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"Kill me!" Wilbur screams, gripping his dad by the shoulders. "Kill me, Phil! Kill me! Look at them, they all want you to! They all want you to kill me! Kill me, kill me, please, please," he chokes on his words, feeling his throat seize up as hot tears stream down his face. "Please, kill me, please, please, please. Please, ki- kill m- kill- kill me- ple- please.." Wilbur sobs, his entire body shaking with anticipation and nervousness and hatred and anger. He's so angry, he's so angry and mad and those emotions are all directed at himself, and he hates himself.
"You're my son," Phil whispers, coaxing him in for a hug. "You're my son. I love you."
For a second, Wilbur thinks that Phil isn't going to kill him.
And then he feels the burning pain in his stomach, rippling all the way down his body, up into his chest. Wilbur screams into Phil's shoulder, clinging onto his dad with a desperation he hasn't felt since he was younger. He listens as Phil whispers soft words to him, gently stroking his hair, holding him even closer. The sword shifts in his gut, the jagged edges ripping him to fucking pieces. Wilbur lets out a shaky breath, bitter laughter of resentment escaping him.
"Thank you," he whispers, closing his eyes. "Thank you."
He stops breathing, and feels nothing but pure euphoria and bliss for a second, finally escaping. Finally being free.
Finally.
Wilbur isn't free.
He stares down at himself, seeing dried blood on his yellow jumper. He wasn't even wearing this jumper when he died. He holds out his hands, twisting them to get a better view. He's grey, he's the colour of fog and slightly see through. Wilbur is dead, he knows that much at least. He looks down at where he is, staring at the grave underneath him. He scoffs when he sees Schlatt's grave right next to his own, rolling his eyes at the lack of flowers on his antagonist's grave. "You deserve that, you bloody bastard." Wilbur seethes under his breath, clenching his hands into fists.
He glances towards his home, glances towards L'manberg. Everything is being rebuilt. He can see the silhouettes of new buildings touching the sky. There's so much there, and he wonders if Tubbo actually managed to get his shit together and start rebuilding. Unless Techno killed them all when he started to go rampant, reaching out into the darkness to summon creatures that should have never existed. Wilbur can't blame him, he was tempted to do the same. And, in a way, he did. Just with a little less magic.
Wilbur starts to walk, wondering if anyone can see hi-
"Wilbur?"
Question answered.
"Wilbur!" Tommy shouts, and Wilbur turns to face his little brother. Tommy stops right in front of him, staring up at him with huge eyes. "But you..you're..you.." Tommy breathes in, standing a little straighter, cracking his neck. "Wilbur?"
There's clear disgust and hatred in his eyes. Tommy hates him, and Wilbur understands. He hates himself more than anyone else could ever hate him. But, if he looks close enough, he can see a glimmer of hope in Tommy's eyes.
He can restart.
Wilbur can restart, he can fix all of this. He can go back to who he used to be.
So he opens his mouth, ignoring the warning sirens in his head.
"Who are you?"
"Do you..remember anything?" Tubbo asks, very clearly wary of him. The President is hunched over, the bags under his eyes already more apparent than they had been a few days ago.
He remembers slowly going insane, he remembers pushing the button that would destroy his home. He remembers screaming at his dad to plunge a sword through his chest and kill him. He remembers yelling at Tommy and Techno, how he started to believe that they were all lying to him. He remembers everything.
"Nope!" Wilbur says with a bright smile. His façade never wavers, not even for a second. He can't let anyone know that he remembers. They all think that he's gone back to before the election. They all think that he's lost his memories, that he's not dangerous. That he only remembers good things. Wilbur wishes that was true, he so desperately wishes that was true. He would do anything to forget, he would sell his soul to hell to restart. "I'm sorry, I.." he tilts his head to the side, keeping the stupid smile on his face. He hates it. He hates his smile, he hates himself and everything about him. "I can try to write what I remember!"
Tubbo stares at him, his hands white-knuckling the edge of the table. "I'll get Tommy to bring you a book," he says the words slowly, pushing himself off of the chair across from him. "Stay here."
"Okay!" Wilbur beams, feeling disgusted at himself. Tubbo disappears out of the door, and Wilbur takes the opportunity to drop his smile. Disgust pools in his stomach, and he wants to throw up. He's fucking disgusting. He hates himself so much, why is he doing this? He could just leave and never come back, he should do that. He needs to do that, he needs to go. He needs to die and stay dead, and Wilbur-
"Hey, big man," Tommy's voice interrupts his thoughts, and Wilbur slips into an easy smile that shouldn't be easy. "Tubbo said that you really don't remember anything."
"I remember a few things," Wilbur corrects, reaching out for the book that Tommy sets on the table. "I remember bullying you, back when you were younger. And I- I remember sparring with Techno, and baking with Niki. And- I watched my son, Fundy, I watched him grow up," Wilbur rambles on, trying to think back on happy memories. "I remember dying. Phil was hugging me when I died." Phil stabbed him in the stomach. Phil killed him.
Tommy stares at him, horror and shock battling for a spot on his face. "Do you..do you remember anything else, big man?" Wilbur smiles, picking up the pen, opening the book.
"I remember winning the election."
Wilbur walks down the steps of Pogtopia, staring at the buttons. They mock him, each one of them sounding similar to Tommy or Tubbo or Niki. A few of them sound like Schlatt, and he tears those off the wall, throwing them as far as he can. He runs his hand down the stone walls as he walks, guilt weighing him down with every single step. He closes his eyes, taking a shuddery breath in. No one tends to keep track of him anymore. He's done a good job convincing everyone that he's harmless, that he isn't a danger to them.
Wilbur is dangerous.
He is the definition of a God's plan gone horribly wrong. He was the protagonist, he was the main character. He got a taste of power and the rush went straight to his head, flooding his mind with desires that he never knew he could have. When he buried the TNT under L'manberg, he felt free. He felt happy. He felt happy that it was going to be over soon, and that's when he knew. He knew that he had finally become the antagonist, that Tommy had finally taken his spot as the main character. That he was a mere side character in Tommy's story.
Maybe Wilbur had never been the main character. He'd like to think that he was, but in the end, it was always Tommy. Tommy, who could do no wrong. Tommy, who only cared about his best friend.
Tommy, who became God's champion.
He feels his legs give out from underneath him, and he falls, hitting his chin on the stony ground. Wilbur doesn't get back up, not seeing the point. Instead, her curls in on himself, tucking his head under his chin. He feels himself cry, he feels himself wail and sob and beg for forgiveness, but he doesn't know who he's begging. Everyone, probably. He screams and breaks and cracks, feeling himself fray at the ends, his head spinning and burning and flooding. His chest screams at him to breathe, and he does, inhaling ashy smoke that fills his lungs, choking him. Wilbur knows that he doesn't have the luxury of dying, but it's nice to pretend, so he keeps breathing, keeps inhaling that smoke that should strangle him.
It doesn't.
"You're not fooling anyone."
Wilbur drags himself off the ground, turning to stare in the direction the voice came from. He stares at Schlatt's apparition, watching as he hovers a metre or so above the ground. "You're wrong," Wilbur laughs, tossing his head to the side. "You're wrong. I'm fooling everyone. Everyone believes me."
"Silver tongue," Schlatt smiles, his eyes narrowing. "Wouldn't it be nice, Wilbur? To be lucky enough to be dead?"
"Fuck you," Wilbur snarls, rage constricting in his heart. "Fuck you. Go away."
"No," Schlatt taunts him, floating over to stand right in front of him, leering down at him. "Why'd you feel the need to lie, Wilbur? Why didn't you just leave? No one wanted you here, anyways. No one needed you. No one wanted you. They stopped wanting you the day you decided to go fucking insane."
"It wasn't a conscious choice," he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut. "I want to start over. I want a second chance."
"You're never going to get one. You're too shit of a person to restart. A sad, pathetic excuse of a man. What would Tommy think? Seeing you here, sobbing about your sad little life? You disgust me, Wilbur. At least I never pretended to be someone I wasn't."
"You don't understand!" Wilbur screams, pushing himself off of the ground, standing chest to chest with Schlatt. "Fuck you! You don't understand, you don't..you.." he feels himself gasping for air, feeling like he's drowning. He bangs his fists against Schlatt's chest, but the man just stares down at him like he's nothing but..like he's nothing. "Fuck you."
"Keep telling yourself lies, martyr," Schlatt whispers. "Maybe one day, you'll believe them."
Schlatt was wrong.
Wilbur can never believe his own lies.
He keeps the stupid smile on his face nearly always, always saying stupid things and laughing and being as bright and positive as he can. No one bats an eye at him anymore. No one bothers to try and treat him like an adult. They all look at him like a child. Like a sad, pathetic child. Like someone who got a second chance that he didn't deserve.
They aren't wrong.
Wilbur may not be the main character, but he's certainly the best actor.
Phil stares at him with guilt in his eyes. Tubbo looks at him with disgust and concern and sadness. Tommy looks at him with grief and confusion. Fundy looks at him with hatred, his son stares at him with rage burning in his eyes. Niki looks at him with distant sadness, she's distant. She's never been distant to him before, but now she is, and Wilbur hates it.
He hates all of it.
He hates himself the most.
"Will?" Tommy's voice rings in his ears, sending waves of panic down into his chest. "You there?"
"Hello, Tommy!" Wilbur beams, feeling sick to his stomach as he floats above Tommy. "What do you need?"
"Uh.." Tommy looks away. "You really don't remember anything. You're.." he sighs. "You aren't the same."
"I'm..sorry?" Wilbur offers, trying to sound as genuine as he can. "I've heard that I was bad. Why would I want to be bad? I don't want to be like him."
"Him?"
Wilbur smiles. "The old me." Tommy blinks, taking a second to regain his composure.
"He wasn't bad," Tommy murmurs. "He was a good man. He was good. You were good. You just messed up at the end. You did some shitty things, but everyone does shitty things," he shakes his head. "I don't..I miss him. He was good. He never stopped being good."
Wilbur stops breathing.
"No," he corrects. "He was bad. He was a bad man, and that's why I'm..that's why I'm glad I don't remember, because I don't want to be like him. He hurt people, I don't want to do that. I don't want to hurt anyone."
"Okay," Tommy's voice is tinged with sadness. "Okay, Wilbur."
And then he's gone, and Wilbur can breathe again.
A shame, really.
Wilbur thought he was finally free.
"Wrong."