Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Wilbur thought he understood helplessness.

What it felt like to be invisible, unheard and discarded to the side for something better than he was. 

He wasn’t enough; not for his father, no, Phil was always too busy with Techno’s training or taking care of Tommy and Tubbo to pay attention to Wilbur. Not that Phil did much of the latter, leaving the two young children in the care of a teenager to venture out into the world with his favorite piglin son in tow. Wilbur was left to raise Tommy and Tubbo on his own for the most part, and he didn’t get so much as a ‘thanks’ in return. Just a blithe pat on the back and then they were gone again, like they hadn’t just been gone for months. 

His resentment for his neglectful father and envy for his impassive brother only grew with the years, and Wilbur vowed to show them that he could be great too. That he wasn’t just a nanny or an easy-going musician, because he knew he was so much more than that. Tommy and Tubbo knew too. So when the trio set out on their own, they had bright eyes full of big ideas for the future. 

Philza and Techno wished them well and told them to write; even though they would be too busy to respond. 

Of course, middle-child syndrome was nothing compared to what he felt when his country, the country he founded and ran and loved, the country he had fought tooth and nail for, the country that fathered his son, was ripped from his hands. It only stung worse when it was his long-lost and horned friend who did it, now blinded by a power euphoria and poisoned by the liquor he consumed non-stop. What really dug into his skin, though, was the fact that his citizens even considered voting for either Schlatt or S.W.A.G 2020; as if Wilbur hadn’t done everything for them, like he wasn’t the best president they could ask for. Yet again, he was the second choice, a simple afterthought to be forgotten. A measly footnote in history. 

Exiled, betrayed, and watching his creation, his so-called symphony , be destroyed by the people he thought he trusted. If Tommy wasn’t there, Wilbur was alone. He was so small in the dusty and dim ravine of PogTopia. The once bright fire of a man who charmed the hearts of everyone he met and had a warm personality that made even the most irritable people mellow down was washed away, and in its wake came back the quietly jealous child. The child who craved the approval of anyone who would offer it, the child who wanted nothing more than to make an impact, make some sort of noise that would make his father look to him and finally see him. 

That was what drove him to insanity. Within the confined walls of PogTopia, Wilbur went mad with selfish longing. He yearned for his country, for his power and control he had never had in his life before, his title as ‘President,’ for the cheers of his citizens when he’d give a speech and the eager to listen Tommy and Tubbo when he’d talk, looking up to him like he was some sort of divine being. He wanted the father, the one who didn’t even come to see his own son’s election or lift a wing to help in the war. 

But no. Instead, he just sent Techno, an anarchist, to help in a government coup d’état so the old government could rise to power again even after being beat out by a democratic election - because he was too busy with work. Wilbur wanted that father to tell him he was proud of him. He needed his attention. 

If that involved a little TNT, then that’s how Wilbur would get his undivided attention for once in his life.

He lost sight of who really mattered as time slowly crawled to his fate:

He stopped seeing Tubbo as his friend and brother-in-arms; instead, he was a traitor double-agent, and Techno publicly executing the sixteen-year old while Wilbur and Tommy watched was fine because of this. He was certain it was Tubbo who had taken his button to ignite the TNT, or else the festival would have gone perfectly .

Fundy was no longer his son; he gave up that privilege when he sided with Schlatt. Even when he came crawling back to him, Wilbur despised him. He had been corrupted by Schlatt and was inherently a traitor; just like Eret, just like Tubbo, just like the double-crossing, good-for-nothing Quackity.

Wilbur was rather surprised when Quackity had admitted to wanting to join PogTopia, but when Wilbur saw that dark glimmer in his eyes, the same shimmer that Schlatt had when he waved around his power and exiled Tommy and Wilbur without a second thought, he knew Quackity was only joining for his own gain.

Techno was just a weapon to Wilbur. Someone he could utilize and use to make sure that, no matter what, Phil would show up to finally see what his son had done, what he created, and what he would destroy because he had failed in every way. He had failed as a leader, as a father, and as a son. It had to go, it needed to be cleansed of the corruption that Manberg sowed into its soil. Besides, if Wilbur thought anything more of Techno, it would bring him too many reminders of how inferior he was compared to the piglin abomination.

Tommy. Even until the very end, Wilbur was so sure, so convinced that his right-hand man, his little brother who had looked up to him since he was born, would stay loyal. He had even, for a short time, convinced Wilbur that they didn’t need TNT to take back L’Manberg, that they could heal it together and restore it back to the glory it once possessed. It was Tommy who was able to bring him back from the edge of truly losing his remaining sanity. Sure, Wilbur was still pretty out of his mind, but Tommy provided him with solid ground to remind him that he was fighting for something: for his country, for praise, for recognition . He was also fighting for a home for Tommy, a place his brother could also feel appreciated for, a place he could feel proud of. Coupled with the fact that Wilbur knew he couldn’t be president again due to his unstable and fragile state of mind, he was effectively fighting for Tommy to take his place. He had said once out of anger that Tommy would never be president, and after the wave of guilt that washed over him sent him spiraling only further into his growing depression, he began making the plans and preparing Tommy for presidency if they… No, when they won the war.

It all crumbled underneath him when Tommy rejected the presidency. 

Everything Wilbur put aside for his younger brother had amounted to nothing. The words of advice, the recounts of events Wilbur dealt with during presidency, the gentle guidance towards leadership, everything was for nothing. 

Wilbur was now truly alone. His family betrayed him. His friends betrayed him. Everyone around him had betrayed him in some way. The destructive mindset he thought had disappeared over the last few days leading up to the final battle came back in full-force, and Wilbur now only saw his perfect, ideal end. With nothing left for him to cling to, he could do what he wanted to do in the first place:

Make an impact, make a lot of noise.

He first gave the presidency to Tubbo. He listened to the teen speak, then excused himself. As he left, he knew the joyful celebration wouldn’t last long, not while Techno was there. He could tell his older brother was disgusted with the amount of politics on display, and it wouldn’t be long until he stirred up a storm. Which was perfect for Wilbur, who knew Phil would be on his way to either side with Techno or convince him to leave his brother’s country alone. His father seemed to always have a sixth sense with Techno, like he could smell the anarchist ideology becoming too much for the piglin and knew it would only spill blood, which is one of Techno’s favorite things (besides punting orphans). Wilbur didn’t care who would be the unlucky individual to face that fate anymore; they were all traitors anyways, and had it coming. It was a constant whisper in his ear, only egging him on as he approached the control room with an unnerving calm. 

He knew he was right when he heard the sound of fireworks, and the anguished and bewildered cries of his ‘friends’ from far off.

He reached the chamber, now scrawled with the L’Manberg anthem and so many buttons, all self-vandalized one night when he had really gone off the deep end, drowning his sorrow and shame that he could never shake away with alcohol (for those dark hours in the night, he could almost understand why Schlatt was so dependent on the bottle). Even when he pushed it down as deep as he could and tried to let his insanity cloud it, it still refused to disappear. None of his feelings ever did; everything within Wilbur felt unresolved, unaddressed. Not that talking could do much now, however. He gracefully fell off the edge of the remaining sanity he possessed and embraced the irrational and trigger-happy version of himself that had been begging to be released for months . 

He didn’t need to think about which button was correct because he had memorized where it was after coming to this very spot so many times. When he began to hear voices in his head, some saying to push it and others pleading with him to not, he spoke to himself aloud. He ranted. He yelled. He screamed. He kicked and punched the cold stone walls, his knuckles splitting open and bleeding red as angry tears pricked the corners of his eyes. 

It was childish, like a toddler throwing a tantrum, but Wilbur didn’t care. He had the right to be this angry. He deserved to be allowed to destroy what was originally his creation. L’Manberg was gone, and trying to resurrect it was a mistake. It would only crumble again. If Wilbur couldn’t have it, if he couldn’t be president, and if his people, his own fucking family , couldn’t appreciate him, well… 

No one deserved to have either of them around.

His hand was so close to the button. A mere second and everything would go up in smoke. No more L’Manberg, no more voices chanting at him to detonate it, no more betrayal or back-stabbing. It would all be over. Wilbur could finally find release, regain the control he had long lost even for just a moment. He could relish in the feeling, and see how everyone else liked it when they were the ones who got to feel the heavy and helpless feeling of being stabbed in the back.

“What are you doing?”

Finally. 

He was seeing Wilbur.

As much as Wilbur had thought about what he would say to Phil and how he would say it, he didn’t expect for it to be sheepish and soft-spoken. Like a child who knew they were in trouble, and they were about to be scolded. Phil only matched him in tone, though with more worry and stability than Wilbur’s shaky inflection. 

Phil tried to subtly tell Wilbur not to press it, as he could probably tell by his son’s dark eye bags and messy hair, by his dirty trench coat and mangled beanie, that telling him directly would only do more harm than good. It was all in vain, though. It didn’t matter how much Phil pleaded, how much he told Wilbur that he was worried about him and Tommy and Tubbo, how much he and Techno missed them, how he would wish they’d come back home for a while. At this point, Wilbur didn’t care if Phil told him he was proud or not. It didn’t matter in the past, Wilbur wasn’t important enough then, why would he matter now? Especially to Philza, the Angel of Death? What good does empty praise from a god who only ever truly cared about one son do for another who’s tired of vying for the scraps?

And for a moment, Wilbur remembered an old friend traitor. He remembered a room similar to this one. He remembered the very thing that traitor said before he pressed a button of his own, and Wilbur would have laughed at how history never fails to repeat itself if he hadn’t been preoccupied with making sure his father stared right into Wilbur’s tearful eyes while the hissing sounds of gunpowder kissing the sparks of redstone filled the cavern. 

“It was never meant to be.”

Wilbur raised his hand to his forehead in a salute, the intoxicating, euphoric sounds of TNT behind him and the shocked gasp from Phil as his father watched the wall break open and the land outside become a crater of what once was L’Manberg. Wilbur kept his back towards it, only needing the soothing sounds of explosions and the taste and smell of gunpowder, smoke, and sulfur filling his senses to reassure him that he had completed his mission. He felt light, and he choked back a joyful sob when he turned to see the damage.

Far off, he could see and hear the very mixed reactions of everyone, but they weren’t Phil. Wilbur looked at his father, who was astonished by the destruction that was laid out in front of him. In horrified amazement, Phil had seen that his second eldest had been able to reduce a once beautiful country to nothing but rubble in a crater with a press of a button. His second eldest, who he thought was just an aloof, artsy fool, had just blown up an entire country with a blissful smile and shaky sigh of relief .  

With tears of bittersweet and crazed delight streaming down his face, Wilbur gestured animatedly to the world outside the now exposed cavern. He felt like how he felt when they had won Independence from Dream and his goons. How warm that late summer sun felt as Wilbur hugged his son tightly, as he gave Tommy and Tubbo their official titles as Vice President and Treasurer of State, as they all screamed for Dream to suck it and go back home. 

It was a happy moment he was content to remember.

“MY L’MANBERG, PHIL-!”

It was a lovely memory.

“MY UNFINISHED SYMPHONY, FOREVER UNFINISHED!”

Wilbur was content dying with this memory in his mind.

“Phil, Phil kill me!”

Wilbur thrust his sword into his father’s shaking hands, opening himself up for death’s wonderful embrace.

“I-...YOU’RE MY SON!”

It was like she was calling to him. Death, that was. She and Wilbur tended to always brush against each other, teasing the idea of finally taking each other by the hand to waltz into the great unknown that was whatever came after death. This time, however, Wilbur wasn’t shy and met the eyes of his fate directly, eyes he had avoided with cowardice because he hadn’t yet understood the true allure that she had to offer: and that allure was the rhapsodic feeling of nothingness. No more melancholy. No more envy or resentment or longing, starved for the affection he’d never receive. No more anything as he eagerly awaited his long-overdue date with Death. He could match her in stride and steps and tempo, no matter how painlessly fast or agonizingly slow she decided to take him.

He was ready to waltz.

When it was obvious Phil refused to move, too dumbfounded by everything going on around him and by Wilbur’s request, Wilbur made it easy for him.

What Wilbur may have lacked in strength, he was proficient in swiftness. For example, he quickly pointed the sword’s tip downwards in Phil’s hands and threw himself into it, the blade cleanly sliding through his chest and out of his back. Warm blood quickly stained his coat and Phil’s face twisted in grief, his grip on the sword loosening.

Wilbur slumped down onto the cold stone, facing to look at the destruction of L’Manberg. His home. Phil pulled the sword out of Wilbur’s chest hastily, but he could barely feel it. Tears freely streamed down Wilbur’s face as blood pooled around him, blood that tasted sweet in his mouth.

Phil dropped down beside him, trying to get Will to roll over to no avail, the rising panic in his father's voice dying out as his senses began to fade to black. He could faintly see Tommy holding an unconscious Tubbo, his brother letting out a wail of dismay. He could see his own son nearby, ears pressed down and agony etched all across his face. Others watched on in similar horror. Even Techno had stopped his anarchy to watch as Wilbur bled out by his father’s hand, even if he had a little bit of help from Wilbur himself.

He felt Phil pull Wilbur into his lap, hugging him and begging for him to not leave.

Wilbur was going to be late for his dance. It was rude to keep a lady waiting. The sun felt so warm on his cold skin as Death gave a polite curtsey, and Wilbur took her hand gently as his heart stalled and his chest stopped rising. His eyes remained open, even in death still mesmerized by the beauty of his creation. 

The unfinished symphony accompanied the waltz of Death, the tempo always repeating itself like a broken music disc.

//////

Schlatt knew he was a villain.

He was an abusive alcoholic. He was a horrible person in general, but the abusive alcoholic part was the main reason why he said that. He treated people who actually cared about him like shit, and he acknowledges that. He was an addict who never sought help even when it was offered to him.  He publicly executed his own secretary of state, beat his husband in drunken stupors, called his archbishop a furry on multiple occasions. He drank instead of doing president work, forcing his workload onto Quackity or Tubbo usually, and would verbally berate anyone in his cabinet for the smallest of annoyances. His ideologies were methodically and insidiously capitalistic, valuing property and money over the well-being of people and the country. He didn’t care, he did whatever he wanted. He was influential. He was powerful. He was actively making Manberg a profitable business, and if someone was hurt in his endeavors to further the expansion of his company? That wasn’t his problem. 

He embraced his villainy. He played his role. He died and the heroes were victorious. Simple as that. His whole death speech was just the drunken ramblings of a man who knew he was at his end, and that before he went he might as well give one last monologue for the road. He never expected his predictions to come true.

In his best and clearest memories, he remembered playful banter between himself and Quackity, the awkward advice to Tubbo about how to be more confident and assertive, because he hated how the kid was so nervous and unsure of himself even when it wasn’t Schlatt he was talking to. The weird conversations between Fundy and himself about the most random things, but he was still calling him a furry, even when he was sober. 

Still, those memories were few and far between. Most of his memories were blackouts, yelling, drinking, and more blackouts. 

Schlatt considered himself to be heartless. It was ironic when he died of a heart attack, but Schlatt only took that as confirmation that he had, in fact, a bad heart. He wasn’t good. He didn’t have remorse for what he said to others, didn’t care about what he did or if it harmed people in the process. His morality was definitely questionable. His actions were downright criminal.

So when he arrived in the Afterlife with no alcohol, a supreme lack of hellfire, and wearing his tattered suit jacket and tie, he was, to say the least, rather surprised. The Afterlife was pretty boring, just a white void with not much to do, though it was a step-up from where he thought he would be going.

But to put a damper on this pleasant surprise, Schlatt went through withdrawal. You’d think that death would get rid of any disease or sickness you might’ve faced in life, but Schlatt would beg to differ, as he writhed in pain and sweated bullets. He couldn’t count how many times he thought that he was going to die again, vomiting until he was dry heaving and blacking out only to wake up with foamy spit oozing down from his mouth, undoubtedly from a seizure he must’ve had. Sometimes he thought his head was splitting open, that he was growing a new set of horns, and it hurt so bad that he would scream until his voice was raw and scratchy. Maybe this was hell for Schlatt. Just constant withdrawal, forever and ever. 

It didn’t last forever, though. Eventually, Schlatt felt better. The migraines calmed to foggy headaches, the seizures and vomiting stopped, and his pain ebbed off into a dull ache that permeated his entire body and made him feel sluggish; definitely preferable to the unbearable state he had been in for so long. If there was still any sort of time in this purgatory, he would’ve guessed that he had been suffering for weeks. However, there was no telling how time passed here. It could be barely a minute past his demise in the Overworld, or centuries could’ve passed, leaving him long forgotten to the testaments of time.

And so he hung out in the Afterlife, bored but fine with what he was graciously and undeservedly given, seeing as who he was in life. 

What he didn’t expect was a certain tall British man to find him there. 

Schlatt had been staring off into the vast, neverending expanse of the Afterlife and remembering the memories he could remember, as that’s pretty much the only thing you could do here. You never got hungry, thirsty, or had to use the bathroom. You never got tired, so sleep wasn’t necessary. You didn’t even need to breathe, which was oddly nice to not move while you wallowed in your own boredom. But Schlatt was brought out of it by someone calling out to him. He first brushed it off as him starting to go crazy, but when he started to put a face to the familiar accented tone, he wanted nothing more than to die once again. 

He turned to look at the voice coming from behind him, only to be suddenly enveloped in a hug by the sickly-looking Brit. The sudden contact startled Schlatt as he tried to wriggle from the man’s grip, but his arms were ironclad and, eventually, Schlatt gave up resisting, resigning himself to the hug until the Brit was done.

Although they may have died enemies, there was a time before the election, before politics and the hunger for power blinded Schlatt and he fell victim to his alcoholism, that they were what could be called ‘friends.’ Back then, Schlatt still was rather questionable in his morality, but he was more carefree and humorous than the ram-hybrid that died in that van. He and Wilbur actually got on pretty well, having met while Wilbur was still traveling and seeking a place to call home with his younger brother and Tubbo, his brother’s friend - he found it peculiar that the moobloom-hybrid wasn’t considered a brother in Wilbur’s eyes, seeing as all of them were adopted by the Angel of Death, but never questioned him directly because it wasn’t his place to ask - and even invited Schlatt to join the country he founded after the War for Independence was over. Schlatt declined, already occupied with a growing business he was co-operating with Connor, a business affiliate he met many years before Wilbur. 

However, when his business began to collapse, when he started to accumulate massive amounts of debts and unpaid loans, when Connor parted ways with him after a very heated and hurtful argument, when he was at his lowest low with only a bottle of whiskey or tequila to comfort him: a man in a green hoodie and smiley-face mask showed up at his doorstep with an offer.

He told Schlatt of an election that was being held in the SMP he had been ousted from after a few shenanigans he pulled there, which also effectively cut off his communication with Wilbur. He never heard from him, and Schlatt assumed the president had forgotten about him. The election was rumored to be rigged, and this masked man, Dream he called himself, asked Schlatt if he wanted to have another chance at power. But instead of being a CEO, he’d be a ruler. An emperor . 

Schlatt felt the phantom feeling of all the power he'd lost in his business being regained in that sort of position of leadership. The additional excess of control sent him into the hungry fantasies of a broken, pathetically spiteful man with nothing to lose and no one left to care about his actions. After all, Connor was gone, Wilbur forgot about him, his company was dying; Schlatt was left to fend for himself. It was more than enough to convince an embittered Schlatt to run, setting his sights for the top of the food chain. And when Schlatt dedicated himself to a goal, it was rare that he ever failed to get there. He was ruthless and persistent, and now with severed bonds, he could reach the full potential of his ambitiousness no matter how rotten and malevolent it became. This here was the point of his drastic devolution from a morally ambiguous but respectable businessman to a cruel, tyrannical drunk, hated by the ones who brought him to that position to control everything. 

But they brought that upon themselves. It wasn’t Schlatt’s fault that they voted one too many times for S.W.A.G 2020 and his own campaign. It wasn’t his problem when the two rivals combined their votes and beat out P.O.G 2020 by an incrementally small percentage, because if they really didn’t want anyone else to win they would’ve voted for Wilbur and his L’Manberg and it would’ve been settled. Just to rub salt into the wound with how dismally screwed over the citizens had made themselves, he exiled the ex-president and his little brother, showing how that was just the start of Schlatt’s reign. He would ride that power-trip until he crashed and burned; whether or not L’Manberg came down with him didn’t matter. 

This is precisely why you don’t vote for the joke candidate.

In a brief moment of clarity, though, as he stood upon the stage in front of the citizens of the newly-named Manberg, as Wilbur stared up at him with bitterness and Tommy with perplexed ire, he caught sight of Tubbo, L’Manberg’s now ex-treasurer. He looked so confused, frightened even. The moobloom-hybrid briefly reminded him of himself when he was younger, before he became a cut-throat businessman with a distorted sense of humor. His friends weren’t even paying any mind to him, instead looking at each other and whispering frantically as they tried to figure out what was going on. He wasn’t privy to their conversation even though he too had just lost his job. When Schlatt had interactions with the whole trio, usually brief, he always noticed how the moobloom was usually left out of the conversation if Wilbur was talking to Tommy or vice versa. He was invisible to them, a side-character to their story arcs. A push-over. Maybe it was time the kid got a chance to be his own character. 

That’s when he made the spur-of-the-moment decision and declared Tubbo as his secretary of state. No longer was he going to play a supporting role, he was being thrust into the spotlight.

The clarity faded, and he went back to being corrupt and antagonistic. Tubbo never again reminded him of himself, and he forgot about the thoughtful moment when he took pity on the teen and gave him a place to start being his own person instead of a side-kick. 

Still, in the few good memories he had of the teen, he was smarter than most gave him credit for. Maybe even smarter than Schlatt at times. He wasn’t a very good liar, so it wasn’t too hard to eventually realize that he was a spy, but he was clever and sneaky enough to hide it for so long without Schlatt growing suspicious. It was respectable , but foolish to cross a man as callous and far gone as Schlatt. He had no remorse for the traitor when he ordered his execution. Not even a moment of clarity that maybe, just maybe, this was crossing a few lines. It’s just another reason why Schlatt was adamant that he didn’t have the capacity to care. He never stopped to think about how liqueur and the tunnel-vision powered by greed and growth and control may have sedated his empathy and regard for others.

Now that he had none of that to hide behind and drown himself in, maybe sobriety could introduce him to human emotions once again. And his first reintroduction was Wilbur, who was like a slap in the face to Schlatt’s entire system.

Once Wilbur released him, Schlatt took a couple steps back and fixed his suit, smoothing out the wrinkles created by the tight squeeze he was just trapped in. He looked up to face his former enemy to tell him off for ruining his suit he had spent hours fixing after his withdrawal phase. What stopped him was the dried scarlet that covered Wilbur’s trench coat and shirt beneath. He smelled like ash and lit gunpowder, and if his tattered, singed attire was anything to go by, something went boom . It raised an uncharacteristic worry within the ram-hybrid, the first clear and sober feeling he’d felt in a very, very long time. 

“What the fuck did you do, you goddamn pyromaniac?”

A content look rested on Wilbur’s face, and now that Schlatt wasn't preoccupied with being intoxicated and bitter, he could see the sickly features of his friend from once upon a time. His dirt-colored hair was matted and unkempt, strands fraying every which way even beneath the old, faded beanie that concealed the rest of it. His eyes were no longer the chocolate brown ablaze with ideas and a charming glint, instead being a dull charcoal color, heavy with exhaustion. The bags beneath his eyes were an unsettling and ill-looking purple, like he hadn’t slept in years. His cheeks were hollow and his whole face looked gaunt, and now that Schlatt really took a close look at him, Wilbur was incredibly thin , nothing like the handsome and well-fed man Schlatt had known before the election.

Wilbur was slow to reply, like he was reminiscing on something, but when he finally spoke it was slow and smooth, though lacking a certain dramatic and theatrical inflection he always seemed to use when he spoke.

“It’s gone.”

“What? What do you mean it’s gone? Wilbur, why the fuck are you here?” Schlatt didn’t mean for his voice to rise in pitch, an unfamiliar and uneasy feeling pooling in his gut.

“You said it yourself, Schlatt,”   Wilbur sighed, looking not at Schlatt but through him, obviously somewhere else in his head. “When you die, so does the country.”

“Wilbur, what the hell do you mean-?”

“I got rid of it.”

Schlatt grabbed the Brit’s arms and shook him, trying to take him out of his own head and get him to stop being so vague. 

“Wilbur! Fucking focus, man,” Schlatt urged, a frustrated growl lacing between the letters of his words. “What did you do?”

Wilbur’s head rolled limp and tilted to the side, blinking slowly at Schlatt. A lazy grin pulled at his colorless lips, another ill-fitting feature Schlatt noticed. Had he always been this pale?

“I blew it to high heaven,” He said with a light laugh.

Schlatt stalled and his grip loosened on Wilbur, his face draining of color as realization crept up on him. His final words, words he had meant to just be empty threats and weak attempts at getting a rise out of everyone, they had become true. 

“You know, if I die-

It wasn’t meant to come true. They were supposed to keep the country alive to spite Schlatt’s dead body. Take it back and then everything would go back to the way it was, they were meant to do that. They were supposed to dance on Schlatt’s grave and rub it in his face that the government was still running just fine and that the country was prospering. 

-this country goes down with me.”

Now it was gone. He was right. He should’ve been happy, danced around, and told Wilbur ‘I told you so’ a thousand times. He should be laughing maniacally. He hated that country. He despised its citizens and his cabinet and now it was all over. It was done. It was over.

So why was Schlatt slamming his fist weakly against Wilbur’s chest, muttering hoarse curses and asking Wilbur why he had to go and make it all real? Why he had to go and make the bad guy right?

Wilbur was unfazed as he patted Schlatt’s back soothingly, speaking in a soft and aloof tone Schlatt has never heard before. “We were both the bad guys in the end,” He admitted. “You won’t be the only villain in their history, now.”  

Schlatt hated this. Wilbur wasn’t meant to be a villain. He was a good guy.

It only got worse when Wilbur brought him into a hug, quiet sobs shaking Schlatt’s body as they stood there. Wilbur placed his chin on top of Schlatt’s head, and he spoke again before silence rested tensely between them.

“Don’t blame yourself. It only makes things harder to accept.”

//////

Wilbur thought he knew what it was like to be helpless. Invisible. Unheard.

He was wrong.

He and Schlatt didn’t really understand how the Afterlife worked, but they eventually found out they had the power to almost spectate the Overworld. By closing their eyes and lulling themselves into a sleep-like state, they could enter the Overworld domain, though they were powerless other than to watch and listen. They could only stay for a few days at a time before having to return to the Afterlife to recuperate. It could be minutes by the time they returned to the Overworld; it could be weeks. Time in the Afterlife passed differently than in the Overworld, and it didn’t help that it decided to fluctuate every other time they came back. They could go out and it would be hours after they had last visited, come back for what only felt like a few hours at most, go out again and a week would have passed. It was annoying when they had to play catch up.

Wilbur was also unsure of how he had a secondary version of himself that people could see and interact with, but since the Afterlife didn’t give any answers, he accepted this ‘Ghostbur’ and went on with his day. 

Wilbur was almost always hovering around Ghostbur when visiting the Overworld, as most of the time the ghost was with Tommy or pestering Fundy. He wasn’t sure if the ghost could see or hear him, but if he could, then the ghost wasn’t making any effort to communicate it. Even though Wilbur still thought of them to be traitors at the time, he felt somewhat relieved to see that his younger brother and his only son were at least faring well in the wake of his death. 

Ghostbur was definitely the version of himself everyone liked to remember, all of Wilbur’s good qualities, a bit airheaded at times but otherwise well-meaning. He was the version Phil had always seen Wilbur as. That irked Wilbur a little.

Wilbur would watch. He’d listen. He watched as Tubbo and Tommy and others rebuilt L’Manberg. Tommy was once again vice-president, and Tubbo was adjusting to the presidency well. Fundy had moved from L’Manberg to live with Eret, who he learned had adopted the fox-hybrid under Phil’s permission. He, initially, was heavily against it, because, after all, it was Eret, the traitor. But, as if Ghostbur could hear his protests and wanted to put him in his place, to remind him of how it came to this, he said it for what it was:

“How awful of a person was I?”

Wilbur didn’t follow Ghostbur for a while after that. 

After watching Fundy and Eret for a time, Wilbur slowly grew to realize his mistakes as a father. The same mistakes his own father had made, mistakes he told himself he wouldn’t follow in. He neglected Fundy and picked Tommy to be his right-hand, his vice president. When he stepped down from his presidency, he gave it to Tommy. Fundy was his son, he should’ve been his first choice, traitor or not. He may have stopped seeing him as a son in his past life, but now he wanted nothing more than to take it all back. To try and rectify his wrongs. He always babied Fundy, never saw him as the intelligent and great person he was and instead as a child. He was older than Tommy, and he treated Tommy like he was older than Fundy!

The first time he felt a spark of anger was when Fundy was left at the altar by Dream. His son was so upset, and he could do nothing to comfort him. He could only watch as his son fell deeper and deeper into a snake’s den. He wished he could pull him out by the tail and lecture him about the dangers of living within your own mind. He so desperately wanted for him to not end up like himself. He didn’t need to watch his son turn into that. He was just glad when Eret was there. He seemed to bring Fundy out of his own head. He was a good dad. Wilbur may never forgive him for his actions in the first war, but he could still be thankful for his concern for Fundy, and how he could fill the void Wilbur had created due to his incompetence as a parent. He just wished he could refill that void himself instead of with a surrogate. 

Now, Fundy was okay for the most part. Sure, he tried and failed to execute his piglin uncle, put his grandfather under house arrest, and betrayed L’Manberg again in the final war, watching as his father’s homeland was, for a final time, blown to holy hell by TNT and withers, but Wilbur would’ve done the same for the latter; L’Manberg was never meant to be. Wilbur was also still angry that Dream left his son at the altar, and that Phil and Techno didn’t try to comfort him when Wilbur died. Phil pawning him off to someone else to act as a father and Techno simply up and leaving was anger-inducing to Wilbur, but Fundy would be fine. He could handle it because he at least had a stable and reliable support system beneath him.

Tommy was an entirely different story.

Wilbur never thought he could feel so much fury until he started to follow Tommy around, both at the careless teen and those who surrounded him.

First, he and some enderman-hybrid he befriended set George’s house aflame. Wilbur would’ve punted the insolent child for his lack of awareness that he had destroyed someone’s home . He still had no idea why he thought to do it. He wished he could ask. 

Then, he was imprisoned and sent to trial, with Tubbo having to try to defuse his loud-mouth brother and keep peace between the DreamSMP and L'Manberg. It obviously didn’t go very well. Then, Dream gave Tubbo a choice - exile Tommy, or never have peace. Tubbo, after giving Tommy so many chances and being put under immense pressure by Dream, was forced to exile him. Wilbur wasn’t mad at Tubbo, he knew Tubbo was doing what he thought was right, that’s always what he has done. No, he was angrier at Dream. 

He acted as if exile was the only option, pressured Tubbo, and threatened L’Manberg, knowing the country couldn’t handle another war. The manipulative green bastard was getting away with his blatant abuse of power now that Tubbo and Tommy didn’t have Wilbur to call him out on it. They were kids, they couldn’t help but be scared of Dream. He was, after all, the founder of the SMP. It practically made him God, though he didn’t seem to possess any type of divine power. 

Wilbur’s blood only boiled further when he watched what Tommy was put through in exile. Many times he caught himself punching at Dream or hugging Tommy, only for them to walk straight through him. Powerless to do anything, he watched as Tommy was abused and broken down, his appearance deteriorating along with his spirit. Then, against all of Wilbur’s predictions, Tommy became compliant with Dream, no longer the wild child Wilbur had left behind. 

Tommy; who once had dueled and died by Dream’s hands; who had given up his most prized possessions to him in order to give L’Manberg independence, just for Dream to turn around and aid his delusional older brother in destroying it; who watched as Dream forced his best friend and the residents of his home to turn their backs on him and stay stuck in exile; Tommy, who had every reason to hate and distrust and fight against Dream, now considered the masked man a friend. Dream had convinced him of that, brainwashed him into believing that no one else cared for him. He made sure no one showed up to the beach party. He barred everyone from seeing him, and then turned around and gaslit Tommy into thinking Dream was the only one who cared about him. Dream, and Dream alone.

Wilbur felt sick watching and listening. 

Then, one day while he was in the Afterlife taking a break from the Overworld, the void suddenly felt like it was growing. The space around him and Schlatt was shifting, making room for someone, though how they knew that exactly they simply pegged down as them beginning to be in sync with the Afterlife. Both nervous as to who was joining them soon, they both hurriedly returned to the Overworld.

Wilbur checked on Fundy first. He was ok, doing something with Punz and Quackity. He could feel his connection to the Overworld beginning to fade. He had already been there a few hours prior and was supposed to stay in the Afterlife for longer while he regained enough energy to handle the exertion the Overworld weighed on him. He pushed forward, though, hurrying to Logstedshire to check on his little brother.

When he arrived, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stay in the Overworld for much longer. However, as he looked over the blown-up remains of Logstedshire, and to the pillar of dirt that stood eerily off in the distance, and up at the shadow of his brother who teetered on the edge at the top of said pillar, Wilbur wished he had a voice, that he could stand below Tommy and catch him in his arms and tell him everything was going to be okay. He wished Tommy could see him, know he was there for him. His cries of protest as he was dragged back into the Afterlife were primal, not wanting to leave his brother by himself again. 

When he could no longer fight the grip of the Afterlife, he watched as the Overworld faded into the taunting white void he was imprisoned in. A prison his brother would be joining soon, and he could do absolutely nothing to stop it. Torturous wails escaped his throat as he keeled over on himself, falling to the ground as he was racked with anguished sobs that echoed in the void around him. 

Invisible. Helpless. Unheard.

In that moment, he realized how utterly selfish he was. He was so focused on getting the attention of his father, so resentful and self-centered about proving himself that he had failed to see that he had others to care for. He had a family who loved him, and he neglected them in one way or another all over his daddy issues. He was a coward for killing himself, an idiot for thinking that dying would solve anything. He wished he hadn’t thought of his friends and family as traitors, because most of them weren’t. Tommy not wanting the presidency wasn’t him betraying Wilbur. Tubbo only ever gave them information and never once showed signs of double-agency, and Wilbur let him get executed by his older brother. Fundy only came to resent Wilbur because he never treated him as an equal, never thought of him first before Tommy or Tubbo, so his rebelling against Wilbur shouldn’t have come as a surprise. It certainly wasn’t grounds to stop seeing him as his son. Sure, it stung, but Fundy was hurting and sought out others who would treat him like an adult. Schlatt was far from the best source for it, but at least he treated Fundy like his age. 

Wilbur had failed them. He was no glorified revolutionist or insane terrorist, he was far from it. He was a vain, delusional, and sad man, who valued the attention of his father - who had made it clear he wasn’t interested in Wilbur or Tommy as much as he was Techno an infinite amount of times - over the love and adoration and needs of the family he already had. He didn’t need a title. He didn’t need power. He needed them, that’s all he really needed. They gave him more than enough recognition, more than enough praise and love, yet he took them for granted. He tossed them aside and died and now he lives with his consequences. His own personal little hell was watching his family suffer, and it was all because he couldn’t stop to see what he already had in front of him. 

He could only thank whatever demented deity that existed when Tommy never showed up in the Afterlife, Wilbur returning to the Overworld as soon as he could to discover he was living in Techno’s basement.

//////

Schlatt wasn’t really sure why he chose to return to the Overworld just to watch his former secretary of state do boring presidential things. It was probably because he would try to find a way to die a second time if he remained in the Afterlife any longer, and watching the reconstruction of Manberg was at least interesting. He was glad he was invisible to everyone. He didn’t need to unsettle the nice atmosphere the country had regained over the months of remodeling, and he quite enjoyed seeing how well Tubbo was doing as a president.

Though he couldn’t help but feel some pity for the teen. He was still young and running a country was no easy feat. Schlatt couldn’t count how many times he had popped into the Overworld just to see Tubbo hunched over a desk, signing papers and reading documents. Still, Schlatt would stick around. He wasn’t looking for anything particularly interesting, and he didn’t know anyone else he’d want to watch other than Quackity, though after hearing him talk about trying to revive him, he decided he was going to just stick with Tubbo. 

He already caused so much damage to the SMP and its inhabitants. When there was a loud noise, Tubbo would jump or shield himself with his arms instinctively. Quackity stiffened at the smell of alcohol or the sound of glass breaking. Fundy covered himself more, like he was ashamed of his hybrid qualities. Bringing him back was a mistake. They didn’t need him back. He didn’t want to come back. At first.

However, it all changed once he started to see how Tubbo was treated.

Maybe it was his newfound sobriety giving him a clear view, but Schlatt was pretty sure pressuring a kid into exiling his best friend - no matter how unbearably annoying he might’ve been - was not the definition of ‘choice.’ He watched as his former vice president convinced the impressionable teen president that hunting down the anarchist with the foreboding moniker ‘Blood God’ who was also responsible for murdering the teen would help resolve some of Manberg’s still outstanding grudges. 

Of course, it went over horribly. The guy’s catchphrase is literally that he never dies.

Schlatt had a lot of mixed emotions regarding Tubbo at this point. He knew he didn’t have the right to worry about the kid, not after everything he had put him through; but at the same time, he wasn’t that version of Schlatt anymore. He wasn’t denying everything he had done in the past, no, he would live with that and he deserved to be held accountable. But it didn’t stop him from feeling a weird kinship with the teen, his empathy and emotional range vastly increasing while sober. Tubbo didn’t have anyone to really talk to and be a kid with after Tommy was exiled, and most adults he’d had in his life were not suited to be a role model of any kind. He was an orphan, and as much as he fought himself over it, Schlatt wanted to be in his corner. No one was, not unless they had ulterior motives. 

Schlatt questioned his own motives, sometimes thinking that this was some sad excuse to rid himself of the growing guilt he’d been facing over the months he’d spent in the Afterlife over the way he’s treated those who cared about him, even just a little bit. He wasn’t even sure if Tubbo had any interest in the ram-hybrid while he was alive. For all Schlatt knew, Tubbo hated his guts, witnessing him wincing when his best friend compared him to the late tyrant. 

What he didn’t question was the ire instilled in him when Tubbo was played for a fool.

Watching Tubbo sob his heart out after discovering the remnants of his friend’s exile and the ominous pillar of dirt and stone that was too tall to not be fatal was worse than anything Schlatt had ever experienced. The utter raw emotion from the teen twisted Schlatt’s stomach, but he couldn’t do anything to help him. But when his friend showed up weeks later with Tubbo’s murderer, saying that they were teamed up and that Tubbo betrayed him, Schlatt wanted nothing more than to knock some sense into the abrasive blonde and strangle the piglin with his bare hands. 

Watching as the two friends met once again a week or so later, hearing as the same blonde told Tubbo he was worth less than the two pieces of scrap metal he was so headstrong on getting back? Schlatt quite literally would’ve thrown that child if he hadn’t apologized and joined back at Tubbo’s side. Also if Wilbur hadn’t been filling him in on everything that Tommy had been through, which only fueled his rising fury.

Watching as Tubbo lived and fought through yet another war? Schlatt could barely watch as Tubbo shielded his best friend from a firework, even though it ended up killing them both. Luckily, they were strong, and respawn was gracious to them. He and Wilbur both seethed, both equal in their desire for revenge against Techno, Phil, and Dream. They only ever harmed or took advantage of the kids and then left them in the dust. Schlatt and Wilbur had it. Schlatt did enjoy watching Ghostbur give Phil a piece of his mind, feeling smug as the Angel of Death became flustered by the ghost’s loud, echoing voice as he yelled at him. Schlatt thought he had heard Wilbur’s voice break through at some point, but it was probably just his imagination. 

Then, when Tubbo moved away to Snowchester and began to experiment with nukes because he was so scared of his new home being attacked, Wilbur informed Schlatt of Niki and Jack’s plan to try and kill Tommy, and that Tubbo could also be in danger, even though Jack seemed to have struck up a friendship with the moobloom-hybrid. Schlatt could’ve slammed his head into a wall. They just deserved to be kids. They only did stupid shit and made fatal errors because they were expected to have the knowledge of an adult. They were expected to do so much and when they messed up, they were villainized for it. 

The most terrifying moment Schlatt had ever experienced, however, came when Tubbo and Tommy set out to face Dream. Schlatt and Wilbur were so sure that the teens had beat the masked bastard before he held a sword to Tubbo’s neck and demanded Tommy to choose between Tubbo or the discs. It made Schlatt’s blood run cold. Seeing the kid, his kid, tell Tommy to just take the discs and run, like he was asking to die; it shattered any remaining thought that Schlatt was heartless, because at that moment he felt it both shatter from heartbreak and pound in his chest with apprehension.

After a maniacal laugh and monologue, Dream forced the teens to follow him, and he took them to a secret base at the bottom of the mountain they had fought on top of. In there were Tommy’s real discs, along with other items and pets lost or presumed dead. Dream monologued some more, saying how Tommy was the glue of the server or something, Schlatt didn’t really care for what the guy had to say.

“I’m gonna kill Tubbo, and then you’re gonna come with me, Tommy.”

“I’ll give you a few minutes, say your good-byes.”

“I’m not kidding. He’s losing his last life today.”

Schlatt wished he was corporeal because, at this moment, he would’ve rammed his sharp horns into the smug man’s neck, and then made sure he suffered long and slow until he was the one who lost his last life. 

“It’s okay. I’m okay with it.”

“It’s my time to go.”

“We had a good time while we could.”

Schlatt hated the way Tubbo sounded resigned to his fate. He didn’t even protest it, it was Tommy who did it for the both of them. Even then, Tubbo told Tommy it wasn’t worth it. Told him that he wasn’t getting out of here alive, no matter what they did. He comforted his friend, who quietly sobbed and told him that despite how it seemed, Tommy always thought of himself as Tubbo’s sidekick. That Tubbo was always the better one out of the both of them. That he didn’t know who he was without Tubbo with him-

“Yourself.”

Schlatt couldn’t see or hear Wilbur, but he could feel the brit’s strong mourning. Schlatt would lose a son he didn't have the right to call his own; but Wilbur would lose a friend and watch his brother suffer without his other half.

The indescribable relief he felt when Punz and Co. walked through the portal could’ve made him faint. He watched with satisfaction as Tommy killed Dream, taking away two of his three lives. That probably shouldn’t have been his initial feeling, seeing as the teen had already experienced enough violence for two lifetimes, but it just felt good to watch the green bastard get what he deserved. He was disappointed when Tommy didn’t just kill him. Schlatt never gave the man a book on resurrection, he gave him a pack of beer. He was lying to save his own ass, and once again, everyone, including the kids, believed him. Dream got to live. 

Wilbur and Schlatt didn’t like that one bit.

While watching Tommy and Tubbo sit on the bench overlooking the sun coming over the horizon and listening to the newly retrieved Mellohi, Wilbur suddenly appeared. His ghost simply manifested behind the two of them, Schlatt now able to see him perfectly, just more transparent and… healthier. Nothing like how he had looked over the months they’d spent in the Afterlife, no, this Wilbur was the one he remembered meeting. His hair was groomed, there was a healthy glow to his skin, and he was no longer so gaunt. His eyes were once again a warm chocolate color with no dark eyebags beneath them, full of pride for his younger brother. 

He told Tommy how proud he was of him. Wilbur had realized in death that L’Manberg wasn’t his symphony, rather, Tommy was. It was family. The symphony was never unfinished because the land Wilbur idolized had been corrupted; it was unfinished because he needed to see Tommy finish what he began, realizing that his family, the ones that cared about him, had to finish what they had started. And that was exposing Dream for what he was; a manipulative liar. 

Schlatt was jealous that Wilbur got to speak to the two of them, but he was also glad. He wasn’t sure how either of them would’ve reacted to the once evil tyrant showing up completely sober and full of apologies. He was at least happy to see Wilbur start to make some sort of peace with his kin, bickering like old times when Tommy brought up the topic of resurrection and Wilbur acted as if he had no idea what Tommy was talking about. 

Schlatt didn’t know if he would ever make peace. If not peace, then he at least wanted to give those he hurt some closure. Let them know that he regrets his actions, that he was sorry and if they needed anything, Schlatt would do his best to help. He would try to make it up to them, even if it took eternity.

Still, he and Wilbur still harbored an unhealthy amount of anger for all the wrongs their kids had experienced, and it finally boiled over when Niki attempted to lead Tommy to the nuke testing site to get blown up while Jack stalled Tubbo to try and get his best friend killed. His only remaining family he had left that cared . 

That’s when Wilbur and Schlatt began plotting.

Wilbur’s symphony may have finished, but there was an encore calling his name. And it was permeated with a bloody vengeance. 

Maybe Schlatt wasn't so heartless; because his chest burned hotter than any whiskey or cigarette ever made him feel. He burned with ungodly fury. 

By themselves, they were probably no match for someone like Dream. Together, they had a slight chance. But both fueled by similar motives of revenge? Adding on Schlatt’s unrelenting persistence that never failed to get him to his goal and Wilbur’s clever quick-thinking; they would be an unstoppable force. 

And it was only a matter of time before someone resurrected them. All they had to do was wait.

//////

Admittedly, when it did finally happen, Wilbur was napping, and Schlatt was just pacing back and forth like he tended to do while he waited in the Afterlife. He had been gone from the Overworld for a few days and was starting to get antsy, even though he still couldn’t go back yet. He said that last time he had gone, Tubbo was talking about decommissioning the Nukes with Jack. The man’s name made him feel sour, precisely why Wilbur stopped listening and napped instead. He wasn’t tired, it was just a great way to avoid conversations he didn’t want to have at the moment. 

It didn’t feel any different from visits to the Overworld. It was slow at first, the white void fading gradually into the landscape of the SMP. Except, neither of them were leaving the Afterlife, and the place visualizing around them was not anywhere they had been before, even in its very blurred form. Schlatt woke Wilbur in bewilderment, asking if he was seeing what was happening around them. Wilbur nodded, sitting up from the floor as it shifted beneath him, becoming much more uneven and jagged, forcing Wilbur to stand. 

The scene around them began to clear, Wilbur now registering the late-night sky above them and the tall rising rock walls of… a crater? The ground beneath them was a mix of bedrock and stone, criminally uneven and with many holes to trip into. They seemed to be in the middle of it, red candles surrounding him and Schlatt in a circle with what looked to be redstone connecting them and a small fire pit in front of them, two items burning within it, both too melted to identify.

Finally, when the world around them was clear, clearer than it ever was while spectating, Wilbur and Schlatt fell right on their asses, hitting their heads together in the process. They were so used to levitating in the Overworld that they simply expected to start floating, forgetting to use their feet, and they immediately lost balance. Both groaned as the blunt force of pain hit them for the first time. It had been a while since either of them had felt physical pain (even though sometimes their emotional pain felt physical), so it was a shock to the system, but it assured them that they were corporeal again. 

After looking around again and pinching himself a couple times, Wilbur looked to Schlatt to express the excitement building in his chest. The sight that met him was not what he expected. Schlatt still wore the same white dress shirt and black slacks, having ditched the jacket and tied the tie around his wrist a while ago. However, his dark, goat-like eyes were no more, instead replaced with entirely white eyes, no iris or sclera to be found. His hair, too, usually brunette, was a stark white like his eyes. His horns even changed, once an aged ivory color had turned blood red. Wilbur tugged at his own hair, seeing the white strands standing out in his hand, and he could only assume he too had whited-out eyes due to the way Schlatt’s face turned curious. 

While they remembered how to breathe, they didn’t notice the small group behind them gawking at who had just appeared before them. One was a tall creeper-hybrid with short green hair, who held a netherite sword and looked ready for a fight at any moment. He wore a spray painter’s mask that covered much of his lower face, revealing only a pair of black eyes with white pupils. He also had goggles on his head, with a patterned green hoodie and jeans. Next to him was a woman with wool-like hair and small, earth-colored horns that poked out from beneath her sheep-like ears, holding clothes and a first-aid kit. She had on what looked to be a pirate hat and a ruffled shirt that reminded Wilbur of the ones he wore during the first war. Behind those two stood a very tall teenager: an enderman hybrid with white vitiligo and heterochromia, possessing one green eye on the black side of his face and one red eye on the white side. His hair was even split into two separate colors, a small crown resting on his head and a thin tail with a similarly colored and fluffy tip swishing around anxiously. The last one stood next to the sheep-hybrid, a human this time, wearing a… Sonic onesie? He held a very old leather book in his hands, mouth agape in the shared shock of the others.

It was hardly the group you’d expect to bring back two of the most important people to have ever existed on the server.

Eventually, the creeper-hybrid cleared his throat. Wilbur and Schlatt snapped towards the noise, meeting the mixed glances of the quartet. Their eyes must’ve been unsettling for the enderman-hybrid at least, who looked away from both of them. The human looked at Schlatt like he was an old friend, while the creeper and sheep-hybrid stared at them in an analyzing manner, like they were trying to see if they were agitated or confused. 

The group was the least of their concern. They had better things to worry about.

“Where are Fundy and Tommy?”

“Where is Tubbo?”

The sky began to grow lighter as the sun rose on a brand new day.