Chapter Text
He holds it together until Ranboo wanders off.
The door is shut, the wind is howling, and Phil allows himself to crumple to his knees.
Wilbur’s alive.
There’s so much he needs to do. He needs to get his notes on revival, he needs to get the questionnaire he was going to ask Tommy, and now Wilbur– he needs to take the picture and put it back on the wall from where he’d tugged it down in surprise and shock during Ranboo’s announcement. He needs to call Technoblade. He needs to do so many things, he needs to get his wings and go–
But all he can do now is sit on the floor and stare at the broken shards of glass from the potion bottle he’d been holding when Ranboo had spit out the words.
Wilbur, alive, and on the SMP.
Wilbur, dead by Phil’s hands, never even buried. Phil knows he has so much to do, so much to say, but right now, all he can do is sit on the floor and try his damndest to pretend like his hands aren’t shaking. Once, Ranboo had shown him and Techno a comedy skit, or something– one of the things he likes to quote– he’d compared Phil to one of the lines. Bottle it up, he’d said, and keep it right here, and then one day, you’ll die. Ranboo had roared with laughter at the comparison, silenced only by Techno’s death glare. Not literal death, he’d amended. Metaphorical. Phil had found it funny, if not personal in the moment. But now?
Prime, he’s a wreck.
Eventually, one of the items on the neverending list in his head never needs to pass.
“Phil?” Techno calls out.
“In here,” Phil replies, and he sounds weak. There’s a pause where Techno absorbs this, and then he’s barging in, eyes alight and slightly scared but he relaxes when he sees him on the ground.
“What’s going on?” He asks immediately, taking two steps to his side and sinking to the floor. The tremors from his boots echo in Phil’s fingers. “Phil? Are you alright?”
“Fine, mate,” Phil reassures, but he can’t look him in the eyes. “It’s– Wilbur, he’s–”
He swallows. Techno’s hand lands heavy on his shoulder.
“Alive,” he finishes. “Wilbur’s alive.”
“Stars,” Techno breathes. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Ranboo told me,” Phil explains, heaving himself up a bit, Techno’s hand warm and doing wonders for his constitution. “He– he came by and said Tommy and Ghostbur had gone into the prison. Only Tommy came out and Wilbur– Wilbur’s back, Techno.”
Techno is quiet, and when Phil lifts his head to meet him, his gaze is on the floor, a frown on his face. Phil takes the silence as encouragement to keep going, so he does.
“Thirteen years,” he breathes aloud. “Thirteen– he’s been dead for thirteen years, Techno. Thirteen. Alone. What does that even do to a person?”
“I don’t know,” Techno says gently, and there’s pity in his voice. He still won’t meet Phil’s eyes.
“He’s going to have changed,” Phil laments. His baby– his baby, with bouncing curls and beautiful eyes, and– “There’s no way he’s the same as he was, Techno, god, fuck, if he blames me–” And then he’s falling and Techno is catching him before he hits the floor, arms warm around his shoulders and breath coming loose and fast against his hair. There’s no tremble to his shoulders but there doesn’t need to be. Phil knows the signs of tears like he knows the pattern of his own breath. It’s coming short now, hiccuping. “If he blames me–”
“He won’t,” Techno says, and it’s muffled into the top of Phil’s head. His fingers card over his back and it’s comforting, almost embarrassingly so. Phil hasn’t broken down like this… since… well, ever, he thinks. “He won’t. He asked you. He’s Wilbur.”
“But I left him in there for thirteen years,” Phil cries, maybe a bit louder than he meant to. “I tried so hard–”
“And you think he won’t see that?” Techno pulls back a bit, and when Phil gets a good look at him there’s still snow in his hair, soft flakes from when he’d been outside, freckled against the pink. “Phil, he’ll know, he’ll have seen it. He can’t blame you. Won’t. And if he does, I’ll send him right back to hell.”
“Techno,” Phil gasps, and Techno chokes a bit.
“Sorry,” he apologizes, but Phil laughs quietly and turns, burying his face into Techno’s neck. He feels as the taller man stills, goes quiet, as his breathing settles slightly. They sit there for a moment, Phil buried in warmth, Techno kneeling and holding. Phil can remember a day when they’d been in the opposite positions– Techno, teary-eyed and shorter, clinging to Phil as he sobbed about the voices. That had been before even Wilbur, before anyone else. What a world we live in, Phil ruminates, to think it’s been reversed so easily.
He’d never been able to grieve, had he?
“I can’t believe he’s alive,” Techno mumbles quietly, eons later. “After all the effort he made to die.”
“He’s a stubborn brat,” Phil says, and they both laugh then, chortles and hot air against Phil’s cheek and his own against Techno’s.
“That’s one way to put it,” Techno says gently, tugging back just enough to cradle Phil’s cheek in one hand, giving him a once-over. “You alright?”
Phil takes stock of himself. His hands are still shaking, but nothing a bit of distraction can’t handle. His feet are numb from being sat on, but his face is warm and Techno’s fingers are calloused but soft. He leans into the touch just a bit, heaving out a breath. The panic in his mind is settled now, a bit less. At the window, a crow knocks.
“I think so,” he says quietly, glancing at the picture of Wilbur on the floor. Taken on a beach trip, so happy. Smiling wide. “I need to– do things.”
“Not now,” Techno says. “Later. You’ve been doing things all day.”
It’s not often Techno gives Phil orders without them both discussing before or after.
“Okay,” he agrees. Just this once, maybe, he’ll listen with argument.