Chapter Text
the world was a cruel, cruel place.
wilbur made sure he understood that when the hunters separated him from his brother and father.
when they came back and broke his new brothers horn.
when he got less and less sleep throughout the years.
still, he had to admit he was a bit surprised when the hunter shoved her sword through his stomach, leaving him to die.
but really, what did he expect when he showed up to a fight with nothing but a single strength potion?
well, that wasn’t true. the fight had come to him.
but it still didn’t excuse how unprepared he was for it all.
he should’ve had a sword... something to protect him and his brothers. but he didn’t have anything, and he was definitely paying the price.
he had learned to fight at a young age, and mainly resorted to defensive tactics. techno always took the offense and managed to beat the shit out of him with his wooden swords. but wilbur was always learning and studying his brothers methods and beat him once or twice simply by tiring him out.
it was what gave him the advantage against the hunter that was slicing at him. wilbur knew she was one of the strongest, and wanted to keep her away from the boys. who knows what she could’ve done to tubbo, who as far as wilbur knew, wasn’t experienced in any combat.
wilbur wanted to keep it that way. these boys wouldn’t be forced into fighting for their lives anymore than they already had if he had to say anything about it.
unfortunately, the fight had followed them into the woods, and wilbur was once again gasping for air as the sword was plunged through his body.
as he stood there, shock flying through his body, wilbur could barely register schlatt screaming over the ringing in his ears. he wanted to run to the ram and make sure everything was okay.
of course, wilbur thought to himself as the hunter pulled her sword out of him. of course he would be thinking about schlatt instead of the gaping wound in his body.
he nearly chuckled as he fell to the ground, his head hitting the ground hard. that’ll be a bad headache when he wakes up.
if he wakes up.
wilbur closed his eyes and decided to focus on the snow beneath him. he could hear footsteps, boots crunching the snow as they came towards him.
god, wilbur hated the cold.
he only hated it more now that it caused him to be a second from death.
he could hear voices that he couldn’t decipher, but wilbur knew they sounded desperate.
was it schlatt?
he couldn’t open his eyes to find out.
instead, wilbur tried to feel. feel anything.
why was it all so numb? was he in shock-
something grazed his wound. a hand, maybe? it didn’t matter, because soon all wilbur felt was pain pain pain pain-
well. the shock wore off.
fuck. fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck
he felt like every muscle was on fire. the ringing in his ears got louder. wilbur wanted to scream, and scream, and scream until it all went away.
he couldn’t hear! he couldn’t see! what the fuck was going on-
everything suddenly snapped into place.
wilbur was suddenly aware of every movement, every sound, every feeling around him. it was a shame that he couldn’t fucking open his eyes to see what the hell was going on.
he was wet. he was sticky. what the fuck was all over his clothes-
blood.
shit.
it was snowing. will could feel frozen droplets falling onto his face. he wanted to wipe them away, but there was no use in moving.
he could hear- he could hear schlatt.
“-bur, wilbur, will, please-“
soft hands grazed his face. he knew they were the hybrids.
oh, how badly wilbur wanted to just sit up and hold his brother, tell him that it was fine, he’s fine, it’s okay! there’s nothing wrong, it’s all fine.
it wasn’t fine.
wilbur was going to die. he was going to-
FUCK!
there were hands shoving themselves under him, hands grasping his back and his legs and tearing his wound open from the inside out-
wilbur could pick up small apologies from someones mouth as they lifted him up, barely being registered as the boy unwillingly cried out.
who was it?
doesn’t matter.
wilbur drifted. he drifted in and out, floating one second and being stabbed again the next.
it took him what felt like ages to register that he was now sitting up, body resting against rough tree bark.
something was in front of him, placing their hands on his wound. the hands were warm, and wilbur relished in the contrast in temperature versus the dry air and snow falling onto his face.
how was he still fucking alive? how did this happen? why couldnt he just die-
“-mised... you were never going to leave me! don’t- don’t you remember? you said it was-“
who was talking? what the hell was going on? who...
who was he?
“-ou promised me, wilbur.”
wilbur. that was his name. that was the name of the boy that was found by an archangel, the boy who loved his family more than anything, the boy who was bleeding out against a tree in the middle of fucking nowhere.
the warmth separated itself from wilbur, causing him to want to reach out and bring it back. of course, he couldn’t move even if he tried.
he hated this. he hated feeling helpless, he hated feeling cold, he wished he knew what the fuck was going on-
a new warmth made its way to wilburs stomach.
it stayed stagnant for a few seconds before igniting and getting hotter.
oh wow.
the warmth reached through his veins, up his arms and into his head.
all wilbur could see was yellow, yellow, yellow.
it swirled around his brain and eased his discomfort.
slowly, but surely, wilbur felt himself getting stitched back together. it was pure bliss, this feeling of yellow. it reminded him of days long gone, where a winged man would hold him and heal his scrapes and cuts after a fight with his brother.
it felt like...
it felt like home.
it felt like phil.
the yellow called to him.
what was it saying?
it didn’t matter.
wilbur accepted to yellow with everything he had, and he let it guide him to unconsciousness.
maybe then he wouldn’t be so cold.
maybe the world would be okay for a little while if wilbur just had some time to sleep.