’d woken up a ghost, he wondered what he looked like- mournful, empty, washed out, sick? Wilbur as all of these things, his dark hair tangled and unruly. He smelled faintly of gunpowder, he noted in the back of his mind. It was almost addictive, being this close to someone again. It seemed that since they were both dead, senses worked. Only for eachother. Some malevolent force had made it so that the inherent desperation for human interaction meant that just ignoring one another was almost physically impossible. Schlatt wasn’t sure that he could move even if he wanted to, and he was lost in concern about this aspect into Wilbur solved the problem for him, finally lifting his head so that Schlatt had to shift sideways an inch, looking away sheepishly as Wilbur straightened out his shoulders and turned his head to stare. “Really?”
Hopefulness and a hint of concern danced across Wilbur’s deathly features, and Schlatt shifted uncomfortably, suddenly extremely adverse to their close proximity. All Wilbur had done was look at him, but he felt like he was being interrogated. Adamant to remain level headed, Schlatt moved away even further, and crossed his legs, his hands moving to hold onto his knees and his nails digging into the fabric of his slacks- the he pressure of being alone with Wilbur and no façade of authority or power to hide behind was that deeply uncomfortable. “Yeah. It’s probably normal. Just listen to the living, that’s what I did. I found out eventually.”
Now that they had separated, Wilbur looked even more lost, and tilted his head, his mouth opening slightly and then closing, like he couldn’t decide what to say or do. Schlatt sat quietly and watched him as he extended an arm up into the air, flexing his long fingers, almost trying to grasp the sky, seeing how the image flickered, and the light shone through his transparent skin. “This doesn’t feel right.”
“What do you mean?” His words were slow and distracted, and he was barely listening. He just stared at Wilbur, reaching out into the open air, fingers closing around nothingness, his skin pallid and thin and the sleeves of his coat falling down to his elbows. It occurred to him that Wilbur should be angrier than this, less comfortable, less vulnerable, given all that had happened between them. This was not an equal adversary- Schlatt had always been the perpetrator of their divide. The problem had always been him.
“I don’t remember why we were going up that tower. I don’t remember why we were all standing around you in that van. Did you do something- something bad?”
Had he done something bad?
Alex. Tommy. Niki. Wilbur. Tubbo.
Pain surged in his chest suddenly, and he doubled over where he sat, hand clutching at his shirt, screwing his eyes up tightly.
“Schlatt? Hey, are you okay?” The genuine concern in Wilbur’s voice just made the pain worse, and he waved his free hand to try and shoo him away when he scrambled to his feet and then kneeled beside him, placing a hand on Schlatt’s shoulder firmly and using the other to try and tilt his head up towards him. Though he tried to resist, he was too weak to push him away, so he met Wilbur’s eyes. Jesus. Will had no idea. “Schlatt- Schlatt. Are you okay? Jonathan?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine. Fucking get off me,” Schlatt responded almost immediately, as he began to recover, pushing Wilbur back with both of his hands violently and struggling to his feet. Wilbur staggered back a little, propping himself up with one hand and looking up at Schlatt with genuine confusion. “What the fuck, dude?”
“You were crowding me.”
“I was worried!”
“I don’t need you to worry about me.”
“What is wrong with you?” Wilbur stood up.
“We’re dead, Wilbur! Look at me! Look at yourself!” Suddenly, Schlatt was shouting, his voice breaking as his face contorted with rage, completely ignoring Wilbur flinching backwards. “What the fuck do you think is wrong? I feel like shit! I wish death was just nothingness so I wouldn’t have to think anymore! And I’m so- goddamn- cold…”
The silence that followed roared in his ears.
“It’s getting colder every day, Will. I can’t stand it.”
Wilbur stared at him. His hands were deep in his pockets and he looked at Schlatt in a way that made him want to punch him in the face. “I just don’t understand what happened.”
Schlatt did. Up until a point. But this revelation that Wilbur didn’t remember any of what he’d done turned everything fucking upside down. If only he’d forgotten, too. If only they could be the versions of themselves before the existence of this poisonous country.
“Tell me everything you remember.”
“Starting when?”
“From the beginning.”
“I’m not sure it would all be relevant.”
“I don’t give a shit, Wilbur.”
“I remember… Phil, protecting me. And- Tommy, and Techno, my brothers. Sparring with them as kids.”
Maybe that was a little too far back, but Wilbur seemed lost in the past, staring at the ground. “I remember… L’manberg...” He shut his eyes, tight. It hurt to look at him. “And I remember winning the war. Being president. People cheering for me. I remember watching Fundy grow up…” Now, his eyes were shining, and Schlatt’s heart ached for him. In a way, maybe it was better that he didn’t know Fundy had renounced his father in front of Schlatt, even if in the end, Fundy was really on Wilbur’s side all along. He wrote pages and pages about him, analysing him, Schlatt had found it, but at that point, he didn’t care. Old man, alcoholic, asthmatic, what did it matter what people thought of him? He was president.
“I remember Niki. And Sally.” Will lifted his head and looked at him. “I remember winning an election. I remember a ravine. And tunnels. And arrows. And Fire.”
Schlatt shivered. It was so cold. “What do you remember about me?”
“We were friends,” Wilbur said softly, sounding confused, reaching up to rub his hands into his eyes. “You were my best friend. Why did I- why was I chasing you? Why did I hold a sword to your throat? Why did I want to kill you? What have I done, Schlatt? Jesus, what the fuck have I done?” His voice trailed off into a desperately high pitch, and he swayed, like it was difficult to stay upright. Schlatt felt his throat tighten. “I don’t know, Wilbur, I don’t know-“
“Why did I feel so guilty when I saw Tommy? And Tubbo? Why was I scared when I looked at Phil? Why do you make me feel so fucking angry? What fucking happened to L’manberg?” At this, Wilbur fell to his knees. Schlatt made no motion to help him. He felt frozen in place.
“What do you know that I don’t?”