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November 16th.
It really shouldn't be such a big fucking deal, it really shouldn't… Wilbur had been through forty-five of those in Limbo, after all. Of course, in limbo… he didn't know. The years went by, in there, but there weren't really days, it was just… it was just time passing, endlessly. He didn't have to know days, he didn't have to keep track of that kind of thing. Therefore, he didn't know when exactly November 16th was supposed to be, in Limbo. He just knew that it came at some point, and it passed at some point. It was different now, here. He knew exactly what today was and it seemed to pass even slower here than it did in Limbo. Like time had slowed itself just for him, happily contributing to this awful feeling of guilt and self-loathing that festered within him. Wilbur was tired. Not I wanna die tired, just… I wanna sleep this fucking day away entirely tired.
He hadn't left his room today. Ghostbur had been in to check on him, Tommy had knocked on his door a few times asking if he was okay, even Ranboo had poked his head in once or twice. Wilbur had sent them all away with the reassurance that he was okay, and then he had gone back to staring at his wall. Or, rather, at what was mounted on his wall. Blackstone surrounded him, bricked and polished. His bedroom walls were reminiscent of L'Manberg's walls; blackstone bricks with yellow and black at the top. His room was simple; he had some bookshelves, he had a desk, he had some chests, an enderchest… he had like, one painting on the wall over his bed.
And from his bed, to the left, on the wall… rested a button.
Surrounding this button were three item frames, a single stick of dynamite encased in each. Surrounding those item frames were signs, with the lyrics of his old nation's anthem scribbled across them. Why was this there? Wilbur couldn't tell you. He had put it there, but he couldn't tell you. Maybe he was punishing himself, or simply reminding himself. He didn't know. But he knew that today, it was a fucking curse, seeing it on that wall. Today, of all days, was not a good day to be staring at it, to be staring at the button and the dynamite and those fucking song lyrics.
Words cycled through his head, relentlessly, a soft mantra of, it was never meant to be.
Wilbur wanted to scream.
It was getting late, thankfully. The light in his room began to dim, and Wilbur looked up through his glass ceiling, relieved to find the sun was setting. He hadn't left his room today, even to eat. Not even to use the fucking restroom, actually. He couldn't force himself to move, to want to move. He just wanted to lie here until the day was over, and forget about everything, forget about November 16th and its entirety. He wondered how Phil was doing, he wondered if he knew what today was as well, he wondered if he thought about it. He wished they could spend it together, he wished he could work up the courage to visit his father, but he couldn't force himself to even consider the thought for far longer than a few minutes. Jeffrey was wrong; it was selfish.
Wilbur shifted, ready to roll over onto his belly and shove his face into his pillow. Just as he was about to move, however, his bedroom door swung open, and in marched… Tommy of all people.
Odd. Tommy was adamant about never entering anyone's room without knocking first, and he was usually even very hesitant to bring himself to knock. Wilbur's first thought was that maybe something was wrong - and so he quickly forced himself to sit up, with a bit of a struggle, admittedly enough, and focused on his brother. He looked okay, a little tired, and his hair was a mess, but he looked fine. He certainly didn't look like he was in any kind of life threatening situation, so Wilbur continued to stare for a moment, and then… just let himself flop back down.
Tommy spoke abruptly, the words coming out rushed and stiff. "Happy death day."
"H-" Wilbur stammered, immediately pushing himself to sit back up, and stared at his brother with wide eyes. Tommy stared back, unblinking, surprisingly unwavering, and Wilbur… found himself laughing. Slightly, breathless and confused, staring at the blond in complete disbelief. "Tommy- what- what the fuck? Tommy, what the fuck?!" He wasn't angry, not by any means. Thankfully, Tommy didn't seem to think he was either, because a brief smile tugged at the teenager's lips as he watched Wilbur laugh through his confusion and disbelief. He genuinely couldn't fucking process that for a solid minute, actually. Of all the people, he really hadn't expected to hear that from Tommy - which was a sad thought, if he was being completely honest, because once upon a time, he would have been the first person Wilbur expected it from.
He didn't have a chance to ask any further questions. Tommy summoned a decent sized, wrapped box from his inventory, and Wilbur's laughter cut off in surprise, staring. It didn't seem to be too heavy, Tommy tossed it to him easily enough; Wilbur caught it with just as much ease, staring at it dumbfounded for a moment. It was neatly wrapped, in plain black wrapping paper. Curiosity briefly overpowered Wilbur's confusion, glancing back up at his brother. "What's this?"
"Why do people always ask that when they're given a present?" Tommy wondered, a smile lingering on his lips. His voice was soft, not at all matching the words he was speaking. At all. "'What's this?' Open it and find out, dumbass." A flash of apprehension crossed his face, briefly.
Wilbur, on the other hand, couldn't stifle his grin. "I see you're in a good mood today." While Tommy's nervousness faded again, replaced with a much more genuine, somewhat relieved smile, Wilbur took to doing as told and opening the box. He used his thumb nail to cut through the wrapping paper around where he could feel the lid, not wanting to bother too much with actually unwrapping the damn thing and making a mess. Once he had finished with that, he peeled up the tape and lifted the lid off of the box, casting it aside and peering inside curiously. The sharp intake of breath he drew through his teeth was involuntary. His heart almost stopped.
"Oh, Tommy…" Was all he could say, moving almost numbly to start pulling the gifts out. Gifts, plural, yes. The scarf was first; a long, beautiful, soft scarf, made up of L'Manberg's colors. Just the sight of it made Wilbur's throat constrict, it was genuinely fucking beautiful. He ran his fingers across the soft, warm fabric, eyes crinkling briefly with a smile as he pulled it closer to himself and turned his attention back to what was left inside. Next was a beanie, a black one like he used to wear. Only this one was decorated with patches, angel wings and music notes and instruments. This one, Wilbur already treasured very dearly; he handled it carefully, a fabric as soft and warm as the scarf, as he pulled it out and turned it over to get a good look at all of the patches sewn onto it. He wondered when Tommy made this, how long he had planned this. Setting the beanie down, he took a breath to steady himself and focused on the last item inside.
He could have cried. If his pride allowed him, he could have fucking cried.
A framed photo rested inside. From left to right, Tubbo, Fundy, Tommy, himself, Niki and Jack stood in a line, L'Manberg's walls behind them, all of them clad in their L'Manbergian uniforms.
He stared. Tommy was talking, rambling. "I know you get cold easily now-"
"Tommy," Wilbur breathed.
"-'cause you're a little bitch boy, so the scarf should help. I was already making the beanie-"
"Tommy…"
"I had Techno make the photo frame, so you've got him to thank for that or not if you hate it, so-"
"Tommy," Wilbur raised his voice and Tommy shut up, snapping his mouth shut with an audible click and staring at him with wide eyes. Wilbur finally forced his gaze up from the photo and focused on his younger brother. His beautiful, bright, sweet younger brother. How wonderful he was, Wilbur still couldn't fathom it. How someone who had been so hurt for so long, who had been through so much, still had so much kindness in his heart. It gave Wilbur hope, as much as it pained him to see. Tommy, his Tommy. He truly was remarkable. "I love it. All of it," he assured softly, gazing back down at the gifts for a moment, before looking back up. "Thank you, Tommy."
Tommy breathed out a sharp exhale of relief and his shoulders released their tension, a grin flitting across his face as he looked up at Wilbur. And there, Wilbur saw so much of the Tommy he used to know. Fiery, energetic, spunky little Tommy. His sunshine. His saving grace. His whole fucking world. "You're welcome, shithead." A playful smile tugged at his lips, and Wilbur grinned back, before Tommy paused, and turned his head. "Ah, I gotta go- hey, come out for dinner, okay? Stop being in here all alone and depressed and shit, it's not good for your mental health or whatever." Another smile was thrown his way, as blinding and beautiful as Wilbur remembered. He soaked it in as much as possible, not knowing when he would see it again. There was nothing to say, words wouldn't come; he just smiled fondly as his brother left him.
His attention focused on his gifts again. The photo, he paid some special attention to, staring at it for a good few minutes as he reluctantly and slowly shifted to swing his legs over the side of the bed. And then, with care, he put it in its rightful place; on his nightstand right beside the bed. He folded his scarf into place beside it, and then picked up the beanie, gazing at all the patches.
He smiled as he stood, his mood far lighter, spirits lifted.
November 16th.
"Happy death day," he murmured into the silence of his room, and laughed. "What a dumbass." He secured his beanie on his head, and it fit perfectly, a puzzle snapped into place. Amazing…
With one last look back at the photo on his nightstand, Wilbur smiled, and followed his brother.