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And with the sickening crack of a body smashing against the ground, his son, his champion, was gone.
Wilbur wanted to scream, cry and shout at the world for taking away his boy while he watched. He would gladly fry his vocal cords and destroy his lungs if it meant he could bring Fundy’s life back. He felt pain, suffering, and death, but this was so much worse. It felt like hot tar was choking him, clogging his voice and leaving him staring at the ledge his son just hurled himself off. Wilbur couldn’t even cry, too far away in his head.
He must have sat there for a good 45 minutes before getting up. His body felt far away as he walked, his mind replaying the moment Fundy fell over and over again. Maybe this is what Ghostbur felt like when he was alive, feeling outside of your body. He knows at some point he must have fallen before continuing on his path to who knows where for he can feel the familiar warmth of blood dripping down one of his hands. The cuts on his hand can't compare to the amount of blood Fundy must have lost from the fall though.
Distantly he hears the brash voice of Tommy, speaking in an unusually soft tone. Or maybe that was normal. Wilbur doesn't know anymore, it's not like he can really hear him right now anyway. A skinny arm snakes its way around Wilbur’s, holding onto him while he walked. It's probably another child he hurt, maybe this one tried to jump because of him as well. Guess destruction follows Wilbur like a curse, leaving ashes and broken children in his wake.
The person eventually lets his arm go, another person leaving Wilbur. He’s still walking, face blank with shock. Fundy’s face was painted with a bitter smile when he jumped, looking Wilbur directly in the eyes and saluting. Everyone around him seems to leave with the same bitter smile. Maybe he gave that look to Phil when he left. Faintly he feels snow fill his boots, cold on his skin.
Wilbur saw the familiar sight of Phil's house drawing closer. If only he could have given Fundy a home worth visiting. He blew it up, didn't he? He left Fundy an orphan and homeless. Phil's stairs knock his boot.
Wilbur doesnt know when he ended up standing on Phil's porch. It doesn't matter. Nothing really matters to him right now. Wilbur's knuckles tapped against the door. The motion is like tapping a button, Wilbur's mind supplies. Now he waits for the blast.
The door opens, and he faintly hears the soft voice of Phil. Maybe he's worried. Or maybe news of Fundy's death has already spread to the Artitic, and Phil is ready to give him a long lecture. He's probably angry and he's just bothering him and maybe he should just-
A black feather brushing his arm was all it took for reality to come crashing down.
"-ilbur? Wilbur can you hear me?"
"Phil I- Oh my god Fundy-" Wilburs voice cracks on his son's name.
"Wil, what's wrong?" Phil carefully shelters his son in his wings, just like he always did when Wilbur was upset.
"I-" Wilbur sees it all, but it feels real this time. He swears he can hear his heart shatter like broken glass. It hurts. It's too painful for words. All he can do is scream.
Phil watches Wilbur scream and collapse onto the porch, sobbing and hyperventilating. Immediately, he recognizes that blood-curdling scream. The scream of a parent who just watched their child die. He holds Wilbur close to him as Wilbur falls apart. He combs his fingers through his son's brown and grey curls when he gags on his own sobs, leaving a mess to clean up later. He holds Wilbur in a tight grip as he trembles, Phil's embrace being the only thing keeping him from shattering completely. And Phil sings as Wilbur's sobs turn to sniffles.