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Dying and coming back to life, unsurprisingly, had many unexpected side effects.
Some of these included the white streak in his hair(though Wilbur was almost certain that one was just from stress and not magic), the constant ache and pain in his limbs, and also his fear of the underground.
The most annoying one, though, had to be how cold it always was.
No matter how many blankets Wilbur tried to pile over himself, no matter how many layers of clothing he put on, no matter how many times he huddled close enough to the fire that it gave Phil an almost heart attack when he found him almost inside the flames, the cold never left.
So when Wilbur fell asleep and woke up in a place that wasn’t freezing him to the bone, he immediately knew something was wrong.
In his half-asleep state, the first thing he registered about his surroundings was the warm breeze that brushed over his skin, followed by a bright light that flooded into his vision.
Something was definitely wrong.
For one, Wilbur was rather certain he had fallen asleep in Phil’s house in the middle of an Arctic wasteland.
He was definitely not in a cabin right now.
As he slowly stood, he registered a few more things. The sky was pure white; it almost felt like an empty void. He stood in a garden of sorts. Trees dotted the sides of the pathway he stood on, and yellow flowers and willow trees decorated the place.
It was a peaceful scene, and very different from anywhere in the war-torn world he knew.
Wilbur’s first instinct, of course, was to assume he was dreaming.
A small breeze picked up and ruffled his hair. This was a very vivid dream.
Cautiously, he made his way down the path.
And that was when his ears picked up the melody of a guitar.
He hadn’t heard music in... years.
As if in a trance, he followed it down the stone path to a man sitting under one of the willow trees.
“Hello?” Wilbur asks cautiously.
“Oh. Hi.” The other man looked up. His voice sounded exactly like Wilbur’s.
A lot of the other man also looked like Wilbur. Almost like a clone, except the other was cleaner and in different clothes, and yellow flowers decorated his hair.
“Why do you… look and sound like me?”
The other man laughed. “Probably because I am you. I’d assume you’re Wilbur too?”
Confusion could not describe the emotion Wilbur felt at that moment. “Wh- W- What?” This was a very odd dream. “Who the hell are you?”
“You want my name?”
“Yes!”
“I’m Wilbur.”
“...No. I’m Wilbur.”
“Well, so am I.”
The other Wilbur put his guitar down. “Wanna sit down?”
He considers the question briefly, before walking over and cautiously sitting. “You still haven’t answered my question. Who are you?”
“I didn’t? I told you, I’m Wilbur.”
“How are the two of us then?”
“It’s complicated. Do you want the short or long answer?”
“I just want an answer.”
“I’ll give you the short answer then. We’re from different timelines. Same people, but different lives.”
What the actual hell is wrong with this world.
“What.”
The other Wilbur laughed. “Don’t think about it too much.”
A small silence falls over them as Wilbur closed his eyes.
The garden was peaceful. The warm breeze, the quiet chirping of birds, and the atmosphere painted a scene that was more calming than anything he had felt in over a decade. It was definitely better than a train station.
A part of him wanted to close his eyes here and stay forever.
“So, what’s your world like?”
Right, there was someone else here.
“What does that mean?”
“What kind of life have you lived?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Don’t really have many conversation topics.”
“Why don’t you tell me about your life?”
“I’d rather not.”
Another silence falls over them.
“The funny thing,” the other Wilbur finally says, “about the two of us being the same person is that we both seem to have the ‘I’ll never talk about my emotions’ trait.”
“I talk about my emotions,” Wilbur responds, very unconvincingly.
“When was the last time you told someone what you were feeling without lying?”
Well I didn’t plan to get called out by myself today. “I don’t lie.”
“Well you just did.”
“Stop acting like you know me.”
“I am you.”
“I don’t think I like myself very much then.” He somehow misses the irony of the statement until after the words escape his mouth.
“I used to not like myself a lot,” the other Wilbur says, very matter-of-factly.
Wilbur chuckles. “Same.”
A leaf falls off a tree and floats down in front of the two. “So? What’s your life like?”
Wilbur picks up the leaf. “I died and came back to life once.”
“....Interesting.”
“I also blew up a country that one time.”
“I killed an entire army once, y’know?”
Wilbur laughs. “Guess we really both are the same person. Villains in every story I’m in, I guess.”
“I wouldn’t say I was the villain.” The other’s eye catches on a bird. “I’d say I made some bad choices. A lot of bad choices. But I wouldn’t say that defines me.”
“I made more than a ‘lot’ of bad choices.”
“What were they?”
“Blew up a country. Tried to rig an election. Probably hurt a lot of people. Scratch that. Definitely hurt a lot of people.”
“Have you considered why you did these things?”
Wilbur scoffs. “What are you, my therapist?”
“I’d think any version of me needs therapy.”
“I don’t.”
“Sure.”
“Stop acting like you know me.”
“How many times do I have to emphasize that I am you?”
“Well if you are me, you should understand that you’re evil, and so am I.” Wilbur turns his full attention to the other now. The other stares back at him with the same amount of energy.
“Tell me what you did to make you become ‘evil’ then.”
“I became evil and blew up a country. I don’t know what else you want me to say.”
“There are more layers there.”
“No, there isn’t.” Wilbur forces himself to his feet. “Just fucking. Stop. If you really are me, then you should understand that we’re both horrible people. If you’re not me, you don’t understand me. It’s that simple.”
The other stands as well and looks him in the eyes. “I think what you’re failing to see here is that neither of us are horrible people. I killed an army because I was under pressure. I didn’t do the right thing. That kind of thing happens when you’re forced to become the ruler of a nation when you’re 15.”
Wilbur glares at him. “And I blew up a country because I was exiled. Your point?
“My point is no one does something bad for no reason, and you just proved that to me, see?”
“Well I don’t think I had enough of a reason.” He turns away. Stupid fucking. Other me. He doesn’t know shit. “I’m an evil, manipulative, insane, fucked-up villain .. What else do you need to know?” He pushes back his tears. Why the fuck am I getting upset over this?
The other’s face doesn’t change. “You’re wearing a mask, aren’t you?”
“What.” It’s not a question, just a statement.
“No matter how much you insist I don’t know you, at the core, we’re the same person. And I know you’re not who you claim to be. Let the mask fall and talk to me as yourself. The first step is admitting to yourself that you’re lying.”
Why, why, why was he feeling… angry? Sad? Scared? Stop fucking crying, he yells at himself. “I’m not fucking-” He stops to take a breath to a shaky breath. “I’m not lying.”
“Let me be the judge of that then. What did you even do that gave you this perception of yourself?”
“No. Shut the fuck up.” He takes a step backward. “Didn’t you say you were a fucking king or whatever? What do you know about me? What do you know about losing everything? What do you know about fighting for a stupid fucking country and sacrificing everything for it only to be thrown out and betrayed by literally everyone? About coming back to life after committing suicide only to learn you didn’t even get a fucking grave because you were the horrible villain in their history?” He stops to take a breath and realizes the tears have finally spilled over. Fuck.
If the other was shocked at all, he didn’t show it. His eyes continued to pierce Wilbur’s in a way Wilbur hated, almost as if he was carefully looking past the mask he’d spent so long building up.
His breath quickened. Breathe, Wilbur. Calm down.
A heavy silence weighs down on them. Every heartbeat can be heard. The other’s eyes stared straight into him.
And then suddenly warmth crashes into him.
It takes a few seconds for Wilbur to work through the shock before he realizes the other was hugging him, and that’s when a sob finally comes out.
“What the fuck,” he mutters, hating how much he melts into the touch.
“You looked like you needed a hug,” the other whispers.
And as much as Wilbur doesn’t want to admit it, he did. He couldn’t remember the last time he touched someone.
The warmth was almost intoxicating. He couldn’t remember the last time he touched someone. Was it… was it before L’Manberg?
“I just spent five minutes talking about how I was a horrible villain,” Wilbur melts further into the hug despite his words. “If this is how you treat villains, I’m a bit concerned.”
“I don’t think you’re the villain.” The other pulls back slightly. “From what you told me today, you seem lost and tired, and you seem to be lying to yourself about who you are.”
“I literally told you I blew up a country.”
“Oh, I don’t think you’re perfectly morally sound either.” The other gives him a small smile. “But no one is.”
Fuck. Why am I crying?
For a moment, they lean into each other’s warmth in silence, and for the first time since L’Manberg’s creation, Wilbur lets himself cry.
And then the world fades, and he’s back in Phil’s cabin.
And for the first time, he’s warm.