Work Text:
Here's how it goes:
Wilbur wakes up, and he makes himself a cup of coffee. He stirs in a spoonful of sugar, but it still tastes bitter. He needs it to feel awake, so he bears it.
In the living room, there is a bookshelf full to bursting. The books all look brand new. He doesn't remember what they say.
He sits on the couch. It's too soft; he sinks into it. He keeps the curtains drawn at all times.
When he sees the bottom of the mug, he brings it over to the sink and rinses it out. The water is never clear.
He chooses a book from the bookshelf in the living room, and he reads until the sun peeks through the heavy curtains. Then, he sets the book face down, and makes himself lunch.
He opens his notebook, and grabs his pen. He stares at the creamy paper until his eyes blur and he sees patterns, and he does not put pen to paper. He blinks, and the clock above the stove reads 23:34. He closes his notebook, sets it gently on the table and goes upstairs. His bed is too soft; he’s tried sleeping on the floor, but it doesn’t help much.
He looks at the plain white ceiling, and breathes. The house breathes with him.
Here's how it goes:
The house is breathing, and either it has a heart, or something masquerading as one.
Wilbur knows that there's a heart beating in his chest, and the heart of the house beats in unison.
Here's how it goes:
After a certain length of time, someone knocks on the door. It's decisive, three sharp knocks in quick succession.
That’s—not supposed to happen, Wilbur thinks.
He makes his way to the door, and pulls on the handle. It sticks a bit, but he wrenches it open.
“Hi!” the kid on the other side of the door chirps. “Would you like to buy Girl Scout cookies?”
“…What?” Wilbur asks, when his mouth catches up with his brain.
The kid laughs. “I’m messing with you. Anyway, can I come in?”
“Uh,” Wilbur buffers. “Why?”
“I kind of really need to come in? Like right now, preferably?”
“Right!” Wilbur says. This situation feels incredibly bizarre. “But why do you need to do that?”
The kid's smile slips, just a bit. "It's—it's rather cold, don't you think?"
Wilbur looks past him, to the outside. The sun is high in the sky and beating down through the trees. The air is so humid you can taste it.
"It looks pretty hot to me," Wilbur says.
"Well," the kid starts, his words tinged with something that sounds a little like desperation and a lot like fear, "maybe I just get cold really easily, alright? Just—let me in. Please." He forces out that last word like it physically pains him.
Wilbur honest to God has no idea why he still hasn't slammed the door in the kid's face. His hand is heavy on the handle, and the metal is cold, leeching heat from his hand. He must wait a beat too long, because something in the kid's face shifts, and Wilbur catches a glimpse of stubborness-determination before he shoves past him and slams the door shut with his back. It rings, echoing down the hallway.
Silence falls, interrupted only by their breaths.
Maybe, Wilbur thinks, looking at the kid who barged into his home, I should call the police.
“Don’t call the police!” the kid blurts out, as if he read his mind.
This has to be one of the most bizarre situations Wilbur has ever experienced.
“Okay,” Wilbur starts, feeling like he’s explaining something to a very young child. “So. Can you tell me why you need to get into my house so desperately?”
“I told you!” the kid insists. “I was cold, and I needed to go in somewhere, if I don’t want to freeze to death.”
“Alright, okay. Sure. But why my house specifically?”
The kid looks at him quizzically. “What—do you mean? Are you messing with me? Dude, your house has to be the only one for miles. How long has it been since you’ve left this house, anyway?”
Wilbur skillfully sidesteps that last question by simply not answering it.
“Look,” he says, turning to the kitchen. “Just—come with me.” He knows better than to try and open the door again.
Distantly, it occurs to him that he’s just leading this stranger further into his house.
And the house itself must not like that, because its heartbeats grow louder, and the cups in the cupboard clink together with the force of its breaths. And—and there is blood pumping through his veins, and he clenches his hand and he feels the tendons tensing and relaxing and there is a heart beating in his chest and the house must have one too, hiding in every wall and under every floorboard and—
And there is only one heart in his chest, and the kid is pointing a kitchen knife straight at it.
Wilbur puts his hands up very, very slowly. The kid's hands are shaking.
"You're not slick," he snaps. "I can see exactly what you're doing."
"What I'm doing?" Wilbur asks. "I didn't do anything."
"I'm not dumb, you know. I see the strings." He tightens his grip on the knife handle. His hands are still shaking.
Wilbur's heart is beating in his throat. The walls hum.
"...Strings?"
"You, this house, it's all connected, isn't it?" the kid says, as if that makes any sense. "You're like—you're like him, and the forest." He says him, as if Wilbur should know who that is.
Wilbur takes a deep breath through his nose.
"Listen," he says, as calmly as he can. "I don't know what you're talking about. But I would like to know. So, you can put the knife down, and we can have a chat."
"And, tell me, why should I trust you?" the other asks, still clutching the knife.
"Honestly, you'll have to take my word for it." He casts a glance at the knife. The blade is dull and unpolished, but it could still kill. "And—" he tacks on, "you don't look like you want to kill someone today."
"Today, maybe," the kid mutters, but he lowers the knife slowly all the same.
Wilbur lets out a breath. "Right!" he says, careful to not show just how relieved he is. "Sit down. I'll—make a cup of tea?" he adds, because that's what people do to be polite to guests, right? Even if the guest barged into his home and threatened him at knifepoint.
The kid sits down, almost robotically, and—Wilbur's getting really tired of calling him "the kid".
"So," he asks, looking down at the tea kettle, "do you have a name?"
"Yeah," the kid says. "Yeah, I do. It's Tommy."
"Alright, Tommy," Wilbur says, wrinkling his nose at the water. "I'm Wilbur. You're probably not leaving anytime soon, so welcome."
“So,” Wilbur starts, when they’ve sat around the kitchen table, mugs of steaming cheap green tea in front of them. “What was all of that about?”
Tommy drags a hand down his face. He looks exhausted, now that Wilbur’s taken a good long look at him.
“I don’t—I don’t really know where to start, man, I’m going to be honest.”
“From the beginning?” Wilbur suggests.
“Yeah, I guess that makes sense.” He laughs a bit. “Right, well—this house isn’t normal, you’ve noticed that, right?”
Wilbur has, but—it doesn’t bother him as much as he thinks it should. He settles on “Yeah, I have.”
“You’ve got strings,” Tommy says, as if that makes any goddamn sense. “The house and you. It’s all tangled together.”
“Right,” Wilbur says. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“I—I know that,” Tommy lets out, clearly frustrated. “I just—I don’t know how to explain it in a way that makes sense. It’s like—” he pauses. “It’s like an extension of you, y’know?”
Wilbur nods even if he, in fact, doesn’t know.
“It’s as if you’ve spent so much time here that everything, down to your veins, are connected. Your heart beats, the walls beat in unison, right?”
Wilbur feels his heartbeat in his head, and his hand resting on the wooden table discerns a gentle thump-thump-thump. He doesn’t really want to think about what that means.
“And who’s the other person? The one you said that was linked with the forest, or something?”
“I’m going to be real with you,” Tommy rests his cheek on his hand. “I don’t think he’s a person person anymore. He’s all dirt and bugs and leaves now. Anyway, I got into the forest, and he didn’t like that, so. It was cold,” he adds on.
Wilbur doesn’t really understand, but he doesn’t think that Tommy’s going to make sense anytime soon, so he drops it.
He sighs. “Alright. Are you going to sleep on the couch, or do you want to pick a room?”
“Hm?” Tommy looks up. “Oh, I’m leaving soon. I just needed to like,” he waves his hand in the air, “get out of it for a bit, yeah?”
“Uh,” Wilbur has a feeling that this is not going to go over well. “About that—you can’t leave.”
“What, are you going to keep me here?” Tommy scoffs. “I could kick your ass anytime, you know.”
Wilbur thinks back to the knife. “Yeah, sure. But it’s not me that’s going to keep you here. You just—you can’t leave. I’ve tried.”
“Wilbur, this is a really bad joke—”
God, Wilbur’s getting tired of having to explain how things work around here. He waves a hand towards the hallway leading to the front door. “Go see for yourself.”
Tommy makes his way to it, and Wilbur knows he’s figured it out, because he hears muttered curses and a thump.
“All good over there?” he calls.
“Screw you!” Tommy yells back. “Do you have a hammer or something?”
“Nope!” Wilbur says. “I tried going at it with a knife—you can see the scratches, I think.”
Tommy comes back to the kitchen, and starts rummaging through the cabinets and drawers.
“You’re not going to find anything,” Wilbur says tiredly. “I’ve tried.”
Tommy whirls back to face him, and the anger on his face is enough to take Wilbur aback.
“Why did you even let me in,” he asks, “if you knew I wouldn’t be able to go back out?”
“What—are you serious?” Wilbur retorts. “You’re the one that shoved your way into my house and slammed the door shut, if I remember correctly.”
Tommy opens his mouth, and closes it without saying anything.
“Listen,” Wilbur says. “You get in, you can’t get out. That’s how it works, alright? You got yourself into this mess, and now you have to deal with it. Anyway, are you taking the couch, or another room?”
Tommy still looks like he wants to argue, but he wilts. “I’ll take the couch,” he mutters.
“Suit yourself,” Wilbur says, and takes a sip of the cold, bitter tea.
Here’s how it goes:
Wilbur wakes up and makes his way downstairs. He passes by Tommy, still conked out, sprawled on the couch. He makes himself a cup of coffee, and forces it down.
After about thirty minutes, Tommy joins him, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and makes himself a bowl of cereal.
(“How do you even have food, if you can’t leave?” Tommy asks, waving his spoon in the air.
Wilbur shrugs. “It just never runs out, I guess. Don’t speak with your mouth full.”)
Then, he makes his way to the living room and its bookshelf, and picks a book. Tommy picks one as well, but Wilbur’s convinced that he doesn’t actually read it, since he doesn’t seem to have advanced at all. Inevitably, he’ll set the book aside and pester Wilbur until it’s time for lunch.
("So," Tommy says, looking up from the same page he’s been staring at for an hour. "Got any family?"
It came out of nowhere, but Wilbur lets it slide.
"I think I did?" he answers. "I mean, I definitely had a mother and father, maybe a brother. Being stuck kind of," he points at his head, "makes everything messed up. What about you?"
"Oh!" Tommy says. "Uh, well I have a dad, my mom's not around anymore, and my best friend! You'd like him, I think. He has—brown hair like yours, and—" he face falls. "I can't—I can't remember," he whispers.)
After that, Wilbur will take out his notebook and stare at it until his eyes grow unfocused. He does not put pen to paper.
(“Oh,” Tommy says, peering over his shoulder. Wilbur feels the irrational urge to hide the notebook. “What do you write? Like—stories? Or actually, no, I bet you have a journal where you write down your incredibly boring routine, don’t you? ‘Dear diary, today I woke up and drank coffee and read a book, just like yesterday and the day before that and the day before that—‘”
“It’s not a diary,” Wilbur interrupts. “It’s for—it’s for songwriting.”
“Oh!” Tommy’s eyes light up. “Do you play an instrument, too? I used to play piano when I was like, twelve, but then I stopped taking lessons and I didn’t really continue, y’know? I’d like to try again, maybe.”
Wilbur feels a slight smile tug at his lips. “Yeah,” he says. “I play the guitar.”
“Do you have one here?”
“…No,” Wilbur says reluctantly. “I didn’t bring it with me.”
“Well,” Tommy says decisively. “When we get out, you better play for me.”
When, not if. Wilbur’s doesn’t call him out on it.)
After something like a week, Tommy sits him down, and tells him:
“I want to try and leave.”
Wilbur isn’t surprised. (When, not if.) He isn’t convinced, either.
“Tommy,” he sighs. “I’ve—I’ve been here for a while, okay? And I tried everything that I could to get it out, but it didn’t work. I don’t think—”
“Well, I’m going to keep trying,” Tommy snaps. “You’re just—sitting around doing nothing! And sure— it’s not horrible, but don’t you want to leave? Don’t you want to actually live? You had a family before. You told me.”
“Yes, Tommy, I’d like to leave,” he says, throwing his arms out. “Do you think I want this? I don’t! But I’ve tried to do all I can, and it didn’t work. So forgive me for being complacent. If I don’t want to drive myself insane, it’s what I have to do.” He snorts. “Trust me, I know.”
Tommy’s hands clench at his side.
"You're pathetic,” he says, voice gradually building in volume. “You’re stuck here, doing the same thing day in and day out, and you've just—accepted it! Well, tough luck, because I haven't yet, and I refuse to let you wallow in your own misery."
Wilbur has a feeling that this has been building up for a while. Pathetic, he thinks. Maybe I am, but it’s kept me alive, hasn’t it?
“If you want to drive yourself insane, be my guest,” he says, finally.
Tommy grins at him, all teeth. He’ll learn soon enough.
After that, every time Wilbur sees Tommy, he seems to be planning, or rummaging through the house looking for something, or staring at the door, as if it’ll give him answers.
(“So, any progress?” Wilbur asks Tommy, who’s looking through the cleaning supplies, for some reason.
“Nope,” Tommy says, wrinkling his nose at the dust coating a bottle of detergent. “When’s the last time you used these? Anyway, I was thinking that maybe if I mixed these together, it’ll make some sort of acid? That we could use?”
Wilbur snatches the bottle out of his hand. “That’s how you get mustard gas, you idiot. Do you want to get us killed?”
Tommy huffs, but subsides.)
It’s like—Tommy brought it to his attention, and everything is suddenly more. His arm brushes against the wall, and he can feel it beating. He’s noticed it, and now he can’t stop noticing it. It should by all means freak him out, but—he finds that he doesn’t mind it much. He’s used to it, is the thing. And maybe that shouldn’t be a good thing, and maybe that should motivate him to get the hell out of there but—it’s comforting. To live somewhere that is a part of you, and not in the metaphorical sense.
Tommy would probably not call it living, he thinks.
Something drags Wilbur out of the heavy fog of sleep, one night. He briefly wonders what happened, before he hears scraping and wood splintering and muffled curses. He sighs, rubs his eyes, and makes his way down the stairs.
The kitchen light is open, and Tommy's by the sink, furiously scrubbing his hands. The water running down the drain is pinkish.
"Hey," Wilbur says, voice thick with sleep. "Who did you kill?"
Tommy whirls on him, shoulders hiked up.
"No one," he snaps. "Your door's freaky, man."
Wilbur goes out to the hallway and glances at the door. Deep gouges mark the wood, and what looks like blood is slowly oozing out of them.
"Oh," he says. "I forgot it did that." Maybe he should have a more drastic reaction, but he just woke up.
"And you didn't think to tell me?" Tommy asks, still holding his hands under the water.
"Didn't cross my mind, I guess." Wilbur shrugs. "It's been a bit."
Tommy finally shuts off the water, and frowns at him. “How long have you been here, anyway?”
Wilbur waves his hand vaguely. “A while? I haven’t exactly kept track of time. It all kind of blurs together.”
“Yeah, but you have to have some kind of idea, right? Is it a month? Two months? Half a year? Years?”
Wilbur furrows his brow. “If I had to guess, I’d say getting close to a year and a half, maybe.”
“Oh,” Tommy says. “Well, I’ll get us out before it comes to that, I promise.”
Wilbur’s too tired to argue. “Sure,” he gets up. “I’m going back to bed.”
It’s way too early when Tommy barges into his room.
“Wilbur!” he whisper-shouts. “Wake up!”
“I’m up, I’m up,” Wilbur groans. Tommy’s tapping his foot against the ground impatiently, arms crossed. “You are entirely too awake.”
“Oh, trust me,” Tommy says, “I’m going to sleep for about a hundred years when we get out. Fall into a coma, even. Now come on!” He grabs Wilbur’s arm and pulls him out of bed and onto the floor. “I need to show you something.”
Wilbur would like to lay on the ground for several years, but Tommy looks as if he’s ready to drag him downstairs, so he gets up.
Tommy leads him to the kitchen, takes a seat, and gestures at him to sit.
“Alright,” Wilbur says, fighting a yawn. “What do you have to show me that’s so urgent?”
“Um,” Tommy says helpfully. He looks sheepish. “I don’t have it right now?”
Wilbur lets his head fall on the table.
“But!” Tommy continues hastily. “The reason I need you is that you can help me find it!”
“What is it,” Wilbur states, head still on the table.
“Well…” Tommy starts. “You know how you’re like—linked to this house? It being an extension of you, or whatever?”
“Mhm,” Wilbur hums. Now that he’s thinking about it, he can feel the table tremor slightly, in tune with his heart. It’s kind of soothing. Maybe he could go back to sleep right here.
“Then, all you need to do is find the heart. You can feel it, you track it down, we have knives, we kill it. Then we should be able to leave, right?”
Wilbur’s heart leaps into his throat, and he shoots up. His mouth is strangely dry. “You—you can’t do that,” he says.
Tommy frowns. “Why not? It’s the best idea I’ve got.”
Wilbur doesn’t know how to explain that the idea of that shot fear right through his heart. It oozes through the rest of him, slowly, like molasses. His fingers go numb, and his heart is beating right out his chest and the house is trembling with the force of it, he’s sure, and this is wrong—and—there’s no reason for him to be this scared, he wants to leave, he does, and this fear is not his own—
This fear is not my own, he thinks, and he digs his fingernails into his arms, trying to shake it off. Something is worming its way through him, trying to scare him off. He shoves it down as much as he can, and while it’s not completely gone, at least the ringing in his ears has subsided.
“—can you even hear me? Wilbur?” Tommy sounds distinctly out of his depth.
“Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” Wilbur croaks out. “I’m fine.”
Tommy snorts, even as his eyes are worried. “I’m going to be honest, I highly doubt that. What happened? Are you, like, squeamish or something, because if so, I can do it, you don’t have to look if you don’t want—”
“It’s okay, Tommy,” Wilbur interrupts. “I just don’t think the house quite likes the ideas you’re throwing around.”
“Oh,” Tommy mouths. “Should I—whisper?”
“I don’t think that’s going to make much a difference,” Wilbur sighs. “Plus, I don’t think you could keep that up for long.”
“Oi!” Tommy says, whacking him in the arm. “Are you calling me loud? Is this what this is? You’re mocking me? Wilbur, I’m hurt, you’ve hurt me—”
“Case in point,” Wilbur says, trying to hide a smile.
“Okay, asshole,” Tommy huffs. “Anyway. Do you think you can do it? Or are you going to panic again?”
“I’ll be okay.” Wilbur gets up, and his vision swims a little, but he rights himself right away. “So—what should I do? Try to ‘feel’ it?”
“I’m not too sure?” Tommy gets up as well. “Maybe it’ll get gradually louder, and you just have to follow it?”
“Maybe.” Wilbur lets his fingers trail along the wall. As always, there’s a slight thump-thump-thump beneath his fingertips. He moves it to the right, and then to the left. There’s—no discernable difference.
Tommy speaks up. “Do I need to tell you something really wise like just look inside yourself or—”
“No,” Wilbur says, trying to concentrate. “I’ll get it.”
“Okay,” Tommy shrugs.
Maybe he needs a more drastic change. He walks out of the kitchen, into the living room and tries to concentrate on his own heartbeat and—fear shoots right through him, again, and he reminds himself that it is not from him, but it’s overpowering and the house is scared, that’s what it is. It’s scared of them, and isn’t that a thought. He breathes in, breathes out, and shoves it down again.
Tommy’s looking at him with worried eyes. “You know,” he says. “If it’s hurting you, we can find another way.” He sounds uncertain.
Wilbur knows that there’s no other way, and he’s sure that Tommy knows that too.
“I think I figured It out,” Wilbur says, and Tommy perks up. “You said that the house and I are linked, right? Well, it’s scared right now. And I think it’s making me scared every time I get close.”
“So what,” Tommy says, “we track your fear level?”
“I guess,” Wilbur shrugs. “I can’t think of another way, at least.”
“I don’t want you to be hurt, though,” Tommy says dubiously.
Wilbur waves his hand in the air. “I know how to deal with it. Do you want to get out, or not?”
Tommy takes a deep breath. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.” Then, with a weak grin: “Lead the way! We’ve got some murdering to do. Does it even count as murder if it’s a house?”
Wilbur ignores him, and they go through the house, bit by bit, Tommy clutching the same kitchen knife that he had pointed at him.
Playing human fear detector leaves him winded after only a few minutes, wheezing like he’s run a marathon. With that, Tommy insists that he rest a bit, and so he does, even if he just wants to get this over with.
After a bit, it becomes a routine. Walk in a direction, see if a sudden crippling fear overtakes him, shove it down, rinse and repeat. He’s good at getting used to routines.
They end up looking down at a floorboard, right in the middle of his bedroom.
“A floorboard, huh?” Tommy says, breaking the silence. “That’s not stereotypical at all.”
Wilbur snorts. “Do you think that this house is a fan of Edgar Allan Poe?”
“I have no idea what you just said to me,” Tommy says flatly, “And I’m not interested. Do you think I should just—pry it open?”
Not waiting for an answer, Tommy drops down to his knees and shoves the knife under the wood. The floor has always been creaky, and that’s coming to their aid.
The board comes off with little resistance, and Wilbur feels the weight of a boulder on his chest. He breathes in and squares his shoulders.
There’s a beating heart under the floorboards, beating in unison with his chest. It’s big and red and healthy with veins coming out of it, stretching out under the floor and to the walls, probably, and Wilbur distantly wonders where the lungs are hiding, if he can hear he house breathe as well.
He breathes in, breathes out, and wonders if his lungs are his own.
“Alright,” Tommy says, “I’ll do it—” and he lifts his arm.
Without thinking, Wilbur tackles him to the ground, wraps his hand around the blade, and wrenches it out of Tommy’s hand. Something hot and sticky covers his hand.
Tommy’s looking at him with wide eyes, and Wilbur drops the knife. His mouth is dry. “Sorry,” he manages to say.
“It’s—alright,” Tommy says, pushing himself up. ”Just—don’t do that again?”
Wilbur laughs. “I don’t know if I can promise that. This place—it doesn’t want to die.”
“Well,” Tommy says aggressively. “I don’t want to be stuck here for the rest of my life, so we’re at a bit of an impasse, aren’t we?”
A better poet may have had something to say about this situation. Wilbur’s words have run dry.
“Yeah,” he sighs. “I want to get out too. Maybe I should get out of the room?”
“That might work.” Tommy says, and so Wilbur walks out into the hallway. He should probably go downstairs, just to be safe, but he can’t bring himself to be that far.
He hears a sharp intake of breath, and he braces himself, and—and a gust of wind almost blows him off his feet. He rushes back into the room, and there’s someone standing there. Tommy’s crumpled against the wall, his knife thankfully not anywhere near him.
It smells like pine trees, Wilbur realizes. The window is closed.
There’s something standing in the middle of the room, and it looks up from the heart and right at Wilbur, and he feels his heart slow. Inexplicably, he can trust it, he knows.
But—Wilbur’s grown acquainted with the feeling of the house overpowering him, and this is what it feels like. Sticky syrup overtaking his senses, leaving a sickly-sweet taste in his mouth. So, no, he tells himself. He doesn’t trust it.
There’s nothing staring at him through the hood of the green cloak that it’s clothed with, Wilbur realizes. It’s pitch black. Somehow, he can still tell that it’s looking straight at him.
Tommy groans behind him and gets up. Wilbur doesn’t turn back to look at him. It tilts its head.
“What are you doing here, dickhead?” Tommy asks, warily. He’s joined Wilbur’s side, and his eyes flick from the knife behind—whatever the creature is and back to it.
It steps in front of the discovered heart, and—it’s protecting it. Tommy comes to the same realization, Wilbur knows.
“Who is this?” he asks him.
Tommy ignores him. “You can’t keep us here,” he says, and it snaps its head to him. “I don’t care if this is the heart of your forest as well. We’re leaving.”
“Tommy…” Wilbur says, as a warning.
“Shut up!” Tommy hisses, and dives right behind the creature, to the knife. Several things happen in quick succession:
- Tommy slams into the wall, but quickly recovers and closes his hand around the knife handle.
- The creature turns to him, quick as lightning. Electricity hangs in the air.
- The house exhales all at once. Wilbur’s lungs hurt.
- There’s something growing from the floorboards.
Time stays suspended, for a moment. Tommy lunges for the heart, and it breaks. The creature’s arm snaps out, and flowers grow from the ceiling, breaking it apart right above Tommy’s head. Wilbur knocks him out of the way, and bits of the ceiling crash down. The heart is unharmed.
His heart is pounding in his chest, a beat that only grows faster and faster. He squeezes Tommy’s arm, prays that he catches on, and runs towards the heart. Vines shoot out of the ground and slam him against the wall. He makes a show of struggling, and the vines grow tighter. And then—and then the creature’s attention is on him, and Tommy makes a break for the heart, and the knife is plunged down.
The house shrieks, and distantly, Wilbur realizes that he is too. There’s something like tendons snapping and his lungs running out of air and he can’t stop trembling and he's dying, he is, he must be, and—it quiets. The walls groan, and settle.
He wrenches his eyes open, and there’s Tommy, kneeling, blood on his hands, and there’s the creature, standing, looking right at him.
“Tommy,” Wilbur croaks. His voice is shot. “Back up.”
Tommy scrambles up, and takes a step back. It’s still looking right at him.
It’s angry, Wilbur realizes. It seemed almost disinterested before, but it’s angry now, because they succeeded.
Tommy takes another step back, and the creature hisses. Wilbur’s vines loosen, and doesn’t have time to wonder what that means before the first flower, brilliantly red, breaks through Tommy’s skin.
There’s a rushing in Wilbur’s ears, and he tries to get free, but even if the vines are looser there’s so many of them, and Tommy’s just staring down at his arm, and another flower breaks through, and they’re blooming against his skin like blood welling from a cut, and he starts coughing and another flower comes up, and the goddamn vines aren’t letting him go—
He wrenches himself free, and the vines snap against his skin, stinging. Tommy’s already on his knees, hunched over, coughing up more and more red flowers mingled with blood, and the creature is still just standing there, head still tilted, and Wilbur gets to Tommy just as two bright flowers burst out of his eye sockets.
“Hey,” Wilbur says, shaking him. “Tommy, it’s fine, we can find a way to fix this, you’ll be fine, alright? We just have to get out of here. And then we’ll fix it, and you’ll be fine, and I’ll show you the old songs I wrote, okay?’
Tommy is completely still. Flowers stare back at him.
The creature moves, and the floorboards creak. Wilbur’s head shoots up to look at it.
“What?” he asks, mocking. “Are you going to finish the job?”
It looks at him, and it seems almost confused. And then, there’s another gust of wind, and Wilbur closes his eyes to protect them, and he opens them to quiet and the ruins of his bedroom.
The house is still, for once.
“Tommy—” he says again, but this time he can’t finish his sentence. He slowly untangles himself from the leftover vines, and makes his way downstairs, to the front door. The house looks just like they left it, untouched by the destruction upstairs. He puts his hand on the doorknob, and swings it open. The door sticks, and for a second he thinks that this was all for nothing, but a shove makes it open.
He stumbles out, into a little forest clearing. It must be close to mid-morning, by now. The air is crisp, but dead. There should be leaves rustling in the wind, and birds chirping, and insects buzzing around, but it’s silent. That makes sense, Wilbur guesses. Its heart is gone.
He takes a deep breath, and feels something wet running down his face. He wipes at it, and—he’s crying. That’s—it’s been a while.
He turns back to the house. He’s got a body to bury, and after that, he’ll leave.
It is only Wilbur's heart that beats in his chest.