Chapter Text
wilbur didn't know what he was doing.
wilbur didn't know the last time he knew what he was doing.
but stood, staring at the remains of what was once his kingdom, his country, his home, watching as the flag burned to ash along with what used to be his heart, he knew he had to do something.
what that something was, he still didn't know.
he remembered the split second before the decision had been announced. the moment of pure relief and euphoria as he grabbed tommys arm, tugging him into a celebratory hug. he remembered never being happier, the soaring feeling in his chest and the grin that he couldn't wipe away. the fixed-gaze on his brothers eyes, the crinkle of his face as he beamed, the loud, relieved chuckle that they both seemed to let out simultaneously. he'd never felt more alive than the moment he stood side-by-side with his brother, elected once again to rule their country.
and he remembered that joy shattering seconds later.
wilbur had never felt so much hate before. his fists clenched and a bitter taste settled on his tongue. rage flooded his body, burning his lungs and shrivelling his heart into the cynical mutilation that thumped loudly in his chest. ringing filled his mind, the piercing sound swarming him from all angles. all joyus warmth was ripped away, replaced by nothing but cruel acrimony.
the old wilbur was ripped away alongside his country.
no more gentle hugs and quiet encouragements before the battlefields. no more soft hums and precise guitar chords.. no more handing his coat over at the slightest shiver. no more parental-like guidance and fatherly hair ruffles. no more steady hands guiding the bandages along his soldiers wounds. no more breathy laughs and playful punches. no more proud yells and high-strung flags. no more thankful embraces and muttered reassurances no more faith. no more country.
there was no more wilbur.
only resentment.
resentment and deep, sour hatred.
he was, in a way, no longer wilbur at all.
because sure, they had the same name, same family, same face.
but the wilbur who'd watched his baby brother grow up, the wilbur who'd run away with him in hopes of a better life, the wilbur who'd built a country from the ground up with nothing but his own two hands, the wilbur who fought to the death to protect his citizens, that wilbur would never act the way he had.
not since he formed pogtopia.
that wilbur would never step in the vicinity of a cigarette. that wilbur would never abandon hope. that wilbur would never lay a hand on his brothers, neither of them. that wilbur would never do anything this wilbur did.
wilbur couldn't function a day without a cigarette. the smoke filtering into his lungs and blackennig them to match his cold heart was what kept him going. the ill taste in his mouth and the sizzle as he stomped it out fueled his bitterness.
wilbur found hope childish. death was inevitable. failure was inevitable. why try when you're bound to fail, as wilbur did time and time again. faith was an immature ideal he'd grown out of. hope was something to hold you back.
wilbur had no hesitation snarling and pushing tommy away from him. willbur had no hesitation roaring at his little brother to shut up. wilbur had no hesitation locking tommy in his room and listening as he screamed and clawed to be let out. willbur had no hesitation pushing the elder brother into a pit with the youngest and cheering as they beat each other black and blue.
wilbur was not the old wilbur.
l'manberg felt like home. glowing lanterns hung throughout the streets, stunning flowers planted within the ground. trinkets hung upon the l'mantree. the silver string that tied the flag to the top of the pole. the blaze-like scent that hung around the brewing stands in the camarvan. soft rugs strewn across glossy hardwood floors. photos hung against walls.
pogtopia felt like a crime scene.
dim lights, gloom clinging to every crevice within the rocks.rickety stairs leading to no where. the oak paths that were smeared in blood that refused to wash off. button after button glued to the stone.thin blankets in place of beds. horrible thick starchy excuses of potatoes for every meal. sickening cigarette smoke clinging to the air. the scent of blood everywhere.
pogtopia wasn't, and never could be, home.
but whenever wilbur stood and looked at it, really looked at it, he found it felt more like himself.
desolate and miserable with the stench of ash and wounds that never left.
tommy looked at them both the same way.
all previous idolising tints in the boy's eyes were gone, replaced by nothing but a repulsed hatred and a hideous loathing. hostility and inhumane levels of rage. pity, from time to time. pity that then quickly changed to fear.
wilbur hated the way tommy looked at him now.
and wilbur hated the way techno avoided looking at him at any costs.
those were meant to be his brothers.
those had been his brothers.
until he ruined it.
tommy used to be all tiny hands and faint freckles that only ever resided upon his nose bridge. golden curls that loved to fall into his aqua eyes and highlighted his rosy cheeks. plasters across his knees and scrapes along his palms. gaps between his uneven teeth. loud shrieks and childish giggles that lit up the room.
seems wilbur wasn't the only one who'd changed.
tommy was lanky, almost as tall as wil himself, just as scrawny too. his freckles had long since faded. his hair seemed bone dry and thin, a dim shade that was closer to brown than blonde. all traces of blue had been wiped from his irises, now all stormy greys that were filled with cold fury. the rosey cheeks were a childish memory, all hollowed and pasty and caved in. the plasters had been torn away with his childhood, his wounds on display for all to see, all black bruises and gorey scraped up legs. braces held his teeth tightly. the shrieks and giggles were replaced by angry yells and frustrated sobs.
it hurt wilbur sometimes, seeing the shell of a boy who used to be his brother.
the two used to sit in alleys huddled beneath wilburs coat as he attempted to play guitar with trembling, frostbitten fingers. the two used to run through forest after forest in seek of a home.
now the two could barely stand to be near one another,
and wilbur couldn't even find it in himself to care.
he was a rotten, inhumane husk of whatever he once was. all bruised knuckles and drug-fuelled shouts.
the man couldn't blame his brother for hating his company.
when techno first showed up, wilbur was thrown off.
the techno he used to know barely spoke, pointed ears hidden beneath his shaggy pink hair that fell to his hips. he used to wave wooden swords in the air and stand on his tiptoes to hug wilbur. used to have a laugh that seemed quieter than him, somehow. he used to lug bags and bags of books everywhere. the boy would stay buried in the words about mythology. he would make quiet quips and hushed sarcastic drawls with a childlike grin.
this techno was a hardened warrior. empty eyes and an emotionless face. golden hoops pierced his ears, and his dull rosey hair was chopped to a short mess. the glistening netherite sword sat intimidatingly against his back. he had to look down to talk to wilbur. he didn't laugh. he had no time to read. his remarks were angry and loud, no longer held back.
seems all three of them had lost their childhoods somewhere along the countless wars.
wilbur knew he wasn't fully there, yet there was nothing he could do. he remembered the first day of pogtopia, where he'd been sat side-by-side with tommy on the ravine floor. he remembered what he'd said then.
"tommy, i don't think i'm myself," he'd admitted quietly, hushed and ashamed. tommy didn't move, listening along with a bitter expression, "i don't feel like me. this isn't- this doesn't seem real. i feel like another person, toms- i'm- i'm losing myself," he hesitated, tilting his head down and meeting his brothers gaze, eyes glossy and voice thick, wrapping an arm around his brothers shoulders, "tommy, i don't want you to lose me."
too late for that.
he wanted to be better.
he tried to be better.
a month into their new 'home', the two had fought.
not argued, fought. fists, bared teeth, screams, the whole thing.
wilbur walked away with a bloody nose.
tommy staggered away with a blackened eye, busted knuckles and a handprint on his face.
he'd felt sick after that. wilbur had actually left to go clear his mind and ended up vomiting. the idea that he'd done that to his brother was enough to make his throat burn and his eyes water painfully. he'd sworn then, to himself, as he stared at his reflection in the puddle he'd knelt in, that he would be better. he refused to hurt anyone anymore.
load of good that did him.
their fights increased, no matter how hard wilbur tried. he ignored tommy's loud humming only to snap at him for the littlest thing later. he knew letting the annoyance build and build was a horrible idea, the one that got tommy hurt in the first place, but he couldn't stand seeing that dejected, hurt look in his baby brothers eyes whenever he told him to stop pissing him off.
wilbur had also tried not fighting back once, to let tommy swing and punch and kick for as long as he needed to. all that happened was tommy had pushed him away and screamed at him to stop just standing there.
it was like, whatever he did, it was inevitable that he was destined to be the disgusting excuse for a human with a shrivelled black heart and an unfeeling mind.
no matter how hard he tried, it was fate.
oh, look where his fate got him now.