Work Text:
Words can't describe the feeling in his chest as he spawns into the world. They can't describe how tense the atmosphere was, how everything seemed to wash in at once. The sounds of fireworks being set off, potions being thrown, grunts and screams and pleas for mercy, all muted by the walls of this damn room. In the center, in front of a chair, stands Wilbur, his son, glassy, scared eyes meeting his.
"Phil?" The sound of Wilbur's voice, one he hasn't heard in months, maybe years, feels like a knife plunged into his chest.
He hums in response, hands loose at his sides as he takes a step forward, leaning back on his foot. Wilbur looks like he's been through hell—the poor man probably has. His eyes are bloodshot, hands forever trembling at his sides, his clothing torn and dirty, hair greasy. It takes every single part of him to stay still, to resist the urge to pull his son into his arms and convince him that they'd be okay.
"Wow." Wilbur's voice is small, the smallest it's ever been, and Phil tries to understand. The battle, above them, this is what's getting back L'manberg, why is he in here? It's the plan B of it all, it's something that was only going to be utilized if it was necessary. Why?
"Yeah," Phil responds, eyes dropping momentarily as he swallows his nerves. They meet Wilbur's once more, "In L'manberg, you said." This isn't L'manberg, not yet. Wilbur turns on his heel, momentarily, to stare at the button, and back at his father. He could only imagine what Wilbur's feeling right now. A strong urge to protect falls over him. He can't.
"Th-" Wilbur pauses for a moment, gazing around the room and swallowing. He's in denial. "This is L'manberg,"
Phil pulls his hands behind his back—Usually, Wilbur would have him keep them where he can see them. He doesn't feel as though he needs to do that anymore, though. He steps further inside, the click of his soles against the stone causing his stomach to churn, falling into a silent staring contest.
Wilbur's the one to break the ice again, "Oh.." he seems to be at a loss for words. Tears begin to pool in his sons eyes, and for the first time in a long, long time, he's suspicious. He openly shows it too, with the way he presses his mouth into a thin line, squinting for any signs of deception. "Okay, I will admit," his words are slow, hesitant, and it's not long before Wilbur's standing tall once more, blinking back those tears and raising his voice back to its normal volume. "Do you know what this button is?"
Phil nods, "Uhuh. I do," and he's not lying. That button will destroy it all. All of it. Each and every building will only live on in memories. He's trying his hardest to not be judgemental, he's trying so, so hard, but it feels impossible.
He watches as Wilbur hesitates, "Have you heard the-the song, on the walls, before?" his voice wavers, only slightly, but it's enough to make Phil's brows furrow. Why did he let it go this far? "Have you heard the song?" He's gesturing wildly around to the lyrics, carved shakily into the walls. There's a saddened smile spreading across the man's features. "I was just saying—I made this big point and-" he stammers, only for a moment. "it was poignant," Phil frowns, wanting to cut in so desperately. He follows Wilbur's eyes to the left side of the wall, and Wilbur stammers more, only illustrating his exhaustion and desperation, "There was a special place, where men could go—but there's-there's- it's not there anymore, you know? It's not.." Wilbur stops, sensing his father's confusion.
"It is there," he offers, like Wilbur's gone insane. It's so unbelievably hard to stay patient, "You've just-you've just won it back, Will." He's careful with his words, so unbelievably careful, like one wrong move would send Wilbur's hand into the button. He watches as Wilbur flips around, suddenly, on a dime, facing the button.
"Phil, I'm always so close to pressing this button, Phil!" The desperation in his voice sends another wave of emotion to crash down on his shoulders. He feels responsible, and the idea sticks to his skin like molten sugar. "I have been-I," the desperate gasp for air leaves his chest tight, a crack in his voice-"-have been here," another gasp for air, Wilbur's fingers are in his hair, clinging to the curly, waxy locks, "like seven or eight times, I have been here," His hands are shaking behind his back, and he's once again wishing he could just pull him into a hug, but he knows he shouldn't. He knows he has to stand back. For what reason? He.. he doesn't know. Yet he won't fucking move. "-seven or eight times."
A long, disappointed sigh falls from his lips. What has Will done? To himself, to his friends-his family? "Phil, I've been here seven or eight times," he sounds so exhausted, so scared, and he meets Phil's eyes. "They're fighting-They're fighting!" It's clear that Will doesn't want them to fight. He's a good man. He.. He used to be. Part of him wants to believe his son, his William is still there. The other half is calling him crazy.
Phil takes another tentative step towards Wilbur. "And you want to blow it up?" he says, slowly, watching his son's shoulders sag as he turns towards the button once more.
The realization seems to hit him like a truck. "Yeah, I-I do, I think-I," he sighs, and Phil speaks up once more.
"You fought so hard to get this-to get this land-" He wishes Wilbur would listen to him, listen to the voice of reason, here in these stone walls. "So hard," His voice is laid over Wilbur's as he speaks up. He falls silent.
"I don't even- I don't even know if it works anymore, Phil. I don't even know if the button works. I could," Phil shakes his head, squeezing his hands into fists momentarily and straightening his hat. More screams of pain from outside of the room. More fireworks, "I could press it," he says it so slowly, "And they might-"
"Do you really wanna take that risk?" Phil asks, a saddened laugh breaking through the tense silence. The sounds of fighting leaves his mouth dry, but he continues nonetheless. "There is a lot of TnT, potentially connected to that button." he gestures towards it, wincing at the eye contact again. He hates it when he does that.
"Phil," he says slowly, raising his eyes to the roof of the room, "There was a saying, Phil," his passion seems to wash over him all at once, vulnerability disappearing entirely. He swallows, harshly, "uh, by a traitor," The subject doesn't seem too emotional, too traumatic anymore. "Once part of L'manberg. A traitor, I don't know if you've heard of, named Eret," He pauses for confirmation, and Phil silently nods, listening oh so closely. "He had a saying, Phil.."
Phil takes another step towards him, anxiety eating at his bones. Wilbur turns back to the button, and he feels his entire body tense. Wilbur seems so perfectly still, so acceptant, so..
"It was never meant to be," he says, voice raising up as he nears the end of the sentence. Sadness washes over him, then panic as Wilbur slams his fist on the button. The sound of TnT hissing fills the room, and it's like the battlefields gone silent.
He gasps as Wilbur turns back to him, a saddened smile on his features. "Oh my god," He takes a step back, "You didn't-" He watches as Wilbur winces away from the heat generating behind the wall. "You didn't-"
Then, the explosions come. Frantic calls and screams, begging and asking what happened. He pulls Will away from the front of the room, back towards the doorway. Fire spreads as water is flung into the air, debris and rubble cascading down, raining from the skies. "Oh my-" he breathes, "Oh my god."
As soon as the blast is finished, he takes a hesitant step towards the rubble, looking out. Behind him, Wilbur exhales, as if a weight has vanished from his shoulders.
"Will!" He screams, turning back towards the rubble. Not- He tries to be understanding, he tries so hard, but Wilbur is so-Wilbur fucked up. "It's all gone!" The words slip from his lips while he's peeking out from their little cave. Another sigh from Wilbur, causing him to turn around.
"My L'manberg!" Wilbur screams, tears streaming down his dirty cheeks. "Phil," he pushes past him, "My unfinished symphony! Blown to the ground, never to be completed!" His voice is steady, loud, and echoes off the remains of buildings, "If I can't have it, no one can have it, Phil!"
Phil stares at Wilbur's accomplished smile, "Oh my god." He whispers, disappointment threading his veins, bones weighted.
"Kill me, Phil, Kill-" He forces eye contact between them. "-me. Phil!" Eyes are wide, and glassy, and he can't help but ask himself where he went wrong. Wilbur thrusts the swords hilt into his hands, and his world comes crashing down. Shakily, he takes it, looking up at Wilbur, shame and grief already charting it's course. "Stab me with it, please, Phil!" Where did he go wrong? How did they get here? How did making flower crowns for Techno and lunch for Tommy turn into this? How did cold nights with hot cocoa and hushed voices-how did-where did-how did it turn into his son, the very man he raised, begging him, pleading for his father to murder him. Phil takes a step back, tears streaming down his face as he takes the deepest breath possible, breaking under the pressure.
"Look, they all want you to!" Wilbur screams, his voice cracking. Phil catches sight of Quackity, Techno, Tommy and a few others gathered at the edge of the destruction.
"I-I cant-" he chokes out, under the cruel hand of Wilbur's words. "You're my son!"
"Phil, kill me!" Wilbur screams back. Poor, poor Wilbur. When did it go wrong? When did Wilbur dismiss the morals he subscribed to? Why wasn't he there to support his son, to prevent him from losing it? His son is so fixated on politics, so paranoid, poisoned by political sacrifice.
Phil whips his head around to look towards the crowd, "No matter what you've done, I can't-" Wilbur grips his shoulder, gesturing wildly to the scenery.
"Look, Look!" There's feral, horrifying rage in his voice, "Look at how much work has gone into this! And it's gone! All of it!" More people have gathered at the rubble, staring at them, at the commotion they're causing. "Do it." Wilbur urges, so sincere and certain. "Fucking do it!"
Phil turns back to him, desperate, "You're-I'm-What the fuck, Will! You're my son! I don't care about what you've done, who you've killed, you're still my boy, the kid I found on the streets! Wilbur, please, Listen!" Pain seeps from his words, and there's silence all around them. Nobody is speaking, and that only creates more pressure. "I'm not going to-"
"This is what I want, Phil! Fulfill my last wish! My father, my mentor, please just-kill me!" Wilbur begs, spreading his arms.
Phil kicks the chair across the room, forcing Wilbur into a hug, his eyes squeezing shut, a sad attempt at stopping the tears. His heart aches, beating desperately in his ears. This is the tightest hug he's given, ever, and he's sure Wilbur can't breathe, but he doesn't care. He needs this. He needs to feel his son's heartbeat under his fingertips once more. He needs to feel the way Wilbur's hair, greasy and sweaty, clumped as it clings to his fingers, he-"I love you, so damn much, Wilbur. I'm so sorry I couldn't help sooner. I'm-" A deep breath. Two. He takes the sword, stepping away and looking at his son's tear-stained cheeks, then his eyes. Those eyes once held a happiness that nobody seemed to be able to break, as dark and mysterious as the sea, but glittering like treasure, bountiful. "I love you, okay?" Wilbur's silence pains him. It's only seconds before he plunges the blade through his son's chest. He watches as the man crumples to the ground, sighing heavily as the sword is wrestled from his grip by the weight of his sons body.
It really was never meant to be.