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There was blood on the floor of the metro.
That was the first thing Schlatt noticed when he returned to his body. Well, perhaps not the first thing. It might’ve been second to the overwhelming chest pain. Or third to the rasp in his lungs. Or fourth to his sandpaper tongue.
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected death to be like, though honestly, he was expecting worse. Wilbur always theorized that they weren’t in hell, and rather some sort of in between or limbo. And while it was boring as all fuck, at least it wasn’t constant eternal flames or getting ripped limb from limb. He’d take it; after all, the worst for him seemed to be the constant physical pain, and while it was surely intensified in this afterlife, it wasn’t too far from what he’d already been experiencing while he was alive.
And when it did become too much, he could always void out for a bit— let his consciousness slip, feel nothing and be nothing and see nothing and think nothing until he felt like coming back.
He remembered teaching Wilbur how to do it, and Wilbur disappearing for no more than a few seconds before stepping off the next train, scowling, and going, “Fucking awful, how do you do that so often?”
Mostly for peace and quiet, Schlatt thought, as numbing as it was.
The longest he’d done was after the kid arrived. He recalled stepping off a train, planning to visit Wilbur as usual, and being thrust into disorienting, never ending soundless darkness— the lack of senses forcing him to feel nothing but his pain to an amplified, truly unbearable degree. He didn’t think of himself as a man that startled easily, but in those moments of confusion, fear had gripped him as he stumbled blindly, and he’d yelped like a little bitch when a hand grabbed onto his shoulder out of the darkness and Wilbur’s voice, sudden from nowhere, whispered, “Schlatt, Tommy’s here!” In utmost excitement.
He had no clue how Wilbur managed to navigate so well, especially with the kid crying and screaming “no! Take me back, I wanna go back, please fucking please get me out of here, I can’t see, I can’t— I don’t wanna go yet—“ and other annoying shit.
Wilbur hadn’t even gotten halfway through introducing him and Tommy, supposedly, before Schlatt had to duck out and hide, much preferring the void where he couldn’t feel anything, or hear children crying, or think of Tubbo. The next time he dared try returning, the subway station was back to normal, he could see, the kid was gone, and Wilbur had newfound hope and desperation in his eyes.
“Schlatt,” He’d said breathlessly, “We can go back.”
God forbid, Schlatt thought, but didn’t say.
He didn’t know why children dying meant all the lights had to turn off, and he figured it probably wasn’t as simple as that. He didn’t bother trying to reason that out. It was better to not think about it.
He and Wilbur had played solitaire, and Wilbur was so distracted by fantastical ideas of rebirth that Schlatt won, for once.
And then he returned to the void.
And now he was back.
And there was blood on the floor of the train.
(Or “metro.” The first year had been full of arguing over these regional language discrepancies.)
This was usually how he came back out of it; blinking awake and finding himself on a train, riding through a dark tunnel for a minute or two, and then stepping out into the subway station to find and bother Wilbur (or, more likely, have Wilbur bother him).
But this time, there was blood.
He stared at it, incredulous for a moment, before realizing no, that wasn’t blood. At least, he’d never seen blood that was blue before. It was dripped in a trail across the silver, metal floor all the way to the sliding door. Transluscent in certain flashes of light, and shiny, but congealing in a way that made it easy to mistake in darkness.
So logically, Schlatt leaned down (despite how his spine complained) and swiped a bit of it from the floor and onto his fingers.
The moment it touched his skin, he nearly fell over as a pleasant tingling shot up his arm. He hadn’t known his shoulder was even sore before, but now he did because the pain vanished instantaneously. It was so unexpected that he jerked back like he’d been burned, despite it being rather the opposite.
“What the fuck—“
And then it evaporated from his fingers into thin air, leaving small blue stains in their wake, and the pain returned.
Not blood.
… Something had happened while he was gone.
The train stopped, the doors slid open, and he took a breath to calm himself and prepare, just in case he stepped out of the train and got completely blinded again.
He stood up with creaking knees, headed to the doors, and stepped out.
No blindness, no deafening. It all seemed normal.
Then, crying.
Schlatt had seen Wilbur cry a few times, but he always laughed while he did it, the freak. It was nothing like what he was hearing now; full on, breathless, desperate sobbing. Something unnameable— worry— settled in him for just a moment.
Wilbur could usually be found seated on the benches lining the walls, shuffling cards, or leaned against a pillar, strumming a guitar, or standing beside the rails, smoking. He was in none of these usual locations upon a quick scan. That was another red flag.
He couldn’t follow the trail of blue— it was scattered all over here— so he tried to follow the sound of the crying. Though, it was hard; it seemed to echo from nowhere in particular. That was also different. None of this felt good.
Thankfully, it didn’t take too intensive of a search to track Wilbur down. He was curled up in a corner, hands over his ears, with tears squeezing from his eyes and sending up clouds of steam when they rolled down his cheeks. He’d changed clothes, now in a much more dressed down yellow sweater and jeans. Most worrying of all, though, was his skin; completely greyed over— his hair too— and semi-translucent.
You leave for 6 months and come back to a breakdown, Schlatt thought, frowning despite himself.
He could only think to say, “Holy shit, man, what happened? You look worse than I probably do…”
Wilbur jumped, eyes snapping open to reveal that they’d gone entirely black. He startled back with a yelp, staring up at Schlatt like a frightened animal.
“Woaaahkay, buddy, just me.” Schlatt raised his hands up, palms open, “I dunno what happened when I was gone, but I just got here, so I don’t have any fucking clue—“
“Who—“ Wilbur demanded, hands cradled to his chest, “Who are you!?”
His voice, like his crying, came out in an echo that made it sound as though they were in a tunnel. He now spoke with a timid timbre, different from how Schlatt had ever heard him before.
He laughed despite himself, more nervous than he would’ve liked to sound, “What do you mean 'who am I'? It’s me, asshole.”
Wilbur’s brow pinched and, though Schlatt couldn’t see his pupils (if he still had any), his gaze seemed to dart around. “… Do I know you?”
Normally, Schlatt would’ve told him to shut the hell up and stop fucking with him, but he got the sinking feeling that this wasn’t a joke. “Seriously, Wilbur, are you sick or something? Is this like a really bad hangover?”
When he heard his name, Wilbur’s eyes widened and the tears doubled instantaneously. “No!” He whimpered, “I’m not him, I don’t want to be him! I promised Tommy I wouldn’t let him come back, I promised—“
He’d sworn it had only been six months. Surely not a lot can happen in such a short amount of time, right? Or had it been longer? Had he lost track of time? “I seriously have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Wilbur's hands flew to grip at his hair as he sobbed, yet he looked up at Schlatt helplessly. It was unsettling in how it appeared as something near groveling; normally Wilbur would never let himself be seen as lowly before him. There’d been a period of time when they’d gotten bored of recent politics and gone way back to arguing about L’manberg in its formative years, and Wilbur had always made it irritatingly clear that he was just as much a former president as Schlatt was, and that made them equals and nothing less. Things Schlatt might’ve cared about when he had the lungs to bitch back at him, but now just bored him into compliant agreement. They were both dead and in the same place, so it didn’t matter.
Yet now, with Wilbur so weak before him in a way he would’ve killed for (and did) when he was alive, he now had absolutely no idea how to react.
Thankfully, Wilbur spoke up first. “Do you… you know where I am?”
“… We’re dead, Wilbur. We’re in the station.”
He squeezed his eyes shut again, “No, no, no… Don’t call me Wilbur, my name isn’t Wilbur, please, I know I let him back when I wasn’t meant to, I’m sorry—”
Trying to sound placating despite his nerves, Schlatt tried, “Okay, okay, sure. But seriously, man, you’ve gotta tell me what happened if you want me to… uh… help.”
Wilbur managed a small nod, taking a minute to catch his breath and steady his voice. “… Tommy said— Tommy promised it’d be okay. He said he needed me— said I needed to lie, but I don’t like lying— I should’ve told him I couldn’t do it, but I didn’t want to let him down, so— so I followed him into the prison because he wanted to get rid of Dream— we don’t like Dream, you know— and I lied because Tommy went invisible. And then… but then we were almost there and he— I— I don’t know what happened but I—“ he choked over his words, speaking more frantically and rapidly as his breath came out pitifully short, “I was trapped with him, and he threatened me and Tommy! And Tommy was safe but Sam wouldn’t let him get me, and Dream grabbed me and he said he was gonna bring Wilbur back, and I tried not to because Tommy doesn’t like Wilbur and I don’t like Wilbur and I didn’t want him back and I didn’t want to leave, and then Dream cut me and everything hurt and I didn’t get to say sorry to Tommy or bye to Friend and I woke up and I was here, and Wilbur’s gone, and he’s back, and Dream’s alive, and I failed, and now they’re gonna hurt everyone and it’s all my fault, and I didn’t even get to say goodbye!”
Wilbur curled in on himself, trembling in place as he sobbed even harder than before, and all Schlatt could do was stare and begin to try and process.
Had the kid died again…? Surely Dream hadn’t. Wilbur had caught him up after the kid left, talking about the prison development, so this had to be an alive thing.
… Said he was gonna bring Wilbur back… Wilbur’s gone…
A vivid memory:
(“You know, one of these days, Schlatt, you’re gonna regret not staying around here. You’re gonna miss out on all the action.”
They’d been smoking beside the tracks, with Wilbur in one of his idealistic, starving-artist states. “Pain isn’t fun, Wilbur,” He’d said back.
“Schlatt, I wake every day feeling a dagger in my chest. I know.” He paused to blow smoke. “But you’re gonna miss me.”
“Miss you,” He’d echoed, laughing.
“Sure! One of these days you’re gonna come back and I won’t be here.”
He’d realized, then. “Oh, fucking— can you shut up with this revival shit? It’s getting annoying.”
Wilbur had grinned. “It won’t be when it happens. You will! You’ll miss me.”
“I won’t,” He’d said, meaning it.
“You will, Schlatt, because if you really didn’t give a shit about being alone, you wouldn’t keep coming back to see me.”
Schlatt hadn’t dignified him with a response then, only bringing the cigarette back to his lips and breathing in. Smoke leaked out of his lungs.
He also didn’t want to let the asshole win, though, so he’d turned to him and asked, “Well, will you miss me?”
Wilbur had given him a one over, laughed in his face, and paused. He stared past him a moment before saying, “… I wish you’d been like this when we first met. When we were alive.” He’d met his eyes again, “Then, maybe I would.”
Then he’d pitched his cigarette into the subway tracks, turned, and walked away.)
Ah.
He’d actually done it, then. The crazy son of a bitch did it.
Schlatt wasn’t sure how to sit with that.
“… But if Wilbur’s gone,” He responded at last, focusing back on the lookalike of his not-quite-friend-not-quite-enemy, “… Then who the fuck are you?”
Wilbur(?) was hiccuping too hard to respond, only wiping at his face more and more to try and stop the tears as he kept staring up at Schlatt like he’d throw him a bone. “Mm— mmn—“ He struggled to get the words out, raising a shaking hand up towards him, “My name is Ghostbur,” He managed to get out at last.
Schlatt blinked and slowly crouched down (against the complaints of his creaking knees) so they could be eye to eye. He noticed how Ghostbur’s fingers were stained blue as he reached out and shook his hand. It didn’t feel solid underneath his touch; less like flesh and more a very solid breeze.
Rather unhelpfully, he’d admit, he asked, “What kind of stupid ass name is that?”
“Well, it’s— it’s because I was Wilbur’s ghost. So you mash the two together—“
Schlatt waved him off, pulling his hand away, “Yeah yeah, what, so you came here to fill the void?”
“No! Just— when he died the first time, I woke up and I was there in the living-world. So now we’ve— we’ve swapped, I guess.” His eyes swelled with more tears again, “He’s not supposed to be there…”
Ghosts were real.
Had Wilbur known about this guy?
He needed a drink.
Ghostbur swallowed more tears, gaze turning inquisitive. “I’m sorry, this is so rude, but do I know you? I don’t— I might not remember you. I have memory loss, you see, so I don’t remember a lot of things from before I— before Wilbur died.”
So he really didn’t recognize him, after all.
Maybe it wasn’t too late to go back to the void—
“I usually only remember happy things,” Ghostbur continued, “So I don’t— oh, that might be rude—“
Well that explained that.
“Nevermind. What’s your name?”
Fuck, this was weird. This was so fucked up. He hadn’t wanted a headache this bad when he came back.
But nevertheless, to avoid the question being repeated— because that was annoying— he answered, “… I’m Schlatt. I was… um… we were rivals, I guess. During the election and shit. And the war.”
Ghostbur frowned a bit. “I don’t recall any of that. I mean, I know it happened, but… I’m sorry.” He glanced away, “… Rivals? Oh, dear… I’m sorry for whatever Wilbur did to make it that way.”
Schlatt froze up, because though he knew Wilbur got his fair share of shit, he was more than aware that he was half the problem. He knew he was an asshole.
Then Ghostbur sniffled and managed a smile up at him, the kindest one Schlatt was pretty sure he’d ever received. “Well, hopefully, this time we can become friends! I’m honestly glad you’re here. I thought— I thought I was alone…”
… New roommate.
Woo.
… At least he seemed nice. Too nice.
“I thought—“ And then he started tearing up again, “I thought I was alone— I was alone, and Friend— I want Friend, I wanna see Tommy, I let them down, I— I—“
And then there were cold, half-corporeal arms encircling him and a body against his own, clutching him, and Schlatt stiffened, going into near shock as he was hugged. He couldn’t even remember the last hug he’d gotten. The closest might’ve been Quackity, at some point. Nobody was exactly eager to touch him, and he wasn’t exactly eager to touch anybody. It was so much, too much at once after so long, suffocating and clammy and he didn’t even know who this guy was, and he shoved the other off, scrambling away. The phantom of the embrace set his hairs on end.
He wasn’t sure what facial expression he was making, but Ghostbur began to profusely apologize upon seeing it. “That was too much— I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I was just so relieved! I won’t do it again, I promise— I should’ve asked, I’m sorry—“
“Do you ever stop apologizing?” Schlatt snapped, quickly getting to his feet again and brushing himself off as if it would rid himself of the sensation. He shivered. Ick.
Ghostbur blinked in surprise, shutting up. “… Sorry?”
“Christ…” Schlatt rubbed a hand down his face. This guy wasn’t at all like Wilbur. He wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing quite yet.
“So this is…” Ghostbur asked, slowly standing as well, “The afterlife?”
“I guess. Nobody knows. I mean, only dead people show up here, so…”
Ghostbur glanced around, taking in his surroundings and stepping away.
“There’s not much to explore. We’re kinda stuck here.”
“That’s alright… we’re the only two?”
“Yyyyep. Just us.” Schlatt paused, “And, well, the other guy…”
Ghostbur turned back to him. “Other guy?”
Schlatt avoided interacting with him as much as possible, which wasn’t hard; the guy seemed to prefer the void. It was rare he made appearances. He shook his head. “He’s a fuckin’ headache is what he is. Don’t worry about him.”
Ghostbur’s eyes were still trained on him, now contemplative as he just stared. The void-eyes he had were creepy as hell and Schlatt shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.
“… Are you sure we haven’t met before?” Ghostbur asked after a minute.
“Not… like this. I mean I knew Wilbur.”
“Right, but…” He frowned, “… Your voice, it’s…”
“Like a Disney Princess, I know,” Schlatt drawled, unable to help himself.
“… Oh, never mind. I must be imagining it. But then…” His gaze was still dead set on him, and Schlatt was half tempted to tell him to piss right off because it was seriously making him uncomfortable, but then he asked, “… This may sound rude, but do you happen to know Friend?”
Schlatt knew that new people had arrived since his death, and maybe he didn’t know everyone on the server even when he was alive, but being President meant having connections. Trying to stay patient for once in his life— he knew how disorienting it was to pop up here the first time, he kept trying to remind himself— he tried, “Which one?”
Ghostbur laughed softly, shaking his head. “No, no, Friend. Name. The sheep.”
Schlatt blinked at him. “How the fuck do you expect me to know that?”
“Well, I just thought…” Ghostbur pointed to his head, and Schlatt raised a hand to brush over the horn he knew was there. Oh. “You know, Friend didn’t have horns, but some of his other sheep friends did. And— and you’re wearing blue, and I thought, you know, because Friend wears blue too…”
This was in reference to the worn, light blue wool sweater God had decided to dress him in when he sent him here. Schlatt wasn’t complaining at all; chronic pain was one thing on its own, but an entirely different deal when you were forced into wearing a stiff suit on top of it. He’d take the comfort, even if it looked kinda pathetic in his opinion.
That didn’t change the fact that he had no idea who the fuck this guy was talking about. “So? That doesn’t mean I know your pet. It’s not like I have an encyclopedic knowledge of every sheep in the God damn world. What, do I look like I crawl around on all fours each day?”
Ghostbur opened his mouth to respond.
“Actually,” Schlatt interrupted before he could begin, “Don’t answer that.”
The latter looked only saddened by this, looking away. “… That’s alright. Just thought it was worth a try. I miss him…” He paused, as if waiting for Schlatt to ask for an elaboration.
Schlatt did not ask for an elaboration, because he didn’t care.
“… I found him near Technoblade’s house, the first time, you know?” Ghostbur began nonetheless, sinking into himself, “He used to be white, but I was holding some blue and he walked right up and nudged my hand—“
Schlatt started to walk away, having far surpassed his pseudo-empathy limit for the day.
“Woah, hey—“ Ghostbur called after him, voice gaining a note of panic, “Where are you going? Are you leaving?”
“I’m getting a drink,” He called back.
He made it halfway across the terminal before Ghostbur sidled right back up next to him, continuing, “So I thought he wanted it, when he nudged me, you know? So I gave it— and it, it dyed his wool blue—“
Schlatt sighed. It was gonna be a long, long eternity.
A week after that, Ghostbur asked about the barrier.
There was no entrance nor exit to the station. To the leftmost area where they tended to stay, there was only a subway-tile wall that stood where a staircase up to the outside world was meant to be. To the right, the tube line seemed to stretch on into a far off horizon. He and Wilbur had both come to the same conclusion: it didn’t end.
Schlatt vividly remembered one day when he’d witnessed Wilbur dragging every trash can he’d could find into the middle of the walkway, making a barrier about half a mile out from the leftmost wall, so they wouldn’t be able to wander much further from the home base.
(“But what’s the point?” Schlatt had asked, “It’s all the same.”
“Exactly,” Wilbur had said, metal scraping over concrete as he dragged another can to the barricade, “Schlatt, do you know what the definition of insanity is?”
“Not as well as you do, buddy.”
In reality, Schlatt knew it didn’t matter that it was endless; it was that Wilbur didn’t want to be separated from him because he was scared.
But then again, Schlatt never crossed that line either.)
“Wilbur built it so we stay here. Kinda like a… ‘do not pass go, don’t collect $200 dollars’ type deal, y’know?” Schlatt explained as they stood before the wall of bins.
“Why not?” Ghostbur asked.
“… We think this whole place kinda just… goes on forever. Could get lost. So don’t go past it.” Schlatt then remembered he didn’t care and added, “Or do. I don’t give a shit.”
Ghostbur glanced down the walkway of the station that stretched into the misty distance. “Have you ever gone past?”
“Maybe?” Schlatt shrugged, “I guess it doesn’t matter as long as you know there’s a wall to the left.”
Ghostbur gave a small nod, eyes never moving as he stepped closer to Schlatt, worrisome. “… I won’t pass. I don’t want to lose you.”
“God forbid,” Schlatt snorted. They walked away.
It took Ghostbur about three months to ask where Schlatt kept getting his whiskey bottles from.
“Surprised you don’t know,” Schlatt chuckled dryly, “Since you like following me everywhere like a fuckin’ puppy.”
Ghostbur sniffled, wiping at his eyes; Schlatt was pretty sure he’d never seen the guy go longer than an hour without crying. “Yeah, well, I don’t remember things well—“
“— Maybe because you never shut up and pay attention.” His shoes scuffed over concrete as he led Ghostbur forwards, “It’s over this way.”
Next to the ominously bare concrete wall— the one absent of the exit they longed for— was a booth. It might’ve been meant to be a ticket station or something, but beyond the plastic sheet to speak through, the inside was entirely black.
Schlatt went up to it. “It gives whatever you think of,” He explained, “Well, anything that fits under the plastic, I guess.”
He reached under and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He didn’t smoke very often; only really started because Wilbur did, but he supposed it couldn’t make his cough worse than it already was. He reached under and pulled out a lighter along with it.
Ghostbur stared wide eyed. “Anything?”
“Yeah, I guess. Wilbur got a guitar once, but I dunno how it fit. I just came and he had it one day.”
Ghostbur squeezed his eyes shut a moment, thinking, before saying, “Blue, please.” Then he reached under and his eyes widened. When he pulled his hand out, it was coated in a thick white liquid.
Schlatt was about to make an extremely lewd joke at his expense when then, before his eyes, the white tinted to the faintest eggshell blue, then brighter— almost matching his sweater, then darker and darker, like he was witnessing a sky change from morning to afternoon to night to storm.
It settled on a deep navy, and Ghostbur let out a long breath, a smile gracing his lips as his whole body relaxed. “I haven’t had blue in ages.”
It resembled, Schlatt realized, the supposed “blood” he’d seen on the train. “What the fuck?” He aptly asked.
“Have you never had blue before?” Ghostbur asked, glancing up to him. He looked calmer than he had in months, Schlatt noticed.
“… No?”
“It calms you down,” Ghostbur explained eagerly, “It starts white, and it sucks all your sadness out and turns blue!” He thrust the hand out, offering, “You want some?”
Schlatt shifted uncomfortably, clutching his pack of cigarettes a bit tighter. He could self-medicate just fine, thank you. “You can keep your drugs,” He chuckled uncomfortably, “I’m good.”
“Alright. If you want any, let me know though!” Ghostbur paused, glancing to the booth, “Or get it yourself, I suppose.”
Schlatt shook his head, moreso to himself, and walked over to the tracks, sitting down beside them and letting his legs dangle into the railway. It wasn’t like he had to worry about any trains coming and dismembering him, anyways.
To his complete lack of surprise, Ghostbur sat down beside him as he pulled out a cigarette and lit it. When he inhaled, the scent of smoke flooded his nose and heat scraped the roof of his mouth, but it didn’t settle in his lungs. It was similar with drinking; he could taste the spice of whiskey on his tongue, but he didn’t feel it in his stomach when he swallowed. It felt as if all his insides were missing. Maybe everything he consumed just went into a void.
Or not, he thought as he exhaled and sent a cloud of smoke into the dim air.
(The upside was that no matter what, he never had to shit anymore. Which was good, because apparently limbo didn’t have bathrooms.)
Ghostbur watched the smoke with intense fascination, like a child discovering that their breaths turned to mist in winter air. “What is that?”
Schlatt pulled the cigarette away to hold it up. “… It’s a cigarette.”
“What does it do?”
He glanced down to Ghostbur’s hands, which were still covered in blue, “Kinda what that does, I guess?” He said, motioning towards them, “Calms some people down.”
Ghostbur held his hands out over the pit in front of them and shook his hands out, sending azure droplets scattering onto the tracks below. “Can I try?”
Schlatt was about to selfishly tell him no, but he realized it didn’t really matter. He could get more literally whenever he wanted, and he supposed it was only fair since Ghostbur had offered him his weird meth stuff before. “Sure.”
He passed it over and Ghostbur held it like you would a pencil, which was already an atrocious start. Then, he started to bring the unfiltered end to his lips, also known as the end that was on fire.
“Wrong— no, that’s wrong, stop that—“ Schlatt blurted quickly as he watched the horrific sequence of events transpire.
Ghostbur froze. It didn’t really matter, since he didn’t have skin to burn anyways, but Schlatt still felt his underlying migraine grow tenfold.
He rubbed a hand down his face, exasperated. “Other way. Flip it.”
Ghostbur blinked and turned the cigarette around so the filter was pointing towards his mouth. He was still holding it like a four year old with a crayon, but Schlatt didn’t have the patience nor sanity to correct him. “Yeah, that’s it.”
He got a smile for his efforts before Ghostbur finally placed the cigarette between his lips and breathed in.
The reaction was almost instantaneous. His eyes widened more than Schlatt had ever seen before as what could only be described as intense, horrific recollection dawned on him. Then he threw the cigarette down into the tracks, which was already lined with many others that had been tossed over the years, and scrambled away from the pit as tears welled up again.
Schlatt might’ve been mad at the waste had he not been so startled by the reaction. “What!? What is it?”
“No, no no no—“ Ghostbur mumbled as he got shakily to his feet. Yet again, steam rose from his cheeks and he gripped tight at his hair as he stumbled back and back and back, “I’m sorry, so sorry— no—“
He walked far, far away, out of sight, continuing to mumble no’s and apologies under his breath as he left a trail of blue on the floor behind him.
Schlatt blinked after him, bewildered. He lit another cigarette.
He tried to smoke away from Ghostbur from then on.
Ghostbur liked to stare a lot.
Schlatt wasn’t sure if it was because he looked weird and horrific, or if it was because he was extremely attractive (his logic and ego argued over that; there were no mirrors here), but it was uncomfortable either way, to have eyes on him so often, searching. He made this clear enough, telling Ghostbur to fuck off or quit it because it was creepy. The ghost only listened for a while before his eyes inevitably returned to him again.
A year in, Schlatt found out why.
He was nursing a bottle and Ghostbur was eyeing him particularly intensely today, almost glaring in thought. In all honestly, he’d kind of given up, but he was perplexed nonetheless. He remembered the gash on Wilbur’s chest that had never seemed to heal, which made sense, but for all he knew he was some sort of fucked up zombie or something different.
Ghostbur’s stare burned his cheek as he stared straight ahead, trying to ignore him. It wasn’t working.
He knew he felt more lethargic and he knew he felt pained all over, but that was mostly internal. Were his cheeks sunken? Were his eyes as bloodshot as he suspected they were? Did he even have pupils, or were his eyes matching black voids, similar to Ghostbur’s?
Almost startled by the thought, he turned to stare back.
Ghostbur’s lips parted in a gasp. “I know you,” He realized.
Schlatt thumbed the lip of the bottle in his hand. “What?”
“I know you!” Ghostbur said louder, face lighting up, “I knew I know you! I knew it! You seemed so familiar!” He gestured between the both of them, “You were there when— you were inside of me once!”
Schlatt blinked.
He looked Ghostbur up and down.
“Not sober, I wasn’t,” He concluded, turning away and raising the bottle back to his lips for a long swig.
“No no no— don’t you remember?” Ghostbur prompted. He grabbed onto Schlatt’s raised arm, which Schlatt hated, and insisted, “The first time I asked Phil to bring me— Wilbur back, you were there! I saw you a second, and then you came back with me for a moment, and we— we were like, we were together!”
Schlatt blinked, lowering his arm as he racked his brain and tried to remember any reality in which he wasn’t too piss drunk to remember this scenario. Then again, Ghostbur said a lot of nonsense, so this could’ve very well been fairytale.
“… Protein powder?” Ghostbur suggested.
“Protein powder,” Schlatt echoed, staring ahead. He swirled the bottle rhythmically as if it would help physically stir up his memories.
Protein powder, yes… a man he didn’t recognize, and Eret… Fundy? The feeling of being ripped forward and slammed through a concrete wall into a body bigger than his own, yet still crowded together tightly. Fighting for dominance to try and get through the dizziness. The haze he’d been staring through for yers lifted for a minute. Air in new lungs, a breath that wasn’t raspy. Opening his mouth and speaking British.
Schlatt’s breath caught, and yes, no, he did remember. Terror. Claustrophobic in someone else’s skin. Tasting sky and sunlight, and the horror that he was back—
“You did that!?” He barked, whirling back to Ghostbur, “You mean that shit was your fault!?”
Ghostbur finally let go of him and Schlatt felt like he could breathe again. The former recoiled, brow pinching in worry. “What? Did I do something wrong?”
“Yes! You did!” He gestured harshly towards Ghostbur, whiskey sloshing onto the concrete in his clumsy rage. “Why the hell would you do that!? Why would you make me go back!?”
Unsurprisingly, Ghostbur’s eyes instantly pooled with tears. “I— I didn’t mean to, it was an accident! I was trying to bring Wilbur back, there must’ve been a mistake—“
No wonder he’d tried to forget that, Schlatt thought. His head crooked to the side as discomfort crawled down his neck. “Fucking— do you have any idea how— how violating that shit was!?”
“Yes, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—“ Ghostbur babbled, trying to amend as fast as the anger came, “I didn’t mean to, I’m so sorry—“
“God. Jesus…” Schlatt rubbed a hand down his face, trying to scrub the experience from his mind. “I thought you didn’t want Wilbur back!”
“I did, at the time. I thought— I thought it was right, because Wilbur had helped L’manberg be alive and I failed to— to do that, so I thought having him back would be better. But then Tommy died and came back and said not to bring him back, and then things went all wrong—“
“Wasn’t he the bitch who blew it up in the first place?” Schlatt huffed.
“No, I mean the second time.”
“… Second time?”
“Yeah, the— the 27 withers and TNT canons…”
… Actually, Schlatt thought, maybe he died at a good time after all.
Ghostbur shook his head and wiped at his cheeks. “Nevermind. I just messed up. I do that a lot.” He looked up at Schlatt with helpless, pleading eyes. “I really, really am sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I couldn’t— I didn’t have any control, everything was moving so fast…”
Schlatt couldn’t take that look for too long. He turned away quickly. He was still angry, but he knew he logically didn’t have an excuse to be mad anymore, which only pissed him off more, in a way. He didn’t respond— didn't have the energy— and instead just tipped the bottle back again, letting the liquor burn his throat.
After a minute, though, because Ghostbur never shut up, he gently tried, “Wasn’t it… a little nice, though, maybe? Not the body-sharing part, but… getting to see the real world again?”
“No,” Schlatt responded instantly, staring at the wall with slitted eyes.
“… Why not?” Ghostbur asked, far too innocent, “Don’t you want to go back?”
Schlatt heard his own jaw click shut, his grip so tight on the bottle that a stronger man might’ve shattered it.
Fuck civility. He was dead.
“Don’t you have anything better to do than stick your nose up my ass and bitch?” He snapped sharply, “Can’t you tell I just want to be left the fuck alone?”
Ghostbur was on his feet in an instant, starting to hiccup and shake his head no. “I’ll go, I’m sorry, I won’t ask again—“
He was gone in record speed.
Schlatt’s chest felt tight. He tried to breathe in, but the air filled the hollow cavity inside of him in a way that only made him feel more empty than full. He couldn’t calm down like this.
The most obvious solution, then, was to go where he couldn’t feel anything at all.
He finished the bottle quickly, laid down, and dissolved.
He dared come back six months later. When he stepped off the train, Ghostbur looked over from where he was balled up and crawled across the floor to grovel at his feet.
“I’m sorry,” He begged and cried, “Please don’t leave me again, I don’t want to be alone—“
Schlatt shrugged, over it, and stepped over him. He went to the counter and got a new pack of cigarettes.
Ghostbur went to get that blue shit almost as often as Schlatt went to get drinks. He kept insisting it wasn’t drugs or anything like that, and though he found it hard to believe, Schlatt would not let himself be a hypocrite. Everyone had a vice, he supposed.
It was fascinating, though— the lack of side effects. It might’ve been something to do with being a ghost and lacking any physicality, but whereas Schlatt’s liquor left him feeling sluggish at best, Ghostbur’s blue left nothing but stains wherever it touched.
Schlatt also remembered the day they met when he’d touched some, and the pleasant zing up his arm. It was powerful.
… And if he was going to be stuck here forever, why the hell not?
“Just… blue?” He asked as they stood before the booth, “That’s literally what it’s called?”
“Yes,” Ghostbur confirmed with a gentle smile, “Just reach under.”
“And something will cum in my hand—“
“It’s not cum!” Ghostbur insisted, “Just— you’ll see!”
So Schlatt scoffed, reached under the plastic barrier, and thought, blue?
In one of the weirdest experiences of his life (of which he had many), sticky, cold liquid dripped into his hand. He pulled it out. White.
Schlatt wanted to gag. “… Are you sure it’s not a glory hole or something—“
But then , sure enough, the white began to color in his hand and there was a tug in his chest, as if the weight there was being sucked out by his palms. The aches in his joints slipped away and the roughness in his throat eased. For the first time in centuries, his aches faded and eased and he felt years younger. It was as if he was filled with a pleasant numbing, becoming more intense the darker the liquid colored until eventually it stopped on that dark shade it always did. It seemed that was its full capacity.
And even when it stopped, the sensation stayed. Schlatt didn’t dare move out of fear of it stopping. He felt… good.
“Holy shit,” He breathed, “No wonder you love this shit, Jesus Christ…”
But when he turned to look at Ghostbur, he was frowning. “Yours colored so quickly…”
“So?” He’d assumed it was meant to do that, “Yours does too.”
“Well yes, but…” Ghostbur sighed and shook his head. “Oh, nevermind.”
Fine by Schlatt. He glanced back down to his hands. “What do I do with it now?”
“I dunno. I usually just let mine drip away. Makes a mess of my clothes, though.”
The aching and weight was gradually returning as it wore off; this wouldn’t last forever, Schlatt knew. He stepped away from Ghostbur and, for lack of a better idea, flapped his hands to dry them. His skin was stained, like marker in carpet.
Ghostbur was still giving him that saddened look. Schlatt didn’t like it.
“Maybe you are useful for something after all,” He said, crossing over and patting the phantom on the shoulder before leaving him beside the booth.
Also close to the left wall was the dot matrix display. When Ghostbur wasn’t hovering by Schlatt, he was over there, staring at the blank screen for days at a time and praying for a message. Sometimes, they came, and he’d relay them to Schlatt with all the excitement in the world.
“Tommy said he missed me today,” Ghostbur reported one day, practically bouncing in place. “He hasn’t forgotten me! There are— they remember me!”
Schlatt didn’t know why Ghostbur was so hung up on these things; it was better to just let everything from their past lives go to save themselves from going mad (which was probably why Wilbur so adamantly hadn’t).
“That’s great, Ghostbur,” He said unenthusiastically.
Ghostbur’s smile faltered a little and he sat cross-legged in front of Schlatt, like a child at story time. This usually meant that he was gonna try and get Schlatt to talk, which meant Schlatt should probably leave. He started to stand.
“Nooooo,” Ghostbur whined, “Oh come on, now. Can’t you stay just a minute?”
He was giving him those big, pleading eyes. Schlatt had grown skilled at not letting those win. Usually he was good at ignoring begs and pleads. Usually.
But if he walked away, the ghost would just undoubtedly follow. What a waste of energy.
… He sat back down. “One minute.”
Ghostbur grinned wide and quickly asked, “How come you never look at the matrix? Don’t you want to see what people say about you?”
Schlatt huffed through his nose. The one time he’d looked at that thing, he’d seen invites and comments on his funeral. The nicest sounded sarcastic. The others, celebratory.
(“At least you’re getting a funeral,” Wilbur had commented over his shoulder, bitter.)
“No,” He responded simply, no elaboration.
Of course, Ghostbur didn’t let it go. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t care what people think of me.” And he doubted he was being spoken much about these days, anyways; he was somewhat old news.
“Well who cares what they think of you?” Said Ghostbur, whom Schlatt knew cared very much about what people thought of him, “Don’t you want to hear from the people you miss again?” He paused, “Don’t you miss anyone?”
In a horrible twist of fate, Wilbur came to mind.
(“… But you’re gonna miss me.”)
Wilbur, who had that creepy fucking laugh. Who’d built and ruined Schlatt’s country. Who’d dealt him cards on the rare day he’d played. Who was so grotesquely optimistic it made Schlatt sick. But who also knew what personal space meant. Who he could sit a few feet from in the station, both of them silent, with no bullshit or expectations.
… No, Schlatt reasoned with himself, he didn’t miss Wilbur, then. He just missed not having to babysit like he did with this guy.
“Nope,” He decided. After all, he hadn't cared for anyone when he was alive, either.
… Maybe Fundy, before he betrayed him. Or Tubbo, before he betrayed him.
Or Quackity, before he became annoying. And then betrayed him. And then killed him.
He kind of wanted a drink.
“Minute up?” He asked.
“But—“ Ghostbur insisted, reaching over as if to hold him in place. Schlatt didn’t mind him this time, standing up and stretching out, bones he didn’t have cracking.
“Then I’m gonna go,” He sighed, starting to walk off, concrete beneath his soles.
“But don’t you think anyone misses you, then?” Ghostbur called after him.
And Schlatt paused in his tracks.
He thought about it for about two seconds before tossing his head back. The laugh he gave was so loud, it echoed through the entire station.
Usually whenever he saw Ghostbur crying, he tried to steer clear. God knew he was the least equipped of all to be of comfort, if he even wanted to be.
Ghostbur would mumble about Tommy, and Friend, and being a letdown, and once he remembered who Schlatt was, his stares went from searching to forlorn. It was as if he thought weeping before him enough would maybe, maybe push him to step in and help. Schlatt was starting to get surprised that, after so many years, he was still trying. He didn’t give up easily, that one.
Perhaps there was some small part of Schlatt that did feel bad, though. A bit of him that wished Ghostbur had gotten trapped up here with a kinder person than he was. And yes, Schlatt knew that he could change and be better for him, but he never bothered. His legacy was cemented, as was his place here. He wasn’t as smart as Wilbur was, no matter how much he wanted to be. Idiots waste all their second chances. Why waste energy on trying to change when nothing around you ever does?
And callous was comfortable. He felt secure in consistency. Perhaps that was why, despite knowing that blue was a quick way to kill off his pain and worries for a nice thirty seconds, he didn’t come back to it that often, sticking to bottles and smokes. He loathed the way his body hurt, yet didn’t know how he’d live without it. Because at least he knew his skin well; he was the only person he’d ever really been able to understand.
Maybe he liked the pain. Maybe he was a little bit fucked up.
No, he knew he was a little bit fucked up.
Which was why when Ghostbur came to him one month, as he often did, blubbering and seeking consolation, he waved him off. “I don’t want to hear it.”
Ghostbur didn’t listen. “Do you think Tommy hates me?”
Schlatt tried to walk away. Ghostbur followed after him. He was stuck.
Anything to finish this conversation quickly, Schlatt thought. “You see him talk about you on the screen, don’t you? Go check or something.”
“Not as much anymore,” Ghostbur sniffled, “They’re all talking about Wilbur now. Tommy didn’t even want Wilbur back. I messed up and got myself killed. And I think Skeppy killed Friend—“
“Do I look like I care?” Schlatt sighed.
“I had— I had to die Schlatt! I had to feel myself die and I’m already dead!”
“Yeah, yeah, big deal! So did I, shithead!” He snapped, “Can you quit fucking whining, for once? God…”
And, to Schlatt’s surprise, Ghostbur did. He resorted to sniffling into his sleeve and dampening his cries a minute, and Schlatt wondered if, for once, the message had gotten across.
But then Ghostbur asked, “How… how did you die, Schlatt?”
A normal person, Schlatt thought, might’ve felt paralyzed by the trauma of such a question. In truth, Schlatt had never minded the whole situation much. Except for, perhaps, that it was the most pussy way to go he’d ever heard of.
Still, he cautiously deflected, “Why do you care?”
“… ‘Cause I can’t tell.”
That got him to turn back and face him. Ghostbur had paused a few paces away, giving him space as he frowned after him.
“… What do you mean?”
“Well, I mean, I got…” He pointed to the stain on his chest. It matched Wilbur’s, but Ghostbur’s was blue instead of blood, go figure. “You can just tell, yeah? But I can’t with you.”
Schlatt hesitated before crossing his arms over his chest. There was no heartbeat there.
“I had a heart attack. Or a stroke, or something stupid,” He admitted, “… I died a couple hours before Wilbur did, actually. At least, that’s what he said.” For Schlatt, though, it had been a little less than a week of being alone in darkness, all by himself before Wilbur stepped off the train.
“… Oh.” Ghostbur’s expression softened, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Schlatt shrugged. “Eh, I’m over it.” Then he chuckled a little. “Over” dying. Yeah, that was rich.
But if Ghostbur couldn’t tell, he realized, perhaps he didn’t look all that different or fucked up as he thought he did. Maybe he just looked normal.
God forbid he initiate even more conversation with this idiot, but he had to know. “… Uh, what do I look like?”
Ghostbur studied him, then laughed a little. “I mean, it’s hard to say. I don’t know what you looked like alive, so I can’t compare that well.”
Schlatt sighed a little, but supposed that was fair. Maybe he should’ve asked Wilbur whilst he was still there.
“I guess…” Ghostbur tried after a moment, brow furrowed, “I guess you look tired. Sick. Mostly tired, though.”
“Oh.” That also sounded about right. “Okay.”
He glanced down at his own hands. He was pale; had been ever since he’d arrived and perhaps a bit before. Not translucent, though, not like Ghostbur.
“I don’t get why you look like a ghost though,” Schlatt muttered. Then he realized how stupid that statement sounded (he looked like a ghost because he was one, dumbass), and added, “I mean, I know, but like… like you’re grey and clear and weird and I’m not. Wilbur wasn’t either, I guess.”
“Well I’m not Wilbur. I’m Ghostbur,” Ghostbur explained, as if that were of any help, “We’re separate entities, I guess. I only was… ‘born’… I guess, after he died. He’s real him and I’m ghost him, so I’m different. Does that make sense?”
It didn’t really. At least, not to Schlatt. It just sounded like a repetition of what he always said. Nevertheless, he nodded.
But then, he started to wonder. He said the question aloud right as it came to mind. “Does that mean I have a ghost me somewhere?”
“Oh, yes, probably!” Ghostbur nodded, “I mean, I’ll be honest, I never met him. Wish I had. But I’m sure he’s up there somewhere.”
Schlatt tried to picture it. It was hard, when he’d already forgotten much of what his own face looked like, but he tried. A translucent, floaty version of himself. He considered how different Wilbur and Ghostbur’s personalities were, and wondered if that was the same case for him and his doppelgänger. Was Ghost Schlatt as naïve as Ghostbur? As sentimental and emotional? As stupidly hopeful? Did he resent Schlatt in the same way Ghostbur resented Wilbur?
His spine tingled uncomfortably at the thought. “… Fuckin’ weird, dude.”
“… Maybe for you,” Ghostbur mumbled softly, glancing away.
Schlatt looked out over the tracks, cracking his knuckles to fill the silence. After a minute, Ghostbur started sniffling again, and Schlatt figured that was his cue.
“… I think I’m gonna dip again, for a while,” He said. He’d been thinking of doing it all day, anyways.
“You’ll come back, right?” Ghostbur instantly asked, voice brimming with worry, “Right?”
Schlatt didn’t think he’d be able to stay away forever. It became too much for even him, sometimes. “Yeah, yeah, I will,” He promised quietly before turning and heading the other way.
He returned to the sound of a guitar strumming.
When he stepped off the train, he heard a semi-familiar tune and a soft humming voice, and for a second, Schlatt was sure Wilbur had died and came back while he’d been gone. Why did he always miss these things?
But no, he realized when he followed the noise to see Ghostbur strumming, in a world of his own with his back to the wall. Nothing had changed.
Schlatt had never really cared for music one way or the other, but he couldn’t deny that Wilbur was talented. It had been so long since he’d heard him play that it was almost startling.
Ghostbur finished off the song, letting an echoing note ring out. His eyes, previously closed, opened to see Schlatt. “Oh!” He jumped and set the guitar aside. “You’re back!”
“Unfortunately,” Schlatt agreed.
And Ghostbur flashed him another one of those wide, undeserved smiles and patted the ground beside him, as if to beckon Schlatt to sit next to him.
Schlatt would not get that close to him ever, if he could help it. But just this once, because it had been so long without the company of another person, he did slowly take a seat down in front of Ghostbur, a safe distance away.
Ghostbur didn’t seem to mind. He glanced over to the guitar. “… I found that hidden away. It was strange. I’m not even sure how I knew that song.”
“Ghost magic, I guess,” Schlatt mused.
“Maybe so.” Ghostbur laughed slightly, meeting Schlatt’s gaze comfortably. “… I missed you.”
Schlatt couldn’t imagine why, so he just laughed, “Alright.”
“I did!” Ghostbur’s demeanor was mirthful, for once. Maybe the guitar and music had helped him, or some soulful shit like that. But he sounded just the slightest bit like Wilbur when he said, “… I’m glad you’re my friend, Schlatt.”
For a moment, Schlatt stuttered. Had he ever had a friend that wasn’t forced, or fucked up? Was this real? How long would it last?
It probably wouldn’t.
But Ghostbur was happy today, and Schlatt couldn’t find it in him to tell him that they weren’t. Couldn’t tell him that he was a pretty shitty friend to have with a bad track record of trust. He didn’t have the heart, figuratively and literally.
Schlatt was tired.
So for the first time in years, he forced a small smile knit with guilt and said, “Whatever you say, kid.”