Archive of Our Own

When Wilbur wakes up, he’s lying face down against blackstone and blood is dry against his cheek. He’s not at home, or in the van, he's not comfortable, napping with his family. He’s in a claustrophobic room, a glorified graveyard, and there is everything wrong with it. It stinks of iron, he notes, lifting his head an inch. He shifts as he does, and then a cry forces itself from him before he can process the pain. His back burns, like he’s on fire, but he knows he isn’t. So why is it so indescribably, painfully hot?

“Oh, fuck. Oh shit. Prime, Wil.” A voice cuts through his reverie, and he realises with a start that that's his brother . Tommy sounds panicked, and his voice cracks, and Wilbur’s pained at the thought.

He blinks, and then Tommy’s in front of him. He’s looking at his knees, he can’t raise his head further. Tommy’s hands are on his face, now, and they tilt his head up. They lock eyes and Tommy’s face is white. Why is he so pale, looking at Wilbur like he’s lost a limb or something? Wilbur tries to shift again, his back strangely light, but Tommy just shushes him and runs a thumb over his cheekbone with shaking hands. Wilbur makes a questioning noise, not quite trusting his own voice (Why? Why does he feel like his voice will crack, shatter if he dares speak?) and he can hear Tommy’s breath hitch.

 Wilbur frowns, and tries to shift his wings to wrap around himself a bit. They don’t move. His brow furrows, and he tries again, but they don’t move. Wilbur tries to turn his head, tug it out of Tommy’s hands, but Tommy only makes his hold firmer. Wilbur looks up at him, and Tommy can only shake his head, his eyes glassy and breath shaking. And that’s all the confirmation Wilbur needs.

(If he’d looked harder, he would have seen the black and gold feathers left like a trail toward the exit. Dry with blood, a way out. A message, a taunt. Freedom at what cost?)

It takes him a moment to realise the person screaming is him, but he can’t bring himself to stop. The burn makes sense now, the absolutely all consuming pain, the uncomfortably light feeling of his back. His wings, he can’t feel his fucking wings. His wings are fucking gone . The sounds that rip from his throat tear at him, his insides, and he knows, subconsciously, he won’t be able to talk normally for at least 3 days, but also can’t find it in himself to give a shit. Faintly, he can hear Tommy trying to soothe him, murmuring, the quietest Wilbur’s ever heard him, or maybe that’s just because he’s hearing it over his own shrieks, his sobs. He wants to reach towards his baby brother, suddenly, hold him with shaking hands and let apologies spill from his lips. He’s being comforted as if Tommy hasn’t also just died. As if a life hadn’t been ripped from him, and with it his innocence. 

He wants to say something, choke back the screams that bubble up in his chest, but they push past his defences and send tears streaming down his face and shake his shoulders. He forces himself to quiet, though, when Tommy looks away from him, behind him, and his eyes spot something. Wilbur forces himself to hold still, his shoulders tense. When a sob sounds from behind him, sounding suspiciously like Fundy, Wilbur gasps in return. He shakes, and he squeezes his eyes shut as footsteps click against the floor, and someone else grunts as they push themselves to their feet - Tubbo? Fundy drops down next to him -  he’d know that fur anywhere - and he takes his father’s hand in his own. Tubbo is on his other side, and lets Wilbur collapse his weight next to him. Tommy’s whispering to him, but he can barely hear it.

His head hangs, his face presses in the blackstone again, and Tommy’s hands move to his hair. He wants to sob again. He wants to scream, he wants to curl up in his bed and never move, he wants to kill Dream personally-

He wants a lot of things. He wants his wings back.

The first thing Wilbur notices is that he can’t walk. Not right now, at least. He rests all of his weight on Tommy as they limp into the woods in the outskirts of L’manburg. He misses them. His heart aches with the loss of the beautiful things, and black and gold in beautiful gradients flash before his eyes when he closes them. He hasn’t checked his back once, and judging by the way Fundy’s jaw is tense and the way the hand Tommy isn’t using to support Wilbur is clenched and the way Tubbo stays directly planted next to Wilbur’s side, he doesn’t want to check. He winces every so often, and Fundy growls lowly every time he does.

( The best part of having them was the wind beneath them. Late at night, when the air was biting and the moon was his only light, he’d launch himself high, and there he’d stay. If the high altitudes didn't take his breath away, the views and sights would. That was always perfect. A stress relief nobody could take. Stretching his wings as far as they could go, letting himself create shadows on the ground, letting himself eclipse the moon like a brand new sun, letting the wind ruffle his feathers, lift him and drop him… Nothing compared.)

Wilbur supposes he should have known the way Tommy is.

Tommy’s passion is his best quality and his worst. He’s fierce in every good way, and Wilbur doesn’t doubt he’d give his life for Tubbo, for Wilbur, for Fundy. Tommy challenging Dream to a duel shouldn’t have been a surprise, he should have stopped him. He ignores the little voice in his head that tells him that he couldn’t have stopped him either way. Blaming himself is easier, he thinks.

Tommy dies, arrow through the chest, and Wilbur’s heart drops. Twice in a week. Wilbur longs for his wings to wrap them around himself and Tommy’s body that lies limp in his arms. The glare he sends to Dream is dripping with venom, and the pain in his back flares as Dream stares back, porcelain and perfect mask burning holes into him. He turns away, back to his brother, carding his fingers through his hair.

This wasn't only about L’manburg , he thinks, and the absence of his wings on his back makes him feel a pressure in the back of his eyes as he hugs his brother close to his chest. 

The second time Wilbur dies he is running for his life for the country he sacrificed everything for. In this moment, more than any other, he can feel his wings’ absence, hand holding Tommy’s tightly. Arrows whistle past his ears as they sprint, mud splashing their blue coats and sticking to their boots.

Wilbur can't breathe suddenly and he can't understand why. He falls to his knees and he can't understand why. His hands reach up to clutch his throat, and he pulls his hands away and they're stained with red, and he chokes and something dribbles down his lips as he collapses on his side. His hand thuds against the grass, and red spills against the green of the grass.

Distantly, he thinks he hears Tommy scream. It's muffled, though, like he's underwater. He wants to tell him to run, but he can only make a choked sound. He hopes the apology he wants to say, wants to let it spill from his lips like the blood in his mouth, shows in his eyes. He thinks it does, because Tommy nods. His face hardens, wiping the tears off his cheeks from his cheeks as he mouths something. Wilbur’s eyes are unseeing and his heart has stopped by the time his temple makes contact with the grass.

Wilbur thinks the first time he truly loved having wings was when he was 8. His wings were far smaller, tiny things that sprouted on his back when he was 4. They were a pain to help him with, Phil had joked one day. He felt guilty for the rest of the day.

It was early in the morning. 6am? 5, maybe? Wilbur can't quite remember. He just remembers the chill of early morning biting at his exposed wings and his fingers that he shoved deep in his pockets. Phil was behind him, at a safe enough distance for him to feel independent in the way a 8 year old longed to be, but close enough to catch him immediately. 

He’d buzzed with excitement, he thinks. That or anticipation. Maybe both. They all mixed together in a sort of potion in the cauldron that was his stomach, and they bubbled together and rose to the very top of the rim as he stretched his wings out wide. Phil told him about the cliff, where’d go to fly on nights he left Wilbur with Techno, or when the wanderlust grew to be far too much for him to bear. He would stretch his wings wide, and he’d fly off for hours. Techno took him to watch once. His own wings had ached to copy his father as Techno kept a watchful hand on his shoulder. He thinks he remembers his godfather’s fond look, too. He didn't tell anyone about that part, though.

The cliff seemed far bigger as he stared it down, now. His hands shook slightly, but he shook himself and rolled his shoulders. He looked back at his father for a second and the responding encouraging smile sent a burst of determination through him.

He wasn't perfect. He could have anticipated that, he should have. Phil had to hold him close to his chest, and he looked like he was about to kneel over. Unfortunate way to lose his only life, Phil said. Wilbur didn't quite know what that meant yet. Phil didn't let him go for a bit while he tried, though.

Steadying hands on his waist accompanied the strong beats of Phil’s wings as Wilbur tried to copy him, tiny wings going as fast as they could. His subsequent shushing made him slow, though. He pushed the wind under him with as much force as possible, and let out a delighted noise as he rose as a result. He did it again, and again, and the excitement fizzed and he shrieked as Phil let go and he stayed afloat.

He’d been so excited to drag Techno along next time he stopped by, jumping off the cliff and flying steadily in the air anyway, grinning broadly at the small (proud?) smile on his godfather’s face.

His wings were small, but they were beautiful, and he loved them.

If being in the Dream SMP has taught Wilbur anything, it is that life is cruel. His back is painfully light as he leans against a wall in Pogtopia, hating the lack of defense he has against people and the cold. Pogtopia is incredibly cold. Not the welcome cold of the morning when he was learning how to fly, or the biting chill of the night as he’d soar across his home forests, or the nip that bit at his wings as he drew Tommy and Tubbo in as they collapsed against the walls of L’manburg.

This cold is unwelcome. Freezing. Painful. He hates it. He hates Pogtopia. 

He feels the absence of his wings all the time. He feels them when he rises from his rest (not sleep, rest) and can only feel forlorn. He feels them as Technoblade hands him a sword to practice fighting and the piglin hybrid’s eyes bore into his back as he turns away. He feels them when he stands atop the hill that overlooks where L’manburg’s walls were, wanting nothing more than to feel the breeze ruffle his feathers. He feels them.

He misses them. 

The words - the vitriol - Fundy had spat not two hours ago ( “Wilbur is just the founder. That's all he is to me.”) ring in his head and he can't shake them. He longs for his wings to wrap around himself and forget. He can't fucking forget. He can't wrap his wings around himself. Pogtopia is cold and the cold seeps under his white shirt and stings his scars, the scars on his back, and he’s reminded of the loss with every breath. The words just ring in his head, and they don't fucking stop . 

He lets out a breath as Tommy comes swaggering down the stone staircase of the ravine, cockiness melting out of him at the sight of his older brother. His shoulders set, and he walks over, grabbing Wilbur's arm with a kind of look on his face.

“Come on, big man. You're getting your guitar, and you're teaching me how to play. If you don't, I’ll kick you.” Tommy says, but the glance he throws over his shoulder is all concern laced under teasing remarks, and Wilbur’s heart can't help but warm. For now.

For now.

Dear Dad,

How are you? Me, Fundy and Tommy just got to the SMP, it's pretty small compared to SMPEarth! Way less people on, too. Spoken to a few of them.

Me and Tommy decided we’re gonna sell potions, maybe capitalise on the lack of brewing stands in the server? Haha, I’m only messing. We’re probably just gonna make a few. I’ve got a whole van, though! Kind of cramped on my wings, have to keep them down all the time. Pain in the arse to preen. I have to get Tommy or Fundy to help. 

Let me know how Techno’s doing! I miss you both soooo much. Hope you're okay. I miss Floof, too. What I wouldn't do to ruffle up that stupid dog. Give him a big kiss for me, too, would you?

Love,

Wilbur xx

Getting to this point wasn't easy. He traces the words he scribbled on the cold stone of the button room with a shaky breath, feeling small as he inhales through his nose. The button feels closer than ever. Tubbo and Tommy and Fundy and Eret and Niki and Jack and Techno and everyone are cheering. Talking, celebrating, but it's all muffled. Maybe he wants to cry. Maybe he wants to cheer. Scream, maybe.

Who fucking knows at this point?

“It's gone. It's gone . The thing I built this nation for doesn't exist anymore. Just press the button. Get rid of it all! What are you doing?” He cries to himself, fists against the wall only inches from the button, “ What are you doing?!”

“What are you doing?” 

Wait. No. No fucking way. No, no, no, fucking Prime, no.

“Phil?” Wilbur turns with slumped shoulders, hand sliding down the wall to hang by his side. There's no mistaking it. The man staring at him from the corridor is his father. His wings ( wings , his brain whispers, longing) are spread behind his back. Powerful, imposing. 

( He can remember those wings taking him up at night when things got too loud, and he remembers nestling deep into them as a hand ran down his back, brushing through his own feathers with practiced care. He remembers falling asleep, buried in those wings, and he remembers scrunching his hands in the jet black feathers and knowing only childlike peace, locked in his father’s embrace.)

Phil looks like he’s about to repeat the question, but he stops. His eyes take in something behind Wilbur, above his shoulders (or rather, nothing ) and Wilbur would recognise that heartbreak anywhere. Phil gasps lightly, and the once imposing wings pull him closely to his chest, and Phil’s hands clutch at his back uselessly. He sounds on the verge of tears when his grip finds only the fabric of his coat.

“Wh- Where? Where are they?” 

The responding laugh rips itself from Wilbur’s throat; cold, humorless, so painfully not-Wilbur that Phil flinches as it reaches his ears. Wilbur’s shoulders shake with the force of it and he rips himself from his father's embrace.

He looks so small without his feathers. Phil’s eyes shine already. Poor guy. No idea what's coming .

“They're fighting, Phil. You know? Can't have peace in L’manburg. I made it to be peaceful!” Wilbur spreads his arms as if gesturing, “But here we are! Everyone out there! Fighting like I didn't bleed for their right to safety, to peace. Like I didn't lose these-” He points to his back, now, hands shaking and voice wavering “- so they could live in peace! Oh, but here we are, Phil. I’m in this godforsaken room. I wanna take L’manburg down with me. Feels familiar.” Wilbur laughs again at the reference, even as Phil blinks in confusion and concern.

“You can have it back , Wil. You- You don't need to do this.” Phil says, and the way he pleads tugs at something in Wilbur’s chest. His own father pleading with him, trying to talk him off the edge. He shakes his head.

“There was a saying, Phil. From a traitor once part of L’manburg. A traitor, I don't know if you’ve heard of Eret?” Phil hums in acknowledgement. Wilbur doesn't quite know what that means. “He had a saying, Phil.

“It was never meant to be.”

Wilbur salutes, and the tears fall as he slams his fist into the button. Every second of it, Phil’s panicked curse, the sizzle of the fuze finally lighting, it's perfect. He can't stop Phil from pulling him close to his chest again like a shield , can't find it in himself to care when he slumps against his father’s chest again, breaths heaving as the explosions sound and oh Prime.

They leave his ears ringing. He thinks his vision is blurry, maybe foggy, though that might be the tears. Phil uncurls himself from Wilbur, and he can't distract himself from the pained hiss Phil lets out as he stretches his back. Wilbur also can't bring himself to look, either. He rises from his place where he’d collapsed in the rubble, and looks out on the remains of his dearest country. He inhales smoke, soot, ash, and he chokes out a laugh. 

“My L'manburg, Phil! My unfinished symphony! Forever unfinished!” The tears haven’t stopped rolling down his cheeks. The grin stretched wide across his face doesn't match the salty streaks from his eyes, the pain in his chest. He rakes his eyes along the crowd, making their way over to any rubble left to stand on. They look unharmed. Something in his stomach unravels at that. 

(He pretends Tommy doesn't stare up at him with wide eyes, like his hand isn't pressed against his mouth to choke back something .)

“Oh, Prime. Wil… It's all gone.” Phil says from behind him, and as Wilbur turns another pit opens up in his stomach. Phil’s wings are singed, burnt, by all means, destroyed. Guilt worms its way into his heart at that. That's my fault ,  he thinks, a moment of clarity amongst chaos.

And then Wilbur’s sword is pressed into Phil’s hands, and the enchantments look so appealing . He feels heavy, like his limbs are made of lead, as he clutches his fathers hand with both of his. The glance he sends back to L’manburg hurts him deep in his chest.

Tommy (An arm slung around shoulders, a guiding hand against the small of his back, gentle hands running through hair, one pushing another into sea water playfully, great feathered limbs pulling a white and red shirted chest into him-),  Tubbo (A baritone ukelele, gently plucking the stream with bigger hands guiding their positions, careful tying of a tie over a pressed suit with care and concern, wrapping flower crowns around goat horns with a bright grin-) , Fundy (Brushing lithe fingers through wet orange fur after a happy bath, fixing a black and white cap onto a furry head, tying a red bow tie around a neck carefully, lovingly-), Niki (The smell of bread, friendly dancing to cheerful drinking songs, talks under starlight, braiding hair, holding a best friend close to his chest and keeping them there, endless kindness-).

His heart aches, and he’s so tired and this is all he's wanted. His chest burns far more, though, when a diamond sword runs him through, fire aspect sending flames through his blood. He would cry out if the relief weren't stronger. He’s lowered into his father's arms, and he thinks he hears a scream. It's loud, but it sounds muffled, like he's underwater. He doesn't care much. Fingers rake through his hair, and he leans into the touch minutely. He can't find it in himself to cry as his vision fades to black. In the moment, he wishes for nothing. 

After all, good things don't happen to heroes, and the villains are never mourned.