Chapter Text
Wilbur didn't know which he preferred. A sentence to death, or being sentenced here: Back to District Twelve, a constant reminder of a home he failed. Back to the house he was given for being a Victor, a constant reminder of the lives he failed.
At least he wasn't completely alone, though again, he wasn't sure which he preferred. Schlatt had gone back with him, the old goat was his neighbor, but he never visited often. Sometimes Wilbur wondered if he'd just left, but he suspected that he was just drunk most of the time. Niki had came, too. She was the person making sure Wilbur hadn't keeled over in starvation and thirst. She came by daily with soup and bread, and didn't comment on the silence from a boy man who used to be followed by music. She would sit and tell him about all sorts of things that happened after the dust started to settle until he finished his food.
There was a basket with yarn and other sorts of threads once belonged to his Father. Niki had asked if she could take them and sew something. A new coat, or a tapestry to hang on the walls. Wilbur had let her. There was nobody living in that house who could sew anymore.
Techno had visited, some time (Days? Weeks? Maybe months?) after Wilbur had settled back into Twelve. For once, his twin was the one leading the conversation, though he refused to meet Wilbur's gaze. There was some sort of wall between them that he couldn't quite discern. The absence of their Father made itself painfully known.
"I'm not- I'm not staying," Techno had said, fingers pulling at his braided hair (His hair was pink, now. Wilbur wondered if it had anything to do with the children's jokes. The children that were now dead and gone). "I'm not- I just...... I'll visit, but I'm not staying. Not yet. Maybe I'll stay in the future. But not now." And Wilbur had only nodded as he sunk deeper into his couch, brown eyes staring emptily into the fireplace. He got the idea that Techno hadn't moved from his spot by the dining table, the nervous tapping on the table making itself heard throughout the house. (It would be days after the visit that Wilbur realized Techno was tapping the table in code. It would be days after the visit that Wilbur realized his brother was repeatedly tapping the patterns to "I'm sorry". It would be months after the visit that Wilbur finally had the courage to respond with "I forgive you").
"And Dad?" Wilbur wasn't sure how long the period of silence lasted. Seconds? Minutes? All he knew was that the fire was warm, the crackle was calming, and the flames were a hint of color in contrast towards the white walls.
"He's not coming," Techno had responded, and the tapping ceased. "Too many memories, I think. Maybe he'll visit later." (It took a year before his Father had gathered the strength to visit his wayward son in their broken home.) The silence resumed before the air got too thick and Techno left. Wilbur ignored the piles of unopened letters gathering over the coming weeks, even when they began to fall off his counter (Niki had always picked them back up with patience that Wilbur didn't deserve).
His front door slammed open one day, followed by a loud, painfully boisterous voice that instilled Wilbur with hope as he snapped his head towards the entrance, forcing down the panic threatening to rise in his throat. He was rewarded with a mop of blonde hair, bright blue eyes that reflected all the sky's glory and a smile that he didn't deserve to witness.
"What is up, bitch!" Tommy greeted. Tommy, the boy Wilbur had wronged the most. Tommy, the boy whose future turned bleak because of Wilbur. Tommy, the boy whose mind was raped and defiled because of Wilbur. Tommy, the boy whose friends had died because of Wilbur. Tommy, the boy who suffered so so much because of Wilbur. Tommy, the boy who now smiled at Wilbur, as if he was one of the only good things to happen to the boy.
He broke. Tears pricked at the edges of his vision until they couldn't be contained anymore. They ran down his face as he pushed himself up from his couch, his unkempt hair falling into his face. He hands and legs shook as he made his way towards the door, before stopping as his shoulders trembled. Words forced his way out of his lips, broken and guilty.
"I'm sorry- I'm so sorry-"
"Nothing to be sorry about, Big Man," Tommy wasn't smiling anymore, but his arms were open in invitation. "I forgive you."
And at that, Wilbur collapsed into the younger's arms. Their positions should be reversed. Wilbur should be the one comforting Tommy. The elder should be comforting the younger. And yet smaller arms wrapped itself around a larger torso, and larger hands gripped desperately at a smaller body. And for some reason, it was the best Wilbur had felt since his stay.
He didn't know when he pulled apart, or when Tommy had also started crying. He didn't know when they both sniffled and wiped away their tears. He didn't know when they both sat on the couch, staring at the flames, though their eyes were no longer empty. He didn't know when Tommy spoke again, only that he did.
"Puffy told me to get you to answer your phone, by the way," Tommy had spoken up, tone casual but voice still a little shaky. "She said she can't keep pretending to be treating you and that it was getting stressful and annoying, lying to the public and shit." The boy had let out a small laugh, and Wilbur wondered how long it had been since he had last heard such a laugh.
Hours later, when Wilbur had long expected Tommy to leave, the boy was still in his house, flipping through the cabinets and dusty bookshelves. When Wilbur had asked why he was still here, Tommy stared at him like he was crazy (Which, to be fair, he probably was).
"I'm moving in with you, dickhead. You can't do shit to take care yourself. I heard all about it from Niki."
And Wilbur had stared back.
And on that day, Wilbur stepped into the shower for the first time in weeks and had a change of clothes.
Niki had looked so proud of it, of him, the next day.
Now, when Niki comes over with their meals. Tommy would joke, and she'd laugh. Sometimes Wilbur would laugh too, and the smile on both of their faces would glow and reach their eyes. Then Tommy would joke again, more often than not making a fool of himself, but he'd get back up and smile. And Wilbur would smile too, as his chest began to feel warm once again.
It took weeks before he returned Tommy's banter. Tommy had stopped, eyes wide as he stared, before he grinned and called him "Wilby" for the first time in months. And Wilbur teased him, just as before, and Tommy returned it with a fervor once thought lost. Then Wilbur had chucked a cushion at Tommy, who returned the favor as he squirreled his way upstairs and returned with his arms full of pillows. Several mugs were misplaced during the ensuing "battle", but there was laughter in the house that night. And Wilbur, despite having exerted himself far more than he had lately, had never felt so energized.
It took more weeks before Wilbur unsealed the letters and wrote replies. Occasionally Tommy would throw in a quip or two, and made him add it in. Sometimes, Tommy would write letters of his own too. Other times, Tommy would hover behind Wilbur as he drafted his letters. Tommy was there when Wilbur wrote to Techno, addressing long buried feelings and issues. Tommy was there when Wilbur wrote the fateful words of "I forgive you", and was there when Techno's reply came mere days after, where the eldest had thanked and instead requested for Wilbur to forgive himself, in turn. Tommy would then give Wilbur a light smack on the head once he noticed his hesitance, and declare that he had forgiven Wilbur a long time ago, and that he should, too.
It took another week before Wilbur gathered the courage to use his telephone and call instead of exchanging written words. He had picked up the phone and shakily keyed in a set of numbers written in a tidy script in worn parchment folded within an envelope. He had sobbed and apologized over the phone to his Father, who had forgiven, apologized and wept alongside him. He had spoken in rushed words and shaky breaths, and his Father had returned with unconditional love and reassurances. The next time he called, though, the mood was less somber and Tommy had stolen the phone halfway through. And for the first time in months, Wilbur's Father heard his sons laugh with genuine mirth laced throughout, and the older man felt a smile find its way onto his own face and laughter find its way towards his own mouth.
One of the coming days, Tommy had hesitantly spoke up about an idea that had been brewing around his head for a while. A reminder to their first Hunger Games together, though not of blood and corpses, but of two barely brothers sharing a story of a made-up nation in a cave waiting out the night. A memory of simpler times, of when Wilbur wove tales of emancipated nations and tyrants sharing names with those already passed. Tommy had suggested turning these fantasies into a play, a script, a story. Wilbur had agreed and they both told Puffy of such an idea.
Piles of parchment from the Capitol had arrived the next day. Along with pens and inks.
And stories were then birthed. A silly story with truths of their lives laced within. A story about a tyrant clothed in green, named after their foe (A boy thrust into the same sick game as they were. A boy victim to generations of hatred). A story about a free nation, jokingly named L'Manberg. A story about fictional revolutionists based on real revolutionists (Half of whom were dead). A story of exile and outlandish tales, of magic and time.
Some nights, Wilbur had been faced with the image of the boy he so dearly loved reaching up to strangle him, eyes wide with unnatural fear and hate. Some nights, Wilbur had been faced with the images of marred bodies of those whom he failed and would wake up sobbing. On those nights, Tommy would quietly slip into his room and grab his hands until he stopped shaking. Wilbur would shake and cry and scream until he felt the grip of scarred hands smaller than his own and azure blue eyes staring into his own amidst the moonlight leaking through the curtains. He would sit, trembling as Tommy sat by him, both of them muttering nonsense about their own night terrors.
He didn't know when they both decided they couldn't sleep alone. That to wake up cold reminded them of horrible things. That it reminded Wilbur of the people he failed. That it reminded Tommy of the horrid cell of the Capitol.
They still sometimes woke up screaming, but the mass of warmth beside them reminded them that they are safe. That there are people that they love who are still here, by their side. Wilbur still sometimes woke up screaming and refused to let go of Tommy until he remembered where they were. Tommy still sometimes woke up crying and refused to listen until he remembered where they were.
During the day, whenever the scent of a rose somehow found its way into Wilbur's nose, he'd drop whatever he's holding in a fit of panic and fear. During the day, whenever the sound of metal on metal found its way into Tommy's ears, he'd back himself into a corner and curl up. During the day, whenever something reminded them too much of the horrid times they spent within Arenas and Underground, they'd stop and they'd grab hold of whatever until they were brought back to reality.
During these times, they'd hold onto each others' arms, shaking and trembling until they steadied. They'd then collapse onto their couch, and put on whatever shitty documentary was on the television that had nothing to do with their shared past. Sometimes they'd call Niki and she'd rush over with freshly baked pastries for the terrified boys. Sometimes they'd call his Dad and he'd respond with assurances and distract them by telling them of his projects. He'd got to be what he'd always wanted to be: A craftsman. He'd tell them of the sculpted fantastical cities and creatures he'd made. And he'd offer to build them a sculpture of their made-up nations of L'Manberg, Pogtopia, Snowchester, the Essempi and so much more. And sometimes they'd call Techno, and while he'd be awkward at first being thrust in such a situation, eventually he'd tell tales of myths that the people before their time often told. Stories of heroes like Theseus and Hercules, who met tragic ends. Stories of heroes like Perseus, who found their happy endings. And eventually, they'd called Schlatt, who (if sober) would regale them with tales regarding the other tributes he'd mentored. And Wilbur would then make an effort to add their names and stories into at least the background of their play.
And in those days, those times, even though they still woke up screaming, Wilbur felt as if things would be alright.
One day after many long months, Tommy had managed to coax Wilbur to finally take walks outside, promising that many other folks from Twelve had returned to their old, bruised and battered home. They'd planned for this occasion so that it'd align with Techno's schedule, the now pink-haired man making his way down towards their house. His shirt was clean, a quite obvious contrast to his clothes from before all this mess. A sword hung from his belt despite the current day and age, Techno had insisted that it was for the style and the aesthetic while Tommy mocked him (Secretly, Tommy had also thought the sword was cool. Not that he would admit it out loud though).
Wilbur wondered how long it had been since he'd last had a walk like this with Techno. Was it before his first Reaping? Or was it before his second?
Somehow, this felt familiar. With Tommy teasing the both of them and Techno making remarks that in turn made fun of the child, and when called such Tommy would rile up and protest that "I'm not a child!". The way Tommy nicknamed Techno as "The Blade" while the latter would affectionately call him "Theseus". Wilbur had just laughed, and when he did the first time, Techno would jolt in surprise before letting a grin crawl onto his face, motivated by relief.
"Niki! Tell Technoblade that I am not a child and in fact a very big adult man!" Tommy declared the moment he swung open the door (Not too loud though) into Niki's bakery, followed by a grinning Techno who just waved in greeting.
"I mean- Tommy. You're not eighteen," Niki waved. "Hi Tech! Hi Wil! Take a seat wherever you want." Wilbur had waved in return, smiling at his brothers' antics as Techno responded, which led to Tommy sputtering something and Techno replying with a drawn out "Bruhhhh" as Niki laughed from the background.
"They're really lively," Some girl had spoken up as Wilbur edged away from his bickering siblings and towards her. "It's really heartwarming how people can recover."
"It wasn't easy," Wilbur pointed towards a seat near her in a 'May I?' gesture. She smiled in affirmative, fingers twirling around her wavy, orange hair and green accessory. She was dressed in a red, plaid, sleevless dress over a white collared shirt with poofy sleeves. Wilbur can't help but feel as if the girl was familiar in the way she talked, the fin-like clip she wore in her fiery orange hair and the soft smile she directed his way.
As if realizing this, the girl giggled, "It's Sally. Sally 'Salmon' Fish. You called me a salmon on the first day of school and ran to your brother in embarrassment. Nice to re-meet you, Wilbur Soot."
Oh, and fuck. Wilbur remembered that now. Now, he was just amazed at how fast things changed. Just several years ago, his greatest worry was embarrassing himself in front of a pretty classmate. These days, his worries concerned the fate of the world, the lives of his loved ones and the nightmares that plagued his sleep.
"Uh- Nice to re-meet you too," He settled down and offered a tentative smile. "I was hoping you'd forget that introduction, actually."
"Why would I? It's unique!" Sally protested. "Niki's been working on a lot of new recipes. Have you tried them yet?"
And hey, if Wilbur didn't notice Tommy snickering at his direction (Something about being a simp) and Techno grinning, clearly having recognized Sally, it was his loss.
(Later, as they headed home, Wilbur was teased relentlessly by Tommy. Techno did not help by sharing the salmon story and "They went through a mutual pining arc in school. It was very awkward and painful to watch.". Wilbur had flung a pillow at Tommy the moment they arrived home, but missed and hit Techno instead. It was all out war from then, especially when they'd called Phil halfway through and left him hanging on the telephone, privy to the screeching and laughing of his children.)
Wilbur had picked up his guitar, which Tommy had thankfully made sure was still in good condition. He'd ran his fingers through its strings, and his gaze locked onto the score of a song he'd composed himself: The Anthem of L'Manberg (Extended Version). He was hesitant, but when he saw Tommy sitting expectantly on a chair he'd pulled over from the dining area, he was certain again and cleared his throat while he strummed the first chord.
"I heard there was a special place,
Where men could go and emancipate,
The brutality
And the tyranny
Of their rulers.
Well, this place is real, you needn't fret.
With Wilbur, Tommy, T-Tubbo, Fuck.. Fuck Eret-"
Wilbur's voice cracked at the names, squeezing his eyes shut as he paused his music. He remembered sitting in the cave with Tommy laughing as the boy had thrown in his best friend into their make-belief nation. Upon needing a traitor, the boy thought of one of the first names that popped up in his head that wasn't yet used. His stylist, Eret. Both Eret and Tubbo were dead now, victims of the Capitol. Victims of their war. (He made sure that both of them managed to survive until the end in their story.)
He opened his eyes again to a shaky thumbs up from Tommy, and he took a deep breath.
"A very big and not blown up L'Manberg.
My L'Manberg...
My L'Manberg...
My L'manberg...
My L'Manberg...
For freedom and for liberty
Our nation sought to build on these
A victory for all under democracy
Well the darkness came and then it went" (The darkness did came, but it never really went. It still plagues them, but Wilbur would be damned before he lets it take him down again)
"We built a home and watched it sink
And from the rubble
There emerged
L’Manburg
My L’manburg...
My L’manburg...
My L’manburg...
My L’manburg...
With bloodied hands
And weakened knees
Our peoplе rose like
The phoеnix." (A creature from one of Techno's stories and myths. And they did. They fell, killed and bled. But they're still here. They rose again.)
"Our empty fields and canals ‘round
L’Mantree
With sweat and tears we armed our ranks
We laid foundations in our land
And from every lips for
Here on up to infinity
We sing L’Manburg...
We sing L’Manburg...
We sing L’Manburg...
To our L’Manburg..."
Wilbur let the final notes drift off into the air of of the new District Twelve before shakily putting his guitar back into its little corner. That was the first time he'd picked up his guitar in years, and his hands shook at the reminder of broken promises ("Maybe someday you'll be here to listen to my songs.") and dead, broken bodies.
"Hey Wil," Tommy was sat in a chair nearby as Wilbur hesitantly turned towards the boy. The boy who grew up too fast, suffered too much loss and abuse, was lied to and had lied. The boy whose lips were curled in a hesitant smile overcame with unrecognizable emotion. "I'm your brother. Real or not real?"
And once again, tears ran down his face and splashed onto his trousers as Wilbur spoke, voice hoarse, shaky and wet.
"Real."