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Wilbur remembers. He remembers everything, he understands. He understands why people stopped looking at him like he was their friend. He understands why the people of L'manberg, his friends and his family, hate him. Wilbur understands why he hates himself. He finally understands everything, he remembers everything, and he hates it. He hates himself most of all. He doesn't remember going insane, and he assumes that's because when he was still alive he didn't remember, either. It was Schlatt's fault, all of it was Schlatt's fault, it had to be. But the more Wilbur thinks about it, the more he lets his mind roam free, he knows that's not true. Maybe partially, just a small amount of it could have been because of Schlatt. But in the end, it was all him. It was always him, it was always his fault, always.
He stares at his ceiling, listening to the wood creak around him. The wind screams in his ears, even if the windows and doors are all locked and shut. Wilbur thinks that he deserves to be like this, to not able to sleep. He wishes that he could sleep, that he could escape his demons. That he could escape the past and himself once more, but alas. Wilbur knows that if he were to sleep, his mind would be plagued with nightmares and his past, his unescapable personal hell. Wilbur remembers the nightmares he had when he was still alive, although he tries to not think about them. The constant screaming that would fill his ears, the way that the screams sounded like Tommy and Niki and Fundy, the way he watched his family get torn apart inside of his own skull, shattering and breaking him.
Wilbur deserved all of it. He deserves everything that's happening to him right now, and that's because he's a bad person. He's a bad fucking person. Wilbur never thought of himself as an antagonist, he always thought that he would save the world. He thought that he'd be the martyr that people looked up to, the person that everyone adored and praised and loved, the hero that would be written about and have songs sung in his name. Wilbur remembers thinking that he was the main character, that he was God's gift to the world. He doesn't know if he truly believed that or not, but he has to wonder if he did. Wilbur knows that it isn't true, that he was never the good guy, no matter how much he would like to twist it.
No matter how he rearranges the words, he can't spin them in a way that makes him the good guy. There's no way to paint himself in the golden light, there's no way for him to claim to be God's champion and to believe himself while saying it. Wilbur knows that no one would believe him, and he's thankful for that. It's nice to know that they figured out he was a shit person long before he figured it out himself. Maybe if he had just stopped for a moment, maybe if he had thought for only a second, things would be better. Maybe if he stopped breathing for half a minute, he would have figured it out. Maybe if stopped thinking that he was the hero, things would have worked out. Wilbur shakes his head, briefly closing his eyes.
There's no point in thinking about that, not now. The deed has already been done, and there is nothing that he can do to fix it. What he did is unfixable, the things he said were awful and horrid. Wilbur never thought of himself as a manipulative person, but as he goes back into his mind, as he looks at his memories, he realises that he was. That he was evil and everything he said he would never be. One taste of power and it went straight to his head, tainting his mind and his heart, purging all of his rationality and ability to think for himself, to think about people other than himself. Wilbur felt the rush of adrenaline and he craved more, he needed more, he staved off of it like a fucking junkie, looking for his next fix, looking for more in every possible nook and cranny.
Technoblade was right, it seems. Power corrupts. Power kills, power only causes endless suffering, an endless cycle of abuse and tyranny. All it does is take the best people in life and destroy them, molding them into power-hungry demons with souls that have been stolen, sold, to further their gain, to further their reach. Wilbur wonders when he sold his soul, when he allowed it to be taken from him. Perhaps he should have just taken Tommy and ran. He shouldn't have fought back, he should have just left. What was the point in fighting? He wanted to be the martyr, he wanted to prove that he wasn't weak, that he could still be important. That he didn't have to be thrown out of the picture quite yet, that he didn't have to be cut out of the plot.
Wilbur wishes that he had realised that. He wishes that he wasn't as stupid as he had been, that he wasn't the biggest idiot alive on the planet. He wishes that he could have stopped himself before he spiraled. He doesn't even know why he spiraled, why he fell into a pit of oblivion and despair and hopelessness. Things were going well, he had gotten Techno on his side, he was finally figuring things out. He was finally fixing things, Wilbur was finally getting himself a foothold, and then he let himself fall. He let himself drop back down to the ground, and then he blamed everyone around him for not catching him. Wilbur kicks away his blankets, even though he doesn't need them. They don't stop him from feeling any less cold, they don't stop him from feeling any less hollow. Wilbur doesn't know which version of himself he prefers. Ghostbur, nicknamed ever so fondly by himself, or this version of him. The one that remembers.
The one that hurts an unbelievable amount. Wilbur didn't know it was possible to hurt so much, but apparently, he can. He thinks that this had to have been how Tommy felt. God, Wilbur hates himself. He hurt his little brother, he was so manipulative and abusive and disgusting to him, and he didn't even realise he was doing it. He thought he was telling him the truth, he thought that he was just trying to prepare him for life, for the eventual ending that it would bring. Wilbur thought he was doing a good thing, and he wasn't, he wasn't at all. He was making everything worse, and that's still all he does, all he knows how to do is make things worse. Wilbur wonders why Phil and Techno put up with him, he wonders why they allow him to sleep in their home.
Surely they hate him as much as he hates himself. Surely. Phil looks at him with sadness and grief in his eyes, tinged with something like bitter resentment, and Wilbur wishes that he would just say his feelings outright. Even if Phil was the one who made the choice to kill him, it was always Wilbur, goading him on, leading his hand. Phil could have stopped himself, but he always tried to do what his sons wanted him to, and Wilbur was begging him to kill him, Wilbur was screaming at him to just fucking do it, and Phil did, Phil killed him. Phil did what he wanted, and Phil was the one who ended his suffering.
Wilbur wonders if he could get Phil to kill him again. He's too much of a coward to go out into the snow and lay there. He's too much of a coward to allow himself to sit in the snow and simply wait. He wishes that he could do that, he wishes that he could push away his fears of not living, of not being sentient and to just fucking do it. But he can't. He can't do it, and he isn't going to try and pretend like he can. Wilbur drifts down the stairs from his living space, listening to the soft snoring of Techno from his bedroom. He doesn't hear Phil, assuming that he's more of a silent sleeper than his brother happens to be. He grabs Phil's coat off of the coat rack by the door, shrugging it onto his shoulders, careful to tighten the cloak around his chest. It's small, but it's better than nothing.
He doesn't plan on dying today, not willingly, at least. Maybe tomorrow he'll have a different mindset, but for now, he just wants to go outside. There's something so tiring about this place, about everything here. There's something so exhausting about moving, about remembering, about everything. Wilbur pushes open the door, watching as snow swirls in front of him, landing on already made piles. Wilbur moves forward, wincing when the snow touches his bare feet, sending chills up his spine. He moves to hover above it, careful to not touch it any longer. Though it isn't like it really matters - being around the snow will make him melt, even if he isn't touching it. Wilbur doesn't understand why, he doesn't understand much. He hates himself for that, for not being able to figure things out.
He moves, spotting a tree in the distance. It's one of the taller ones, overshadowing the rest of the forest. If he squints hard enough at it, the wood almost turns from spruce to oak, pine needles turning into feathery leaves. Wilbur shakes his head, quickly exiling those thoughts from his mind. He doesn't need to think about L'manberg or the L'mantree, he doesn't need to think about his home, how he blew it up, how he destroyed it. Wilbur breathes out, forcing himself to stop, to stop thinking and to start breathing, to stop remembering.
But he can't, he can't fucking stop. He tried so hard when he realised that he knew what happened to him and his friends, but he couldn't. He couldn't repress the memories, his mind wouldn't let him. Wilbur tried so hard to forget, to go back to that peaceful era of bliss and ignorance, but he was never that lucky. He's never been that lucky, it seems. And so he was left to remember, to be aware, to never forget. To understand why everyone, including himself, hates him. He keeps floating to the tree, to his place of limited solace. Wilbur sits in the grass under it, shivering in Phil's coat. He tries his best to pretend like the cold doesn't exist, but it doesn't work. Nothing works to keep out the cold, and he's tried everything.
Wilbur sits under the spruce tree, closing his eyes as he tilts his head up. He feels himself choke on a sob, not entirely sure when he started to cry. He sobs, dragging his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs. Wilbur buries his head into his knees, crying louder than he has in years. He feels himself shaking, his entire body shaking without stopping. Wilbur cries, he cries because he hates himself and everything he's done. He cries because he's a bad person, he cries because he's the worst kind of person, and he hates himself more than he could ever say. Wilbur wishes that he could forget, that he wasn't here, that-
He's warm.
Wilbur feels his throat seize up, feels his chest hurt. He feels a hand on his face, shaking as he opens his eyes. Phil's hands wipe away his tears, his eyes soft and caring. Wilbur watches him, opening his mouth to say something, but Phil just shakes his head. He opens his arms, and Wilbur rushes into them, sobbing on his dad's shoulder, clutching his shirt. Phil's wings wrap around him, and Wilbur feels nothing but nostalgia, nothing but safety. He doesn't understand why, this is exactly how he died. This is exactly how he was killed. Phil hugged him and wiped away his tears and wrapped his wings around him, and then Phil killed him. Wilbur cries, he cries and he doesn't stop, he can't stop.
Phil holds him, never saying anything, never whispering any comforting words. All he does is hold him, and Wilbur lets himself be held, he lets himself be taken care of. Wilbur squeezes his eyes shut, feeling his tears burn, trailing down his cheeks, leaving red scorch marks behind. It burns, it hurts, it hurts so bad, but he can't stop. He collapses in Phil's embrace, letting Phil rock them back and forth, humming a soft melody that sounds similar to L'manbergs anthem. He feels his heart sync to Phil's, feels himself slowly stop crying. Phil never lets him go, he doesn't move away or loosen his grip.
The touch, the unspoken comfort between them, means more than a million words ever could. Wilbur feels warmer than he has in months. Surely Phil has to know what he did, surely Phil has to know how many people he hurt, how many people he manipulated. Techno and Tommy would have confided in him, and if they didn't, Fundy and Tubbo would have. Phil has to know what he did and who he hurt, but he doesn't care. Wilbur chokes back a sob, feeling his heart hurt again. Phil knows that he's a horrible person and yet he doesn't care, and yet he's still here. And yet he's still holding Wilbur to his chest, allowing him to cry and to break and shatter.
Wilbur figures that it must be hours before he moves away from Phil's grip, judging by how the snow has stopped falling and how the sun is rising. Phil looks at him gentle eyes, his face soft, lacking any judgemental features. Wilbur weakly smiles back at him, and Phil's eyes sparkle and crinkle at the edges. His father reaches out, squeezing his shoulder. He nods once, and that's more than enough for Wilbur to understand. Wilbur nods back, feeling exhausted and hurt and disgusting, but..safe. He feels safe. He feels safe even when Phil's wings disappear from around him, he feels safe even when Phil moves his hand.
Together, they walk back to Techno's cabin, both never saying a thing. Wilbur is alright with that, and he assumes that Phil is, as well. They don't have to say anything, both of them know that. They've never had to talk to each other to get their points across, to understand. Phil leaves him in the living room, offering a tired smile before he stalks back off into his room, and Wilbur feels..better. Calmer. His self-hatred still stirs in the bottom of his chest, threatening to uprise at any point, but for now, it's docile. It's settled, even if it's only for a few hours. Wilbur makes himself go back up the stairs into his attic room, listening as Techno's snores echo up through the floor.
He lays back in bed, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the wood creak around him. Wilbur closes his eyes, the warmth of Phil's arms and his wings around him still lingering, never fading once.
And for the first time in what feels like months, Wilbur sleeps easily, without nightmares and without guilt gnawing at his mind.