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Fwhip was getting used to it. Used to the sluggishly bleeding internal wound that always seemed to radiate from his shoulder. It wasn’t soaking his shirts or causing any physical damage, no, but it still burned like hot coals. A blistering reminder of those years spent cramped between two cavern walls and Wilbur’s festering, fraying, mind. Truly, a rock and a hard place.
It didn’t pale or flounder, however. No, Fwhip quickly learned that getting ‘used’ to something was not equal to losing it. Wilbur’s vice grip on his ribs, his fingertips digging into his arteries, never loosened for a minute. Not when he had to drag the man’s corpse up the hill in the slick autumn rain, the smell of rotten flesh burning his nose and stinging his eyes. Not when Fwhip spent hours digging into the dirt to give the abandoned body a place to rest (Because gods, that’s all he really wanted for Wilbur, wasn’t it?).
If anything, it grew tighter. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and Fwhip’s heart has been aching with miserable loss ever since Wilbur left. Even the horrible memories, the ones he didn’t want to focus on, left him with a sting that he couldn’t muffle without the heady feel of gadgetry under his fingertips. At least when Wilbur was cruel, he spoke. He breathed after his shouts or his lips trembled, bleeding from worrying them between his teeth. Wilbur was soundly alive.
In some disgusting way, he missed even those moments. Standing over someone’s grave, you start to wonder whether those arguments weren’t just shouting matches, but opportunities. Even though, well, his sister mentions often that it simply can’t matter anymore. Dead was dead. All the seconds between their meeting and Wilbur’s death, the detonation of L’manburg, were only memories. Wilbur was only a memory.
“He’s more than a memory these days,” Tommy says, voice muffled by a mouthful of sandwich, “Wil’s a fuckin’ ghost.”
Fwhip scoffs, wrapping up his half-finished lunch and shoves it into his pocket. Some days, when Tommy found the time to come and bother him with plans, he’d be able to cajole the kid into lunch. It was good for both of them to talk to someone who understood. Niki, she really tried, but there was a misery under her skin that not even Fwhip could relate to (These days, he was more tired than angry), “I didn’t take you for a poet.” He says. Tommy had been feeling a bit better these days, making drop-bys more often to the surprise of both twins. Maybe it made his language more flowery, that peaceful joy. (Not that Fwhip had much to compare it to).
“No, mate, he’s like…” Tommy swallows and gestures out towards New L’manburg with his lunch, “Actually a ghost.”
Fwhip looks back at the grave they’re astride to, their usual spot for lunch these days. (He couldn’t stand to be in the new rising city. In fact, the bastardization made him fucking furious– But that didn’t stop him from going to both Tommy and Tubbo’s coronation ceremony. It’d been the last thing Wil did. He could at least honor it.) He sees no ghost, besides the plain stone grave lain flat against the grass. It was collecting moss and grime again from the weather, he’d had to wash it soon.
“Is he… here?” Fwhip ventures to ask, “Are you sure you’re okay? ‘Cause I don’t see any ghosts.”
Tommy’s eyes narrow, “I’m not fuckin’ lying!”
He rolls his eyes, “I didn’t say you were. It’s just– I think I’d know if there was a ghost around here. Of Wilbur, no less.”
“I’m serious! No– Genuinely, Fwhip, he’s been doing some fuckin’,” He turns to face Fwhip, shrugging mildly, “I don’t know! Ghost shit. Floating around and making a library in the sewers. It’s not… you know. It’s not Wilbur really. Not anymore. But it’s his face! And his good memories, I think.”
He blinks, eyebrows furrowing as he scans the teen’s face for any sign of that trademark mischief. Tommy was doing better, but he certainly wasn’t doing well enough to… joke like this? Especially with what he knows, Fwhip’s stupid little secret about Wilbur, he wouldn’t… It’d be ruthless, even for him.
But if he’s lying, Tommy’s doing a fantastic job of hiding it. To the point where Fwhip starts to get nervous.
His voice hardens, “Don’t joke about that. Tommy, he’s dead. He’s not a ghost, he’s in the ground.” Fwhip breathes in, sharp, “I made sure of it. I buried him.”
“I’m not fuckin’ joking!” Tommy balks, grabbing Fwhip’s wrist from under him and tugging, “I’ll show you! It’s real, Wil’s been back for– for weeks now!”
He sounds so genuine . The vibrancy of his words is lost on Fwhip, unused to hearing Tommy, anyone, speak honestly without some alternative narrative. And everything in his mind is spilling, pooling at his feet, this wild, fruitless, hope that he isn’t lying. Hope, maybe. Despair, more likely. Fwhip’s not sure which one he wants more.
Fuck, he thought things were getting better– That they were getting better. Tommy and him had some sort of… understanding, after Pogtopia. After the Pit.
Tommy was the only living person who knew his horrid secret.
And god forbid, Fwhip thought that meant they wouldn’t pull this bullshit on each other. He rips his hand out of Tommy’s grip, snarling, “It’s not fucking funny , Tommy! Cut it out.”
Tommy’s mouth opens once more, a biting remark on his tongue, before it’s swallowed back by a wistful tone over Fwhip’s shoulder.
“Hello? Tommy! Tommy, I was thinking about maybe expanding the sewer line today! But at one point I ran into Fundy’s house and he was really upset and I don’t remember exactly what he said, but do you think you could help me build it the other direction?” It washes over Fwhip like sleep, bruising holds on his shoulders dragging him down, deeper and deeper with a sickly appeal and similar distaste. Because despite the months past and how, when Fwhip really concentrated on it, he couldn’t remember the precise lilt to Wilbur’s voice, the second he hears it there’s no doubt in his mind who it could be. His words are muscle memory, practiced turn sockets and piston triggers to crossbow bolts, and Fwhip is a lit wick target.
He turns, and Fwhip steps into a dream.
The day he met Wilbur is one that he could never forget. A situation based purely on mistake and circumstance, one that Fwhip remembers actively avoiding at the time. He’d seen the well-dressed general on the podiums, his stern and determined expression being more offsetting than inspiring at the time. Fwhip had wanted nothing to do with him during X-Life.
Then, not unlike every experience he’s had with Wilbur, he had no choice but to collide their paths. Diamond Designs, his shop for helping other players with builds and terraforming, had a commitment to good customer service and Joel was currently out of commission due to his upcoming wedding. And, well, he wasn’t about to bring Jimmy of all people to do terraforming.
He remembers showing up at the man’s doorstep, a rather late modern designed town with Gregorian and Colonial architecture, everything lit by candle or lantern but still dim enough to feel removed from the rest of the server. Windchimes rattle to his left, a warm breeze kicking up through the streets of cobble.
The door opens, and Wilbur is nothing like how he expects him to be. Statues could really not do justice in general, he thinks, of complex human nature. This could be an entirely different person to the man he saw on the podium near spawn. He almost asks, to be sure, that this is really Wilbur. The stony expression did nothing to hint to how warm and kind he was that day. A giant grin, a relaxed composure, a mustard sweater neckband that dips enough to show off the tops of sharp collarbones. The barest hint of beauty marks that dot on his cheek, his neck, like paint splatter that completes an art piece.
Complexities that were hidden by grey stone and potmarked rubble of grim leadership.
“You’re Fwhip, right?” Wilbur asks with a tilt to his head, curls of brown hair dipping over his brow, “I think I remember you from the icebreaker on the first days, but I’m awful with names.” He laughs.
“Yeah, that’s me. Sorry there’s–” He gestures vaguely behind him to the absence of a partner, “It’s just me. If that’s alright.”
Wilbur sends him an easy grin, “It’s more than alright.”
The next several hours are usually lonely for Fwhip. Not because he’s without company, but because he doesn’t talk much while he works. That day, however, Wilbur was there the entire time– Chatting about anything and everything. He even bothered to help, turning down when Fwhip offered to lower the price on account of him filling in for Joel on something he paid for.
And then he left. Nothing else, no miraculous moment or spectacular locking of the eyes– Fwhip wasn’t sure what exactly happened– He only knew it was a good day. Better than the rest, better than most. After that, it just got harder to stay away from the casual smiles and sunny golden sweater.
Wilbur, the one in front of him, truly was a ghost. But not because of his wavering visage and grey-tinted skin.
It brings a bout of emotion that had been hidden poorly behind a thin wall of apathy.
Longing.
He snaps his hand back to his side the second he sees his fingers reach out towards the ghost, blurred and hazy. This isn’t real, he thinks, this can’t be real. He lost this Wilbur far before he died. And as miraculous and strange the world might be, he could never push the boundaries of reality far enough to bring back the gentleness.
But Wilbur’s face lights up, bright and full of sunshine, and he speaks with a two toned echo; “Fwhip! Oh, I haven’t seen you in so long! What happened to the hoodie? I thought you were very dashing in it!”
It’s been years since he wore that hoodie. As soon as he moved in with Wilbur, he exchanged it for L’manburg colors and creeds. He says nothing. Every word that could possibly be expended to describe his thoughts are as useless as cups of water in the rain. Sand in a desert. Too much yet too little. Too much to say yet not enough time in the entirety of the universe to say it.
“I guess some time has passed though, the trench coat looks good too!” Wilbur pouts suddenly, twisting his fingers together, “You’re not mad at me too, are you? Apparently people have been pretty mad at me!”
“They’re not mad at you, Ghostbur,” Tommy stresses from Fwhip’s side, “They’re mad at the stuff Wil did when he was alive.”
Ghostbur cowers, “They seem pretty upset with me.”
“Well, they’re stupid.” Tommy’s eyes quickly dart to Fwhip, even as he crosses his arms and leans back, seemingly fine with the situation at hand, “He’s– He’s not Wil. Not really. But he’s his ghost. Doesn’t remember anything sad, only happy memories.”
Ghostbur looks pleased with Tommy’s response, before turning at his waist to reach into a pouch hanging from his hip. He brings out a sandy, clear, substance that begins to leak blue through his fingers, and hands it out to Fwhip.
“You look like you need some blue! Here, take it! It takes away the sad.”
Fwhip doesn’t speak, only reaches out a hand and lets Wilbur, Ghostbur, dump the ‘blue’ into his palm. As soon as it touches, the dye begins to ink and plume into the same cerulean and vibrant colors that smudged across Ghostbur’s hands. Growing only more and more saturated the more it sat there.
“Oh,” Ghostbur mumbles, “Sorry. Are- Are you sad because of me?”
Was he? Fwhip was… no, he’s certain he’s getting better. It’d been so long since Wilbur had ruined his day with memory or dreams, Fwhip could get out of bed most days and on the days he couldn’t, he wasn’t alone. The sun was peeking out from behind the clouds, and yet–
“No. I’m not.” Fwhip says, tilting his hand till the blue ink falls from his hands into the dirt.
Tommy shuffles awkwardly, “Fwhip–”
“Then why’s it turning so blue?” Ghostbur squeaks, curiosity gleaming through, “Are you sure you don’t want some more? I have more!”
“Go home, Tommy,” He says, “Take him with you.” It’s a bit more on the bitter side than he intends, and both parties flinch at the way he spits the words like venom.
Tommy doesn’t even retaliate, a new reaction from him, and shoves his sandwich in his hoodie pouch. He spares Fwhip no pity, no glance, and jogs to Ghostbur’s side. “C’mon man, let’s go.” And if Fwhip ventured, he could imagine Tommy maybe even felt guilty. Obviously, whatever this was, it wasn’t what he wanted nor expected from Fwhip.
Fwhip squeezes his eyes shut. Hasn’t that always been how things panned out? Never how they expect to go. Never the way he wanted them to be.
“Wait! Wait, I’m really sorry!” Ghostbur pipes up, ignoring how Tommy whispers something under his breath in warning, “I don’t know what alive-me did, but I’m sorry! Please don’t go, no one wants to talk to me and-and I know, I know, we were friends!” He pushes at Tommy slightly, trying to stop the boy from frantically pressing him back, “I remember you. I remember you and that means you were good!” He sounds so frantic, so desperate, Fwhip can almost imagine it’s his own voice.
It didn’t stop Wilbur from begging his dad to kill him, and it won’t stop Fwhip from drowning, suffocating, with agony that burns from the inside out.
“What’s the last thing you remember about me?” Fwhip asks suddenly, though he couldn’t figure out why. No answer would be satisfying. It was a morbid curiosity, if anything.
There’s no noise for what feels like centuries. The leaves don’t shudder, the tree trunks don’t creak. All that’s left is the rapid thrumming of blood in his ears– From rage or grief, he can’t quite discern. It all just begs the same; Did he do anything right? Was there anything he did during Wilbur’s worst hours that reminded him of love, of joy? Did he remember their kiss?
Ghostbur’s eyes glance frantically over Fwhip’s form, as if soaking in every inch of him would bring back the memories at his request. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, swallowing hard.
“We– We met on another server. You said your name was Fwhip and-and you helped Alive-Me build a beautiful forest and terrace.” Ghostbur trails off, looking guiltily down at his feet, “That’s… that’s it .”
Tommy looks mortified. Fwhip’s shoulder burns.
He chokes on his own words. A bile curls in the back of his throat, an acidic wail that’s trapped behind his locked teeth and despairing hope. Everything. Everything since they met wasn’t good enough, it was never good enough. The day he promised himself to Wilbur’s side, the hours they spent building L’manburg– He had been edited out of Wilbur’s narrative like a stain. As if he was a mistake Wilbur couldn’t admit he regretted. Fwhip can’t shut his eyes without seeing Wilbur’s hand intertwined with his, his jaw under his palms, brushing knuckles to send unspoken support, and yet all his ghost could remember of him was the day they met.
Wilbur promised him, he promised, that he didn’t lie. That he trusted him, that it was them– Always and forever–and Fwhip was so far deluded that he believed him.
“Don’t come back.” He says finally, hazy eyes locked on the blue substance soaking into the dirt. He wondered if it would drip far enough down that it hit Wilbur, his corpse, under his feet.
“Was there more? Did–”
“Ghostbur,” Tommy says, sharp, “Let’s go, alright? Didn’t you say something about a sewage tunnel?”
And the second the ghost broke sight of Fwhip, his easy grin was back, all the concentrated pain in his expression wiped clean like it’d never occurred in the first place.
The two of them walk down the hill and disappear beyond his sight, talking under their breaths about plans and things they’d do in the new city. Tommy, despite his sparse glances back, looked elated when Fwhip could bring himself to look at him.
Tommy had gotten back a brother. Even if it was a mimicry.
The corpse under Fwhip’s feet says nothing, the stone gravestone is still. He got an apology, in a way, though it felt as distant as when Gem apologized to him for what he’d been through. They didn’t know. What could they apologize for? What did it do to help what’d already happened?
A stabbing pain in his chest grows thicker, his vision blurring as his lip trembles. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair– Gods, it wasn’t fucking fair – Wilbur had taken everything from him, had ruined so much of his life. There was nothing about him that wasn’t poisoned by his touch, by his memory, by his ghost .
He’d tried so hard. Fwhip was trying so fucking hard .
A broken sob worms out from his lips, and he feels the urge to scream. Reaching over, he hoists up the plain stone he’d carved Wilbur’s name and dates into, wishing he could burn it all away. His muscles scream with the desire to throw it, break it, smash it into pieces and explode the whole fucking hill. Watch it turn into ash and fire, till no part of Wilbur remained. As if he could destroy enough things to forcibly scar away the parts of his life that Wilbur touched.
He drops the headstone. It falls plainly to the ground with a thump, leaving his hands open and shaking.
“I love you still,” Fwhip croaks to it, rasping, “Do you know that? You fucking asshole . I still love you and I hate it.”
The headstone is silent.
So, Fwhip goes home.