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"Hey, Wilbur." Ranboo's head poked into his room, ears pricked. "I'm going shopping."
Wilbur let out a noncommittal hum in response, tearing his gaze away from the picture on his nightstand. He wasn't really doing anything special; he had his communicator in hand, texting Techno every so often whenever the piglin hybrid remembered to respond to him. He was actually a bit hungry, he was probably going to get up soon and make himself something to eat. "Alright, have fun." He shifted and laid back, stretching his legs out a bit. "Is Tommy going, too?"
"Nah, he wants to stay in today. Sewing patches into his hoodie." Ranboo settled against the doorframe for a second, stifling a yawn into their hand. Wilbur watched him for a moment, humming again. "I shouldn't be gone too long, Puffy's coming with me so we're gonna divide and conquer. We don't need much, just gonna stock up for the next couple of weeks." He turned his head briefly to look back out into the hall, ears flicking lazily, before looking back at Wilbur. "So message me if you want anything, we'll be going through a few stores. Uh…" His eyes lifted toward the ceiling, thinking. "Ghostbur's coming back today, I think. He should be here soon. Otherwise it'll just be you and Tommy." Ranboo's gaze returned to him once more. "That okay?"
Wilbur nodded quickly. The enderboy had been hesitant to leave the two of them home alone after Wilbur had told him what happened… that day, with the glass, and honestly, he understood. But he was much more prepared now, he thought. He could handle it this time. "Yeah, we'll be fine, don't worry." He crossed his arms under his head. "Feeling tired today, so I'm not going to be burning the kitchen down either. Everything will be exactly as you left today when you return, O' Great One," he teased with a lopsided grin. "Oh, but bring me a jar of sand."
"I… will… maybe," Ranboo muttered, straightening up. They smirked, shoving their hands in their pockets and turning, tail waving slightly. "Remember to message me if you need anything."
"Will do," Wilbur replied, and then he was gone, and Wilbur was alone. He sighed.
Well, he didn't quite feel like fucking with Tommy today. He actually was really fucking tired, for some reason. There was a persistent feeling of fatigue weighing him down. Even just laying there, he felt exhausted. Physically, not at all mentally or emotionally. Actually, he really wanted to get up and do something today. Maybe this was just a sign that he should be taking it easy. That was fine; unless Tommy needed him for something, lying in bed didn't seem like such a bad idea today. He'd wait until he felt a little better and then maybe go get something to eat. That sounded like a good plan. Wilbur let his eyes flutter shut, taking a deep breath and sighing.
The exhaustion didn't lift. If anything, this sudden heaviness, this fatigue holding his body hostage, it only seemed to get worse. Almost as though he could physically feel his limbs getting heavier. It wasn't just that, either; with every second the clock ticked away, his mouth grew dryer and dryer, and swallowing became a chore, something he had to actively think about and work himself up to do. Still, he wasn't too concerned about that, he wasn't concerned at all until he went to take a deep breath and couldn't. The air seemed to stop just short of his lungs, refusing to fill them the way they demanded. Then, and only then, did Wilbur feel a little worried.
He tried again, this time letting his lips fall apart, breathing in slowly through his mouth. Each attempt fell just short of being the deep breath he needed, but still, that was fine, that was okay. He closed his mouth again and opened his eyes and just laid there, breathing slowly, in and out.
That was okay. His heart, which had begun racing with anxiety, began to slow to a normal pace.
And then it kept slowing.
Still, Wilbur didn't panic. No, no, he wasn't panicking. Everything was fine, he was fine! Panicking would only make it worse, so he just had to breathe through it and focus. Nevermind the fact that each breath was slowly getting shallower as his heart rate dropped, nope, that was fine, it was fine, he was fine, this was fine. He was just laying there, after all. He hadn't done anything, there was no real reason for anything bad to be happening, so everything was fine. His stomach began to twist, a feeling typically accompanied by the feeling of his heart racing at a terrifying pace. Instead, he felt it just. Continuing to fucking drop. Getting slower and slower… with it, Wilbur's breaths started to hitch, and his chest started to ache. His lungs fucking burned.
He tried to wait it out at first. Hoping it was some kind of weird fluke kind of thing and it would fix itself as quickly as it had started. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case. It was all downhill from there; every breath became a struggle. He wasn't breathing on his own anymore, he had to suck the air in himself, and he could barely do that. And manually breathing turned out to be exhausting; not to mention, he steadily grew more and more frantic the longer this continued on. Until he was basically hyperventilating, dark spots dancing across his vision as his head spun.
The room spun. Wilbur choked out a strangled whine, terror steadily overpowering his senses. This did not help his dizziness. It felt like the bed was shaking under him, rocking back and forth. His chest barely rose with the breaths he managed to take, unable to force any air in now.
Throughout all of this, his heart rate just continued dropping. Wilbur could hardly focus on that now, too busy desperately trying to carry air to his burning lungs, but he could feel it getting slower and slower. If he could focus long enough, he would try counting to see exactly how fast it was going, but until then he would just have to take a wild guess and say it was somewhere in the low forties. Which was… probably not good, he determined. He remembered someone telling him once - Techno? - that a human's heart rate dropping below sixty was cause for concern. And sure, Wilbur wasn't exactly human, but far as he knew, he still functioned like one. He was really dizzy. His chest hurt. His distress wasn't helping things, his panic was only making it harder to breathe, and he was growing far more lightheaded. He took in another breath, and struggled to release it. For all of twenty seconds, he couldn't force himself to exhale.
Somehow, that was what it took for him to finally determine that something was horribly wrong.
He was dying.
This was what dying felt like, he remembered what dying felt like. He remembered this, lying limp in Phil's arms, his father curled over him and sobbing. He remembered his breaths growing shallow and his heart rate slowing. He remembered the plunge into darkness, waking up in Limbo. He remembered how slow it had all been. That time, these sensations had been somewhat numbed by the pain of a sword stuck through his stomach, but that was what he remembered the most. The struggle for every breath as his body fought to keep itself alive while his mind begged to surrender peacefully to death as it claimed him. The dizziness, and the cold.
Another inhale, as his thoughts spiraled. He was dying. Why was he dying? Terror clutched him tightly, clawing through his heart and stomach, turning his insides to mush and tearing him apart. He didn't want to die. He didn't want to fucking die. He was supposed to live, he was supposed to be here for Tommy, he was supposed to be learning how to enjoy life again! He was supposed to be okay, he was supposed to stay this time, he promised he'd stay this time. His stomach twisted and shriveled, and his heart squeezed tightly. But even through his hysteria, it didn't quicken like you would expect. No, through his panic, his heart rate only grew slower. Dropping and dropping until Wilbur could barely feel it. That was mortifying in its own right, the realization that his heart rate was still dropping, steadily, and it wasn't about to stop.
Fuck this. Wilbur's mind and heart screamed out for Tommy, begging him to come to his aid somehow. And even as he strained, as he desperately tried to force himself to call out for him…
Sounds wouldn't escape. His mouth wouldn't open, his lips wouldn't part.
No, no, no, his eyes stung with phantom tears, panic engulfing him. No, please, fuck, fuck, fuck! It was getting harder to breathe. At least the aching and burning in his chest and lungs had stopped, but this only left him free to feel the painless but terrifying sensation of his heart rate steadily getting slower, as his breaths slowed with it. He was getting dizzier, he felt like he was about to pass out. This was when the darkness had claimed him back then, he remembered. When the pain had numbed, when all he could feel were the sensations. That was when he died. His panic mounted at that revelation, and if he could have, he probably would've sobbed. It built and died in his chest, and Wilbur could feel himself just drifting as his heart slowly stopped.
His breathing stopped with it. And there Wilbur Soot laid, in the silence of his room, staring up at the ceiling. Unable to move, unable to speak. Unable to do a damn thing but just lay there, painfully aware of himself. Aware of the fact that his heart wasn't beating, he wasn't breathing. Aware of the fact that, by all logic, by all means, he should be dead. Why was he still alive then?
He had no answer, only questions. So many questions. His mind raced, while his heart was still. There was no air in his lungs. He hadn't felt something like that since Limbo. He fucking hated it.
He didn't want to die. He wanted to live, he wanted to be here for Tommy, he wanted to be okay.
And he especially didn't want to die like this. He didn't want to die alone. His eyes stung again, and he almost wished that he would tear up, that he would feel something other than this cold, horrible, heavy feeling that clung to him. This was what it felt like to die and it was a feeling that Wilbur Soot knew far too well, and it was a feeling that brought him neither relief nor peace this time. No, there was only terror and confusion and pain. He wondered if he would have lasted this long back then if he hadn't wanted to die so badly. He wondered if the only reason he was still holding on right now, as long as he was, even without his heart beating, even without being able to draw in a breath, was because he didn't want to die. And if so then he'd keep holding on.
Something moved in his chest. A single beat of his heart, and then nothing. It startled him, but he made no movement; he was frozen to his bed, forced into complete stillness. He waited, desperately, for his heart to start beating again. But nothing else came, and his despair returned. What a helpless, hopeless feeling this was. Wilbur had never felt so weak, so scared. His mind raced through every moment he'd lived these past few months. Every second with Tommy, and Tubbo. Every word exchanged between him and Ranboo. Every time he felt the wind in his hair and the sun on his face. Every time he took flight and the wind ruffled his feathers. Every opportunity missed, every person he could have and should have spoken to and didn't. His son, his father. Niki. People he owed apologies, people who would never get them. Frustration built in his chest, but it was quickly overpowered by his fear. He didn't want to die.
Another beat. A startled breath escaped, and then nothing.
This was torture. It was torture, he thought numbly. The slowest, most agonizing way to die. He wasn't in any pain, not physically, but the mental torment he was experiencing far made up for it.
Was this karma?
Was this punishment?
Probably. It probably fucking was. Foolish, to think even Death's son could cheat death, huh? He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry. He could do neither. He was helpless, forced to just lay there and accept what was happening. Holding on by a thin fucking thread, or so it felt like. Really, Wilbur thought, the only reason he was able to hold on was to prolong whatever punishment this was supposed to be. It was cruel. This was cruel, and Wilbur hated it so much. Fear wasn't something he was used to. It was something he was usually able to control and ignore, suppress, until it was gone. But right now, in this very moment, Wilbur Soot was terrified.
Another beat. Wilbur breathed in with it this time. And this time, he counted the seconds.
He got to sixty before his heart beat again, faint but unmistakable.
A single heartbeat per minute. Wilbur wondered if he deserved this, this slow and torturous death. He wondered if he was even dying, at this point, actually. Maybe it was just torture. Maybe he was going to be bound like this forever, a perpetual state between life and death. Somehow, that thought concerned him more than it relieved him. No, he didn't want that. He wanted to either be fully alive or fully dead, and while fully alive was his preference, he didn't want to be stuck like this. The thought of being stuck like this was beyond mortifying, it was damn near unfathomable. He couldn't handle this only after a few minutes - even Limbo, as fucked as it had been, was tolerable compared to this. He thought back to the years he'd spent there in that train station, and he tried to imagine how horrible it would've been to spend them like this. He couldn't. He couldn't even fathom the thought of just- being stuck like this for years.
Tommy's voice broke through his hazy thoughts abruptly. "Bloom, what's going on? What is it?" If his heart was beating, it would have skipped at the sound of Tommy's voice. Relief and horror built in his chest as he realized that his brother was coming toward his room; relief because he didn't want to be alone right now, he so badly didn't want to be alone right now, especially if he was dying. Horror because he didn't want his little brother to see him like this, he didn't want Tommy to have to watch him die. Even at the cost of dying alone, he wouldn't wish that on him.
Wilbur heard no response from the calf, but interestingly, Tommy seemed to. "What d'you mean? Wil?" His voice grew louder for a second, and Wilbur heard his footsteps quicken a little. Despite knowing it was futile, he did try to respond; once again, he couldn't even part his lips.
"Wil- Wilbur?" Tommy's voice pitched up, and Wilbur wanted to cry. "Wilbur!"
God, just let him die.
Don't let me die, he begged internally regardless. Please, I don't want to die. I don't want to die.
He felt hands on his arms, his shoulders, his face, his neck. Tommy loomed over him, absolutely terrified, and a glimpse of his face was all Wilbur needed to see. His heart beat again once more, and he sucked in another breath with it quickly. Tommy didn't seem to notice, one hand fumbling against Wilbur's neck, clumsy and shaking. Checking for a pulse. Smart kid, very good. Wilbur so desperately wished he didn't have to see this, and he wished he wasn't aware for it. Whether he died or not at this point, he didn't want this. He didn't want to watch his baby brother freak out, and although Tommy was relatively calm at the moment, he knew a breakdown was incoming. He could see the frantic, terrified look in Tommy's eyes, the tears beginning to well up.
"Nononono," Tommy whispered after a few seconds, pulling his hand away abruptly. Wilbur wanted to scream; just a few seconds longer and Tommy would have felt the small, brief beat of his heart before it all went still again. The boy moved out of his sight briefly, for just a few seconds, and Wilbur almost panicked; but he was back again quickly enough, and this time Wilbur felt the bed shift as Tommy climbed up beside him, looking far more terrified now. Wilbur kind of wished he would just talk to him, honestly. If he was going to die, he didn't want the last thing he heard his brother say to be no. An I love you would be nice. Just- something, anything!
Tommy's hands settled over his chest, over his heart. He hissed. "Remember how to do this…" The bed rocked as someone else joined them. Likely Bloom, she was the only other one there.
Abruptly, Tommy's hands lifted. He pulled Wilbur's shirt up instead, pushing it up until his chest was exposed, and then returned his hands to their position over his chest. The realization didn't take long to settle in, and a flicker of pride and relief briefly broke through the panic and horror that was still steadily continuing to build. Tommy was trying to save him. It hurt, it fucking hurt because it was something Tommy shouldn't be having to do himself, it was something Wilbur desperately wished just wasn't happening - but it was relieving, because maybe he could save him. Maybe he would be okay. If he was even dying, that was. It fucking hurt, when Tommy began chest compressions. He was unsteady, clumsy, and inexperienced. But the rhythm was good. Wilbur heard him mumbling under his breath, counting, muttering softly as he continued.
He was doing good, exactly as he should be, but Wilbur didn't think it was working.
His heart beat again. Wilbur sucked in a breath. Tommy's hands stuttered.
"Come on, Wil," he breathed. "Come on. Come on, don't fucking leave me, stay with me."
I'm trying, Wilbur wanted to say, as the pressure on his chest grew more and more painful every time Tommy pressed down. I'm trying, Tommy, and I'm gonna hold on as long as I fucking can. The compressions stopped - thank god, honestly, Wilbur wasn't sure how much of it he could take. It wasn't the end, though, he knew far too well. The process continued; two rescue breaths - which honestly, again, didn't do much and only further served to distress him physically, his lungs just wouldn't accept the air that was being given - and then chest compressions once more. Wilbur wished he could close his eyes, he wished he could distance himself from this. He wished unconsciousness would hurry up and claim him, whether death did or not. Tommy was trying so hard and falling so short, growing more and more frantic, and he couldn't comfort him.
Instead, he could just watch, as desperation and frustration and panic took over Tommy's features. As tears welled up in his eyes and started streaming down his face, as his breathing grew more erratic and panicked. Thirty chest compressions. Two rescue breaths. Back to chest compressions, and this time, Tommy's pace stuttered more than once, hands starting to shake.
"Fuck!" The blond suddenly screamed, pressing down hard, and-
Wilbur heard it more than felt it at first. A sharp crack, echoing through the otherwise silent room. Tommy's hands froze in place and his eyes went wide, recoiling from him in absolute shock. Wilbur could do nothing but watch him go, he could do nothing more than fucking lay there. He felt nothing at first, for several seconds. Just shock and confusion and worry and fear. Wishing Tommy would come back, aching to tell him that it was okay, he hadn't done anything wrong, this was a normal part of the process - at least most of the time. Tommy was still there, he could feel and hear him, but he couldn't see him. His eyes stung again, but no tears arose.
Another beat. Wilbur sucked in a breath with it.
Ow.
Ow. Ow ow ow ow ow ow fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Thankfully, Tommy returned quickly after that. He must have seen him take in a breath that time. "Okay, okay, okay," he was whispering to himself, barely audible. Wilbur strained to hear him, but his mind spiraled again quickly when Tommy's hands returned to their place and he continued chest compressions. Because- oh fuck- if he thought taking in a fucking breath hurt, it was nothing compared to this. Every push, every bit of pressure hurt like all hell. If he could be screaming right then, he would be. And Wilbur was someone with a pretty high fucking pain tolerance, mind you - at the very least, he was very good at just shutting his mouth and taking it.
Right then, however, he felt like crying. Maybe it was the hysteria from everything that was happening, maybe it was the pain itself, maybe it was the fact that Tommy was crying and Wilbur never could stand to see his brother cry - whatever it was, if he could be, he would be fucking sobbing right then. To be honest, he wished he could. He would take anything but this. But he had literally no fucking choice, and that was the worst part. He'd never felt so helpless.
He'd never felt so weak, so scared. His eyes stung. Fucking hell, it hurt. He wished Tommy would stop, he fucking loved the kid but this wasn't helping. For a moment, he nearly wished for death to claim him, to fucking get it over with. He derailed that line of thought the second he realized what he was thinking. He had made a promise, silent as it was. He had promised not to leave, to hold on as long as he fucking could. Until unconsciousness or death took him, he would. Even if this pain was fucking unbearable, even though he was terrified, he would do this.
For Tommy. For Tommy.
(In all honesty, Wilbur was starting to suspect he didn't have a choice anyway.)
Another beat. A whine left with it this time, and Tommy froze. "Wil- Wilbur? Hey, you there?" Wilbur so desperately wanted to respond, to reassure him, but the moment had passed. Fuck…
He didn't want to die.
He didn't want to die like this.
"Wilbur," Tommy's voice wavered. Here it was. Wilbur braced himself, emotionally, as much as possible. But nothing could really prepare himself for the pain that shot through him, like an arrow through the heart, when the blond started crying. He was already crying silently, mind you. Tears were already spilling down his cheeks, they were just followed by many, many more when the blond really started crying, harsh sobs wracking his body as he placed his hands over Wilbur's chest again. "Wilbur, please, please… st- stay with me, okay? R- Ranboo and Puffy are on their way, they- they're gonna help, you're gonna be okay, j- just stay with me, please stay…" Wilbur could only stare at him, eyes stinging. "You can- I just got you back, you can't die again."
I agree. Wilbur's eyes burned. That ache in his chest and lungs was returning. This was… this was quite possibly the most painful thing he'd ever had to endure, both physically and emotionally. He didn't want to die. He didn't want to die in his brother's arms, he didn't want to do that to him. He had already damaged one person he cared about beyond repair that way; looking up at Tommy now, he could almost see Phil reflected in those blue eyes, the blond hair.
Why did he always end up like this?
Another beat. Wilbur didn't get to breathe with it this time, he wasn't counting anymore.
Exhaustion was starting to take hold. His eyes wouldn't close, but he felt, for a moment, like he could start drifting off if he let himself. And he would be lying if he said it didn't sound tempting.
"What's going on?" Ranboo's voice cut through the silence. He sounded absolutely petrified. That was startling; in the few months Wilbur had known Ranboo, he had quickly come to recognize the enderman hybrid as like him. Not easily scared, or at least not someone who easily showed when he was scared. Wilbur gave up on counting again after a few moments; the beats would come when they came, there was really no point anymore. The dizziness was back, and worse. The room was spinning and Wilbur was spinning and he was going to be sick.
"I don't know," Tommy choked out between sobs, damn near hysterical now. "I don't know! Bloom- Bloom was freaking out and, and I just found him like this, and I tried to- to do CPR but I don't think it was working and- and something cracked-" Tommy drew in a shaky breath and Wilbur's still heart ached for him, harder than ever. Another beat. Wilbur started counting again, as much as possible this time, as he listened to Tommy. "He won't- I can't find a fucking heartbeat but he keeps- like- breathing in really s- suddenly and I don't know what to do it- he's-"
"Wilbur?" Puffy sounded like she was right next to him. A hand rested against his chest, and Wilbur watched Tommy briefly disappear from his sight as Ranboo pulled him into his arms instead, mumbling quiet, reassuring words that Wilbur didn't catch. "He's not injured anywhere."
"I think I broke his rib," Tommy breathed, and sobbed again. "Oh, fuck, I broke his rib-"
Another beat. Wilbur managed to suck in a breath toward the end.
"Bloom said she could feel him, still," Tommy whispered. "She said he- he felt scared, but…" Wilbur simultaneously wondered when the fuck Tommy could understand Bloom, and thanked whatever god was listening for the existence of that fucking cow. They knew he was still alive, at least. That was something. He didn't know how long this was going to last, he both prayed it was long enough for someone to do something and hoped that it wasn't forever, but they knew he was alive and that was what mattered at that moment. Maybe they could figure out what was going on. Because Wilbur had absolutely no clue. And frankly, he was growing too tired to care.
His sluggish brain struggled to keep counting. Twelve heartbeats so far. It had been twelve minutes, then? Only twelve fucking minutes. It felt like hours. Time moved slow when you were being fucking tortured, apparently. He tried not to think too hard about the fact that his fucking heart was beating once every minute. He tried not to think about the fact that, by all logic, he should be fucking dead. He tried not to think, because thinking hurt. He was scared, and tired…
Another beat.
"I can't lose him again," Tommy gasped out suddenly, crying. "I can't lose him again, I- fuck-" And he was sobbing again, and Wilbur hated himself, and he hated whatever this fucking was.
"Hey, hey, okay…" Ranboo murmured, continuing to reassure him, but he sounded scared, too.
Wilbur was dying, wasn't he? He was going to die like this, slow and painful, while the people he loved had to watch. His eyes stung with frustrated tears that refused to form, and his chest ached. This wasn't fair. This wasn't fucking fair! He had done some awful shit, for sure, but he didn't deserve this. His family didn't deserve this. He wanted to live, goddammit! He wanted to live, he wanted to be a better person, he wanted to get better and do better and be better! He wanted to live long enough to be happy again. He wanted to apologize to all the people he hurt, and earn their forgiveness, he wanted his family back, he wanted to be there for his baby brother, he wanted anything, anything but this. He wanted to live, that was it. He wanted to live.
Another beat, another breath. Another burst of pain in his ribs. Wilbur wanted to cry.
Maybe he had lived long enough to get what he wanted, to see Tommy okay again. He wasn't great, but he was happy. But then, what was the point? This was only going to hurt him all over again. This was only going to send him spiraling further. If Wilbur had only been allowed to live to help his little brother find happiness again, then why this? Why take him away from him so fast? Why break his heart all over again? Wilbur was as pissed off about that as he was about dying. He was as heartbroken at that as he was about dying. He didn't want to die, he wasn't ready to go back there. He still had so much he wanted to do. He still had so many things he wanted to fix. He still had a whole life ahead of him. Wilbur had never truly understood what it was like to fear death; he had never been afraid of such a thing. He was either indifferent to the idea or he welcomed it with open arms. For the first time, Wilbur knew what it was like to fear death. He had never begged for his life before, but right then, in that moment, he was begging.
Another beat. Wilbur whined again, a low and keening sound. A hand he immediately recognized as Tommy's gripped his wrist in a bruising hold. Wilbur didn't mind. "H- Hey, Wilbur?"
Wilbur tried to do something, anything. He tried to move, he tried to speak. He couldn't. Helplessly, he could only count down the seconds to another heartbeat. A minute had never felt so long to him, not even in Limbo. He was so tired. He wanted this to end, but he didn't want to die. He didn't want to lose his grip on this thread he was holding onto. He didn't want to break his promise, he fucking couldn't. So he held on, he counted, and he waited. Waited for the next-
Beat. Another breath. Wilbur almost cried out from the pain.
"Oh, god, Wil-" Tommy's voice broke, sobbing again. "Fuck, fuck- wh- what do we do?"
Stay with me, was all Wilbur could think, pleading, I don't want to die alone. It was getting harder to think. He drifted in and out of consciousness after that, not quite falling into the darkness, but not quite there, either. Voices became low murmurs of words he couldn't decipher. Two more beats drew him back into consciousness briefly, each one minute apart as normal. But then he fell back into it again, the numbness, the peace. Everything inside of him ached to give into it. For once, it was his body aching to give up, but his mind insisted, refusing to let him.
Tommy's hand was gripping his own now, fingers intertwined.
If this was how he died, so be it.
Another beat. Why couldn't it just stop already? Why was it still going? What was he being punished for? Was it everything he had done in the past? Cheating death? Why? What did he do? The urge to cry built within him again, and if he could have, he would have, just to release all of these horrible, pent up emotions building within him. This was fucking awful. He hated this.
Through the dizziness and the panic, he imagined himself younger. He threw himself back into his childhood in a fit of desperation. Back to the days after he found Tommy. The adventures they had, the games they played. When Tommy would smile up at him so wide with his bright, sparkling blue eyes, showing off that adorable little gap between his teeth. When life was as simple as kissing scraped knees and bruises better and sending Tommy off on his way again. When Wilbur was good, when everything was okay. When life was worth living, when he was happy. When a hug or a kiss on the head could stop the sky from falling. He missed those days.
Another beat. Wilbur numbly started counting again, what else was there to do?
He made it to thirty, another beat. It startled him enough that he sucked in an involuntary breath, and another keening whine escaped before he fell silent again. Tommy's grip on his hand tightened while Wilbur struggled to process what had just happened - had he counted wrong? He had been counting wrong this whole time? He could have sworn the heartbeats were a minute apart, not thirty seconds. His head whirled, dizzy and confused. He started counting again, a little too late this time - but he knew he had barely made it to ten before the next beat.
Another ten seconds, another beat. Five, another beat. Wilbur stared up at the ceiling, able to do little more than feel. Feel, as his heart rate slowly picked back up. It was still painfully slow, terrifyingly slow. But it was better than that horrible stillness, and the beats were closer together.
"Hm?" Ranboo hummed suddenly, alarmed.
"What?" Tommy croaked, hoarse from crying. "What do you mean?"
Who the fuck- ah, Bloom. He really needed to remember that cow could fucking talk.
With every beat, or at least every few breaths, Wilbur struggled to take in a breath. It was a fight at first, especially with the pain that exploded in his ribs with each one. But he was fucking doing it. He was doing it, he was breathing. He was fucking breathing again! Slowly, but steadily, his heart rate climbed. The same way it had dropped, painfully slow. But it was still happening. And, as he had done, as he had no choice but to do, Wilbur just laid there and waited. He stared at the ceiling, counting down the seconds, breathing as much as possible through the pain. Tommy crowded in a little closer to him, his hand shaking as he gripped Wilbur's even tighter. "Wilbur-?"
Another handful of heartbeats and a few shallow breaths, and Wilbur's hand twitched as he struggled to move it, to squeeze Tommy's back in response. He didn't quite get there just yet, but the soft gasp from Tommy was all he needed to hear to let him know that at least he wasn't imagining being able to move. He heard a few quiet, relieved sobs from Puffy and a whispered "thank god" from Ranboo, but his focus, his main focus, was solely on reassuring his brother. Another several heartbeats, another few breaths. Wilbur twitched his hand again, just slightly.
When he did finally manage to squeeze Tommy's hand, he could have sobbed from relief as the blond did. He was okay. He was fucking okay. He wasn't dying. He'd fucking pushed through it.
It felt like hours before he could do anything but simple, weak squeezes. But he did those as much as possible, every time his weak body would allow it. Tommy squeezed back every so often, but Wilbur was more focused on his own, as it steadily became less about reassuring his brother, more about reassuring the both of them, and then about reassuring himself. He was alive. He was okay, he wasn't dying. He was okay. He'd held on. Through that whole, terrifying fucking thing. That horrible experience. The absolute terror and horror he had felt came crashing back abruptly, as he squeezed his brother's hand a little tighter. The fear, and the pain.
His eyes stung again, and tears accompanied the feeling this time, blurring his vision.
"Wilbur?" Tommy whispered, moving even closer. Wilbur held his hand even tighter, gasping for air as his breathing returned to a normal, albeit shallow pace. His heart rate continued to climb past a regular pace, racing faster and faster. Making up for all that lost time, it seemed. Wilbur didn't care, he would take a fast heartbeat over no heartbeat. He swallowed and gasped and whined through each breath, each slow, painful fucking breath that made his aching ribs throb. He swallowed, and gasped, and whined - and then as soon as he was able, as soon as he could bring himself to make another sound, Wilbur sucked in a breath, held it for a few seconds,
and burst into tears, dissolving into the hysterical sobs he hadn't been able to during the ordeal.
He felt Tommy pull him closer, and finally, finally able to move, Wilbur managed to grab onto him, holding on as tightly as he could. He didn't sit up yet, he didn't quite have the strength. Tommy laid down with him, snuggling closer on the bed, and buried his face into his shoulder, muffling his own sobs. Wilbur pressed his face into his hair, gasping through his tears. He couldn't remember the last time he had cried like this; his tears were usually silent. He didn't cry in front of people, his pride usually wouldn't allow that. Only alone, did Wilbur let himself break. Only when he was alone, when nobody was there to see him or judge him. Only then did he let his tears fall, quietly, to himself. But this was not one of those times. His pride had shattered already, and whether or not Wilbur would be able to pick the pieces back up was a question to be answered later. For now, he didn't care. It didn't matter. He was alive. He was fucking alive.
So he let himself cry, he let himself break, not that he could have stopped it anyway. He sobbed himself breathless and then some, curled up in his brother's arms, holding him tight to his chest.
What a pathetic fall from grace.
What a genuinely beautiful, relieving reassurance that he was alive.