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See, there was still dirt underneath his fingernails.
Tommy whimpers, holding himself tightly. As though if he clutched his arms even slightly less, the world would fall apart underneath his body. As though the thin strands holding his limbs would snap, and he would become another limp ragdoll. As though he would look like Wilbur.
There was still dirt underneath his fingernails from burying his brother. Nobody else offered to help him, still so so angry at the recently deceased. Tommy had begged, pleaded for their aid. A shovel please, his items got burned. Flowers please, I need to decorate it after. Ink for the sign, please, he doesn't want his brother forgotten. They would snort and reply snidely;
“As though he will be forgotten anytime soon after what he did to this country.”
His stomach churned at the sentence. ‘Don’t speak ill of the dead’ he remembers being drilled into his head early on in the war. He snorts. As though Wilbur will be able to reprimand him from the afterlife like he did in the past.
He hears branches rustling from his left. Swiveling his head, he catches sight of a ghost. Ghostbur. The entity slowly flies over to him, an innocently confused expression on its muted features. “Tommy?” It asks faintly.
Everything about it was soft. From its voice to its blue to its stupid yellow sweater. So different to Wilbur, who was composed of ragged edges that scrapped against and rubbed you raw and bleeding. The blond wanted to yank his hair out in frustration, but the dull soft grey eyes were still peering down at him, concerned.
He lets out a sigh.”I’m fine Ghostbur. Please leave me alone I-... I can’t deal with you right now.” A surprisingly little amount of swearing considering who was speaking, but his point came across and he was too tired to be aggressive. The ghost lets out an annoyed ‘huff’ before crouching next to his small form.
“Do you want some blue? I know that helps!”
Oh stupid, innocent ghostbur. How much Tommy detested it and its dumb ‘blue’. How much Tommy wanted to punch him for being a pale (ha) imitation of his brother. He didn’t need Ghostbur right now, he needed Wilbur.
“Shut the FUCK up about your Blue Ghostbur! I don’t care about you! Go away.” His still dirty fingernails wrapped into a fist, gesticulating exaggeratedly towards the spirit. It doesn’t budge. Shit. It seems it acquired Wilbur’s skill at making him crack just by giving him the look.
“Plea-...please no…” He mumbles, hands clutching his face so he didn’t have to look at Wilbur’s face while being so emotional. It murmurs soothing words, all unrecognizable, before wrapping it’s hands around him. They lacked much weight, but the soft sensation stayed. It made him tremble even further, eyes leaking. The ghost shushes him quietly, patting his hair fondly. “There there Toms. I have you.” Finally, Tommy hugs him back.
There was still dirt underneath his fingernails from burying his brother, but here and now, hugging Ghostbur, he felt worse than he ever did in Wilbur’s Pogtopia. It felt like his insides were burning themselves inside out, felt like his eyes smoldered by tiny magma blocks.
But, he wouldn’t let go until morning. When he wakes up, home empty of any other presence, he notices he still feels like shit and he’s still got dirt underneath his fingernails.
But he also notices the pile of blue on the counter with a ‘get well ;P’ written underneath.