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wilbur is warm for once in his life. the fireplace crackles and pops next to him, the scent of burnt wood filling his chest. wilbur spares a look outside, feeling his heart rate spike as he sees the first snowflakes slide down his window. he tilts his head to the side, the howling wind calling to him, urging him to go outside, urging him to walk out of his home his warm home. wilbur takes a step forwards, although he really doesn't have to - he can float, and feels his legs shake. he shouldn't go outside.
the snow, he thinks, will kill him.
snow makes him melt, he had said. snow and rain will kill him. wilbur will die if he leaves his house, if he leaves the warmth of home.
home. it's a funny word, one that wilbur remembers liking. he liked that word a lot, but now, he doesn't, not anymore. it doesn't mean much to him, especially not after his death. this house is a home, he thinks. by definition, he is home right now. is he really?
wilbur takes another step, entranced by the swirling white snowflakes that fall from the sky. he used to be scared of dying, he remembers that. he was so scared of dying. he had never wanted to die, but now that he's dead, it isn't all that bad. it could be so much worse, he thinks.
can ghosts die?
only one way to find out. wilbur shakes silently, feeling his hand rest on the doorknob. a second later the door flies open, and he feels his chest freeze over, his entire body starting to shake.
ghosts melt in the snow.
the snow will kill him.
wilbur takes another step forwards, dragging his hands along the wooden frame of his home, leaving little trails of stardust behind. the snow is beautiful, crisp and clear and pale white. wilbur loves the snow, he remembers having snowball fights with tommy and techno. he remembers the icy sting of snow hitting him, he remembers his childhood more than anything. he was so happy. he used to be so happy.
he thought he was happy.
was he ever really happy?
what is happiness, anyways? wilbur doesn't have the time to ponder it, so he doesn't. he doesn't have to, he doesn't have to do anything.
he doesn't have to go outside.
but the cold, it calls to him. it makes him feel safe in a way that nothing else ever has, it draws him in. it sings of freedom and safety, and its words are soothing and soft and loving. if he focuses enough, he can almost hear phil's voice in the words. he can hear laughter from far away, someone singing gently across the riverbank. wilbur feels his feet sink under the snow, gasping at the chill.
it feels nice.
wilbur keeps moving, holding out his hands. snowflakes fall into them, and he stares at the holes that they leave behind. wilbur blinks, twisting his face up into a tired frown. oh. ghosts really do melt in the snow.
a shame, he thinks.
he could go back, wilbur knows that. the door is right there, the warmth of his home is right behind him. four steps back and he'd be safe.
four steps forwards, he'd be free.
the singing gets louder, sounding like something called home and freedom and hope. he can't hear the words, but the words aren't important. he focuses in on the melody, listens to the strings hum and vibrate, wondering if he could replicate it. he remembers singing to phil and techno and tommy and tubbo and niki and fundy. he remembers his son growing up, falling asleep in his arms, softly snoring.
niki liked to sing with him, and he remembers teaching her to play his guitar, laughing whenever she would go off-key, making sure that he would do the same so she wouldn't feel bad.
wilbur looks up, hearing a break in the lullaby. the snow falls onto his face, and he reaches up, frowning when he stares at his hands. the holes in them have spread, moving to his arms and to his neck, and, oh.
he's melting.
wilbur closes his eyes, swaying in the bitter cold. it reminds him of something familiar, something nice. he remembers visiting a place where it was always cold. he remembers phil and techno living there, but he doesn't quite remember what it was called.
it was nice, he liked that place.
he misses that place.
wilbur smiles, feeling the wind whip around him, dragging him to the ground. he doesn't feel himself fall, but he knows that he does. wilbur listens to the song restart, repeating the same broken chords over and over and over and over again and it's nice, it's so nice.
he focuses in on the voice, and it sounds like tommy. tommy? he hears tommy, hears the music spike and scream and oh, tommy is here, and oh, he's crying, and why is he crying?
people can't melt in the snow, only ghosts. tommy is okay, he'll be safe. he feels warmth on his shoulders, feels his chest warm up. he pushes that away, brings back the frigid cold. he likes the cold, it's free and it's better than being warm. wilbur doesn't speak, he can't, he thinks. he thinks his jaw is gone, and that's okay because he didn't really need that anyways.
tommy is crying, and wilbur wishes that he wasn't. a pang of guilt hurts him from somewhere deep in the back of his mind, but he ignores that, opting to lean into tommy's embrace, just to make him feel better.
it's a shame that wilbur doesn't have any blue on him, that would help. that always helped, it always used to help. wilbur smiles internally, mentally, feeling himself still, feeling everything go numb. the music cuts off again, which is a shame, but wilbur is okay.
he can live with that.
he feels numb everywhere, feels his eyes stop opening. he stops moving, he stops breathing, his chest stops working and he isn't cold anymore, he really isn't cold. not anymore, no, he's simply..
numb.
ghosts melt in the snow, after all.