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“Are you… Alivebur?”
Wilbur’s eyes shoot open. The light is so dim he can hardly comprehend what he’s seeing, at first. Last he checked, he’d been falling asleep in Phil’s upper room; but then he sees the dot-matrix display, the same one he’d been glued to for thirteen years, and he knows where he is instantly.
“No, there’s no question,” the same voice calls. “It is you.”
Wilbur sits up. Across the terminal, a man is leaning back against a bannister with his eyes closed. Wilbur can just make out the yellow of his sweater and the red of his beanie, the inexplicable blue on his cheeks. As Wilbur watches, his eyes flicker open.
The last (and only) interaction Wilbur’d had with Ghostbur, he’d been wailing, clinging to the side of the subway car as Dream wrenched his fingers off and pushed him out onto the platform. Wilbur had smiled at the blue handprints all the way up to the overworld, but since then, he hasn’t thought of Ghostbur much at all.
“I’m surprised you’re not crying,” Wilbur says. This is clearly a dream, so he might as well humor it. He’s never been good enough with lucid dreams to worm his way out of them, in any case—all he gets is awareness without control.
“I don’t cry much anymore,” Ghostbur says, head tilted thoughtfully. “It’s been too long, you know?”
Wilbur knows. Limbo sucks everything out of you, far beyond what you think you’re capable of giving. He’s surprised Ghostbur’s sweater even has a hint of yellow left, as dull as it is; Wilbur’d lost just about all his color by year three.
Ghostbur hums, apparently not miffed by Wilbur’s silence. “This is the first time we’re officially meeting, I think. Although I’ve heard quite a lot about you.”
“Oh, yeah?” Wilbur asks. “What’ve you heard?”
“That you’re not-so-good of a guy,” Ghostbur says. “That you went off the rails, and hurt a lot of people. Everyone on the server, really!”
Wilbur chuckles. “That is what they’d tell you, isn’t it.”
He’d sort of known that already, anyway. Context clues for one, and also—the way Wilbur’s mind intersects with Ghostbur’s is interesting. Wilbur remembers every second of his thirteen long, dark years locked away in this terminal, but despite that a memory will pop up that he knows for a fact couldn’t have been from when he was alive. Helping Tommy in exile, Techno’s near-execution, Fundy yelling at him for his parenting. Phil’s failed resurrection attempt.
“Do you disagree?” Ghostbur asks.
“Not with the effects,” Wilbur says. “But calling it ‘going off the rails’ is generous. It’s more that I’m not-so-good a guy all the way down to the core, and everything finally played into my hands.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Ghostbur says. “If that were true, how would I exist?”
“You’re not me—not in the ways that count, anyway,” Wilbur says. “You’re weak.”
“Phil always says—” Ghostbur cuts himself off. “He always said I’m just like you, the way you used to be. Before you ran away.”
“Maybe you’re just as good at hiding it as I was, then,” Wilbur says. “You’re a very sad boy, aren’t you, Ghostbur?”
Ghostbur is staring at him—not blankly, but Wilbur can’t read him at all. Perhaps it’s because of the limbo; perhaps it’s just that Ghostbur looks exactly like him, and he has very little practice reading his own face.
“I used to be,” Ghostbur says. “But so were you.”
“Even if I was, you’re not me,” Wilbur says. “I’m nothing like you.”
“Are you sure?”
Wilbur’s mouth turns. This guy is fucking annoying—Wilbur doesn’t know why any of them put up with him when he was up top. He resolves to play out the rest of this dream in silence, lying back with his hands behind his head, eyes closed. A few more hours of waiting in this station is nothing compared to the time he’s already done.
He doesn’t know how much time passes like that, in the silence—but eventually, he hears the faint rumbling of a train. He smirks as he gets up; he’ll have no problem getting on and leaving Ghostbur here to rot.
“Oh, do you think that’s for you?” Ghostbur asks. When he glances over, Ghostbur has also stood up from his place against the wall.
“Of course it is,” Wilbur says. “Who else would it be for?”
Ghostbur smiles faintly. “There are more people down here than just us two, you know.”
Wilbur’s smirk falters. “Who else could it be?” He wants to mock, try and push Ghostbur’s buttons a bit more before he goes, but something like dread has settled in the pit of his stomach. He’s not sure why.
“I think it’s my friend,” Ghostbur says. “Tommy—not my Tommy, but one of him. You’ll want to step back if it is—I wouldn’t want you to get burned.”
“Tommy?” Wilbur asks. “What do you mean, ‘my Tommy?’”
The subway car must turn the final bend, because Wilbur can see the lights in the distance when he peers down the track. And with it, Wilbur can hear, ever-so-faintly, what sounds like… wailing. It’s not dissimilar to how Ghostbur had sounded the day they’d switched places.
“He’s quite sweet when you get past the crying,” Ghostbur says. “And he doesn’t mean to singe you, it just happens because he’s upset.”
Wilbur opens his mouth to respond, but his heart is in his throat, cutting him off from any real response. All he can do is stand there as the train rattles closer, the clanging of the tracks and rush of air intermixing with the voice from inside.
The train arrives, and Wilbur barely has time to process the beep of the opening doors before there’s a rush of lava flowing out onto the platform and down onto the tracks, seeping out like blood from a wound. Wilbur jumps back to avoid it, barely managing to keep himself upright as he stares into the open car.
And then, just as Ghostbur predicted, there’s Tommy.
He’s barely recognizable—Wilbur doesn’t know if he would have even known it was him if not for the ratty, scorched red-and-white t-shirt. His skin is alternately completely colorless and streaked with soot, hair a wild mess, arms dotted with flecks of fire that’ve risen up from the lava at his feet. Most notable, though, is the tear streaks on his face—at least they look like tear streaks, apart from being made of actively flowing lava.
Wilbur’s chest, already tight, tightens impossibly further. He can’t help the gasp for air that comes out, so deeply unprepared for seeing Tommy like this, whatever this is.
“Hello, Phantommy, how’re—“
“Wilbur?” Tommy, or Phantommy, apparently, shouts. “Wilbur? Ghostbur, is that—who’s—“
“Yes, that’s Alivebur,” Ghostbur says. “He just showed up here—“
“Ghostbur, please,” Tommy says, stumbling out of the train. “Keep him away from me, you have to keep him away from me.” He trips into Ghostbur’s arms, and Wilbur can hear the hiss of fabric burning as Tommy buries his face in Ghostbur’s chest, tears starting up again in earnest.
“Don’t you want to see him?” Ghostbur asks, petting over the back of Tommy’s head. “Who knows how long it’ll be until he’s back down here again.”
“No!” Tommy shouts. “He’s—he’s a wrongen, Ghostbur, just awful. You don’t understand, I know you don’t like bad things, but he’s as bad as they come.” Tommy leans back slightly, glancing over Ghostbur’s frame. “Has he hurt you?”
“Of course not,” Ghostbur says. “He can’t hurt you either, not here anyway. Would you like some blue?”
Tommy, in lieu of a response, shoves his face back into Ghostbur’s chest, fabric crackling. Wilbur's not sure how it's not been set entirely on fire.
“Tommy…” Wilbur trails off. “I wouldn’t—I’d never hurt you, Tommy.”
“Shut the fuck up!” Tommy says, scrambling around so he can peer at him from the protection of Ghostbur’s shoulder. “That’s all you do—you—you bitch, all you ever did was hurt me!”
Wilbur’s mind whirls. Of course he’d known… he’d had to do things, sometimes, that he knows Tommy didn’t agree with. He’d had to keep things from him, mislead him on occasion, and then there was the TNT plot, but all of that—Tommy had Tubbo, and Phil. Wilbur had made sure Tommy would have people to turn to, to help him understand what Wilbur’d done, and to forgive him, hopefully. They were like brothers—hadn’t that been enough?
“You look upset,” Ghostbur says, and Wilbur realizes the ghost has turned back to face him. “Would you like some blue?”
Wilbur glances down and—Ghostbur’s hand is dripping. Wilbur’s not sure with what, or where he got it, but blue is dripping from his hand onto the tile. When he glances up, there’s blue in Tommy’s hair and smudged over his forehead. It doesn’t look like dye.
Wilbur can feel his breathing pick up, shaking his head and trying to process. This is all too much, too much that he has no idea how to respond to, no idea where to even start. He stumbles backward a few more steps, away from Ghostbur and Tommy.
“This train is now ready to depart, please stand clear of the closing doors.”
The three of them glance back at the train, and Wilbur knows, suddenly and unequivocally, that if he doesn’t get on that train, he’ll be stuck.
The doors start to close, and Wilbur springs forward, jumping over Tommy’s lava as best he’s able as he flings himself through the gap. He lands hard, head banging against one of the bars on his way down, but when the doors close all the way, he’s inside.
He takes one deep, gasping breath, closes his eyes, and wakes up.
—
Wilbur’s hyperventilating. He can feel it, in the way he’s gone all light-headed, and in the physical action of stifling himself. He’d realized pretty immediately where he was, and he knows Phil could still be in the house, in his own bed even, just across the room from Wilbur’s. Wilbur can’t get himself sat up enough to check, but either way he has to be quiet. Phil can’t see him like this. He can’t.
He throws a hand up to tug at the pillows, pulling one over his face. Through the haze, he thinks he’s doing a pretty good job, but then he hears the creaking of floorboards downstairs. His heart starts hammering even harder, and he manages to hold his breath for a moment, but he’s too late. He hears the strain on the ladder, as stealthy as Phil is when he wants to be.
“Mate,” Phil croons, and Wilbur can’t bring himself to look. “Did you have a nightmare, Wil?”
The floorboards creak again as Phil walks over and kneels by the bed. Wilbur’d resolved himself not to look, but Phil gently tugs at the pillow—he doesn’t force it, but Wilbur lets it go anyway. All it takes is a look before Wilbur is letting himself fold into Phil’s arms, as awkward as the position is with him half-off the bed.
Phil pulls him in, wing hovering over him protectively, as he reaches up with one hand to scratch at the back of Wilbur’s head. It’s the same motion as Ghostbur had done for Tommy, the same motion Wilbur himself has done for Tommy countless times; Wilbur’s not sure when exactly he’d crossed into crying, but he recognizes now that he is.
As overcome as he is with everything else, shame still runs through him to the pit of his stomach. The more he calms down, the worse it gets; he still can’t bring himself to pull away.
“This reminds me of when you were a teenager,” Phil says.
Wilbur doesn’t look up. “Doesn’t that just mean I’m too old for it,” he says, more of a statement than not.
“Shut,” Phil says. “You’re never too old for me to take care of you.”
Any normal day, Wilbur would argue that—but it would do more harm than good, when he’s like this. There’s the part of him, too, that wants to be deluded just that little bit longer—snatch the affection where he can get it, let himself believe things are going to be okay if only because Phil says so.
Instead, he lets out a breath. Realistically, he shouldn’t say anything about this, either, but the weakest part of him is screaming for attention, and he hasn’t denied it yet. “Does Tommy hate me?”
Phil is silent for a long moment, but Wilbur knows he’s heard him.
“I think he’s confused,” Phil says. “It’s a complicated situation. But no, I don’t think he hates you.”
“Should he?” Wilbur asks.
Maybe that’s the better question, after all. Tommy’s never quite known what’s best for himself—if he had, he’d probably have stayed far away from Wilbur. Looking up to Wilbur as a mentor, a brother, might just be Tommy's greatest in a long string of mistakes. Especially if the real Tommy shares any feelings with the Phantommy version of Wilbur's dream.
Wilbur could chalk it up to just that—a dream, a figment of Wilbur's own fear. But it's hard to believe there isn't at least some truth in it, considering how much Wilbur's let Tommy down on this server. It's almost laughable that, all those years ago, Wilbur had really thought that he'd be able to protect Tommy.
“I don’t know,” Phil says, after another long pause. “I still don’t know everything that happened here, what went on with the two of you. You’ll have to figure that out between you and him, mate.”
Wilbur doesn’t respond. The sun is streaming through the window, now; Wilbur’d woken up just before dawn, which explains why Phil was downstairs. He insists on making Wilbur breakfast every morning he’s here, although Wilbur only stays to eat it about half the time.
Phil stays with him. Eventually, they hear the sound of snow crunching in the distance; two pairs of boots trekking toward the base. Phil doesn't move to get up, and neither does Wilbur, but there’s a knock at the door.
“Phiiiil,” Tommy calls from outside. “Are you in there, Phil? Ranboo set the forest on fire, he needs you to help him clean it up.”
“Um, I didn’t—it wasn’t me, exactly—I mean I was there, but it was more Tommy?” Ranboo shouts shakily. “I should’ve probably stopped him, though, so—it is my fault in a way, but, you know— “
Phil chuckles to himself. He pulls back slightly, taking in Wilbur’s mostly-calm appearance. “Do you mind if I go figure this shit out?”
Wilbur shakes his head.
“Alright,” Phil says. Wilbur lets himself be shuffled back onto the bed as Phil stands up. “Do you want to come down and see them?”
“No,” Wilbur says, and Phil nods. He hesitates for a moment, and when Wilbur doesn’t move, he reaches down to pull the blanket back over him.
“Let me know if you need anything,” Phil says. “And that goes for always, not just today.”
“I will,” Wilbur says, and although Phil looks skeptical, he heads back down the ladder, shutting the trap door behind him.
Wilbur listens as he opens the door to greet Tommy and Ranboo, transitioning seamlessly from his gentleness with Wilbur to managing the two apparent arsonists. Wilbur stares at the ceiling until long after they leave; he couldn’t sleep if he wanted to, although the thought of doing so is bone-chilling anyway. He just lies there, trying to think. No matter how hard he tries, though, he feels like he's back in the all-consuming emptiness of limbo, too empty even to think.