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There is silence where there shouldn’t be silence. A silence that buzzes throughout the mind in an attempt to fill itself. Just minutes ago, it was filled by Wilbur and Tommy laughing loud enough to be heard halfway across the flower biome. They discussed the oddly placed Mooshroom, petting the docile thing that Tommy had already gotten far too attached to in the minute they knew it, without a care in the world. Like the world wasn’t dangerous enough to be cared about. Like complete idiots. Wilbur is a complete fucking idiot. He sinks to his knees and wonders why it’s so fucking quiet.
“Wilbur,” Quackity’s voice breaks the silence. He sounds worried. He sounds scared. But ultimately it doesn’t matter. Ultimately Quackity doesn’t matter. Quackity is a thousand miles away and everything that matters is laid out in the grass with a cross bolt through his head. “Wilbur, we need to get the fuck out of here.”
“Go, then.”
“Wilbur-”
“If you want to leave, Quackity, then fucking leave.” Wilbur sinks his fingers into the earth. Soft, supple dirt that is meant for growth. Meant for life. Wilbur doesn’t belong here. The body belongs here more than fucking Wilbur.
“They could be back any second, Wilbur, do you want to die too?” Wilbur laughs a little. He doesn’t answer, just scoops chunks of dirt out of the earth and flings them behind him. Quackity mutters something angry he can’t quite make out and pulls at his shoulders. Wilbur shrugs him off. “So that’s it? You just fucking give up?”
“If Dream wanted me dead, Quackity, I’d be dead,” Wilbur says in a dead tone. He wishes Dream had. He doesn’t know why Dream didn’t aim for him. “They’re gone and they’re not coming back. For a while, at least.” That actually seems to get through to Quackity. He looks around the field he stays standing and Wilbur has been brought to his knees in with a cautious eye. If anyone did happen upon them, they would be sitting ducks. They were sitting fucking ducks.
Quackity’s gaze falls back on Wilbur. Wilbur hasn’t looked away from the bolt through Tommy’s forehead. In a tone that is almost kind, Quackity says, “We need to go if- they’ll want to take the body.” He sounds distinctly uncomfortable saying it. The they in question this time is the Admins. Hypixel. Wilbur remembers Tommy’s voice laced with distaste, bet they do weird experiments and shit.
“They can try,” he says pleasantly. It’s a threat, plain and simple. Quackity looks at the sky like the Admins are going to blast them off the map just for Wilbur’s insolence. Wilbur wishes they would.
“We’re not safe here, Wilbur, we’re out in the fucking open-”
“I already said you can leave, Quackity. There’s nothing left for you here, there’s nothing left.” Wilbur digs his fingers into the earth once more. He scoops and tosses. Scoops and tosses. The methodical displacement of the dirt not making him feel better but feeling somehow right.
“It isn’t over, Wilbur, you could still-”
“What?” Wilbur asks with a laugh. It’s genuine. This pathetic attempt at talking him down is funny. Like he’s telling a joke too he says, “I could still win the games?” He tosses a bit of dirt in the direction of Quackity’s voice. “Do you think I care, Quackity? Do you think I’m relieved, one less person on the board, ready to face the day with a bit of pep in my step? Is that what you fucking think?” It isn’t. Wilbur knows it isn’t. Quackity, for the moment, just wants to keep Wilbur alive. Wilbur just wants Quackity to fucking leave.
“Man, you can’t just- you can’t just give up! Do you think Tommy would want that? Do you seriously-”
“He’s not even cold,” Wilbur laughs again, this fucking narrative Quackity spins making him bitter. It’s all in an effort to move him forward. It’s all the same fucking game they’ve been playing. With Tommy’s dead body laid across the grass, Wilbur is feeling rather tired of playing. “He’s not even- he’s hardly been dead ten minutes and you’d invoke him?” Before Quackity can get back to his incredibly sad attempt at a pep talk, Wilbur continues, “No, no, of course you would. God and Hypixel know how fast you move on after death.” Quackity scoffs, a sound like he’s been struck, and his hand curls into a fist. Wilbur wonders if he’ll take a swing. Invoking Schlatt is easy, fruit so low-hanging Wilbur needs to bend to pick it, but it’s what will get Quackity away from here. Away from Wilbur, away from Tommy, away from the inevitable when Hypixel tires of his mourning.
“I lost him too, Wilbur.” It isn’t that Wilbur thinks Quackity does not care about Tommy. It’s that Quackity can think. Quackity can stand. Quackity can walk away right now, mind set on survival. Wilbur’s mind isn’t, which is very unlucky for Quackity considering it’s half the reason he hasn’t left already.
Wilbur doesn’t look at him, eyes still on Tommy and fingers in the dirt as he says, “You’ll trot after me because I’ve got a bow, and when I die you’ll trot after Sapnap because he’s got a sword, and what will you do if he dies? Chase after Dream? How familiar this game must be, keeping yourself in the company of dangerous men who would gladly watch you die if it meant their own safety.” Wilbur finally looks away from Tommy’s body, the first time since he hit the ground, smiling serenely at the rage on Quackity’s face. It won’t take much more to make him leave. Wilbur makes one final push with, “Or did I imagine Schlatt’s oh-so loving attempt to make you Punz’s victim rather than himself?”
Wilbur expects Quackity to storm off. At most, a punch to the face before he leaves Wilbur to his devices; before he leaves Wilbur to wait for the Admins or Dream to make a reappearance. Instead, Wilbur is knocked flat on his ass by a foot to the chest. Within seconds, a knee is digging into his stomach and a knife is poised against his throat. He didn’t know Quackity had a knife. It sticks in just enough for Wilbur to feel a trickle of blood run down to his chest.
“And what’s a dangerous man, Wilbur?” Quackity mocks. “He’s got a weapon, he’s got a temper. He’s got nothing to fucking lose.” By now, Quackity certainly has nothing to fucking lose. Nothing but his life, and there is no one Wilbur knows that values keeping themself alive quite like Quackity. “I could kill you. I want to kill you. I want to kill you and everyone else and win this fucking game. I want to go back to my server, alone and miserable, because it means I survived. I want to win because it means I lived through the worst fucking thing I could possibly fucking imagine. What do you want, Wilbur?”
A thousand thoughts race through Wilbur’s mind. He wants to die. He wants to live. He wants to rip Quackity’s knife from his grasp and stick it in his throat. He wants Quackity to lose his patience and carve out Wilbur’s heart. He wants to tear Hypixel block by fucking block until all that remains is a body that never should have been there. Wilbur wants to be a thousand universes from this one, in a kinder world where he met Tommy and it didn’t mark his end.
What comes out, quiet enough it almost feels like a secret, as if they could have a fucking secret with a million eyes on them, Wilbur says, “I want to bury him.” Quackity’s face drops from that mocking fury to something somber. His mouth falls open like he wants to say something but can’t quite find the words. Like the air has been punched out of him. The grip Quackity has on his knife loosens, and Wilbur is tempted to use the momentary weakness to grab it and stick it through Quackity’s head. He doesn’t. He just looks up at the man he is at the mercy of and awaits his verdict. It almost doesn’t matter, really, if Quackity kills him or helps him bury Tommy. It’s almost the same thing.
As quiet as Wilbur, Quackity says, “Okay. Okay, Wilbur.” He takes the knife away from Wilbur’s throat and removes the knee keeping Wilbur pinned. He rolls off to sit beside him. Wilbur ignores the ache in his kicked stomach to sit up. The body beside them stays still. “Is- I mean, here?”
Wilbur does not answer with words. He just resumes his methodical digging in the dirt. Wilbur wasn’t certain why he dug his fingers in the earth before, scooping and throwing as he did, but now it is more than clear. If Wilbur can help it, Hypixel will not take Tommy’s body the way they did his life.
After a few moments, Quackity mutters a sarcastic, “Sounds good,” that lacks any bite. He joins Wilbur in his uncomfortable task. Hands were not made for digging, not as far as they need to at least, and it will certainly take them hours if not the entire day to do it. Wilbur doesn’t care. He’ll dig for days if that’s what it takes. If Quackity cares, he can leave. Wilbur imagines they’re past that point, though. He thinks he’s grateful.
An hour later, when Wilbur’s hands are raw and bloody and Quackity is obnoxiously complaining of the same, there is a metallic hum in the air. It’s the last thing Wilbur expected to hear. Now that Tommy is dead, now that Wilbur has shown in his grief exactly how cruel he can be, he expected the sponsorships would dry up. He hoped they would. He doesn’t pause his digging to accept whatever “kindness” the people of Hypixel have decided to show him.
Quackity does. He takes hold of the silver tin and it opens to… a trowel. Wilbur laughs. A fucking trowel. A note flutters to the grass and Wilbur’s eyes can’t help but catch the words.
I was just startin’ to like him. - T.B.
In a fit of rage, Wilbur shoves the note in his mouth and chews it to bits before spitting it in the direction opposite of Tommy’s grave. Wilbur hates the note. He hates the trowel. He hates the burn cream and the broth and every fucking item they sent him. He hates that they only love Tommy because he does. He hates that on Tommy’s server, there is a cow being sent to a butcher shop because Tommy will never return. Wilbur digs his hands into the dirt and watches his flesh struggle against the action after an hour of the same. He doesn’t fucking care. He would rather Hypixel take his life than waste another second pretending to be grateful.
Beside him, Quackity picks up the trowel. His hands still shake as he digs, but he no longer suffers the way Wilbur does. Quackity doesn’t mind playing the game the same way they always have. Wilbur rather hates him too.
Wilbur loses himself in his rage and his love and the sheer determination to not let Hypixel have Tommy. It goes faster, surely, with Quackity using an actual tool to dig, but it’s small and still slow-going and Wilbur hardly wants to acknowledge the fucking thing. The so-called kindness they have shown him in the wake of the life they took. The Admins, the residents of Hypixel, every pair of eyes watching are culpable for Tommy’s death, no matter that Dream’s hand is what caused it. Wilbur is culpable too. But he can do this.
What could be hours, days, years later, the sound of Mellohi plays. Wilbur does not look up from his digging, just dimly realizes how dark it’s gotten. He does not need to see Tommy’s grinning face displayed in the sky when his body still lays beside Wilbur, bloody and wide-eyed. The song does not play long. Tommy is probably the only one who died today. Wilbur wonders if he would have noticed any other canons throughout the day.
Soon after, though Wilbur could not say how soon, in an incredibly tired voice, Quackity says, “I think it’s deep enough, Wilbur.” It’ll never be deep enough. Until the hole is so far underground no man could reach the bottom, it will never be deep enough. But Wilbur knows that isn’t possible. That isn’t possible and now that he’s not so entranced by the methodical act of scoop and toss, he can feel the weariness of his own bones too. His hands hurt so badly he could almost hope Hypixel sends some sort of ointment. But he would refuse it then too. He will refuse it so long as he lives and Tommy is nothing but a body in the ground.
Wilbur grabs Tommy’s arms while Quackity grabs his legs. Gingerly, they place his body in the hole. It’s deep and long enough to slide all the way down, but it still doesn’t feel like enough. It could never be enough. Wilbur gets to work replacing the dirt with shaking, cracked hands. Quackity just watches. He sits with his back against a tree, arms wrapped around his abdomen like he’s trying to comfort himself. To ease the pain, more likely. That’s alright. This is the easy part anyway. At least that’s what he tells himself as the earth swallows Tommy whole.
By the time Wibur is done filling the hole, quicker than digging but still a timely escapade, Quackity is asleep. Wilbur pats the dirt of the grave like the shoulder of a friend and says, “Won’t be long now.” He isn’t fully sure what he means by it, but it feels right. It feels true, anyway.
Wilbur forces himself to stand. It hurts. It hurts like almost nothing he’s ever known. Luckily, getting lava poured down his leg hurt enough to trump it. He pushes through the pain and limps over to where Quackity sleeps. Wilbur thinks about killing him. Wilbur thinks about leaving him. He wonders what the audience expects. He hopes he diverts their expectations as he lightly kicks Quackity’s sleeping form and none-too-kindly says, “Get up.”
Quackity blearily blinks at Wilbur, looking none-too-pleased by the interruption. “Why?”
“We’re leaving.”
“Now?”
“Are you a child? Yes, we’re leaving. It’s not safe in the middle of a field.” Quackity scoffs
“Oh, but when I say it’s not safe in the middle a field, we’ve got plenty of fucking time?” He defiantly stays sitting, glaring up at Wilbur. They both know there was nothing that could have pulled Wilbur out of this field, not without divine intervention, and he would have scratched and bit at whatever god attempted to take him away from Tommy too. But Tommy’s buried now. Tommy is buried and Wilbur is calm. “It’s dark, Wilbur. Do you even remember where we set up?” Wilbur looks around. He doesn’t, admittedly. Everything from the past… day? Is a bit hazy. He can’t even see the grass to trace their footsteps.
“We’ve left it too long already.” Sapnap and Dream could have taken their things by now. They need to take stock of what they have now, too. Tommy died with quite a few items on him, and Hypixel has a very funny sense of humor auto-grabbing inventories to go to the killer’s. Wilbur thinks of Mushroom Henry’s hide in Dream’s inventory and burns.
“Wilbur just-” Quackity takes a long breath followed by a frustrated exhale. In a tone like he’s trying to be reasonable, he says, “We can’t see anything, Wilbur. Just fucking sleep.” Wilbur doesn’t want to sleep. He doesn’t want to stop moving. He needs to make a plan, then he needs to gather the resources for that plan, then he needs to enact the plan, then he needs- he needs- “Then I’ll sleep, Wilbur, just- just fucking sit.”
“I need to find a stream,” Wilbur decides. His hands are coated in dirt, as well as blood from his cracked, dried out skin. He needs to wash them. “We saw a stream, didn’t we?” Wilbur can’t see Quackity’s face well enough to know why he’s so silent. “We can refind the stream.”
With a desperation Quackity usually reserves for survival, he says, “Just sleep, Wilbur, just fucking sleep. It’ll all suck in the morning too! I promise!”
“I’m going,” Wilbur says, squinting into the darkness. He’s pretty sure they came from the right. The outline of the bushes over there looks very similar to the one Dream loaded his crossbow. “Are you?”
“You’re gonna get fucking lost.”
“We’re already lost, Quackity, we might- I mean, we might as well.”
“But our camp-”
“Oh, it hardly matters,” Wilbur says with a wave of his hand. Just a minute ago it was the most important thing in the world. Now a stream is. “We’ve got enough on us. And I’m going, with or without you, and I’m all you’ve got left, so.” You’re all I have left too, goes unspoken. Perhaps even unnoticed. Wilbur does not care if he is completely misinterpreted. Wilbur does not care if Quackity tells him to get lost, leaving him to wander the unending forest alone, though he would prefer the company. Wilbur just needs to get his hands clean.
There are a few moments of silence. Perhaps of Quackity debating his dignity versus his chances of survival. Chances have severely plummeted for both of them now that Tommy’s dead. But both are good at hiding. That was the part Tommy didn’t do very well. That was the part Wilbur was supposed to do for the both of them and he failed, he fucking failed, and now he is left with nothing. Nothing but dry, dirty hands that he needs to clean.
As per usual, survival wins and Quackity puts out a hand. Wilbur obliges, pulling him up with his own sullied hands. Before Quackity is even steady, Wilbur lets go and starts in the direction of where he thinks the bushes are. “We really should’ve stayed by the stream anyway,” he chatters, not even checking if Quackity follows. “Should always keep our water supply stocked, I’d hate to die of something as stupid as dehydration. Actually, we don’t have many bottles left now, do we?”
“Oh my-” Quackity cuts himself off with a groan. “Tommy had all our fucking bottles.”
“Not all of them,” Wilbur pulls out his own water bottle, shaking it a bit. “And you’ve got one, unless you’ve lost it.”
“I didn’t lose it,” Quackity says, annoyed. To prove it, he pulls it out and drinks what’s left of his water.
“Then what’s to complain about?” Wilbur asks pleasantly. “Not like Tommy asked to be shot.”
“Wilbur, I wasn’t-”
“But, yes, we’re a lot lower on supplies now,” Wilbur continues, sifting through his hot bar, but not his inventory because then he would have to stop and he really would prefer to keep moving. “Which is why the stream will be good, things grow by the stream, plenty of water by- well, in- actually of a stream!”
More concerned than he’s sounded all day, and that really is a feat considering the events of today, Quackity asks, “Wilbur, are you- dude, are you sure you don’t want to rest or sit or, like, fucking talk about-” Quackity is blessedly interrupted by a hiss. Wilbur jumps back quick enough to only feel the heat of the creeper’s explosion. He sees Quackity on the ground, but he’s on his elbows and looks fine enough. The tree that stood beside them does not fare as well, nothing but a sizzling log left. “Jesus fucking- this is why we shouldn’t be walking through the woods in the middle of the fucking night!”
Quackity’s yelling falls on deaf ears. He’s like a background gnat to Wilbur’s mind as he stares at the crater the creeper left behind. For a moment, he’s at L’manburg camp, looking for Niki amongst the wreckage as Dream heads an attack with Eret in the formation. He’s watching George gut Fundy and Tubbo gut Eret and Wilbur is shouting Tommy’s name, pulling him out of the line of fire because there’s too many, there are just too many, and-
Oh. Wilbur thinks he may have a plan.
“We need to find more creepers,” Wilbur mutters to himself. He begins to walk, scouring for lime green amidst the forest.
“What?” Quackity asks as he pushes himself up from the ground.
“Creepers, we need creepers,” Wilbur says a little louder.
Quackity catches up with him and says, “We do not need more creepers.”
Wilbur laughs a little, shaking his head. “Do you have a better way to get gunpowder?”
“Why the fuck- why do you need gunpowder?”
“We need, Quackity, we need gunpowder.” Quackity grabs his arm and Wilbur lets himself be turned around. He does not appreciate the look on Quackity’s face, though, that implies he thinks Wilbur’s acting crazy.
“Hey, asshole, I’m not just gonna do whatever you say, I’m not-” Quackity blunders for a moment, face twisting in regret, though he really didn’t need to stop considering Wilbur already knows what he was going to say. A useless reminder considering the dirt of Tommy’s grave still sticks to his hands. He really needs to find that stream. “Just- why the fuck do we need gunpowder, Wilbur?”
“Because, Quackity, I’m going to blow his place to fucking bedrock.” In his mind, he sees the people of Hypixel watching him with more trepidation now. A bit of regret in sending him the trowel, of sending him burn cream, of all of the utter kindness they have shown him. He sees Technoblade staring at the screen, wondering what kind of play Wilbur is about to make, and whether it’s going to end with himself or everyone else dead. Funny thing!
What feels like a lifetime ago, Tubbo’s plan to steal the TNT under the platforms, rig the cornucopia, and watch the careers blow if they tried to fuck with L’manburg. Of course, Wilbur was wary of such a direct attack, and Eret got to it before they ever could, but… Oh, it’s just perfect. All he’ll need to do is a little networking.
“Okay?” Quackity says. “Like- you want to hunt creepers for, what, TNT traps?”
Hypixel won’t be able to stop him, even though he knows they must be itching to take him off the map. They can’t, though, because he makes for good TV. The man driven to madness by grief, almost suicidal in his plot for revenge! But of course, Wilbur is not mad. Wilbur is not suicidal. He is just a man who sees an opportunity and is going to fucking take it.
“More or less,” he gives Quackity. “I think I’d like to kill Dream.”
Dream won’t be able to stop him either. Because Dream will have his part to play in Wilbur’s plan, a very vital part that will require a bit more chumminess with Tommy’s murderer than Wilbur would particularly like, but what’s it matter? In the end, Dream will die. And by that point, the viewers will be too riveted by the story to want to kill him off.
“Kill Dream?” Quackity asks, incredulous. Wary. Looking a little bit like he wishes he had stabbed Wilbur when he got the chance. He probably should have. Because Wilbur doesn’t want to die now, absolutely not! He would fight back, because Tommy’s buried and Wilbur just has so much to do! “Wilbur, look, I know- I fucking hate him too, alright? But how- do you seriously think you can kill Dream?” It’s not a question. It’s a mockery.
Wilbur still answers, “Yes.” There is no doubt in his mind that he can kill Dream. He hasn’t got much to lose trying, anyway. Dream already took the only bargaining chip he had, and Wilbur still needs to wash his fucking hands.
“What- Wilbur, what’s the plan? Because gunpowder is not a fucking plan.”
Wilbur sighs, shrugging as he says, “It’s more a show than tell, if I’m honest. But don’t worry! You’ll get a front row seat, Quackity.”
The ultimate fuck you to Hypixel. All of them dead. No player remaining. Not a single beating heart to crown their victor.
“Do I want a front row seat?” Quackity asks warily. Wilbur laughs.
“Hardly matters,” he says, shrugging again. “Front row, in the rafters, it doesn’t matter, Quackity. You’re going to watch.” He says it as a threat. It reads as a threat if the way Quackity’s face drops is any indicator. But Quackity doesn’t pull out his knife. He doesn’t run either. Because like it or not, they are each other's best shot at survival until one of them sticks a knife in the other’s back. Better the Devil you know and all.
After a moment of considering silence, Quackity says with a tone that tries to be forceful but shakes just a little, “We can look for creepers in the fucking morning.” Wilbur gives a thoughtful hum to that. It would be easier, probably, and a little less deadly. Plus, he’s got these damn hands to clean.
“Suppose,” he concedes. “But if you see any, don’t keep it to yourself.” Wilbur starts to walk again, keeping an eye out for green. “Now! Where the Hell was that stream?”